by Matt Rogers
King slammed the door behind him and breathed a sigh of relief.
He had succeeded.
37
In the stark lighting of the production room, King had a clear view of Mikhailov’s injures.
The 9mm Parabellum bullets had riddled his body. King had fired six shots in total. Two were embedded in the bulletproof vest draped over the man’s long-sleeved shirt — clearly a precautionary measure thrown on by Mikhailov before he set off in search of King. These rounds would have winded him, possibly breaking a rib if they struck in the right place.
A third round had torn a chunk out of his left bicep. The wound bled profusely across the table. His lower arm and left hand dangled uselessly. Nerves had been severed. A fourth bullet had grazed the side of his head, coming within an inch of taking the top of his skull off. His hair was matted to his forehead, coated in blood.
Finally, a fifth had struck him in the collar bone — just above the top lining of the bulletproof vest. That wound also poured blood.
The sixth shot had missed.
King admired his handiwork. Despite the tight confines of the tunnel, his instinctive sense of where Mikhailov was likely to be positioned had paid off. The man would cause him no more trouble.
Mikhailov’s dark skin had turned pale around his cheeks and forehead. Sweat broke out across his brow. His eyes were wide and dilated, riding out the waves of pain that would no doubt be tearing through his system. His jaw had already started to swell from the head-butt earlier.
‘Should have killed me when we first met,’ King said. ‘You had the chance.’
Mikhailov gazed at him with contempt. ‘I thought it would be…’
‘Easier?’
A nod.
‘You don’t know how many times I’ve heard that,’ King said. ‘You had the upper hand, though. I won’t lie — that terrified me.’
Mikhailov smiled half-heartedly, then his features dissolved into a grimace. When he composed himself, he said, ‘That’s what I missed. That feeling of control.’
King regarded him now, lying pathetically amidst a rapidly-expanding pool of blood. ‘Didn’t really work out for you, did it?’
The man shrugged. ‘You won’t fare any better.’
‘I think I just did.’
Mikhailov laughed — a scornful cackle that resonated through the production room. ‘You think?’
King paused. ‘I’d say you only have a couple of men left down here. They won’t be much of a problem.’
‘It’s not my men that amuse me,’ Mikhailov said. ‘They are useless. You’re tearing through them, as I thought you would.’
‘You didn’t think I’d tear through you, though.’
‘You’re right. But it’s funny that you think you’ll make it out of this country alive.’
‘And why’s that?’
Mikhailov gave a knowing smirk. ‘They’ll nuke this entire peninsula before they let you get out. They value their anonymity.’
‘Who?’
‘The viewers.’
‘Really?’ King said. ‘You think bloodthirsty internet addicts are going to come hunt me down?’
Mikhailov shook his head, his eyes closed. He took a deep breath to compose himself before opening his mouth.
‘I can feel it,’ he said. ‘Those cold fingers creeping up my spine. I think this is it. Which is why I don’t mind sharing this.’
‘Sharing what?’
‘We broadcast to a very exclusive group of viewers,’ he said. ‘The oligarchs. The sheiks. Those men and women who seized riches beyond their wildest dreams when the Soviet Union dissolved. Many of them are old-fashioned. Set in their ways. They were dismayed by the new world. They missed the KGB days, the era of the secret police and the generous application of torture and brutality. Their instincts called.’
‘That’s who you’re working for?’
‘I work for no-one,’ Mikhailov spat, like the very thought of being ordered around offended him. ‘I sensed a business opportunity. I had many powerful contacts from my time of employment. I sent out probes, and they responded warmly to the idea. It takes the ruthless, psychotic types to become titans of industry. Nothing like turning innocent foreigners into savages to get the blood rushing.’
‘Sick bastards,’ King muttered.
‘Sick bastards who pay millions for the experience,’ Mikhailov said. ‘An experience which also promises them total discretion. I have the identities of every viewer buried deep in the archives of these computers, encrypted beyond measure. You will never find them.’
‘But they don’t know that.’
‘No… they do not. These are powerful people. Between them they are worth tens of billions. They effectively own Russia. And you decided to inform them that a stranger had forced his way into the system while the stream was live.’
‘So they’ll retaliate?’
Mikhailov grinned wryly. He gestured to his wounds. ‘That is why this doesn’t bother me. I was a dead man the second you said that. We all were.’
‘Then I win.’
‘You win, but you’ll die,’ Mikhailov said. ‘So will all your friends you came to protect. No-one will make it out of here alive.’
King felt his stomach constricting as the dread crept in. He didn’t doubt Mikhailov. It was pointless for him to bluff. The man was in his death throes.
He stepped back into the tunnel and collected the two weapons on the ground. The MP-443 Grach, and Mikhailov’s assault rifle. King snatched up the gun and stared at its make.
It was his own weapon.
The M4A1 carbine.
Mikhailov must have retrieved it from the cavern floor after kicking it off the walkway.
He shook his head in disbelief and stepped back into the production room. For reassurance’s sake, he lifted the Grach and trained in on Mikhailov, just in case the man had some kind of final life-or-death attack to carry out.
