by Ryan Schow
“Are you okay?”
“Not really. It’s like I can feel them, you know?”
“Try coming out here in the dead of night.”
When they got to the pile of bodies, he spotted Kaylee right away.
“Oh my God,” she said, her stomach lurching. “Is that her?”
He nodded. She turned and gagged.
While she was busy, he pulled out his phone, took a photo of the body. He tried to brush some of the dirt off her face, but it got in her eyes. He looked at the picture of her again, saw the similarities. But dear God in heaven, the hell this young girl must have gone through before she died!
Cira pulled herself together. Standing beside him, her eyes watering, she said, “There was another pile of puke.”
“That was me last night.”
“So you are human,” she said without a trace of humor in her voice.
He handed her the plastic tarp. “Lay that out over there, I’m going to pull her out.”
She saw the bugs crawling on the bodies and jumped back. “I hate beetles,” she said, squeamish.
He dragged the body out of the pile, her shoe coming off in the process. Under her arms, he felt the skin give, afraid it would slip off like an old sock, or a glove. Gently, he got her onto the plastic mat. He and Cira looked down at her, silent. The pain in Atlas’s heart felt like the start of a heart attack. Using his phone, he took another picture.
“Whoever did this to her…,” Cira started to say.
In that very moment, however, Kaylee’s left nostril shifted, then moved. Both he and Cira stared wide-eyed at the dead girl. A roving pair of antennae wiggled their way out of her nostril, followed by a hideous ink-black head and a hard black body. Cira was already screaming and jumping around in the dirt like a wonky twelve-year-old.
Knowing he was going to have to do this on his own, he took one more photo, sent the pics to Leopold, then he wrapped her up in the plastic and lifted her over his shoulder.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Now,” she replied, plugging her nose again.
Together they walked to the cab, Kaylee heavy on his beaten body, the weight of this moment heavier than the weight of her corpse.
Within minutes, something in Cira snapped and she picked up her pace, leaving him behind. A part of him was thankful for this. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to reflect on what he was doing, who he was carrying.
Forcing himself to stay with the horrors of this moment, he reminded himself that if he was going to make all this right—or at least stall the deaths of more innocents—he’d need memories like this he could use as fuel for the oncoming war.
That said, he let his mind and his imagination run wild. Flashes of Kaylee’s death smashed through his brain. It hurt his heart to let go, to embrace this, but this was the burden he’d signed up for. This was the op he decided to take, and now it was time to see it through to its completion.
When he reached the cab, he saw that Cira had opened the trunk before getting back in the cab. Sweating, tired, his body weary, he tucked Kaylee into the empty space.
“I’m sorry this happened to you,” he said to the girl.
As he was closing the trunk, his phone beeped. A text had come in. He opened his screen, saw the message from Leopold, and smiled.
It was in code. It read: YOU’RE GREEN LIT. EAT AS MANY SANDWICHES AS YOU CAN. MORE IS BETTER.
A second text came in: EAT EVERY LAST ONE OF THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS.
Nodding his head, his clenched jaw flexing, Atlas felt a sadistic grin lift the corners of his mouth. With a satisfied smile, he slid the phone into his pocket, then joined the others in the cab. To Fadey, he said, “Head to my friend’s apartments.” He turned to Cira, lowered his voice. “Call Kofi, tell him we need some bang-bangs.”
She picked up the phone, dialed Kofi, and told him what they needed. A moment later, she asked how he felt about a little wet work later on that night.
“I feel good about it,” he said. Satisfied, she hung up and gave Atlas the nod, letting him know they were good to go.
“If we need to cram more people in here, can you do that?” Atlas asked Fadey.
“How many more?”
“Two?”
“Four adults plus me, a dead body and your guns?” he said sarcastically, having heard all of their conversations. “Sure. I can do that. But it’s going to be tight.”
“We need to pick up Kiera, if she’s free.”
“She’s at our disposal,” Cira said.
