Sokol stood in a large circle of his men, eyeballing them critically. He became determined to provide his men with a demonstration of combat Sambo techniques. This should brighten my day.
He pointed to four muscular smirking soldiers. Sokol indicated they could wield their knives; he would be weaponless. He took off his shirt. His body a cord of muscles. His hair had muscles.
In a blur of fists and fury, his opponents laid weaponless and wounded on the ground. A medical team charged in to check for permanent injuries. Sokol’s glare kept them away. He was dirty and bruised. His left ribcage burned. The only immediate medical concern was a slice across the back of his hand. Blood dribbled to the ground when Sokol stood up.
He used two fingers to harvest some blood, smearing it from the top of his forehead and the bottom of his cheeks.
He spun toward his men. He saw fear, respect and a newfound determination. Good.
He singled out the medic who had raced to his side. He held out his hand to be attended. “Good practice to stitch it here.”
The violence and pain settled his nerves. The tension in his shoulders drifted away. He felt more alive. He got back to work.
He broke the team into squads and sent them to urban warfare training.
The tactical training ground mimicked NYPD’s facility with one glaring exception: the mock-ups were outfitted in police NYPD uniforms. Today, the fictional residents in the New York City mock-up would have a short life expectancy. His team would pierce their wooden heads and hearts with live rounds.
Stitched and wound dressed, Sokol observed the squads advance inside of the mountain’s 115,000 square-foot tactical training arena. The performance of his team placed a gleam in Sokol’s gray eyes. He was proud of their honed lethality. Let’s get a closer look.
In the shadows, Sokol watched Suvorov advance. Suvorov was one of Sokol’s favorite trainees, one of the few men to survive the youth training camp with his humor intact. Sokol appreciated the idea of a smile or two brought in the midst of hell.
Suvorov turned a corner and a small child holding a teddy-bear popped out of an enclosed storefront door. With a gymnast’s grace, Suvorov slid around the child and continued to his objective.
Sokol’s heart dropped, and he raised a flare gun toward the roof of the mountain and fired his signal to halt the exercise. Within moments, the teams clustered around.
Sokol exploded. “A lesson needs to be learned, and Suvorov will assist. Suvorov hand me your weapon.”
He gave Sokol the gun. Suvorov bowed, turned, and started to swagger away. He whipped his head around. “Hey don’t keep it too long boss; I don’t want it to get cold.”
Sokol scrutinized the gun with care and drifted off in thought. He recalled the day he watched helplessly as Chechen Rebels executed his father. A slight shudder traveled down his body. Enough! These men need a harsh lesson before they leave. His voice slightly above a whisper. “To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.”
The men bowed to hear.
The gun was a blur until it aimed in Suvorov’s direction. With expert precision, Sokol put a bullet into Suvorov’s brainpan.
Sokol paid no heed to the corpse on the ground and switched to full auto. He swung and emptied the magazine into the little wooden girl. Splinters flew as bullets ripped her head from her shoulders.
Smoke still lingered, the acrid metallic smell of ignited gunpowder still fresh. “We do not train to be merciful. Mercy is for the weak. In America, if a man confronts you, he is the enemy.” His voice rose. “If a woman or a child confronts you, they are the enemy. An enemy deserves no mercy.” Sokol's voice increased dramatically. “No matter what the cost.”
The old Soviet battle cheer was his team’s motto.
One of the elite soldiers half-heartily shouted. “No matter what the cost.”
The killing spirit pumped the hearts of the men. They repeated the chant. Their voice became a roar. “No matter what the cost. No matter what the cost. No matter what the cost!”
Sokol’s phone rang. He put his finger in the opposite ear to drown out the shouts. “Hi Miska, things have progressed well.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Miska, tomorrow my men begin their journey to America.”
“Sounds even better.”
Russia’s revenge-minded, Bolshevik rulers agreed to let Sokol and his friends have the men and equipment after he introduced his master plan and provided a massive infusion of needed cash.
