by J. B. Havens
“Spetsnaz?” Jones asked in disbelief. “The Russian elite special forces? You were with them?”
“Yes. For a winter. We worked together, mostly training. Roberts thought it would be useful if I learned Russian and built a relationship with them in the event I needed to do a mission there,” Rook explained. “Spetsnaz has a code, not dissimilar to the mob—they do not fight on Russian soil. No matter the circumstances. They won’t help us hunt Anton, but… they hate the mob as much as we do. My contact will get us in, find us a secure place to stay, and maybe provide some weapons. That will be it; but it’s more than we have now. We can do this without Jackson’s help.”
Flynn raised his hand. “I second the motion. I want to meet the Russian Batman,” Flynn joked, referring to the insignia that looked almost exactly like the caped super hero’s symbol.
“Are you sure they’ll help us?” Pierce asked. “They’re nearly as secretive as us.”
“I have his word. If we’re in agreement, I’ll make the call.” Rook held up his phone, waiting for the go-ahead.
“Jordon, what’s your stance on this?” I asked. He was the only one who hadn’t voiced an opinion.
“I’m with you, babe. I say we go and plant these mother fuckers.”
“Babe?” Flynn leered at us.
“Yes, babe. Got something to say about it?” Jordon growled at him, walking around me to where the loud mouth was seated. Jordon towered over Flynn, glaring down as if begging him to stand up and have at it.
“Nope, no problem here. I’m just saying it’s about fucking time you two settled matters.” Flynn grinned, relieving some of the tension of the moment.
My patience was wearing thin. “Okay, if we’re done talking about this, can we please focus on making a fucking decision? I want no misunderstandings. If we agree to go over to Russia, we’ll be branded as traitors and can never come back.” I looked at their faces, seeing the determined sets of their jaws and anger in their eyes.
One by one, each of them rose their hand, fists clenched in solidarity.
“Okay, that’s good enough for me. Rook, make the call. The rest of you, pack your shit. Flynn, we’re stealing the jet. Get the fucking tracking crap off of it. Gather all the weapons you can and all the cash you have on hand. We’re going to need it.” As one, they stood and left. Soon, lights flicked on in cabins all over the compound.
I grabbed my own bag, double-checking its contents before filling another one with extra clothes, making sure I had the warmest items I owned. I knew this would be the last time I saw my cabin. It wasn’t much, but it had been home for years now. My one retreat away from the guys and where I could just be myself. On my own terms. I thought ahead to the future and what would come after Russia. If we survived.
Where would we go? Somewhere remote, but not too remote. As I walked to the door, I looked out at the snow falling onto my Jeep. The wind blew the flakes around, swirling them in a white tango across the compound. I watched them strike Jackson’s cabin door. The lights were on, the curtains drawn. My aunt was in there. I would have to tell her goodbye for good. My eyes burned at the thought; but I swallowed my tears and slung my bags onto my shoulders. Time to get moving.
****
“Fisher Jackson, what the hell is going on? Every light is on in every cabin and the whole team just left Bea’s.” Beatrice was anxious; there was something in the air. Jackson was subdued and quiet. He was always calm, but this time, there was a tension to his silence.
“Honey, I told them. I told them what I told you earlier.” He rested his head on the chair back. Defeat weighed heavily on him. It was unfamiliar and not welcome.
“And?” She prompted, waving her hand, begging him to keep talking.
“They didn’t take it nearly as well as you did.”
“I don’t understand why they are so surprised. They’re a secret government team. What did they think was going on behind the scenes? They aren’t fucking super heroes!”
“The way they see it—the way I see it—I betrayed them.”
“What a load of horseshit.” She opened her mouth to continue her tirade when there was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” She yelled, not waiting for Jackson’s permission.
The door slowly opened and Mic stepped inside. How convenient, Beatrice thought.
“You better explain yourself, right now, young lady.” She crossed her arms over her chest and waited to see what excuse her niece would pull out of her ass.
