I Will Not Yield

by William Hogan

  “Guilty?”

  “Worried.”

  “Understandable. We’re chasing people who tore Chicago a new asshole, we’re not telling anyone what we’re doing, and we have no idea what to expect or what to do. Even if we manage to find these people, they’re stone cold killers.” She shrugged. “But other than that, everything is fine.” She leaned in, putting her nose an inch away from his. “Damn right, we should be worried.”

  He pulled back. “That’s not what I meant. I’ve never really cared about how it all winds up in the end, you know? At least not for me. I don’t have much to live for. I’m worried for you. You’re all that matters.”

  “Mike.” She sat next to him, giving him a slight hug. “Damn it, you’ve got me tearing up. It’s sweet of you to say that, but I’m right here with you. You ain’t going to run me off at this point.” She pinched him. “You don’t have something to live for? What about us, our friendship?”

  He reciprocated her earlier hug. “I’m trying really hard to believe you. But I’m still scared, for you. I don’t want you to get hurt. I just--”

  “Shut up.” Kim’s eyes were alert, her lips straight. “And I’m glad you care. Seriously, I need you to care. But I ain’t no damn wallflower. I choose this. We’re a team no matter how this ends.”

  Mike’s head lifted and tilted slightly in her direction. A gentle smile crossed his face. “Thanks.”

  She rubbed her hand across the back of his shoulders. Her touched made him flinch.

  “What?”

  “I used to break people’s faces for a living, but I’m human, you know?”

  “Mike--”

  “You need to hear this. I don’t have much luck with women. Shit, last one I had to pay for.”

  “Tony, the asshole who shot you, that was his thing too, prostitutes.”

  “I always felt remorse afterward, but that’s my screwed up way of thinking. I still can’t get over the guilt of my parents. No women could care for a monster like me.” He slumped his head and stared at the floor.

  “I care, so you’re wrong.” Kim clamped a hand onto his leg.

  “Does it bother you that I--”

  “I’m sure lots of girls would prefer not knowing their guy slept with whores before they met, but a virgin Eagle Scout with a big bank account and a decent job would bore the hell out of me. You don’t bore the hell out of me. Actually, you scare the hell out of me. Much more preferable. I’d rather be scared of caring too much, then never caring at all.”

  Mike put his hand on top of Kim’s and thought of his last date. He lifted his head and his lips curved up. “There is a bit of irony in my last date, payback you might say. She called herself Candie. Turned out to be a machine-gun wielding maniac who sliced a guy’s throat and shot the hell out of the van I was in. She tried to give me a dirt nap.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  It was Kim’s turn to smile. “You don’t have a problem in that area, do you?”

  “Damn Kim, this is serious. She was with Sokol, the Russian guy. The guy we’re chasing.”

  “You sure know how to pick em.”

  I am picking her. I wonder what that tells me.

  Mike did not know how to respond. Seconds counted off in silence.

  Kim lightly punched him in the arm. “Take off your shirt and get on the bed.” Kim stripped to her bra and panties. “Don’t flatter yourself; I’m going to take care of that back of yours. As far as my clothes are concerned, I don’t want to get them dirty from the baby oil.”

  Mike soaked in the view, then pulled off his shirt. He watched her bring the baby oil from the first aid kit.

  “I am going to massage your neck. Turn on your stomach.”

  He heard her rub her hands together to take the chill out of the oil. Warm oil splashed on his back and sent a chill down his spine. Kim’s fingers were light on his back, a useless, soft sensual massage.

  “Don’t worry, the scars are healed. Please don’t pity me. They won’t hurt you.”

  “Damn it, Mike!” Her fingers pressed deep, rubbing against his muscles and tendons releasing the toxins that gathered. A real massage.

  Her voice was soft. “Sorry.”

  A drop of moister splattered on his back. Tear?

  Fifteen minutes later, she went to the sink to put the oil in one of the six tumblers she had bought earlier.

  Mike could not figure out why. Now what?

