His Sexologist 2– The Ghost of Cero Cero Dos

The scene on the Brooklyn bridge was reaching its conclusion as the authorities showed up. The remainder of Ruslan and Sokolov’s men scattered, taking the halfway-into-the-grave Ruslan with them— the kid won’t make it. Sokolov on the other hand, escaped fully uninjured, though he lost the most men— the self important Russian cared not for the loss so long as he was alive. He has other men anyway.

Sirens wailed as authorities began to block off the span.

Leo Santorini cut through, finding Roman standing rigidly at the railing, staring blankly into the river.

"Roman!" Leo shouted. "Where is he? We need to move!"

Roman didn't turn around. His hands were gripping the iron rail with white-knuckled intensity. His eyes fixed on the still, dark face of the East River.

“He went over," Roman whispered, his voice trembling. "He is in the river”

Leo froze, looking down at the massive, empty expanse of the East River. At night, it looked like a bottomless grave.

“No," Leo muttered, shaking his head. "He doesn't die like this. The Cero Cero Dos doesn’t die like this! We search the docks. We check the harbor."

"There's no time!" Roman barked, suddenly getting his head back in the game, pulling Leo toward the shadows as the first responders arrived. He was prepared to even dive headfirst into the river if there was any chance to save Mateo, but the water has him already. And the authorities are here now.

"The current is too fast. We have to leave. Now."

They vanished into the night, leaving the authorities to piece together the remains of the battle, unaware that on the dark rocks of Brooklyn, a survivor was still drawing breath.

**

Deep beneath the surface, Shawn was suspended in a cold, suffocating void. The shock of the fall had rendered him unconscious, dead even. For the fraction of a minute he had crossed the threshold onto the other side, his body drifting in the dark tidal strait.

One second passed. Then ten.

Then he saw a bright light, overriding the darkness in his mind.

Wake up.

Shawn’s eyes snapped open underwater, seeing nothing but a murky, featureless green-black. He struggled against the weight of his soaked clothing and the pull of the current. He didn't know which way was up until he saw a faint trail of light filtering down from the structures above.

Using every ounce of his remaining strength, he began to fight his way toward the surface. He broke the water with a choked gasp, coughing and struggling to draw breath. The bridge was already a hundred yards behind him, a massive silhouette of flashing sirens. The current was carrying him fast, sweeping him toward the shadows of the outer boroughs.

The relentless tide eventually slammed his battered frame against a wooden pylon and washed him inward, rolling him onto the rocky shoreline of Pebble Beach in DUMBO.

Shawn dragged himself out of the waves on his elbows, every movement a testament to his sheer will to live. He crawled up the damp stones and collapsed under the deep shadow of an old warehouse. He was hidden from the streetlights, shivering and exhausted, slipping back into a restorative but heavy unconsciousness.

**

Roman knew the only thing that could have Shawn still alive is a miracle, and that is exactly what he hoped for as he returned to check the shores, three hours later, in the middle of the night.

He hoped to find an unconscious body, not a lifeless one.

Roman Fernandez grew up just this side of Brooklyn, he knows the area like the back of his hand. He knows the East River’s anatomy; he knows its brutal five-knot current would pull any floating object downriver and spit it toward the natural bend of the Brooklyn shoreline. Instead of fleeing Manhattan, he had hotwired a discarded vehicle, tore across the lower deck, and descended into the dark, industrial labyrinth of DUMBO.

He has seen a man fall off that bridge and into the river, once before, and survive. He hoped to see that again.

The wind howled off the water as Roman killed the headlights, parking near the abandoned brick warehouses of Main Street. He broke into a dead sprint toward Pebble Beach, his boots crunching against the wet cobblestones and jagged river rocks. The night was pitch-black, illuminated only by the distant, flashing red and blue sirens reflecting off the underbelly of the Manhattan Bridge.

He and Rivier—one of their men— pulled out big flashlights, their eyes searching everywhere.

They were at Pebble Beach, if his calculations— mostly insticts— were right, Shawn should have washed up here. Just around this very area.

**

The relentless tide eventually slammed his battered frame against a wooden pylon, rolling him onto the jagged, freezing rocks of Pebble Beach.

Shawn didn't feel the impact. He couldn't feel the icy water lapping at his face or the sharp stones cutting into his palms as his hands clawed uselessly at the mud. His brain was starved of oxygen, the conchoidal fracturing of his ribs pressing hard against his punctured lung. Every shallow breath he tried to take filled his throat with the bitter, metallic taste of blood and murky river water.

He managed to drag himself inches up the shore, entirely by a fading, primitive muscle memory, before his strength completely evaporated. He collapsed under the deep, suffocating shadow of an old shipping pier, hidden from the distant streetlights.

The roaring in his ears began to dim, replaced by a profound, heavy silence. The distant wail of the sirens on the bridge faded into nothing. Shawn’s eyes drifted half-open, staring blankly at the dark underbelly of the Manhattan Bridge, but his vision was tunneling rapidly, the city lights blurring into tiny, distant sparks.

A wave of intense, numbing cold washed over him, swallowing the agony in his chest. His fingers grew heavy, slipping from the wet stones. He tried to hold onto something, grasping desperately at consciousness, but the memory dissolved.

The dark waters of the East River seemed to rise up to meet him one last time, pulling his consciousness under. His chest hitched once more, stalled, and then stopped moving altogether.

The light vanished.

The cold disappeared.

**

Despite stretched minutes of hopeless searching, Roman’s gut refused to accept the finality of that 135-foot drop.

“Mateo!" He hissed into the dark, his voice tight with desperation. He scanned the shoreline, his hand resting anxiously on the grip of his weapon.

"Mateo, ¡coño! Where are you?" Nothing but the rhythmic, mocking sloshing of the murky water against the wooden pylons.

Then, he heard it—a ragged, wet, rattling wheeze.

Roman scrambled over a cluster of slippery, moss-covered rocks beneath the deep shadow of an old shipping pier. There, half-submerged in the freezing tide, lay a crumpled silhouette.

Roman dropped to his knees, completely ignoring the freezing water soaking through his trousers. He flipped the body over.

It was Shawn.

Shawn’s face was deathly pale, and he was struggling to breathe, his chest moving in shallow hitches. As Roman lifted him, Shawn coughed weakly, his eyes barely able to focus on Roman’s face.

“¡Estás vivo, Mateo, estás vivo! Creí que te había perdido. ¡Gracias al cielo!” (You are alive, Mateo, you are alive! I thought I had lost you. Thank heavens!) Roman breathed, his tough exterior shattering as a wave of relief and adrenaline took over. He checked Shawn for immediate life-threatening injuries, finding him in a state of severe physical shock and suffering from the effects of the freezing water. Roman could tell several ribs were badly damaged, and the internal trauma was significant.

"I've got you. Ascoltami, I've got you," Roman muttered, his voice trembling as he hoisted Shawn with Rivier’s help.

Gritting his teeth, Roman stood up as they lifted their boss away from the river’s edge. Shawn had slipped into unconsciousness, his body limp.

They moved him up the beach, throwing glances back at the bridge.

To their enemies, to the authorities, and even to their own allies, Shawn was supposed to be gone. The myth of Cero Cero Dos was now a secret held only by Roman and Rivier.

Together they loaded Shawn into the backseat of the car and covered him with a jacket to combat the cold.