Countdown to Zero Hour

by Nico Rosso

  “Roger that.”

  His low laugh rumbled through his chest. She could almost feel the vibrations. He moved past her and to the doorway. “You’re a badass, Baskov.” He didn’t look back. “Good night.”

  “‘Night.”

  Her voice echoed in the kitchen and service hallway, and he was already gone. The shadows had swallowed him, and she couldn’t even hear his footsteps.

  The onions sizzled and murmured like a group of approving girlfriends. Art had scared the hell out of her when he’d surprised her in the kitchen. Without him, though, the space felt less safe. She’d keep her head up. No one else would sneak up on her. Art had already gotten close enough.

  * * *

  He’d never handled a knife as fine as Hayley’s. Some master bladesmith had forged and shaped it, and now it was up to him to undo the flaw he’d notched in the edge. Hopefully that was the extent of the damage she’d take during the trip. Art mentally kicked himself as he opened what appeared to be a closet door in the service hallway to reveal a set of stairs leading down. He’d been giving himself orders on how to protect her, and his own damn knife had put her in danger.

  Instinct had taken over, but it was his fault for sneaking up on her in the first place. She’d been so focused on chopping those onions, he hadn’t wanted to distract from her Zen. He’d be more careful. And when he was back in his room, where her knife waited next to his sharpener, he’d do whatever he could to erase the flaw in the steel.

  The house was quiet. The day-shift guards slept. The graveyard shift worked the perimeter with night vision goggles and sound amplifiers. Everyone was fed, and the dishes were done.

  Art descended below everyone. The narrow staircase turned from the top floor down to a half basement that stretched out under the kitchen and a quarter of the dining room. He moved as quietly as possible, trying to keep the soapy water in the pan he carried for this stage of his recon from sloshing out.

  His flashlight brightened the angles of the basement, which smelled like fresh-cut lumber. Plumbing ran all around him. Electrical wires were stapled to the joists overhead. He pressed deeper; the darkness closed behind him.

  Desert spiders had already taken up residence in the corners of the construction. They were probably his only companions. Except for maybe a hired killer for the Russian mob.

  But that’s what you are, he reminded himself.

  That was all Hayley thought of him. Because she had no evidence otherwise. Could he trust her enough to tell about his undercover work for Automatik? Would she ever trust him if he didn’t tell her?

  The woman was like her knife. Beautiful and purposeful, and with a wicked edge. She’d make a good asset. An ally. And knowledge of the real scenario might help her stay safe.

  That, and he wasn’t happy to know she thought of him as a leg breaker for one of the biggest crime organizations in North America.

  She was above him, tending to the onions, which had blanketed the whole floor of the house with their comforting smell.

  The joists and flooring of the building creaked with her footsteps. He could feel her, balanced and easy at the stove or focused on the cutting board.

  Growing up, his home had been mostly filled with women. He’d watched his mother and sisters cook plenty of times, picking up enough tips and techniques to keep himself fed once he’d moved out. But Hayley’s motion was so practiced. Like a sniper going through the routine and ritual of targeting, adapting, then firing. If she’d ever let him, he’d love to sit and just watch her prepare a meal.

  There wouldn’t be that kind of leisure time until the mission was over and he’d cleared the taste of gunpowder from his mouth.

  He reached a concrete retaining wall that marked the edge of the house. Pipes and conduit from the kitchen ran over his head and out the wall near where it met the ceiling of the basement.

  He set the pot of water on the ground and leaned close to the wall, feeling the concrete for the smallest flaw that an explosive charge could exploit. Jagged ridges on the surface bumped under his fingertips. This wall would go. It was just a matter of where to put the charge. Inside? Then he’d have to do it in advance of the assault.

  He crouched low, moving the loose dirt at the base of the wall. If the concrete wasn’t properly attached to its footing, the whole piece would buckle and take a chunk of the house with it.