  She used a lighter to warm the oil. She poured and spread the heated oil.

  The warmth lightly radiated across Mike’s back. His muscles relaxed.

  Mike watched her race to the sink and wiped the oil from the tumblers, placing alcohol-soaked cotton balls in each. She lit the first cup, flames licked the side of the glass. She then put the flaming cotton ball in a coffee cup with water to dowse.

  Mike noticed wisps of steam rising from the cups. Kim approached. A flash of pain ignited on his back and vanished. The air inside the glasses cooled, and a powerful suction pulled his skin toward the base of the cup.

  Kim repeated the procedure for all six cups. She slid the cups slowly across his back in a seemingly random pattern.

  Mike moaned. “What the hell did you just do? My back feels a thousand times better.”

  “It’s called Chinese hot cupping and ideal for both pain and fatigue. I read about it after we became friends. I thought it might come in handy one day. Guess I was right.”

  “It did. Thank you.”

  She pulled the cups from his back and massaged once more. Not as thoroughly, but enough where the pain and tension had receded.

  Done with the massage, she inspected his wounded arm. “You need a clean bandage.”

  She cleaned and dressed the wound. After she had finished, they both got under their covers.

  “Sweet dreams. Stay in your bed and keep your hands to yourself, Mike.”

  “You do the same missy.” I am not going to make the first move; it will be her choice alone. Damn if I’m ruining this.

  In Sokol’s makeshift command post on the edge of the South Bronx, a fenced-in shuttered gas station with boarded windows afforded perfect concealment for the five surviving team members. A small gas generator rumbled outside supplying the power required to operate their machines.

  Marat Kuznetsov frantically machined parts on a lathe. He leaned down inspecting his handiwork. He flipped off the lathe switch and put his finger inside the armature. The inside smooth with no imperfections.

  His eyes swept the room to check the progress of his partners. One of them toiled at winding a 10-gage wire around a stator. Another worker intently soldered the electronic components for a timing circuit. The last labored on the undercarriage that would cradle the twelve bombs.

  Looks like a clock. Funny, since its purpose is to stop time. Everything is moving along, good. Sokol will be happy. His hand shot up to cover his wide opened mouth. A yawn escaped. I need to rest. He ambled over to a nearby paint bucket that doubled for a chair. Once seated, he leaned his muscular body against the wall. He propped his head back against the peeled paint, not caring if his sandy hair got dirty.

  His mind fogged. He required a break or mistakes would happen. He designed the antennae delivery system, which he assured Sokol would augment the destructive EMP pulse by a factor of two. With his eyes sealed shut, he reviewed the process in his head, making sure he did not forget the simplest of steps. He must keep his promise of destruction.

  Satisfied, he contemplated the result of his latest project. He imagined the octocopter they were building lifting off with his latest invention, the twelve-spoked bomb twisting in the wind when it rose above the treetops in Central Park.

  A small altimeter, pegged at a thousand feet and attached to an electric plug, would ignite twelve projectiles. Attached to the projectiles were cables that shot from the base. The cables had a thousandth of a second head start before the twelve one-pound CL-20 explosions. The total explosive force would be gr
eater than a Hellfire missile.

  The directed EMP explosions would gather energy in the walls of the tubes while the cables expanded outward.

  He envisioned the electricity building and pulsating while the explosive force traveled the length of the coils, increasing the magnetic pulse. At the base, the magnetic fields would radiate outward, exploding with megawatts of energy. The EMP pulses would be invisible to the naked eye, but that was not what Marat imagined. In his mind’s eye fiery blue waves of energy crash against every building within a mile of Central Park, penetrating the ground and fusing the controls that regulated New York’s water system. Millions of water taps would not respond to their owner twist.

  His daydream shifted: he was a nondescript man inside of one of the buildings who reacted to a sharp crack in the distance. The man mistook the sound for an innocent clap of thunder. By the time the sound rattled the man’s eardrums, the civilized portion of Manhattan had become unglued. The fluorescent light in the kitchen and an old tube radio glows eerily bright, even with the power out.

