Hellfire

by Richard Turner

  Grabbing the body before it fell; the black man dragged it towards the plane’s open door.

  The curly-haired assassin took a quick look around to make sure that no one had seen what he had done and then dashed inside the plane. In seconds, he killed the co-pilot and the steward.

  The black man carried the pilot’s body up into the plane and dropped it on the bloodstained floor beside the dead steward. He swiftly dug out his pistol from his coveralls and screwed a silencer into the barrel. He looked over at his accomplice and said, “Ok, I’m gonna go through their luggage to make it look like a robbery. Make sure that after you kill them, you take all of their cash and valuables.”

  The curly-haired man nodded his head, edged to the door of the plane and warily looked out.

  They were still alone.

  He climbed down from the plane, placed his gun hand behind his back. Whistling to himself, the thug walked calmly towards the lounge as if he were going to grab a cup of coffee.

  He could hear a couple of men chatting.

  The man, a former mob enforcer, opened the door to the lounge and stepped inside. Right away, he knew was wrong. There were only two men in the room; he had been told that there would be three of them. A muscular black man was standing there with a full coffee pot in his hand while an athletic-looking man with blue-gray eyes sat a nearby table looking over at him.

  “Can I help you?” asked Mitchell, seeing the look of confusion in the man’s eyes.

  “Where’s the other guy?” asked the thug as he brought the pistol out from behind his back.

  “What other guy?” replied Mitchell.

  “Don’t play dumb with me. I was told that there’s another guy with you. Where is he?”

  Suddenly, the door to the washroom opened, and O’Reilly stepped out.

  The man turned his eyes in O’Reilly’s direction.

  It cost the thug.

  Like a quarterback waiting until the last second to send the football into the end zone for a touchdown, Jackson threw the full pot of freshly brewed coffee straight at the curly-haired-man’s head. A split-second later, the glass container exploded on the side of the man’s forehead, sending scalding-hot coffee everywhere.

  The man screamed in pain as he brought his hands up to his scalded face.

  Mitchell instantly leapt up from his chair and ran straight at the man. He smashed into the man’s mid-section, tackling him to the ground. He reached over, grabbed the man’s pistol hand, and bashed his opponent’s hand hard into the concrete floor. The gun clattered across the floor. Mitchell let go of the thug’s hand, sat up on his chest and brought his right hand onto the man’s jaw as hard as he could, knocking him senseless.

  “Nate, hand me the gun,” said Mitchell as he stood up. He shook out his hand. His knuckles stung like hell.

  “Do you think there are more them out in the hangar?” asked O’Reilly.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” replied Mitchell as he took the silenced pistol from Jackson.

  “Give me thirty seconds. I’m gonna tie up our friend,” said Jackson as he dragged the unconscious body of their attacker over to the nearest chair.

  “Sir, you stay here and call for the police,” said Mitchell to O’Reilly. “And don’t get any foolish ideas about following Nate and me out that door. I’ll put one in your knee if I have to, to keep you in here.”

  O’Reilly knew that Mitchell meant every word. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialed 9-1-1.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Jackson.

  “I’m going to check on the pilot and the rest of the flight crew. I want you to make your way outside; if they have a getaway car, I don’t want it going anywhere,” explained Mitchell.

  “Got it.”

  Carefully opening the door, Mitchell brought up his weapon and stepped out onto the eerily quiet hangar floor. Behind him, Jackson, ghost-like, moved against the wall, aiming for a door at the opposite end of the building. With his pistol held out in front of him, Mitchell advanced on the plane. Within seconds, he could hear the sound of someone tossing things around inside the plane. He took a quick look around and rolled under the plane, coming up right beside the stairs. Silently, he stood up and peered inside the open door. Instantly, his blood boiled. On the floor were two bodies. Their blood-splattered clothing told Mitchell that they had all been murdered at close range. Without making a sound, Mitchell moved inside the plane, dropped to one knee and took careful aim at a black man who was rummaging through one of his suitcases.