“What can you tell me about her?” he asked, hoping to get more information on her now that he and Cira knew each other biblically.
“That she’s bald, doesn’t speak, and is really freaking scary,” Cira said, impassive.
“I know that.”
“Then you know everything I know.”
“Do you know where she’s staying?” Atlas asked.
“Someplace that isn’t nice.”
“Then you already know more than I do. Can we safely meet and strategize there?”
“Yes.”
“Is her place as nice as your hotel?”
“I already said it’s not nice at all, Atlas,” she replied, her face caught in a thousand-yard stare.
“Why would you do that to her?”
Blinking, she seemed to come back into her body. “Because she can handle herself and she obviously has no thoughts about anything. I mean, I could stuff her into an unflushed toilet and she probably wouldn’t complain. Unlike someone else I know…”
They pulled up to Kofi’s place. Atlas saw the Ukrainian walking down the staircase with a heavy duffle bag.
“Can you open the trunk, Fadey?” Atlas said. The man turned off the cab and handed him the keys. Atlas took them, went in back, popped the trunk.
There were people milling around, so many of them that he kept the lid low until the last minute. When he opened the trunk for Kofi, the man caught a whiff of the dead body. Curling his nose, he turned away, like someone had pitched acid in his face.
“For the love of God,” he said. “You didn’t say you’d be bringing her.”
“We’re taking her home with us.”
He took a deep breath of fresh air, turned back to the cab and stuffed the bag of weapons down next to her side. When he was done, he wasted no time walking away.
“I’ll ride in front,” Kofi called out as Atlas shut the lid.
“We’re heading to Kiera’s place.”
“I figured.”
At Kiera’s little dump—which was hot, stuffy, and cramped—they snuck Kaylee around the back, then went inside to strategize for the evening.
They broke for lunch, napped as a team, then broke for dinner, where they talked about this and that until the sun went down and night fell upon them.
They were going to hit Dasha’s house first. When they got the weapons out and divvied them up, Atlas said, “Wait…where’s all the extra ammo?”
Kofi just looked at him. “What do you mean?”
Atlas’s heart began to race, and everyone got really quiet. “Are the mags even full?” he asked, looking them over.
“Mostly.”
“Are you kidding me?” he barked.
“This isn’t America.” He frowned. “We can’t just buy fresh rounds on every street corner.”
“You realize what we’ve been tasked to do, right?”
“Of course,” he said.
“But you need rent money,” Atlas growled.
The low blow struck Kofi in the gut. Atlas felt bad the second he said it, but there was an inescapable truth to the statement. Some of these people would do whatever they had to do to keep the lights on, including promising something they couldn’t deliver. Like lots of guns and ammo. That was the very nature of desperation.
“I’m sorry,” Atlas said. Getting his wits about him, he continued. “Whoever we shoot, if they have a gun, we have to take it because we’re going to run out of ammo.”<
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“You don’t know that,” Kofi interjected.
“You don’t plan for the best in the hope that the worst doesn’t happen, Kofi. You plan for the worst and hope for the best.”
“Shall I pull down my pants and poop out some ammo?”
“I want to watch him try,” Cira said.
Kiera just looked at the three of them, and then she looked down at the AK-47 she was holding. She thumbed the mag release lever, set the mag aside. She then moved the safety lever from safe to fire, the heavy click interrupting their conversation. With practiced ease, she pulled the bolt to the rear, then reached out and caught the ejected round. After that, she began emptying the mag, counting her rounds. The young woman looked and moved like a pro. Again, Atlas was impressed.
Rather than continue to berate Kofi, he did the same as Kiera with the remaining five weapons. At least the semi-automatic shotgun had an extended tube and eight rounds ready. He took that, then tossed a Glock with a scratched-off serial number to Kiera. It had four rounds in the mag, one in the chamber. Maybe they’d have enough ammo, but only if they didn’t miss.