“There is nothing to explain. Jackson betrayed us. He’s been lying to us since the beginning. We’re going to Russia. I’m here to say goodbye to you,” Mic said, dismissing Jackson altogether.
“No. You. Are. Not.” Beatrice couldn’t remember the last time she had been this mad at Bea; maybe when she had been a teenager.
“Aunt Beatrice, I have no choice. We’re going—we have to. And once we leave, we can’t come home. Stay with Jackson—live and love and be happy.” Mic clutched her bags tighter, hitching them up higher on her slender shoulders.
She took too much on herself, always had. Her heart broke at the sight. “You are not saying goodbye. I forbid it. I just found you again, I refuse to lose you now. Fisher, fix this,” Beatrice commanded with the skill and ease of a seasoned drill instructor.
“Aunt Beatrice, he can’t. He can’t fix this.” Mic didn’t look at Jackson as she spoke; it was almost as if she was pretending he wasn’t even there. “There is no going back. We’ve been set forth on a new course; one that we must see through to the end. Jackson can’t change that.”
Jackson spoke up. “Let me help you, at least.”
“You’ve helped enough.” Mic’s voice was cutting in its sharpness.
“Bea, stop this. It doesn’t have to be this way!” Beatrice was nearly beside herself. This couldn’t be happening.
“Yes, it does. Don’t you see? Phillips’s death is Jackson’s fault. Jackson and his fucking goon of a boss. For years, I have been operating under the assumption that what we were doing was helping people. Helping our men and women in uniform, any uniform. But no! It’s not that way! We’ve been fighting to line the pockets of desk-riding, sleaze-bag fucking politicians! Men under my command have died for their greed. This is over. Steel is dead. And you killed it, Jackson. So don’t talk to me about how it fucking has to be.” Mic’s voice finally fell away, her chest heaving as if she’d run miles. “I love you, Aunt Beatrice, and I hope that he never betrays you like he did us. Maybe I’ll see you again one day; but don’t hold your breath.” Mic left the cabin, slamming the door so hard a picture fell off the wall.
Beatrice picked up the framed photo. It was a group shot of the team. Phillips was near the center, grinning under face paint. There were brightly colored dots splattered all over them, paintball guns dangling loosely from their hands. Jones was kneeling in the front, grinning a rare smile. Mic was smirking, showing only a few spots of paint compared to what the others wore. She could just make out the blue paintballs in Mic’s gun, matching the blue shots covering all the others.
They looked as happy as Beatrice had ever seen them. She’d never had the opportunity to meet Phillips; but looking at this photograph, she felt like maybe she would have liked him.
She dropped the photograph into Jackson’s lap and left the room without a word.
Chapter 13
Rook paced the room impatiently, gripping his phone and checking it every few seconds. They didn’t have much time and he needed to hear back from Nickoli before they were in the air. Flynn was currently removing panels in the jet to access the transponder in order to kill any signal they would transmit. Once they crossed into Russian airspace, they would be on their own.
His phone vibrated and his heart leaped into his throat. Swallowing the lump, he put the phone to his ear.
“Yes?” He said into the phone, clutching it with a clammy palm.
The man responded in heavily accented Russian. “Who are you and how did you
get this number?”
“Nickoli. It’s Rook. I need to call in that favor.”
“Da.” No questions asked, just yes.
“I’m coming to Russia with my team. We need someplace to land our jet that won’t get us shot down and a place to sleep. We’re going hunting.”
“Hunting where?” He asked, switching over to English.
“Moscow.” Nickoli knew there would only be one thing that would cause him to return to Moscow. One person, actually.
“I see. Give me two hours. I will call you back.” Returning would be dangerous, for many reasons. There were people there that wanted him dead. Before leaving the final time, Rook had told Nickoli that he would be back one day when he no longer had anything to lose—when he was in a position to settle the score.
His mind flashed back in time to that basement in Moscow, the concrete dirty and cold against his palms. Pain burned anew in his side; the screams echoed in his ears. He could see the blood seeping from her, leaking across the filthy floor toward his knees.
