Bad Company
Page 30
Alexei looked at Lewis, who again motioned him to come.
“I know you are troubled by this,” Lewis said into Alexei’s ear. “Sometimes we have to sacrifice to provide an example to the others. This is our way. It is all right if you don’t agree. This time.”
The chanting faded, and Lewis rested a hand on Alexei’s arm to keep him there.
“Bertrand Boudreaux,” Elijah said to the boy, “you’ve been found guilty of treason in the common law court of Patriot City, so judged by your peers. Bertrand, from your studies, do you remember the penalty for treason?”
“No, sir, non, but I study harder. I’ll make you proud, sir.”
Elijah’s hands curled into fists, one rising for a moment before falling back to his side. Elijah turned his back to Boudreaux. “The sentence is death, to be carried out immediately.”
Boudreaux understood that. He tried to pull away from the men who constrained him, but they held fast.
Elijah turned back to Boudreaux. “Confess, and I may be merciful.”
“I done nothing wrong,” the boy wailed.
Elijah spat in Boudreaux’s face and said to Radd, “Take this garbage out of here.”
“Sergei,” Lewis said. “Go with them. Make sure it is done right. Understand?”
Alexei nodded and followed Radd. Elijah fell into step beside him. “What are you doing?” Elijah asked.
“Lewis said for me to come.”
“You may be with us at Lewis’ order, but you do what I say.”
“Of course, sir.”
A ubiquitous Wrangler awaited them. Alexei and the other instructor wedged Boudreaux between them in the back seat. Radd drove with Elijah in the front seat. The boy sobbed and begged for his life, the stench of fresh urine filling the air.
Alexei wanted to punch him to shut him up. At the same time, he considered and discarded ways to try and save the boy’s life. Debating with Elijah was useless, and Alexei decided he would offer to take the boy into the woods and shoot him but free him instead.
The Wrangler stopped in a small clearing, and they dragged Boudreaux from the vehicle, his sobs now mere hiccups.
“Sir,” Alexei said to Elijah, “Lewis told me to take care of this. I will—”
“Remember what I told you,” Elijah said. “There. Put him on his knees.”
They stood in the circle of illumination from the Wrangler’s lights. The air was warm and close. Alexei smelled death here, faint but distinct.
“Let us pray,” Elijah said.
Heads bowed, except for Boudreaux, who kept murmuring “s’il vous plaît” over and over. Radd clapped a hand over his mouth.
“Yahweh, all powerful creator of the white race, we do your holy and terrible bidding. We carry out your sentence in your name. May you have mercy on this man’s black soul. Amen.”
Alexei was about to offer to do the shooting again, when Elijah shook his right arm. A tire iron slid from inside his sleeve into his hand.
“Yahweh, and I am your voice and now your instrument.”
Elijah swung as if for the fences. Almost too late Radd saw Elijah’s intent and jerked away from Boudreaux. The tire iron struck Boudreaux’s left temple, the soft crunch loud in the night. Boudreaux jerked hard enough to wrest the tire iron from Elijah’s hand. With the tire iron embedded in his skull, Boudreaux flopped onto his side, his body twitching.
Radd and the other instructor backed away, mouths gaping. The convulsing intensified for several seconds and stopped with an abruptness Alexei hoped meant the boy was dead.
Alexei knelt and sought a pulse. Rapid and strong for now. The head trauma would cause swelling inside the skull and eventual death.
“Leave him here for the dogs,” Elijah said, and started for the Jeep.
Boudreaux’s mouth moved, as if trying to talk. His eyes met Alexei’s and pled. Alexei drew his gun, pressed the muzzle between Boudreaux’s eyes, and pulled the trigger. Alexei rose to find Elijah in his personal space, face contorted in rage.
“I said to leave him!” Elijah said.
“Lewis said to make sure is done right. Even rabid dog is put out of misery.”
“Who do you obey, Sergei? Lewis or me?”
“I did what Lewis told me to do.”
Radd made the grouping a threesome. “Sir, Sergei did the right thing. Yahweh would want us to make it quick.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what Yahweh wants! I know what he wants!”
“I ask forgiveness, Prophet,” Radd said. “I’ve sworn my arm and my blood to you, and I’ll die for you or by your hand; but what Sergei did was right. If Lewis said to do it right, I know it was the proper thing to do.”
Elijah panted but stepped back. “Yahweh has told me to forgive you both this once.” He strode back to the Wrangler.
Gun still in his hand, Alexei contemplated putting a bullet in Elijah’s back.
Radd’s hand rested on his shoulder. “Thanks, mate. The poor bastard didn’t deserve to die Elijah’s way, but best you holster that gun. Now.”
44
What You Have to Do
In the dark bungalow, Alexei Bukharin sat on the sofa, his gun in hand. He craved vodka and Mai Fisher, both to chase away the new ghost skittering about in his head.
Killing had never bothered him; he’d understood the orders of an army, the orders of the KGB. The orders of The Directorate. You couldn’t let it prick your conscience, and it never had.
Until now.
Boudreaux was too young to be his son, too old to be Natalia, and he didn’t understand why this had affected him. Was it because he doubted the young man’s parents would consider this killing a mercy, even if Alexei did? It wasn’t his work, but it was his responsibility.