Sokol cells would invade America’s heartland from Canada. Passport and customs checks were meager at best and nonexistent at worse. In its political arrogance, America refused to protect its border with Canada, and thanks to Mike O’Connor’s unwitting aid two years previously, a path was clear.
One group had trained and drilled on nearby Lake Baykal. They would sail across Lake Huron to cross into Lake Michigan. They would be Canadians when they launched and Americans when they infiltrated Lake Michigan. With the cargo they carried, it was important to elude radiation detectors.
CHAPTER 11
Rehab
A year and a half before Sokol got his hands on the nuclear material, Mike had not derived pleasure from his incarceration at the diamond shaped Metropolitan Correctional Center in downtown Chicago. Something about being shot, nearly paralyzed, financially destroyed, wrongly accused, and trapped in a cage had given him a piss poor attitude. Today someone important would demand to rectify that.
Prison Warden Harvey Michelson III sat entrenched in a squeaky chair reading a Penthouse magazine, his feet propped up on his desk, shoes upside down on the floor. One well-worn sock had a hole. “Oh yeah, babe of the month. Too bad you’re blue-haired and tatted up.”
He cleared a spot on his desk by knocking papers and files to the floor, upsetting his haphazard filing system. Least it wasn’t my coffee cup.
He cocked an eye at the clutter of paper and folders. Something inside tugged at the corner of his lips and made him smile. “Hell with it.” He never tired of his messy office -- the one spot he could rebel and be his own man. He could not at home, much as he tried. A woman there kept herself armed with a four horsepower vacuum cleaner and an endless supply of scented wipes, standing guard over her meticulously kept dominion.
His common-looking metal and plastic chair strained to accommodate his large buttocks. The chair squeaked on the edge of annoyance as he wiggled on the unsteady tripod base. The chairs rollers sometimes provided entertainment when the floor was clean enough to roll across.
With deliberation, he dragged deeply on a Cuban cigar. Two seconds later, he commenced exhaling smoke rings, one, two, three, four... twelve. Swirls of smoke were dragged into the exhaust of a strategically positioned fan.
The cigar was crammed with flavor: a smooth and lightly sweet taste. The nicotine did its job and made him feel mildly euphoric. He sealed his eyes and attempted to forget he was in the heart of a federal prison. He let his thoughts drift.
His favorite guard of the moment had brought him the cigar along with four companions, confiscated from a wealthy patron’s hidden mattress cubbyhole.
Exhaling another set of rings, Harvey mentally thanked the inmate for smuggling luxury where none existed. He shifted his eyes back to the blue-haired beauty in the magazine. “And thank you.”
Another puff of smoke exited his ashen lungs to drift into the center of his office. His phone rang. Shit! I hope no one is here to see me.
He put his feet down and stretched for the can of air freshener. He wasn’t quite ready to put the cigar out in a nearby half-filled cup of coffee. But he was prepared.
Another ring. He reached over and wrapped his fingers around the landline receiver. “Michelson.”
“Warden, I have the FBI on line three for you.”
His heart slowed to normal. Harvey calmed down and put his feet back up. He looked at his filthy socks. “Put em on.” He heard the click when the line transferred. “Chief Warden Michaelson.”
“Good morning, Warden. I’m Del Kaufman. I serve as the FBI Executive Assistant Director for Science and Technology--”
He made no effort to memorize her title nor particularly cared who among various agencies called; they always wanted the same thing, to interview an inmate. “Morning. What can I do for you?”
“Our files show that a Mike O’Connor remains incarcerated.”
“Yeah. The only guy in the house at the moment in a wheelchair. If you need to talk to him, hang up and dial Facility Services, they’ll get you an interview.”
“No, Mr. Michaelson, we don’t need to talk with him. I’m calling to make a request.”
Harvey tapped his cigar on the floor. Ashes fell on the scattered papers. He preferred to spout something cute but was a few coffee cups shy of knowing what. “I’m listening.”
“We’re concerned about his overall health and wish to make him whole again.”
“You mean so he can walk?”
“Yes.”