  The terrorist could almost sense the growing stronger toxic smell of ozone mixed with smothering plastic. Blue smoke seeped from the electrical outlets, the bright flickering television nothing more than a paperweight--along with every other piece of electrical equipment. Outside, immobile cars litter the streets. For the first time in a hundred years, the hustle and bustle of Manhattan hushed. The bomb would throw a large portion of New York City back two centuries.

  The daydreamer awoke to pain.

  A slap across his head. He sought the source.

  “What the hell you doing? Snap out of it and get to work.”

  The daydreamer’s dream ended. He jumped up and got to work.

  Tomorrow, the diligent terrorists would assume the names of Bob, Bill, Harold, and Joe, with the fifth to stay behind to remove any trace of their handiwork. The octocopter that supported their payload would be disassembled, packed and hidden.

  CHAPTER 28

  Let The Games Begin

  Kim soon found sleep but was awakened by Mike banging open dresser drawers. Kim groggily turned in Mike’s direction. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Looking for the frigging hotel Internet password.” He shuffled papers around. “Got it!”

  “You realize that I’m trying to sleep? And you need sleep too, by the way.”

  “I want to fire up Betsy and check something.”

  Her lips crept up forming a smile. “Betsy? What a strange name for my computer. I would like to emphasize the fact that it’s my laptop?”

  “So? I’m not the one who put a big smiley face on the thing.”

  “Don’t talk about my smiley, it’s cute. Do you always name computers?”

  “Of course, don’t you?” He threw both hands up in a gesture of surrender.

  “You are a few cards short of a full deck.”

  He acted out the part. “I don’t suffer from insanity. I enjoy every minute of it. ...crazy utterances...”

  Mike bent and wrapped his fingers around the heavy traveling bag’s strap and yanked. His back did the lifting. His face was twisted in pain.

  Kim’s laughter halted. “Damn it. I just fixed your back.” She slid out from under the covers and walked to the corner. “Let me set it up; I don’t want you lifting anything with that back and arm of yours.”

  He waved her off.

  Kim shook her head. “Why are men so stupid? Wait, don’t answer that.”

  “So that’s what you want to do, fight all day?”

  She pushed past him and grabbed the bag. She started to slide the computer out of its case and paused. “Do you mind telling me what’s going on?”

  “Why do women always gotta ask questions and complicate things with logic? Wait, don’t answer that.”

  “You really do want to fight all day?”

  “You win. I’m going to break into the Russian guy’s computer. My Trojan program worked before, so I think it’ll work again.”

  “You think they’re that stupid? I’m sure they deleted your little program.”

  “You think I am that stupid?”

  “Of course, I do. As I said before, look at the crap you got us into.”

  “Touché. Three things are certain in life: Death, taxes, and lost data. I always have a backup. My so-called little program actually hid a duplicate of itself on their hard drive by copying over a system file that’s rarely used.”

  “Clever. Function?”

  “Gives me multiple log-in attempts. But I might not need it. Those bastards think I’m dead. I will still have to activate it with another program.”

  “That’s why you need to get on the Internet?”

  “Did I mention that I like backups? My stuff is still stashed on the dark web away from prying eyes.”

  “I’m glad you are one of the good guys. Are you really sure it’s going to work?”

  He held up two fingers. “If it doesn’t, I’ll implement my brilliant plan number two.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Cry like a little baby.”

  “That my boy is not a comforting thought.”

  Once the system booted up, Kim put her chin on Mike’s shoulder. Her bra only covered boobs pressed against his back.

  He flinched but did not say anything.

  He downloaded and installed the TOR Browser. His fingers flew across the keyboard initiating his technological alchemy. “I am going to bounce around the signal a little first.”

  Kim was familiar with the Dark Web since it’s been around for years. This must be his playground.

  Mike entered the trackingurls.onion dark website.

  “Dot onion?”