“It’s about that time,” Atlas said, checking the clock on the wall. By then, it was nearly ten o’clock and everyone’s nerves were fried. Cira had already puked twice knowing what was ahead, and Kofi had called to tell Katryna and Maxim he loved them.
With no loved ones to call, no one who even knew he was there but his team and Leopold, Atlas picked up the phone and dialed Fadey’s number. The man didn’t answer. He called again, and still, there was no answer.
“What the hell?”
“Did he chicken out on us?” Cira asked.
“Dammit,” Kofi grumbled.
Then the phone rang and he picked it up on the first ring. “Fadey?”
“I have the nervous poops, sir.”
“We all do.”
“I am on my way, then?” Fadey said, as if he were asking a question.
“Yeah,” Atlas replied. “It’s go time.”
He hung up the phone, then said to Cira, “Call Codrin and tell him it’s time.”
“Will do,” she said.
“You’re sure he can do it, right?” Atlas asked.
Earlier, she’d called and tasked Codrin with handling any alarms on Dasha’s and Vanko’s houses. Vanko’s property didn’t have an alarm system; Dasha’s was cheap and apparently easy to hijack. The one unknown, which she’d brought up to Atlas earlier, was the location of Dasha’s house. They’d used the address from where Atlas was kept to get a property owner. Of course, there was a corporation where Dasha was the main shareholder. They’d then used the corporation to check on other properties. Two different properties came up. One was a nine-thousand-square-foot villa, and the other was a thirty-five-hundred-square-foot home in Kiev. They’d assumed Dasha was staying at the oversized villa, but if they were wrong…dear, God, they couldn’t be wrong!
“If Codrin says he can handle the alarms, then he can,” she said. Unlocking her phone, she found a screen and showed it to him.
The return text said: I CAN DO THIS SHIT IN MY SLEEP.
“I’m assuming that’s a yes?” he asked.
“What else would it be?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
ATLAS HARGROVE
Dasha’s mammoth villa was about seven minutes away from Arcadia and the tourist beaches, and about twenty minutes out from Kiera’s place. Fadey picked them up on time, everyone piling in. The troops were nervous, especially Fadey, who showed it more than anyone. Atlas could practically feel Fadey’s tension like a low-level hum on his skin. The closer they got to Dasha’s, the more apparent it became. The Ukrainian couldn’t seem to sit still, and it was his own freaking cab!
Outside, the night felt extra warm. Even worse, the unusually humid air was so thick and wet it all but triggered Atlas’s claustrophobia. Like Fadey, he tried to adjust himself in his seat, not finding that perfect position. This earned him a questioning look from Kiera.
“You got ants in your pants?” Cira asked from the front seat.
Frowning, sweating, Atlas said, “Something like that.”
He shifted his shoulders, his hips, settled back into his old position in the back seat. It wasn’t comfortable. Turning his attention to the night outside, he lost himself in the blurring of random streetlights, and the glowing yellow window shades of people getting ready to turn in and bid the day farewell. He should be in bed, somewhere. How in the world did I get here? Dear God, he was having one of those moments—the dizzying kind where, for a second, he felt like he was falling, but then he wasn’t. It shot right through him. The panic set in behind that, but then that dispersed, too.
Squeezed in next to Kiera, he felt every breath she took. Squashed into her on the other side, Kofi was pressed against the other door, his attention on the road ahead. The back of Cira’s blond head was in front of him. He studied her tight ponytail for a moment, felt himself smile. He couldn’t stop wondering about her. He’d never asked her if she’d been in a situation like this before. Not a takedown, but an intended massacre. She was capable as a planner, she had all the bite of a woman who could take care of herself, and most importantly, she’d earned the ear of Leopold Wentworth. That means something, right? She wouldn’t walk them into something they couldn’t handle. She was a professional. Snarky, but adept. Or was he just telling himself tall tales because he was nervous?