Elijah’s blunt force trauma would have killed Boudreaux, hours, maybe even days later. Alexei’s bullet was quick. In that had to be mercy. That’s what he had to focus on, but the image of blood and brains on the fallen leaves wouldn’t exit his mind; nor would Boudreaux’s pleading eyes.
The gun, the one he’d used to kill Boudreaux, twitched toward his head, and he used his other hand to stop it. Boudreaux shouldn’t have been killed, but he wasn’t worth dying for.
When the doorknob turned, he raised the gun, estimated where Elijah’s head would be, and moved his finger to the trigger. The moonlight silhouetted a woman in the doorway, but he didn’t lower his weapon.
“Sergei?”
A light came on, and Charlene froze when she saw the gun. “Sergei, it’s me,” she said, her tone calm, neutral; a tone she might use to get a suspect to put down his gun.
Alexei lay the gun on the floor at his feet, for the first time in his life glad not to have one in his hand.
Charlene closed the door and came inside. “I was worried for a while this evening.”
“You’re supposed to be in the menstrual barracks. What are you doing here?”
“I’m clean again.” She sat beside him on the sofa, a hand on his knee. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
He stared at a spot across the room because he couldn’t, he shouldn’t look at her.
“I killed Bertrand Boudreaux.”
Her fingers tightened on his knee, the touch radiating up his leg to his groin. He wanted to ignore it; he should ignore it, but there was comfort in her touch.
“I finished what Elijah started. He brained him with a tire iron and left him to die. I made it quick.”
The pity in her eyes was something Mai would never have shown him. He shifted away from Charlene’s touch and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
She touched him again, a hand on his forearm, another on his shoulder. The heat from her seared through his clothes; nerves throughout his body prickled.
It had been so long.
“You did what you had to do,” Charlene murmured. “That I understand.”
“I killed someone’s son. I have a son.”
“No, Elijah killed him.”
; “I’ve sat here, seeing the faces of all the people I’ve killed. I hadn’t realized how many.” He straightened, rubbed his face. “You’re a duly authorized law enforcement agent, and I’ve admitted murder to you.”
“Forget that for now. Come on, try to sleep.”
He lurched to his feet, his movement so abrupt, she almost fell from the sofa.
Looming over Charlene, he said, “Sleep? If I fucking sleep, I’ll see the faces. All of them.”
Charlene rose and pressed her body against him, her hands at his waist.
“I need…” he said, and stopped. He couldn’t voice it; that would make it real.
“I know,” she said.
He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, and kissed her, hard, demanding, his hands grasping her breasts, kneading them. Smaller than…
She moaned into his mouth, and he pulled at her clothes, she at his.
Her hips were a narrower fit against his groin, her mouth not as full but as responsive. When his hands finally touched flesh, he stopped thinking.
End of Book Two.
Continued in Book Three,
A Perfect Hatred: Descending Spiral
Coming August 2019
Acknowledgements
Where to begin?
I wouldn’t be a writer today without my writing tribe, which consists of everyone in:
The Author Transformation Alliance,
Blue Ridge Writers (of the Virginia Writers Club),
Shenandoah Valley Writers,
Sprints and Spirits,
SWAG Writers,
and the instructors, staff, and fellow writers from Tinker Mountain Writers Workshops & Retreats.
I thank the absolute brilliance of my editor, Mary Ellen Jones.
Heartfelt thanks to the always astute critique and keen editor’s eye of Jennie Coughlin. She’s probably the person second-most familiar with A Perfect Hatred, and it shows in the comments and suggestions she offered. Much gratitude to J. Russ Briley. It’s always good to have another thriller writer comment on what you’ve written, even if I don’t have as many explosions as he. Thanks to Allison K. Garcia for words of encouragement and salient comments—and for understanding what I’ve written is not what I believe.
And thanks to coffee shops everywhere for being indulgent of writers and creatives in general. You give us atmosphere and fuel.
Reviews
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When you’ve finished Bad Company, please consider leaving an honest review at Amazon or Goodreads. You’ll make my day.
Thank you,
About the Author
P. A. Duncan is a retired bureaucrat but one with an overactive imagination—or so she’s been told since she wrote her first stories using her weekly list of spelling words.
She graduated from Madison College (now James Madison University) with degrees in history and political science. History and politics always find their way into her writing.
Her fiction has appeared in numerous literary magazines and anthologies, but she’s particularly proud of the short story, “Reset,” which won the Virginia Writers Club 2016 Golden Nib Award. Her debut novel, A War of Deception, received the New Apple Literary Award for Excellence in Independent Publishing as a Featured Selection in Best Historical Fiction.
She lives and writes in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, where she also cheers on the New York Yankees, watches NASCAR, and spoils grandchildren.
Author’s Social Media
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Also by P. A. Duncan
Short Story Collections
Blood Vengeance, 2012
Spy Flash, 2012
The Better Spy, 2015
Spy Flash II, 2016
Novellas
The Yellow Scarf, 2015
My Noble Enemy, 2015
Novelettes
A Face in the Crowd, 2017
Who Watches the Watchmen?, 2017
Hidden Agendas, 2017
Novels
A War of Deception, 2017
A Perfect Hatred: End Times, 2018
Short Story Singles/Reader Magnets
“A Visit from Grandfather Frost,” 2017 holiday story
“The Broader Concerns of All Humanity,” 2018, tie-in to End Times
“What You Have to Do,” 2018, tie-in to Bad Company