Black Angel

by Jack Dayton

  He leaned to the left expanding his field of view and finally saw the person who had drawn the ire of the man known for complete control. Vance held his breath, his heart thudding. It was the guy he saw talking to Kovak outside Vizit. He was as menacing now as Vance remembered him but this time enfuriated. The sweat streamed down his head as he shouted at Kulyak, his body shaking with anger, gestures wild and aggressive. He spat has words, Russian, then English, Chechen. Vance raised his Glock, looking to gain an angle before Kulyak knew he was there.

  It was then he felt the hard edge of a gun barrel at the base of his skull. He froze.

  “Well, Gunny. You should probably give me that gun and keep your hands where I can see them.” The voice of Serge Kovak was just familiar enough for Vance to recognize it. He opened his hand and Kovak leaned over and took it from him, placing it on a stack of seed sacks next to the door. “I think I heard them saying my name. Let’s join them, shall we?” Kovak pushed the barrel hard into the back of his head, directing him through the doorway.

  The movement caught both Kulyak and Vakha off guard. Vakha spun to face them, a Chechen dagger appearing from nowhere.

  “Careful, Vakha. This isn’t Tukhchar,” Kovak directed Vakha. All Vance could wonder was whether Pike was still alive and if he was, where was he.

  “What are you doing here, Serge?” Kulyak wanted to know.

  “It is getting too close, Anton,” Kovak focused on his brother now. “You kept saying you would handle things but it’s been me who had to act.”

  “Had to act?” Kulyak eyes fired at his brother. “You have made this impossible to handle. There are too many bodies, Serge. That is not how I have survived.”

  “You don’t get it, Anton.” Kovak’s chest expanded as his breath came quicker. “There is a narrow window of success and I refuse to let it close without doing anything,” he shouted.

  “So you hire Vakha to kill Alik?” Anton shot back. “What kind of success does that get you?”

  Vance stared at Vakha. He was the one, the one who killed Guidry. Right here.

  Kovak let his gun drop from Vance’s skull as he argued. “This needed to be cleaned. Vakha took care of it.”

  “You said one . . . the attache. Now see what we have . . . five dead by you and your clumsy ubiytsa.”

  “Killers, Anton. Yes, this will require killers. This is our struggle.” Serge Kovak emphasized his point by shoving the gun barrel into Vance’s skull again. “We will have to be willing to take out anyone who doesn’t understand the risks we face.”

  “'Our struggle?’ Like the kind of struggle you had with that picture taker in Paris? You know nothing of struggle.” He looked at Vance now, his anger visible. “Why did you come here, Marine? You made everything worse.”

  “I don’t know why you killed my friends but there is no way I can walk away. Not now.” Vance spoke but kept his eyes on Vakha.

  “You aren’t leaving us much choice are you, Vance?” Kovak pushed the gun into his head again.

  “I can do thees. For the right price.” Vakha returned Vance’s stare now.

  “You killed Alik for money?” Kuylak narrowed his eyes at Vakha.

  Vance couldn’t hold back, his anger rising. “You killed my friend, too, bastard.”

  Vakha paused. “Alik I kill for money. Your friend I kill for fun.” He leaned forward pointing at Vance, a slight smile played at his mouth.

  Vance closed his eyes, the blood pounding in his head. “Oh, hell, no.” He pivoted around and stepped into Kovak, grabbing his gun hand. Kovak flexed, firing three shots, the bullets flying wildly at the floor, the equipment. Kulyak dived out of the way as Vance quickly pulled Kovak around between him and Vakha. Vance grabbed for the gun just as Kovak went limp.

  The thrown dagger lodged neatly in Kovak’s vertebrae, his scream echoing off the cement block walls. Kovak’s mouth gaped open, his eyes vacant with shock. Before he could drop Kovak, Vakha leapt to his dagger and reclaimed it.

  He came at Vance with a quick stab. Vance grabbed his arm, forcing it down, his knee jerking up into Vakha, once and again. Vakha backed up then, pulling away. Vance stepped over Kovak’s body coming toward Vakha now as he backed up toward the wall. Keeping low he lunged for him. The dagger came down slicing into Vance’s arm, blood seeping out over his sleeve. Vance grabbed his arm to his body, ignoring the searing pain. He watched Vakha ranging toward him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Kulyak raising his gun, trying to get off a shot.