  Footsteps on the stairs to the basement interrupted the search. Art had his knife, his pistol, but that escalation of force wouldn’t be necessary if he could maintain his cover. Looking like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t would only rile things up, so he stayed low at the wall.

  “Digging for your ancestors?” Garin sneered in Russian. He strode into the basement with his own flashlight, which partially illuminated that self-satisfied smile on his face.

  Art picked up a handful of dirt and shone his light on it. He replied in Russian, “See how it glitters? Metal. Corrosion already.” He swept the flashlight beam up to a pipe running along the ceiling. “Propane.”

  Garin came to a stop ten feet from Art. “You’re a tradesman?”

  “I do a lot of things.” Art picked up the pot of soapy water and lifted it to a dark pipe near the ceiling. He poured water over sections that were lumpy with rust, watched and waited. “There.” A series of bubbles marched out of one spot. “We have a slow leak. They used bad pipes.” He’d suspected the work down here would be shoddy, and testing potential leaks gave him the perfect cover for investigating the basement space.

  “You just want to be the only one who plugs the leak in the cook.” Garin stepped closer, squinted at the bubbles, then moved back.

  The two of them could dance to the death right then. They both knew it. Whoever was left standing could tell any story he wanted. But the bosses had already gotten involved in their friction. Both men knew the big guns would be furious if anything else serious went down.

  Art shot back, repeating, “I do a lot of things.”

  “Can you fix it, tradesman denga?” The large guard crossed his arms in front of his chest, indicating that he wouldn’t dirty his hands on a job like that.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. Just need to hit town for some supplies.” The pipe would be the simplest fix in the whole mission.

  “It’s a slow leak. We’ll figure out when we can spare you.” Garin yawned in a broad gesture, then turned and ambled away the way he’d come.

  The goon didn’t have any authority over Art. Only Rolan could tell him what to do and when and how. But it wasn’t worth getting in to a cockfight in the basement with Garin. The big man was baiting him. Art wouldn’t give.

  But when they did tangle again, because it was inevitable, there’d be no stopping until Garin was dead.

  Until then, Art had to keep his real purpose in the basement secret. The flaws of the house, the weaknesses of Garin and any other guard would be logged and communicated and exploited when Art finally brought in the Automatik shooters. The endgame would have to come before he was compromised and Hayley was put in more danger.

  * * *

  Exhaustion weighed on Hayley like a lead coffin lid. But she couldn’t sleep. Day one at the house felt like it had covered years. Her brain barely comprehended that she’d woken up in San Diego that morning. Her friends had been asleep when she’d left. Where were they now? Were they worried about her? She hadn’t given them any cause to be and now felt even more alone and isolated in the compound surrounded by desert.

  Hayley lay in the bed with a single, dim night-light on, staring at the uneven drywall work on the ceiling. She backtracked and tried to figure if there had been any way out of this. But Art had insisted, and Rolan’s power had loomed behind him. She’d already accepted the up-front money, which she and her mom really needed. And the second half of the cash would help refill their bank a
ccounts, as well. When Burton had pulled the plug, he’d fucked all the financial planning she’d put together.

  Art had subtly promised consequences if she hadn’t taken the job. What were the consequences of staying?

  The door was locked. She’d taken Art’s advice, going a step further to wedge a chair under the knob. But she still didn’t feel safe and wouldn’t rest easy until she was back in her bed in her old room in Kendra’s and Julieta’s guest house. Another imposition she’d placed on friends and family. This gig had better dig her out of this financial hole.

  Not helping her sense of dread was the slow hiss of grinding metal echoing in the hallway on the other side of the door. It pulsed slow and steady, like a deadly calm heartbeat. In the ground-floor living room, Art sharpened her knife. He wasn’t rushing the job. Every few strokes, the sound would stop and she imagined him checking the edge. Then it would start again.