Knowing he’d get no reassurances, feeling like he should be taking this raid more seriously, he pulled back inside himself and began wiping the myriad concerns from his mind. Death, the death of a teammate, his own life, Alabama, Jade. All those thoughts would only serve to suppress his instincts, slow him down. He needed to control his headspace; focusing on his breathing had always been a suitable answer. But it was never the only answer. To soften the rigid edges of his thoughts, he engaged in low-level self-hypnosis. For him, if he could separate his nerves from his concerns, if he could still that primal part of him that wanted to bare his teeth, make his hands into claws and rip and tear his way through those animals, then he could achieve higher states. Most of the time this worked. He could stay calm when he needed to, then flick the switch when it was right, and absolutely smash.
He returned his attention to the lonely Odessa night. After a few moments, with his thoughts vanishing and his awareness turning inward, he felt his mind relax. The fear, however, refused to abate. He’d never felt so alone and vulnerable in his life.
“We’re almost there,” Fadey said, breaking the silence.
Everyone readied the weapons they had on their person. Fadey eased the cab past the huge, glowing house. What a stark contrast to what they’d just come through. Two houses past Dasha’s veritable mansion, Fadey pulled over, the small balding wheels rolling over uneven earth. They parked, waited a beat.
“Let’s go already,” Kofi said.
“Not yet,” Atlas replied.
“What are you waiting for?”
He thought back to the house he’d been held captive in. Dasha’s house. It was bordered by a big iron gate that was closed and looked impenetrable by any kind of normal car. The solid stucco wall surrounding the property, however, looked scalable. Show-offs like Dasha would sometimes trade security for vanity. He was that kind. The house beyond the walls was beautiful, a statement piece in the neighborhood. That would make scaling the six-foot partition easy. He had neighbors, though. Places where a car like Fadey’s would be seen, watched, maybe even reported among the neighbors, or to the police.
“Pull ahead three more houses and let us out,” Atlas said. “And pick a shadow. Let’s try to keep out of everyone’s line of sight if that’s possible.”
Fadey pulled ahead, rolling up in front of another, taller wall. Atlas looked around, saw points of visibility by the other massive houses on the street, then said, “Ease up a few more feet.”
Fadey did as instructed. Fortunately, many of the homes sat back from the street. He couldn’t help but
wonder about personal security. That couldn’t be the only thing he worried about, though. There were girls in that big gorgeous house, currently being run through by degenerates and pigs, men with fetishes, perverts, guys who looked at young girls as conquests, not people with thoughts, fears, dreams—all things that were being constantly crushed under the weight and justification of need and entitlement.
“Here,” Atlas said. “Park the car.”
The back doors eased open and the three of them piled out of the back seat. Fadey and Cira got out as well. Fadey tossed the keys over the car to Atlas, who used them to open the trunk. Kofi caught a whiff of the boot and spun away, the residual stench of Kaylee’s body still lingering heavy.
They had stored Kaylee around the back of Kiera’s place, covered her with an inconspicuous tarp, praying not to draw the curious eyes of the rental property’s neighbors. Fadey’s trunk, however, would pay the price of Kaylee’s fate. It was going to stink for days to come. Weeks maybe.
Kofi had a suppressed Springfield XD9, handed it to Atlas. “The can’s not new, but it’s still quieter than the alternative,” he said, picking up an old P226, no suppressor.
Kiera had her Glock 17 ready to go. Like the other weapons, this one looked like it had seen war, but it dry-fired fine. She’d field-stripped it earlier, checked the cleanliness of the parts, made sure everything was oiled properly, then put it back together. Stowing the handgun, she went for the AK-47. With the mag firmly in place, she slung the weapon over her shoulder, tightened the strap, snugging that baby against her back. When she was done, she looked at Atlas and gave him the “ready” nod.
Cira stood there like a woman who couldn’t decide if she wanted to strap up and join the A-Team or do the smart thing and hang back. When she caught a whiff of the trunk, she whipped her head around, seemed to swallow hard and a lot, then stepped farther away from them. Was she reliving the nightmare of them picking up Kaylee’s body? If so, he didn’t blame her.