by L. J. Martin
Vadim, the shorter but the heavier of the two, moved up almost chest to chest with the taller man, looking up, curling a lip. "Share, or I vill take it, drink the wodka, and then shove the flask up your flabby ass."
Vlad shoved him, both palms, hitting him in the chest with enough force to make him "umph."
Neither of them were pugilists, neither resembled any of the great Russian Olympic boxers, but both could land solid blows, and did, at almost the same time.
I stepped back into the folds of a large fir tree, it's branches dropping all the way down to sweep the forest floor. The man moving my way is stealthy, but no American Indian as he inches my way. The occasional snap of a twig on the forest floor gives away his location as he closes the distance to where the sound of voices was coming from—the sound being Pax talking into the hand held. He is a big man, barrel shaped, not as tall as me but heavier by half. I understand why he has trouble moving quietly. Not only that, but he carries an AK47 and another firearm is slung beneath his off shoulder.
He passes me only six feet away, and I step out behind him. He senses something and starts to turn, but the butt of the Ingram cracking down where neck meets shoulder drives him to one knee with a grunt. He's a tough son-of-a-bitch, so I hit him again in the same spot and this one only drives him a little forward to put one hand on the ground.
So this time I hit him across the back of the head, and he goes down on an elbow. The guy is a bloody rock. Then I remember my pen and pull it from my shirt pocket and spin the cover counter-clockwise and give him a shot to the face.
He flops to his back, arms splayed out, unmoving. The stuff is lethal.
I'm careful to stay back out of the cloud as Natele had warned me it had lasting effect, and I don't want to join the tough old boy in a nap. He might awaken before me.
I pull my iPhone from my pocket and speed dial Pax.
Then hear a sound behind me and spin and drop to one knee, thinking I've allowed myself to be trapped from behind. Then I realize the sounds are coming from over fifty yards away, toward the lake.
And it's men fighting.
I can hear Pax on the phone, and put it back to my ear and inform him, "I got one down and it sounds like a hell of a fight going on, not far away. TooBad, maybe?"
"Nope, I stumbled across him, tied up…hog tied, in fact. His weapons are gone. I cut him free and he's coming around. I recovered my hand held and left it with him. His was gone, as was his iPhone."
"Fuck, we're not supposed to lose those iPhones."
Then I realize the weapon slung under the arm of the guy I'd just dropped was an Ingram.
"I think I found TooBad's Ingram. Get over here and let's see what the rumble is all about, and who's rolling around in the weeds."
In moments I hear someone moving my way, and just to be safe I slink back into the fir tree.
Pax moves with the slightest bit of a limp, and I recognize his gait as he comes alongside my position. I step out behind him.
"Hey," I say, a little too loudly, and he jumps about a foot forward while spinning, almost tripping on my victim on the forest floor.
"You prick," he says, also a little too loudly, then he cocks his head, listening as the volume from the fighters in the distance increases.
"You get an 'F' in woodsman-ship."
"Fuck you, Farley. How's that for 'F's'"
I normally carry cable ties but the leathers we've been provided don't have as many pockets as my cammies, and my belt and battle rattle is with my stuff in the van. We'd decided the bikes had enough tricks and if we were stopped, and searched, the belts would be a little obvious.
So I reach down and undo old barrel boy's belt and jerk it off him, then roll him over and pass the belt around both elbows and suck it up tight. The elbows on a less thick man would have touched, but there was still a good six inches between. Then I pull his feet up behind him, untie his boots, then tie the laces around his belt. He is, for all practical purposes, hogtied as good as if I'd had a length of rope. And if Natele knows her stuff, the goop in the pen will have him out for hours.
"Let's go," I say and we move to where now only grunting is coming from.
We split up as we approach where there are still sounds of grunting and kicking on the forest floor.
I have to smile as I get in sight of the two. A tall thin guy, but big enough to be formidable, is astride a shorter but heavier built guy with spiked hair. It looks like a playground fight as the one on top has his knees on the outstretched arms of the one on his back.