“Well”--he sucked on his cigar--“not every day we get calls to get a guy healthy again, not even on suicide watch. What’s the special occasion with O’Connor? Got to get him healthy enough to torture? A little waterboarding?”
“That does not even begin to approach being funny, Mr. Michaelson.”
“Well, why then?”
“Focus on his health and let my agency worry about why. Consider it a national security issue. Hire physical therapists or put him through a few more rounds of reparative surgery. Call my office and we’ll compensate the prison. Just do what needs to be done.”
“You sound like my wife. Can’t argue with her, either. Okay, look.” He took his feet off his desk and sat up. “I want to help, but the guy’s head is not screwed on the right way, you know what I mean? Doesn’t talk to anybody, ignores the physical therapist we have on staff.”
“I understand one of our former agents visits him.”
“Yeah, he’s got a visitor. Some FBI agent named Maat. Is this about her? She likes pulling strings, is that why you’re calling?”
“Warden, I am calling on behalf of the agency to make a request that Michael O’Connor be placed on a fast track for physical recovery. Ms. Maat’s visits are irrelevant.”
“She came storming into my office, all teary-eyed one day after visiting him, demanding better care for him. So now you’re stepping on me, because of her?”
“Kim Maat resigned from the FBI over a half a year ago. She is now a civilian and in no position to be making demands in the agency’s name.”
“Well, she didn’t do that. But she made sure I knew she was the arresting agent at the time.”
“Equally irrelevant. Comply with this request, Warden.”
“Fine. You foot the bill, I’ll get something started.”
“You say Mr. O’Connor is depressed and recalcitrant?”
“Well I don’t use those big words every day, but yeah. He’s not the most cooperative prisoner we’ve ever had. It was a chore just giving him his flu shot the last time.”
“Get creative if you must. You’ll have the money. We want him whole, Mr. Michealson. You do this, and our director will put in a good word with your boss.” One last piece of candy to sweeten the pot. “You might even get that office renovation you requested.”
“Yeah. I hear you. I will figure out something. Have a good day.” Harvey hung up and snuffed out his cigar. Damn interference.
“Something wrong, boss?”
“What?” Harvey looked up to see one of his deputies who had walked in, start to pick up the fallen papers off the floor. “I’ll handle that, don’t worry about it.”
“What pissed you off on the phone?”
“FBI called. They want that jerk in the wheelchair to walk again. Doesn’t matter how many more surgeries he has, the guy doesn’t respond to anybody. Good luck trying to coach him to walk even if he could.” He took the papers from his deputy.
“It’s above my pay grade to suggest this, but what if you found what he likes, then, you know, dangle it front of him, a reward to get him to open up. I do that with my fifteen-year-old every day or she’ll wind up pregnant or dead.”
Harvey stood up and ambled over to his coffee pot across the room. “He was into mixed martial arts. Saw him on television a few years ago. Big star and all that. Got his ass handed to him but won the fight anyway.” He put down his coffee cup. “Thanks. That gave me an idea. I think I know what to dangle, or should I say who to dangle.”
“Anytime, chief.”
The three men, steroid-enhanced biker freaks, were zonked out of their minds when they snatched her. She was on her way home from a janitor job at a nearby kindergarten. They dragged her into an alley, and she met a brutal fate.
Juan confronted the men in their favorite biker bar. The men were set loose on bail paid from their drug trade earnings.
Roid-raged and armed with knives and chains, they were hyped-up and ready to tear Juan from limb-to-limb. To their misfortune, Juan did not carry a weapon to the party. It took over a hundred devastating fist and foot strikes before the men were granted their wish to meet their maker. Through tear-filled eyes, they pleaded for death to finish the onslaught. Juan granted their request but did not see a reason to hasten their journey to the afterlife.
Juan was burdened with a long sentence, not because the jury couldn’t sympathize with his act of revenge, but after viewing the brutal pictures of the crime scene, they felt sorry for the monsters.
Juan accepted his fate without argument. The Judge took his state of mind into consideration and did not order life in prison, just a big chunk of it.