  “It’s the dark web’s dot com.” Mike continued navigating. “We’re in luck. Bad Bitch’s site is up and running. She has a hidden link to my Zip files. With luck, the terrorists will never know what hit them.” He clicked on the zip file and a download progress bar loaded.

  Kim leaned in to get a closer look at the Bad Bitch page. Fabric was not this women’s friend. What the fabric missed, tattoo ink substituted. “That Bad Bitch of yours walks on the wild side. Why exactly are you her friend?”

  “Underneath everything, she’s cool.”

  Kim raised an eyebrow. “Underneath everything?”

  “Shit, did I really say that? I mean...”

  “I know what you're saying.”

  Mike unzipped the files he needed, launched his software, and inputted the IP from before. He was greeted with a login screen.

  “Wow, they didn’t change the IP. They must really think I am dead.” He pressed the backdoor sequence.

  Kim’s heartbeat beat against her chest when he entered the site. The fiery Hammer and Sickle glowed. “Nice graphics, but hurry and click on the Central Park image.”

  An image of Central Park loads. A large area of the park was circled on the southeast side.

  “X marks the spot!” Mike put his finger on the map.

  “You really are cuckoo for Coco Puffs.” She shook her head to brush away the thought. “I guess we know where to start. Let’s dig deeper.”

  Before Mike could grab the mouse, the site went dark.

  “Damn! This happened before, I should have known better. I didn’t get a chance to activate my software! A minute more seconds and I would have owned the damn server.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it. Worrying won’t change a thing. Let’s go back to bed. We have a long day tomorrow and hopefully we can get these bastards.”

  “Something’s going to happen tomorrow. I can feel it my bones. The last time I hacked this system, Chicago happened the next day.”

  Kim paused to think. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She headed toward the bathroom, purse in hand. Once inside she paced back and forth. No way was she looking in the mirror; she would hate the person staring back at her. Mike’s words bounced around her head. Happen tomorrow, happen tomorrow. Damn if I am going to let him get hurt agai
n.

  She put a battery in the burner cell, hands shaking, pulled out a card and made a call, waiting for someone to answer.

  “Field Agent Melanie Holmes.”

  “I’m not alone and only have a minute. Please listen…”

  Sokol snatched his mobile phone from its resting-place, read the message, and dialed Yevgeny’s replacement, Semyon Voronin. “We had another break-in!”

  Fidgeting, Semyon nodded. “I know. The system shut down. I found a file and deleted it. I don’t know how that idiot allowed this to happen?”

  “You didn’t change the IP like I asked?” Sokol calculated the odds of someone other than Mike O’Connor breaking in. The bastard is not dead. I should have kept the mole alive. “It was O’Connor. Do you understand how much I hate incompetence?”

  Semyon gripped the Russian Orthodox three-bar Cross that dangled on his neck. “It will never happen again, I promise.”

  “Never make promises that you cannot keep. But we will worry about promises later. What has this resourceful American hacker seen this time?”

  “I don’t know. I modified the operating system code to shut down quicker.”

  Sokol tugged gently on his ear. “Phase Two begins tomorrow. The boulder is rolling downhill, no way to stop it. We have broken off communications as protocol demands. I hope for your sake their assignment is completed. I will hold you personally responsible.” He continued. “Did you finish everything I need?”

  “Yes, the electronics are good-to-go, the device is rearmed, and everything in the shop has been cleaned. The men are packed and ready.”

  “I will see you tomorrow.” Sokol evaluated contingencies. He dialed a number on his line.

  After the fourth ring, someone answered. “Yea?”

  Sokol anticipated the rudeness. Stone cold sociopaths were often impolite. “I suspect there might be trouble in Central Park tomorrow, manage it.”

  The recliner was fully prone, TV muted due to the call, the voice on the other excited. The man’s house was nicely decorated with an ego wall littered with military items, a trophy case full of shooting trophies nearby, his Russian Olympic days in the past. Killing paid more bills. “Trouble in Central Park tomorrow, you say? I think that this trouble of yours will have a short lifespan,” said Russia’s most notorious soldier of fortune.