  “Stop what you’re doing, raise your hands, and turn around slowly,” warned Mitchell.

  The black man swore, raised his hands, and turned around. Seeing Mitchell kneeling there with a weapon in his hands, the man shook his head.

  “Now, slowly walk towards me and climb down from the plane onto the hangar floor,” said Mitchell, as he edged his way backwards. Soon both men were outside the plane. Mitchell ordered the man to lower his hands and place them in his coverall pockets, and told the man to get down on his knees.

  “Where’s Dan?” the black man asked Mitchell.

  “If you mean your curly-haired friend, he’s sleeping it off right now,” replied Mitchell.

  The black man swore. “Listen, friend, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll let us go, and we can call it even.”

  Mitchell chuckled. “I don’t think so. I’ve never learned what’s good for me. Besides, Baton Rouge’s finest will be here shortly to throw you and your friend in the slammer for murder and attempted murder. Not sure if the death penalty is still used down here, but either way, I doubt you will see much sunshine for the rest of your natural life.”

  “Think again,” said a gravelly voice from behind Mitchell. “Put the pistol on the floor, or you’re dead where you stand.”

  Mitchell glanced over his shoulder and swore when he saw a man step out from behind a tall crate. There was nothing he could do; the man had him in his sights. Mitchell slowly bent down and dropped the gun at his feet.

  A second later, the black man got up off his knees and smiled at Mitchell like a shark about to devour his prey. “I can’t believe you’re ex-SOF.”

  “We gotta go. If the cops have been called, we don’t have much time,” said the gravelly-voiced thug to his accomplice.

  The black man picked up the silenced pistol at Mitchell’s feet and took a couple of steps back from him. He brought up the weapon and pointed it straight at Mitchell’s head. “Sorry, man, this is nothing personal. It’s purely business.”

  Mitchell was about to tell the man to shove his pistol where the sun didn’t shine, when the man’s body suddenly jerked to one side as if pulled by some invisible force. His eyes went glassy and wide. A second later, he staggered forward a couple of steps and then, with a loud thud, he fell face-first onto the concrete floor. Right away, blood began to flow like a river from a wound in the dead man’s back.

  Less than a second later, the other man’s head snapped over with a hole blasted into the side of it. His body dropped straight to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  Mitchell stood there staring down at the two bodies. It had all happened so fast.

  “You all right?” called out a woman’s voice with a strong Scottish accent.

  Mitchell immediately recognized the voice. “I am now, Ms. Maxwell,” said Mitchell.

  Grace emerged from the shadows. Grasped tight in her hand was a silenced pistol. She was wearing a light-gray suit with an open-collared white shirt and practical black leather shoes.

  “I told you to call me Grace,” she said as she lowered her weapon.

  “Okay. Grace, please don’t tell me these were your people?”

  “Lord, no, I only employ women,” replied Grace as she unscrewed the silencer from her 9mm Glock pistol. “And you’re welcome.”

  “Sorry, thanks for saving my life,” said Mitchell. “If you’re not behind this, then why are you here?”

  “I came to se
e you.” Grace placed her pistol away in her shoulder holster.

  “Ryan, there’s no one outside,” called out Jackson as he ran back inside the hangar. When he saw Grace standing there with two dead bodies on the ground, he picked up the nearest tool he could find and looked over at Mitchell, who simply shook his head.

  “It’s okay, Nate, I’d be dead without her. She’s on our side…I think,” said Mitchell.

  Jackson walked over with the wrench still tight in his hand. “What happened?”

  After quickly filling his friend in, Mitchell asked Jackson to go back and look after General O’Reilly. Jackson nodded his head and picked up one of the dead thugs’ pistols. With a suspicious glance at Grace, he left her and Mitchell alone.

  Grace took her cellphone from her pocket, brought up a picture, and handed the phone to Mitchell.

  “Son of a bitch, you found him!” exclaimed Mitchell, looking down at a picture of Eric McMasters. “Where is he?”