Nothing.
Mikhailov hadn’t budged.
Satisfied by the extent of the man’s injuries, King approached the table, carrying the M4A1 under his right arm and clutching the handgun in his right hand. His left wasn’t functioning. He tried to ignore the pain burning up that side of his body and concentrate on the task at hand.
Mikhailov lay groggily on the thin wooden surface, his face pale. The blood leaking from his wounds had spread, surrounding him with a giant crimson stain. King strode up to the man and pressed the barrel of the Grach against the side of his head.
‘Where are you keeping the prisoners?’ King said.
Mikhailov met his gaze with drooping eyes. He said nothing.
‘Tell me,’ King said. ‘You’re going to die anyway.’
Mikhailov moved his lips as if to speak, then his eyes closed completely and his head slumped back against the table.
King sighed and took the handgun away from the man’s skull.
He dropped his guard for a split second.
That was all it took.
Mikhailov’s eyes lurched open and he shot off the table like he had been electrocuted. The blood was drained from his face and his wounds were trickling crimson, but he moved as if nothing were wrong at all. King realised the grogginess and the dazed stupor and the slip into unconsciousness had all been a ploy.
The man was still hurt badly, and would likely die if he didn’t receive medical attention.
But there was still fight left in him.
King realised this as he took a sweeping side kick to the right arm. He hadn’t been expecting the attack whatsoever, and there was enough force behind the blow to knock him sideways into one of the tables. He sprawled across two computer monitors, shattering one of the screens.
He fumbled for the handgun and started to raise it…
…but by then, Mikhailov had taken off at a sprint.
King managed a single shot before Mikhailov disappeared from sight. The round went wide, slicing over the man’s shoulder and ricocheting off the far wall of the t
unnel. He had rushed the shot and failed.
Mikhailov tore around the corner and disappeared from sight.
King paused, stifling panic, suddenly alone.
‘Fuck,’ he whispered to himself.
Mikhailov knew where the other five prisoners were. He was the type of man to slaughter them all just to send a message — as he had done with Seth and Eli.
King couldn’t allow him to get away. He had no other choice.
He slung the M4A1 over his shoulder and tightened his grip on the handgun. Spotting a small flashlight on one of the desks by the door, he snatched it up and flicked it on, sending a pale white beam of artificial light through the open doorway.
Then he took off in pursuit of Vadim Mikhailov for what he hoped would be the last time.
38
The tiny flashlight turned the maze of tunnels into something out of a horror movie. The shadows were accentuated by the sliver of light coming from King’s hand. He had to juggle the flashlight and the MP-443 in the same hand, keeping a pair of fingers poised to fire at any moment. His left wrist hurt to move — which made running awkward and agonising.
He trained the beam — weak as all hell — in a rapid pattern from left to right, searching every crevasse for the sign of human movement. He found nothing. The tunnel ahead twisted and turned, ascending into the upper levels of the mine.
He caught a burst of movement ahead and darted the flashlight over it.
Mikhailov.
The man disappeared around a bend — all King glimpsed was a brief image of his back, hunched over and sprinting. He had no idea how hard Mikhailov had been selling the extent of his injuries. The man could be in his death throes, only having acted after receiving a final burst of energy.
Like a last stand of sorts.
Or the ex-assassin could truly be indestructible and the bullet wounds could have been a non-factor to him.
King quickened his pace as best he could, keeping his left arm pinned to his side to minimise its swing. A few dozen feet later he stumbled, stepping into a slight dip in the tunnel floor. His ankle threatened to buckle, but he took the weight off it as fast as possible and pressed on.
He caught another glimpse of Mikhailov, hurrying through the tunnel in the distance. The man had no light to guide him. King realised he must know the tunnels like the back of his hand.
A minute later, he had an idea as to where Mikhailov was heading.
‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered, rasping for breath due to the steep climb of the tunnel floor.
He wheeled left, then right fifty feet later, following the brief views he received of the man. His suspicions were confirmed as he saw Mikhailov duck into the same tunnel King had arrived in.
‘Elevator,’ King said to himself.
He knew the consequences of Mikhailov reaching the mine shaft. As far as King knew, it was the only way out of the mine. If Mikhailov made it to the elevator and ascended to ground level, there would be a number of ways to prevent the cage from returning to King’s level. Mikhailov knew the mine inside and out. He would know all kinds of override procedures.
King and the five WHO workers left alive would be trapped in the mine until the viewers of the live stream sent hardened killers down to finish them off.
A tremor ran down King’s spine. He pushed himself as fast as he would go, compartmentalising the screaming pain in his wrist and the pulse-pounding headache in his skull.
Ahead, he heard someone wrench the mine cage shut, closing the mesh doors from within.
He’s made it inside, King thought.
He shone the flashlight down the tunnel, illuminating the mine cage. The doors — made of metal grating — were firmly closed.
From inside the elevator, a voice rasped, ‘Well played before, King.’
With a whirr of mechanical activation the elevator rumbled. The steel cable on top of the cage wrenched it up.