As I walk up behind the guy on top, I can see spike-hair's eyes flare as he sees me coming. "Vlad," he yells, but the guy on top pays no attention. This time I hit them both with the mace function of the pen. I want to talk to them, and don't want them out cold.
The guy on top rolls away, shuddering, as if he'd been hit by 440 volts and the one on the bottom humps like a Tijuana whore, moving across the forest floor hump by hump, both of them have hands to eyes. Pax joins me from the underbrush.
"Damn, if those Natele pens aren't real good toys," he says, smiling as he runs spike hair down and relieves him of a semi-auto on his belt.
I do the same to the skinny guy, who I now realize looks as if he were sired by Dracula. The good news is he doesn't turn into a bat and fly away. In fact, instead, he cries like a baby.
I collect their AK47s. So far I am not too impressed by this group of bad guys. I've had more fight from a troop of girl scouts.
But I know from past experience, it isn't too smart to get too comfortable. And, the sun is coloring the sky over the lake, and I still don't have the girl.
Where the hell is the girl?
18
B.J. awoke with a start.
The old man, the old woman, and a younger woman less than middle age, stood at the foot of her pallet, talking quietly.
"Hello," B.J. said, tentatively. Her mouth was dry and tasted terrible, as if she'd fallen face first into the pasture patties that had squeezed up between her toes, and she had to pee. In fact she felt as if her molars were floating.
"Good morning," the younger woman replied in decent English.
B.J. sat upright. "You speak English."
"Yes. I've come to visit my grandparents. I'm from Tallinn."
"Thank God. Do you have a cellphone?"
"No, but I have a car and I can drive you to Tartu or the village to the north."
B.J. glanced over her shoulder to see the sky beginning to turn crimson. "I have to get to a phone. Can we leave right now."
The woman laughed. "I left at four A.M. to come visit my grandparents. Do you think I might enjoy breakfast with them first?"
"I'm sorry," B.J. said, a little crestfallen. "But it's a matter of life and death."
The woman laughed again, then said, eyeing her grandmother. "When I was your age, many things were. Now that—"
B.J. interrupted. "Did your grandparents tell you about the men who came looking for me?"
"Yes, a Ruskie, then an American."
"An American?" B.J.'s mouth dropped open.
"Yes, they said he spoke English and wore leathers, as if he was riding a motorcycle, but they heard no motorcycles. It was all very strange."
B.J. jumped to her feet, still dressed in her stretch jeans and a now torn blouse. "Where did the American go?"
"We don't know."
"I have two friends, being held captive by the Russian and his friends. I escaped, and they want me back."
"For what reason?" The woman looked very skeptical.
"They used the other girls, badly…you know what I mean?"
The woman was silent for a moment. "I presume you mean as a man uses a woman?"
"Yes, they raped my friends, and when one came again to rape them again, I hit him, and kil… And knocked him out, and I escaped. But I have to get to a phone and get help."
"All right. But let me have breakfast first. Then I will drive you to the village, Ranna, and we'll find a phone."
>
"Thank you, thank you," B.J. said, and for the first time, began to cry. Then, through her sobs, asked, "The bathroom, please?"
I have a bit of a quandary. TooBad obviously has a concussion. His pupils are dilated, he's upchucked more than once, and he is too dizzy to walk straight. I have to get him to some medical help, and I have to find the girl in order to complete our mission…and get paid.
Hank, Skip, Pax and I are in good shape, better than the two prisoners we have tied up in the living room below where we kept watch out of the second story windows. Alena is upstairs, still leaning against the bed, and Zak is in the cellar, being watched over by Skip.
And it is getting light.
I've talked to Natele, who has the other two girls in her possession, but I don't think they're safe until they are on a chopper out of Estonia. She has made arrangements to drive out to the same pasture we'd landed in and to deliver the girls to the jet ranger, which is on its way. She's rented a car for that task and turned the van, full of our armaments, over to the guy we'd yet to meet, Goings, from NATO. And he's headed back our way.