  He quickly moved at Vakha, grabbing his dagger arm again, spinning and shoving him hard against the control panel on the wall next to the massive seed processing machine. The violence of contact with the electrical control of the equipment that lined the length of the factory floor triggered the machine to life. The control switch for the oil press had started. The processing equipment rumbled and suddenly roared into full motion. Vance pulled Vakha away from the wall and shoved him up against the convulsing machine. Vakha’s heavy frame shook the housing but his hand came around, slashing at Vance, catching his hand. Vance slammed him against the machine harder, the dagger now poised over an auger. Vance gripped his forearm, smashing it down again, trying to loosen the vise of his grip even as the Chechen reached for his eyes. He pushed Vakha closer to the machine, slamming the scarred wrist again and again into the machine. The dagger flung to the floor. At the same time, a bellow came from Vakha, amplified through the guts of the machine. The auger ground more slowly as it seized Vakha’s arm by the wrist and chewed it into the tunnel of the oil press machine.

  Kulyak was raising his gun now with a clear shot at Vance. Before he could take the shot, a blast rang out. Kulyak dropped his weapon, his own shattered forearm falling limply to his side. Vance sprung to the control panel and hit the red stop button and the processor slowly ground to a halt. Vakha ripped his butchered arm from the auger now slick with his blood, bone and tendon. He stood propped against the machine as it rattled to silence, panting, with the growl of a wounded animal slowly building.

  Vance was poised between the wounded bear of a man and Kulyak now cradling his mangled arm. Kulyak’s eyes locked with Vance as he moved slowly to his brother. Kovak laid immobile as his older brother crouched to see his breath still coming his eyes open, unable to move.

  Vance turned with relief to see Pike walking slowly through the door, rifle raised, ready to be trained on anyone who needed convincing. “What’s the first rule of Marine Corps gunfighting?” Pike stared at Vance.

  “Bring a long gun,” Vance returned. “Where did you get that?”

  “It was in the box in my truck bed. I decided we needed some firepower.”

  Vance took a deep breath. “What’s the second rule of Marine Corps gunfighting?”

  “Bring all your friends with long guns.” Pike’s eyes never left Kulyak crouched on the floor next to his brother, walking over slowly to kick the gun Kulyak dropped away from his reach.

  Vance turned back to Vakha who had retrieved the dagger from the floor and was holding it now.

  “It’s over,” Vance held both his bloody hands up. Pike turned the weapon on Vakha. Vakha’s glassy eyes moved haltingly from Vance to Pike and back again. Holding his eyes on Vance, Vakha raised his dagger to his mangled arm. With a burst of fury, he hacked through the chewed flesh, his face contorted. A guttural howl of pain emerged from his clenched jaws and echoed through the bay as what was left of his arm fell to the floor.

  Vance’s face was knotted, a mirror of disgust. Pike’s jaw dropped, eyes widening in disbelief. Vakha stumbled forward, never loosening his hold on the pointed Chechen dagger. His mauled arm gushed as he staggered and then turned away from the shocked faces of the two Marines. Pike and Vance backed up, stunned at the horror of blood filling the floor in ever-widening pools. He stopped, his mutilated arm spurting blood. Vakha swayed unsteadily and finally collapsed, the dagger still loosely clutched in his left hand. Even in the death, the legendary Black Angel had inspired defiance. />
  Slowly, Vance approached the figure, sprawled face down. Vance kicked the dagger out of a now loose bloody fist. He bent and put his hand to Vakha’s neck, looked back at Pike and shook his head. Pike was still trying to get his head around what he had just seen.

  “Hey, where’s Kool?” Vance saw now that he wasn’t with his brother anymore. They both turned and saw the blood trail leading from the factory through the receiving bay out on to the dock. Vance picked up the weapon Kool had dropped as they ran out onto the dock. The trail continued down onto the pavement leading to a truck garage to the left of the warehouse. They jumped down to the asphalt and started toward the garage.