Harvey picked up the black government-issued phone and dialed a number he thought he would never call again. Astonished he remembered the number by heart. He hoped Juan was home. Harvey counted the number of rings, one, two, three... five...
On the sixth ring, Juan picked up. “Alo (hello)?”
“Juan. Harvey Michaelson, your favorite person of all time. I’m calling in the favor you owe me.”
“Señor Wall Banger, is that you?”
He smiled without thought, an old nickname resurfaced. Juan had given Harvey the moniker years ago after witnessing Harvey hurl an inmate against the wall. “Yea it’s me. Just listen you friggin’ Rican and don’t get my blood pressure up. I need your help.”
“No Señor, I’m out of prison. You will never get me behind bars again.”
Harvey counted too three. “Juan, it’s kind of serious. I need you. You told me if I ever needed anything you would help. I’m cashing in my chips.”
“I said no.”
“Please don’t make me beg. By God, I never thought I would do this, but I am.” The words come hard. “I got you out on a compassionate release for your cancer or you’d still be rotting here. I need you, and you owe me.” Harvey bided his time, waiting through the silence.
“Bastard, Me doy, I give up, you win.”
“There’s a guy here in a wheelchair. FBI’s crawling up my ass to get him to walk again. Didn’t say why. He won’t talk to anybody, gets hostile when anyone wants to help him, you know the type.”
A week later, Mike let the guard wheel him into the prison’s large white therapy room. He made the guard do all the work. He sat listless and slumped over in his chair. His hair was unkempt with three days’ worth of beard clinging to his face.
Once inside the room, Mike was caught off-guard. The regular bookish therapist had been supplanted with an aging bullfighter: tall, slender, fighting shape, maybe sixtyish. Mike fixed his gaze closer. The therapist appeared to be a kind and gentle person. The man owned a proud Hispanic face etched with age.
Mike knew by the expression on therapist’s face that he wasn’t impressed. So what!
The therapist shook his head. “Aye caramba, look at what we have here, the big computomaniaco.”
Computomaniaco? “Shut up and do your job. I haven’t time to listen to any of your nonsense.”
U
nfazed, the therapist’s voice remained soft but firm. “Little Amigo, what job might that be?”
“Don’t call me your friend. How am I supposed to know? You’re the therapist! Exercise would be a good call?”
The therapist’s face cracked a grin like a Cheshire cat. “We will become amigos, you’ll see. You may call me Juan.”
Before Mike could respond, Juan smacked his hands to his sides and bowed. He shouted a command in Japanese and executed the Kata Chatan Yara Kusanku, a ritualized martial arts display.
Juan’s fists and feet exploded in a flurry of patterns. Before his fists lashed out at blinding speed, they vibrated with restrained energy, not sloppy shaking like a young bull trying to prove he knew the raw moves, but refined and focused.
Jesus, this guy’s amazing. “All right, old man. I like you.”
Juan bowed. “Time to get off your ass, then, perhaps?”
He witnessed martial artist perform Katas, but none with such artistry and contained violence. It built a longing in his heart.
The past was a bitter pill… Mike grabbed it, examined it, and swallowed it.
Mike nodded. “You going to teach me?”
The old man shook his head yes.
“Yeah. Perhaps it is time.” Get your ass in gear, boy.
CHAPTER 12
A Friend In Need
A tremendous burden lifted off Mike’s shoulders when he took two steps unaided during the third week of therapy. The first weeks of training consisted of all Tai Chi exercises to strengthen his back muscles and increase flexibility.
Juan’s primary concern in teaching Tai Chi was to pass on the health benefits of the form, not to teach Mike to Spar. Mike had amazing combat Muay Tai skills before the training. He knew how to break bones and kill people.
Now, after ten months of two forty-five-minute physical therapy sessions a day and a month and a half from his parole hearing, Juan Cortez had become Mike’s mortal savior in the strictest sense. Juan was more than an amigo. Mike grew to love Juan like the father he’d lost.
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