I have to get TooBad some help, and I want to be rid of the four assholes we've captured—Alena, Vlad, Viden and Zak. But not before I get some intel. The woman is a hard cookie, and both of the men, after being knocked silly for hours are just now coming around. What ever is in the pens is tough stuff. We herd the men upstairs with Alena, other than Zak who's tied up in the basement near a dead body that I presume was Yegor.
It will soon be light enough to track the girl again, but I want a little more info before Hank, Pax, and I set out. We'll have to leave Skip at the dacha where Goings is headed to pick up TooBad and get him to a doc. And Skip will have to watch over the four prisoners.
But first, I want some intel. We have all three upstairs and leaning up against the same bed they'd had the girls on, hands bound behind them, ankles tied. The woman, Alena, is the only one fully functional. Zak was too damn big to carry up the stairs, and he's still unconscious, and tied up down below.
So I start on her.
"How many are you?"
"Eat shit," she says, and glances away from my stare.
So, it's time to get serious.
"Okay, Alena—"
"How do you know my name?" she snaps, now glaring at me.
I have to glance at my iPhone. "Alena Misin, the whore of Alexei Azarin, and that's Zakhar Dziba to your left and Vlad Golikov and Vadim Blinov next to him. And I know your village and your family."
"Eat shit, I have no family."
"So, we'll kill the whole village, just in case. How many are you?"
"Eat shit."
I pull the pen from my pocket. "This pen is loaded with cyanide gas. It kills on contact. If you tell me how many you are, I'll spare your life. Or, if I give you a shot of this to the chops, you won't be so pretty, your tongue hanging out, foam and spit rolling down your chin. The blood veins in your eyes will burst and you'll look like a demon from hell. You'll soil yourself when your bowel empties in your pants. You'll die a stinking whore."
"Fuck you, shit head," she says.
So I turn the pen to the knock-out side, and give Vadim another quick shot, and his barely open eyes roll up in his head and he falls to the side.
"You bastard," Alena says, but her eyes are wide and she seems impressed. Who wouldn't be?
"So, you want me to kill old Vlad here as well? How many are you?"
"I hate his guts. Kill the fucker."
"If I do, then you're the only one left to kill…I have grown fond of Zak," and then I lie, "as he told us all we want to know. You'll just be verifying. You sure you want me to 'kill the fucker'? This fucker, right here."
"What did he do to deserve—"
But I don't let her finish, and give Vald, the obvious son of Dracula, a quick shot. He, too, falls to the side, cracking his head solidly on the board floor.
Now she thinks I'm a ruthless killer, and I'm sure this fine looking specimen of a woman does not want to die.
"Now, Alena Misin, you only have seconds to live, unless you tell me how many you are, and where the others are?" And I aim the pen at her, inches from her face.
Her eyes widen and she presses her head back into the mattress, trying to flee from the tiny instrument she thinks is equivalent to a guillotine. "I vill tell you, please, please."
"Then tell me."
"Only Alexei. Yegor is dead. That's his body in the cellar. Yegor Frumkin. The girl, Holland, killed the stupid Yegor. You have Zak, Vlad, and Vadim here. No one else."
"And where is Azarin?"
"Ask Zak."
"He told me," I lie again, "and I have him tied up down in the cellar with Yegor's body and my man. I want to hear it from you."
"He left to chase the girl down. The Holland girl. You have the other girls. He left, hours ago."
"Where?"
"To track her. That's all I know. Honest to God, that's all I know. Please, put that thing away."
I switch the pen to mace, and give her a small shot just for the hell of it, and to punish her for torturing the girls, and I'm very surprised she doesn't have heart failure as she presumes it's cyanide, but rather she coughs and spits and her eyes water, then she begins to sob. I'll be very surprised if she doesn't take up another line of work, if, and when, she gets out of this.
If I let her get out of this, which, at the moment, I doubt.