  “Venezuela.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I wasn’t until just now. This picture was sent to me late yesterday afternoon.”

  “Who’s in Venezuela?” asked O’Reilly as he walked out from behind the plane, accompanied by Jackson.

  “McMasters, sir,” said Mitchell, handing the phone to his boss.

  O’Reilly studied the image of the man who had betrayed him and murdered one of his people; just looking at the picture made him seethe with anger. “I guess I had best inform Houston that his probe is probably with whoever is paying McMasters in Venezuela.”

  “I wouldn’t be too hasty to do that,” said Grace as he took her phone back.

  “Why would you say that?” asked Mitchell.

  “Because that picture was taken on an oil rig off the coast of Venezuela,” explained Grace. “Ostensibly it, along with four other rigs, was nationalized three years ago by the Venezuelan government. However, the people who work on that rig are all employees of a Venezuelan company owned and operated clandestinely by David Houston.”

  “Are you sure about this?” asked O’Reilly.

  “One hundred percent,” answered Grace. “Besides, you don’t think a man like Houston would walk away from a four-billion-dollar investment, do you?”

  The sound of police sirens wailing in the distance began to grow louder by the second.

  “That’s my cue to leave,” announced Grace.

  “Wait,” said Mitchell, leaning over to grab her arm. “I take it you’re still after the missing probe.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, I want to come with you. I have a score to settle with McMasters.”

  “Ryan, if you want me, I’ll be in the hotel bar of the InterContinental Tamanaco in Caracas, Venezuela tomorrow night from eight to eight-fifteen.” With that, Grace gently removed Mitchell’s hand from her arm, turned on her heels and faded into the shadows at the other end of the hangar.

  Mitchell was about to say something when his mentor pre-empted him.

  “I’ll deal with the police; you and Nate had best get moving if you’re going to catch up with her,” said O’Reilly. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle the situation from here on out.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Mitchell.

  “Ryan, if she’s correct, then this is larger than I suspected. Be careful down there, the current Venezuelan government isn’t too keen on American ex-Special Forces personnel skulking around in their backyard. If they catch you, they’ll lock you up for life.”

  “Then we had best not get caught,” said Mitchell.

  With Nate by his side, Mitchell borrowed a nearby battery-powered cart and drove towards the main terminal of the airport. He knew it was a crapshoot. O’Reilly could probably run interference for a few hours, making up excuses as to where he and Nate had gone. After that, the authorities were going to lose their patience with him and demand to speak to them about the murders. By that point, Mitchell hoped that they would be beyond the reach of the U.S. government.

  19

  Village of Kiselnya

  Russia

  Jen looked over at the small cottage nestled between two tall pine trees. The pathway leading to the front door was covered in snow. The curtains were drawn. If there hadn’t been smoke wafting out of a chimney, she would have sworn the home was deserted.

  “Are you sure this is the right address?” asked Sam from the backseat.

  “Da,” said Tokarev. “I have only been here once before, but I remember the house. This is where Pasha lives.”

  Yuri opened the door and stepped out into the biting cold. “Okay, everyone out.”

  Jen quickly bundled up as she got out of the car.

  “Please let me do the talking, at least initially,” said Tokarev. “Pasha is a very withdrawn person. He was a helicopter pilot and lost a leg when he was shot down over Afghanistan. Some days, even for a Russian, he drinks a bit too much for his own good.”

  They trudged through the snow to the front door. Tokarev knocked on the door and then waited. When no one came, Yuri walked over and banged loudly on the door with his fist.

  “He could be sleeping,” said Yuri to Tokarev.

  A couple of seconds later, the door cracked open a couple of inches. “Yes, what do you want?” asked a man with a bitter-sounding voice.

  “Pasha, it is me, Valery,” said Tokarev. Pasha was the son of Vladimir Bykov, the senior mission planner for the Luna 15 mission.

  “What is it?”

  “Pasha, do you not remember that I called you a couple of days ago and asked if I could bring some people by to look over your father’s notes?”