  The blast blew them both flat on their backs, the fireball extending into the navy blue sky like a golden halo. The garage was a shattered inferno. Vance and Pike crawled back away from the heat. Pike turned over, spread eagle, eyes squeezed shut. Vance lay face down, his head pounding. The fire burned high and hot before they were able to get to their hands and knees and then up on their feet.

  Pike twisted his head toward Vance, rubbing the lump on the back of his skull, his lips pursed. “A wild thought but is it time to call the cops now?”

  They both registered the sound of sirens at the same moment. “Affirmative, Gunny,” Vance managed. His neck hurt and he twisted his head 360, testing which position caused the most pain. He raised his face to the sky. Clear, cloudless, spilled with stars. Like the sky they used to admire in the desert sky above Afghanistan.

  “Vance, I gotta ask . . . what the fuck was that mess with that guy cutting his damn arm off? I mean, what the fuck?”

  Vance took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. “You ever heard of the Black Angel, Corny?”

  “The what?” Pike’s voice was practically falsetto now.

  “The Black Angel.”

  “Black Angel. I thought that was me.”

  Vance tried to suppress his laugh without success. “You are, at that, Pike.” Vance continued “Let me tell you about the other Black Angel. It’s a helluva story.”

  Chapter 19

  It took a while. The fire trucks and police cars first then the ambulance for Kovak. The coroner’s rig for what was left of Vakha. It was going to take a lot longer to see if they could piece together Kulyak, if at all. EMT’s wanted to take them both in for scans but they got off with stitches, butterfly bandages, gauze and Tylenol. They only got away with it by solemnly swearing to report to medical as soon as they got back.

  The story came out to detectives, who roped in MacLean and the diplomatic investigators. Interviews through mid-morning. By then the adrenaline was depleted and they were drinking Starbuck’s double shots to keep from nodding as they drove back to DC. Pike got Vance to take a quick nap before checking in with Sergeant Major Cade at the National University of the Marine Corps. He let him know there was finally going to be a resolution to some of the questions about the mayhem he had been so close to over the past weeks.

  He was given a 24-hour window to get himself together before he had to come back so he headed to Jordan Hall, the closest rack he could collapse into. All he wanted now was to hit his rack and lose consciousness as soon as possible. As he turned the key in the lock he remembered Doc Quinn. Okay, one phone call . . .

  He threw his kit on the floor and was reaching inside his pocket for his phone when he saw the drawer in his nightstand wasn’t closed. He lifted his head but didn’t move. He was raising the phone to dial 911when the bathroom door swung slightly. He sat down on the bed, his wounded right arm throbbing. He was still able to reach below the mattress. There, the familiar weight of the hidden Ka-Bar. At least that was still there.

  Before he could remove it, the figure behind the door silently emerged, gun drawn and trained directly on Vance. The silencer on the barrel of the gun was telling. “Drop the phone, Gunnery Sergeant,” Major Rune Nygaard greeted Vance. “I have been looking forward to this since the Christmas party. You are a very annoying man, you know that?”

  Vance kept his hand on the bed even as he dropped the phone to the floor. “It’s over, Nygaard. The Chechens are dead, Kovak is paralyzed. You are done.”

  “Done? We are just getting started.” Nygaard smiled now. “This is bigger than those bumblers. They had a purpose but we don’t need them. We are bigger than they are. We are worldwide and growing.”

  “Who is ‘we?’” Vance’s mind raced.

  “The Nordic Resistance Movement. It is but one faction. There are groups everywhere now. Brievik was right. It is up to us to protect our culture, our way of life while he waits to be released.”

  “Breivik? The murderer that killed those kids in Norway?”

  “He was taking responsibility to protect all of us, what we believe in.”

  Vance’s breath was coming fast. “Why are you here? There is no way you get away with anything on a Marine Corps Base.”

  “Really? Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “Seelbach.” Vance’s rage returned.

  “Was that his name? We were never formally introduced.”

  “You bastard.”

  “It was regrettable but an understandable mistake. You all look alike with your shiny shaved heads and thick arms. Still, I should have been more careful.”