The past was a heavy weight, becoming more unbearable with every lie he told.
****
I sat on the jet, watching Flynn reattach panels in the floor where the transmitters were located. Or had been located. His earbuds in, he was blaring Madonna loud enough I could clearly hear it over the banging noises he was making.
Tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention, he pulled a bud out. “When you’re done, put those transmitters somewhere in the hangar,” I instructed. Nodding his understanding he went back to singing Like a Virgin.
The steps creaked slightly as someone climbed aboard. Doc Hamilton was the last person I expected to see. His arms were laden with boxes and plastic-wrapped bundles of medical supplies.
“If you’re leaving, you need more supplies. Rook is more than capable of handling most injuries.” He didn’t look at me as he began stowing the materials, organizing them by type and size.
“I’m not even going to bother asking how you know.” I stood and made my way to the back of the jet.
“When I’m finished here, I’ll take a look at your face. Those bandages can come off now,” he muttered over his shoulder.
“Sure, Doc.”
He was visibly upset, which I understood given the circumstances. I sat on the jet’s small, fold-up exam table and waited for him to finish. He pulled on a pair of gloves and tipped my face back and to the side. “It’s healed beautifully. The scar, though…” He didn’t finish his thought—didn’t need to.
“It’s fine. I don’t care about the scar.” My skin pulled a little as he gently tugged the butterfly bandages off.
“Be careful. Wherever you’re going, watch your six, Mic.” His eyes bored into mine. I didn’t confirm that we weren’t coming back; I just let the truth show on my face.
“Don’t worry about me, Doc. We’ve got this. We’re Steel, remember?” I smiled, wanting to reassure him.
“Yes, well. Be careful and eat your vegetables.” He smiled and laughed along with me. It was goodbye and we both knew it. But as far as goodbyes went, it was a good one.
He exited the plane, patting Flynn on the shoulder on his way out.
****
They were mobilizing. Wesley watched as best he could from the back side of the mess hall. Every cabin was lit up, as was the hangar. Mic was in the jet with Flynn, while the rest of the team seemed to be packing for the next world war.
His hands clenched in rage. Those assholes were going to slip through his fingers. He couldn’t allow that to happen. If they left the compound, he might not get another chance to enact his revenge on that bitch. He hated moving his plans up. He had wanted to play with them some more. He was enjoying the cat and mouse game. He wasn’t surprised that they were going to spoil his fun, traitorous bastards that they were.
Ditching his post, he jogged back to the barracks. He had a little surprise waiting and there was no time like the present to give them his special gift.
****
From where I stood on the steps of the jet, I could see the compound and the inside of the hangar at the same time. I was watching the others come and go from their cabins, to the mess hall, and to their lockers. The entire compound was lit up, floodlights coloring the snow yellow, competing with the blueish glow of the moon. The cold was getting worse, but this was nothing compared to what it was going to be like in Russia.
A shadow hurrying from behind the mess hall had me squinting into the darkness. With the lights that were on everywhere, my night vision was ruined. It was too hard to make out who it was. A shiver slid down my spine and settled into my gut. All at once nervous, I ducked back into the jet and dug into my bag. I retrieved the machete and strapped it to my thigh. The weight of it was comforting, if not slightly awkward.
Moving back to the stairs, I pulled my M-9 and held it close to my leg, out of sight. Rook came into the hangar. I motioned him back and into cover. Instantly on alert, he followed my instructions, pulling his own sidearm.
This could be paranoia talking, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I slowly walked down the steps and pushed them up and closed behind me, ignoring Flynn’s question from inside. If something was going down, he was going to be pissed.
I made myself a clear target, hoping to draw the hostile out. A shadow crossed the yard, looping around behind the hangar. Rook moved, but I motioned him back. Taking a chance, I sat on the bench in front of the lockers with my back to the open hangar door, waiting and pretending to be occupied with something in my lap.
I heard a swish of fabric to my left. I kept my eyes down, fighting with myself not to look. The desire to lift my head and confront the threat was immense; the only thing forcing me to stay in place was my training. Rook was covering me; I knew that logically. The rest of me wasn’t so sure.