  Pasha hesitated for a couple of seconds and then opened the door. “Yes, I remember. Forgive me. Please come in.”

  Yuri waved for everyone to follow them inside.

  As they stepped out of the cold, Jen was pleasantly surprised at how warm it was inside Pasha’s little cottage. She unzipped her parka and handed it to Yuri, who collected everyone’s jackets. Pictures from Pasha’s days in the military covered the walls. A small television built twenty years ago sat silent against the wall. Jen wondered when it had last been turned on.

  Pasha stepped back and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He was in his mid-fifties, short, with a round face that looked sad and tired.

  Tokarev made the round of introductions while Pasha put on the kettle.

  They all took a seat around the small dining table in the kitchen. Everyone made small talk, with Yuri and Tokarev translating for the non-Russian speakers. Pasha sorrowfully shook his head when he learned that both Sam and Cardinal had served in Afghanistan.

  “Too many young men died there to keep a government in power that the people didn’t want,” observed Pasha.

  “Only time will tell if we did any better,” replied Cardinal.

  “Pasha, I don’t want to be rude, but we’ve driven a long way through the snow to get here. Could I please take a look at your father’s notes?” asked Tokarev.

  Pasha pointed to a wooden chest on the floor. “They’re all in there. Aside from this house, those precious records of his were all my father left me when he died.”

  Although Jen didn’t understand, she could hear a tone of bitterness and resentment in Pasha’s voice.

  Yuri smiled, walked over to the chest, opened it, and grabbed the first couple of notebooks neatly stacked inside the box. Shaking his head, Yuri said, “Mister Tokarev, there are more than two dozen books and file folders in here. We could be here a while.”

  “Well then, we had best get started,” replied Tokarev. “Bring what you have and look for anything that is dated 1969 or is related to the Luna 15 mission.”

  Yuri put what he had on the table in front of Tokarev. Mumbling to himself, he dragged his chair over and began to sort through the chest.

  “Well, I don’t mind telling you that I feel like a bit of a fifth wheel here,” said Sam to Jen.

  “So do I,” replied Jen. “There’s not a lot we can do until
Tokarev finds what he’s looking for.”

  “Well, I didn’t fly all the way to Russia to sit here and do nothing,” announced Cardinal. “I’m going outside to shovel the walk for Pasha. After that, I’m going to grab an axe and cut up some wood for the stove.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” added Sam. “I think I’ll join you.”

  A minute later, all bundled up, Sam and Cardinal stepped back outside. A light snow had begun to fall.

  Jen took a sip of her tea, sat back in her chair, and watched as Tokarev skimmed through his late friend’s notes. After a few minutes, she decided that she had best give Fahimah a call. Jen dug out her iPhone and scrunched up her face when she saw that there was no cell reception.

  “Pretty lady, that won’t work out here,” said Yuri. “This is the countryside. If the world ended tomorrow, it would take days for anyone around here to find out.”

  “Wonderful,” muttered Jen. She slipped her phone back in her pocket, and then, trying to sound optimistic, she looked over at Tokarev and asked, “Have you found anything interesting?”

  “My dear, I had no idea how much information my old friend managed to take from his office. This could take days. I have to go through these notes line by line. I don’t want to miss something by being too hasty,” replied Tokarev.

  “If we have to stay, is there a hotel nearby that we could use?” asked Jen.

  Tokarev shook his head. “The nearest hotel is over sixty kilometers away.”

  Outside, the snow began to fall more heavily by the minute. Cardinal cursed the weather as he watched the path he had just cleared slowly begin to fill up with fresh snow. He was about to turn and join Sam behind the house cutting wood, when something caught his eye. He raised a hand to block the falling snow and looked over at a car parked on the road. He hadn’t noticed it when he first came out; however, it was sitting there with its engine running. His instincts told him to be suspicious.

  “Damn,” said Cardinal to himself, when he realized that there was a man in the car, observing the cottage through a set of binoculars.