  “Why were you so intent on killing me?”

  “You were causing all kinds of questions. Even Mrs. Siggordson. She should have just shut up and gone back to Norway with what was left of her family. Her and your friend Aksel. They were getting in the way.”

  “The way of what?” Vance dreaded the answer.

  “Do you know that you have a story you tell your children that has a very scary Norwegian monster in it? The one with the goats who want to cross a bridge. Do you know that story?”

  “Everyone knows that story.” Vance fingered the Ka-Bar beneath the mattress.

  “Do you remember the monster?” Nygaard leaned against the door to his room now.

  “A troll, right?” Vance answered, shifting subtly to his left, shielding his right side from Nygaard’s view.

  “Very good . . . yes, a troll. Trolls exist now, too, only they aren’t under the bridge anymore. Trolls are helping our movement in ways you can’t imagine.”

  “So that’s it. That’s why Siggordson had to die. What? Did he find out you were using the embassy for your campaign?”

  “He hadn’t yet but he was close. And then you came along. You and your damaged friend, Dahl. He put his nose into something, like Siggordson. He asked the wrong questions too many times and then he was going to go back to Oslo and keep on poking. No, that was an easy one. His drug history made it so.

  “You are just like Dahl. You are frail, a weakness in the race. You are the kind of person who would try to stop what is already well established.”

  Vance tried to anticipate his move, buying time with questions. “So, why all the lies and subversion, if you are so sure of this movement? Why not just let it take its course?”

  “Because we have to fight the bigger lie . . . that everyone is of equal value, everyone deserves respect. That is the path to destruction. You are betraying yourself, your children. I am willing to die for this struggle. Breivick knew. It was people like you with your beliefs in equality and freedom that were more dangerous than all the forces that want to reduce it to an ugly mix of races.”

  Nygaard was close to ranting now. “It took us a millennium to create this culture, this society and we are not going to stand by and watch it be eaten away from the outside.” He looked away then. “And it was going to be so easy. The embassy was the perfect cover . . . just a bunch of happy diplomats with a giant computer sending out misinformation, passing along anything that subverts and confuses. Kovak had the media and his connection to the muscle. I had the technology. Nordic Resistance Movement had the organization.”

  Vance watched as he continued his diatribe. Slowly he maneuvered his hand under the mattress, fingers gripping the handle, gradually withdrawing the hidden
knife, holding it against his leg, waiting.

  Nygaard looked directly at Vance now. “You could have been a part of this but you are too committed to your precious Marine Corps. I do not like to kill someone like you, Vance but you hardly leave me any choice.” He raised the weapon now leveling it at Vance.

  Before he could pull the trigger, heavy footsteps running in the passageway outside pulled his attention. A body slammed hard against the door. An exuberant ‘Suck it!’ followed by “You cocksucker. I beat you.”

  Nygaard hesitated looking back over his shoulder. Now. Vance sprang up, the Ka-Bar poised high. Nygaard turned back, getting a shot off. Schwock, the round embeded itself in the wall next to the window. Schwock. Another shot as Vance grabbed Nygaard’s arm and Nygaard blocked Vance’s knife hand with a iron grip on his wrist. For a long moment, they stood gripping each other, arms shaking as the strength of each man tested the other.

  Vance’s Ka-Bar arm trembled, the slash from Vakha’s dagger bleeding again. The pain crept up, penetrating his elbow.

  “You can’t win,” Nygaard panted. He pulled his arm, trying to free himself from the vise of Vance’s grip.

  “And you said you were ready to die,” Vance breathed out hard and with a surge of power butted his head hard against Nygaard’s head, at the same time, plunging the Ka-Bar deep into his chest. Nygaard’s eyes widened as he let out a long moan before his head lolled back and he dropped heavily on the floor.

  Vance stood over his body, heard his breath rattle blood like tumbling dice. He watched as his eyes slowly went dark, his life draining away. He removed the gun from his hand and moved over him to the door of his room.

  Vance leaned down. “Who’s the weak one now, motherfucker?” Vance whispered, catching his breath.