19
Alexei stayed in the forest, but hidden and in sight of both the boathouse and the dacha. He'd watched as a big Mercedes van had pulled up to the front gate and they took the big man out, a man on each side supporting him, and sent him away. It was the same man they'd captured in the forest. He should have killed him. But soon, he'd be able to kill them all.
The men had unloaded more than one package from the van, Alexei could only conclude that it was more weaponry. And they had his SAG-30 Russian shoulder mounted rocket launcher, and four rockets, which made him angry.
His vehicles were parked near the dacha, but he had the keys to the Mercedes and the van in his pocket and they'd never be able to hot-wire the complicated system on the Mercedes. He didn't know about the van. The Mercedes was his pride and joy and he considered slipping out of the forest and driving it away, out of danger of what he hoped would be a rain of fire from the approaching boat, or boats, whatever Drago was bringing, that would destroy the dacha and everything around it and in it.
And it was dawn, and the oncoming boats should be easily seen, backlit by the sun.
He was getting eager to be rid of these Americans, and get on with running down the American slut, Holland. This had to be done quickly, so he could get on with the hunt.
Ah, there, in the distance. Drago had brought two boats, fishing trawlers, but Alexei knew his man and both would be mounted with the fine heavy Russian machine guns and would quickly chop the dacha to kindling, and that was fine with Alexei, as it was rented.
He got on the phone to Drago. "You don't have to tie up at the dock. When you're near, stay offshore, bring all your firepower on the dacha. I want it ventilated, roof to ground, not a foot left without gunfire, understand."
"Da."
"Do you have enough ammo?"
"Da. Ten thousand rounds in belts…which you'll pay for, da?"
"Da. Da. Da. Then, when I've verified they are all dead, head out to Ranna and spread your men out in the forest and work your way back here."
"Da, we will be ready to fire in just a few minutes."
I got on the phone to Natele and Goings, who'd proved to be quiet spoken, but ready to do anything asked. He'd delivered the RPG and a pair of grenade launchers from the van, along with plenty of firepower, and left with TooBad to find him some medical help.
Hank, Pax, Skip and I have a quick recon, deciding to have Pax return to his Husq and drive as far north as he thought the girl might make in the darkness, then begin his search back our way as Hank and I try to pick up her trail. At first I think w
e'll leave Skip here, but….
Then I decide we need all three of us and the assholes we have tied up in the dacha are not really that important, so long as they are out of commission for a while. So I'll leave them firmly tied and if and when we find the girl, and are on our way out of the country, I'll get word to the local authorities that some criminals are bound hand and foot and need rescuing.
"Jesus," I yell suddenly, as automatic fire from the direction of the lake, some one hundred yards east of the building, begins to chop into and through the walls. The shit has hit the fan.
"Down, down!" I yell again, and Hank takes me literally and heads for the stairs while Pax and I flatten on the second story floor.
"There's a whole friggin' army out there," Pax yells over the roar and splintering walls.
I speed-dial Hank, who's somewhere below. "Can you get to the RPG?"
"Yeah, the Russian one."
"If they pause, I've got the grenade launcher. Maybe I can distract them and do some damage and you can get off a shot. We've got to get to the bikes."
"If I can find a target."
"Two machine guns, somewhere east."
Another sweep of fire passes through the second story bedroom, and Pax and I flatten like frogs smashed in the road, then the world explodes around us, blood covers us, and I think we're dead. But the sweep of fire has literally cut the woman in half just below the boobs and taken the right shoulder off one of the men…if he's not already dead from the shock he'll bleed out in a few moments.
Then the firing pauses. I presume while they feed belts into the breech of the guns. I move quickly to the window with the XM25 Semi-Auto 25mm grenade launcher.
I'm surprised to see the firing is coming from two boats, maybe fifty yards offshore, flanking the boathouse which I estimate at one hundred twenty yards from my second story window.
And I don't have time for much intricate planning as they'll begin firing again as soon as loaded.
The XM25 has a rangefinder, and as soon as I zero in on the most northerly of the boats and press the activation trigger, it communicates the range to the grenade, and it will explode overhead plus or minus ten feet.