A scuff of a shoe on the concrete was the only sound I heard before I felt the unmistakable press of a gun barrel to the back of my head. I jerked my eyes up, glancing to the side where I knew Rook was hiding.
“Stand,” a lightly accented, familiar voice ordered. He pressed the barrel tighter to my scalp to emphasize his point.
I stood slowly, leaving my M-9 on the bench without needing to be told.
“Tell your dancing monkey over there to come out,” the voice said. He sounded so familiar. The options were limited; I knew it had to be one of the guards. No one else had access to the compound. After Phillips was killed, we’d increased security. There was no way someone could get in here without one of us knowing.
“Rook, do what he says,” I ordered. My teammate came out, weapon trained on the man behind me.
Why didn’t he fire?
“Put your traitorous fucking hands on your head.”
I followed his instructions, waiting for my opportunity. “What seems to be the problem? Obviously, you have an issue with me; but I’m at a loss to understand why.” I wanted to keep him talking and buy some time. The rest of the team would be coming into the hangar any minute.
“Turn around,” he barked, fury sharpening his words.
I turned, and after seeing him, was still confused. He was the red-headed guard who usually worked the gate. I’d only spoken to him a handful of times. Adrenaline spiked through my blood, sharpening my senses and tunneling my vision. His coat was unzipped nearly to his waist. I could see bricks of C-4 strapped around him with wires snaking across his body leading to a hand-held detonator clutched in his fist. His thumb was poised over the button.
What did I do to piss this fucker off so much, that he is willing to blow up not just us, but himself, as well?
“It has taken me months to get this much C-4. Months of preparation. Do you know why?” His head tilted to the side slightly, reminding me of a cat.
“No idea.”
“I can see you mean that. You really are a dumb cunt, aren’t you?” Spit flew from his mouth as he screamed at me. Like a switch being flipped, he went from calmly speaking to screaming in rage. Wow, b
ipolar much?
My jaw tightened with the desire to rip this bastard’s throat out. Anger solidified within me, rising up and threatening to propel me forward with no regard for the consequences.
“Enlighten us, then.” Rook spoke without moving an inch, his Browning still aimed solidly at the man’s head.
“My name is Wesley. Wesley McIntosh. My best friend is… was, Andrew Riley. The fire was just for fun; I was hoping it would burn your precious war room to the ground. You’re ruining everything! I meant to play with you longer. You’re forcing my hand, you bitch!” His face was bright red with rage, his blue eyes shining with madness. He was a man teetering on the edge of sanity; it wouldn’t take much more than a stiff breeze to push him over.
“So what? You’re going to kill us all and get your revenge? Good plan. Only it leaves you dead as well and unable to gloat.” My mouth was getting the better of me, but I was so damn pissed off, I didn’t care.
“You don’t get it!” He screamed in my face. “Riley was my brother or as close to one as I would ever have. He’s dead because of you!”
“I was there. I held his hand as he died. His death lies at his own feet. No one else’s. I’m not arguing with you, though. Go ahead; push the button. I’ll see you in hell,” I challenged him. If he was a true suicide bomber, he would have blown us to pieces already. A plan began to form and my fingers twitched at the need to strike.
“I want you to suffer. A blast is too quick a death for the likes of you.” Wesley took the barrel off my head, aiming instead at my leg.
Oh, hell no… I thought to myself. I had shit to do in Russia. I did not have time for this fucking lunatic…
Rook’s gunshot was loud next to my ear, the sound echoing back and forth in the hangar. The sharp smell of gunpowder burned my nose and I saw Wesley drop to the ground. I watched it all happen in slow motion, almost like a movie—the surprise on his face as the bullet entered, then pain and shock as he crumpled into a bleeding heap. His hand opened and the detonator slipped from his grasp.
Rook had shot him in the thigh, well to the outside and away from the arteries. It was a deep and painful wound that would bleed heavily, but it was not necessarily a life-threatening one.