King fired a single shot with the MP-443, knowing it would prove futile. It ricocheted uselessly off the cage doors before the underside of the elevator disappeared from sight.
King stared in disbelief at the empty mine shaft ahead, dark and imposing.
He gulped back apprehension.
There was no other way to the surface.
He was trapped in the depths of the Russian Far East — badly hurt, in the middle of a spectacular failure of an unofficial mission. He wasn’t supposed to be here. No-one in the United States government would come to his aid and risk a conflict of nations in the process.
It was on him to guide five innocent civilians to safety.
How he would achieve that, he hadn’t the slightest clue.
All he could do was try.
He turned away from the now-empty mine shaft and set off in the direction of the cavern.
It was time to find the prisoners.
39
The sheer quiet of the cavern struck him the second he stepped into the vast space. He strode out onto the same walkway Mikhailov had brutalised him on less than an hour ago. His boots — pressing against the flimsy metal — echoed all the way down to the cavern floor.
When he stood in one spot and peered out over the empty void, all sounds of his footfalls faded away. He couldn’t hear a thing. Surrounded in all directions by a mile of rock, King felt a strange unease in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t ordinarily claustrophobic, but the setting affected him. He quashed the sensation and set off for one of the ramps, moving fast.
Each walkway was connected to the other by a multitude of access ladders and ramps. King made his way down the cavern, twisting his way around the walls. All the walkways hugged the perimeter of the cavern — none crossed the dead space in the centre. Rust coated most of the visible metal. Clearly it had not been a priority of Mikhailov’s to keep the mine aesthetically pleasing.
It had served a ruthless and barbaric purpose, and now it would serve to contain an American intruder until he could be dealt with.
Or they could just leave us down here, King thought.
Sever the connection to the internet and wait for them to starve or die of thirst. Whichever came first. He shook off the fear and continued.
As long as he remained breathing, he would fight tooth and nail to stay that way.
He didn’t have an ounce of quit in his body.
He reached the cavern floor and passed between the bodies of Seth and Eli, bowing his head as he did so. He wished he could have done something to save them. For a moment, he considered the fact that it had been his interruption which caused Mikhailov to put a bullet in each of their skulls.
He shrugged it off. If he hadn’t done something, they would have beaten each other to death and lost all their humanity in the process. It wasn’t his fault that Mikhailov was such a twisted fuck. He hadn’t anticipated that the man would be so ruthless.
Even so, a quick death would have been preferable to being pummelled into oblivion by one of your co-workers. Succumbing to your injuries, helpless to stop them exacting their duty. King imagined all the similar bouts that had taken place on this floor.
He felt ill. He knew sociopaths and psychopaths were the first to succeed in business, which explained the high demand to view such a sickening and sadistic bloodsport amongst the elite of society. But it still chilled him to the bone. Striding across the cavern floor, he realised again why he had decided to re-join Black Force.
How could he sit in retirement when situations like this were unfolding across the globe?
He ducked into the steel door that he had seen Mikhailov and the British man walk through a half-hour previously. It led through to a high-ceilinged corridor — still carved out of the rock, but cared for a little more than the rough tunnels of the upper levels. The floor and walls were smooth to the touch. Dozens of doors branched off from this main corridor, all of them firmly shut.
King kept low, wondering if any of Mikhailov’s thugs remained in the mine. He assumed he had killed them all.
Then again, he wo
uldn’t put it past Mikhailov to abandon his men. One didn’t succeed in such a ruthless industry without being concerned about no-one but themselves. They were on his payroll — nothing more, nothing less. He had no obligation to ensure their protection.
King heard the voices. They came from one of the rooms up ahead, low and hushed. Two men, murmuring back and forth in Russian. Their tones were stressed, their inflections harsh and discordant.
The last of Mikhailov’s outfit.
Likely discussing their next move.
King hazarded a guess that they had been entailed with overlooking the remaining prisoners while the rest of the group hunted for the intruder. They were probably nervous, pent up from all the waiting.
King crept up to the closed door and hovered an inch from its frame, listening intently.
Definitely two men.
He gauged their rough position based on the volume of their voices. Then — delicately, cautiously — he placed the MP-443 Grach down between his feet. He slid the M4A1’s strap off his shoulder and slipped a finger into the trigger guard, gripping the large carbine in his good hand.
With his left elbow, he leant forward and knocked on the door twice. Calmly. Gently.
As if everything was under control.
As if he were one of their co-workers, returning from successfully hunting the Americans.
He crouched low.
The door opened.
He killed the first man with a three-round burst to the face. The Russian mercenary’s features simply exploded and he cascaded back into the room in a tangle of dead limbs. A cluster of panicked shouts echoed off the walls from somewhere deeper inside the room.
The prisoners.
He registered the sounds of their terror and thundered into the room, searching for the second man.
The final mercenary looked to be in his late forties, one of the older members of the group. His features were rough — complete with a heavily wrinkled forehead and leathery skin. It seemed male pattern baldness had struck over a decade ago. The guy’s eyes were black and soulless, similar to all of the mercenaries King had met down here.