  Was he hunched over his work? Maybe in a tank top. That would be a sight. She’d felt his muscles, had caught glimpses of what his T-shirt revealed under his jacket. She could imagine the definition of his deltoids and biceps. The cords of his forearms would flex as he handled her knife.

  She let out a long breath.

  Art would only be a possibility in a very different lifetime. No matter what she saw in the depth of his eyes, he was on the payroll of a bad guy.

  But he wasn’t a bad guy. He’d fought Garin. He’d kept watch on her. Even now, she knew he was sending a message by sharpening the knife on the floor where her room was. He protected her door.

  It was as safe as she could feel in this pressure cooker of a house.

  Tomorrow she’d be back among the guns and men. She had to sleep in order to do her job.

  Turning out the light and closing her eyes, she tried to calm herself by going over a mental map of the kitchen. Counters and stoves and the sink and cupboards were all accounted for. The onions had cooked down well and rested in the refrigerator for whatever recipe she might work them into.

  The steady rasp of the knife continued outside. In her imagination, it turned into Art’s even breath next to her.

  She must’ve fallen asleep. There’d been no dreams, but the next time she’d opened her eyes, the window high on the side of her room was brightening with daylight.

  The cook had to be the first one up, so she hurried through her morning routine in her room and in the small bathroom down the hall, then brought the kitchen to life. There were about four different available ways to make coffee, from a large French press to drip to a stovetop espresso pot, and she fired them all up. If the rest of the house wasn’t awake yet, this would get them going.

  Rolan was the first to arrive. His silver hair was immaculate, and he glowed as if he’d already played a round of tennis, showered, then completed a crossword puzzle. He drew big circles around the kitchen with his fingers and indicated in broken English, “Breakfast here. We come to you.”

  She nodded understanding and started prepping for a buffet line. Bread, toast, butter and jam. Cold cuts and cheese if anyone wanted them.

  Rolan collected his food and coffee.

  Folding in what Russian words fit, she tried not to make it sound too much like an apology. “Lunch will be...bigger.”

  “This is good.” It was almost like he played at being forgiving. Like he could lure someone in, then skewer the person with his disappointment.

  Luckily, there was no way she’d get that comfortable in this environment. She was cooking in a minefield.

  Rolan carried his breakfast away, and other men arrived for their coffee and toast. Dernov’s hair was rumpled from sleep, and he didn’t even glance at her while he gathered his food. A minute later, Garin arrived and selected his breakfast as if the whole process was entirely beneath him. That didn’t stop him from making another leering smile at her before he left, though.

  She was working on refilling the French press when someone knocked a quick pattern on the counter. Art stood at the entrance of the kitchen, her knife laid across his hand. The memory of the sound of his deliberate attention to the blade came back to her. The slow and steady pace brought a small sense of calm to her kitchen that morning.

  “I wasn’t able to get all of the notch out.” He held the knife out to her as she approached. “But I straightened everything and put a new edge on the whole thing.”

  “I heard it.” They were close now. She reached forward and took the knife from his hand, careful not to touch his skin. “Do you sleep?”

  “Lightly.” He busied himself with coffee and food while she examined the knife.

  The edge was amazing. The small divot remained, but the rest of it was polished and razor sharp. “I could split atoms with this.”

  “A nice A-bomb would level this place.” Unlike the others, Art stayed in the kitchen to eat. He leaned on a counter, sipping black coffee and crunching through the bread. Even this early in the morning, he wore a light jacket over his T-shirt. There was a pistol and a brutal knife under there. What else?

  The flow of men slowed down then stopped. The house had been fed. Garin brought in dirty cups and plates, mumbling something to Art and glancing from him to Hayley. But Art ignored whatever it was and helped organize the dirty dishes in the sink, staring out the window at the already baking desert.

  “There’s a little propane leak below here.” He moved from the sink to the back door, peering out the glass. “I can fix it, but I’ll need to go to the nearby town.”

  She didn’t know what state they were in, or if it was even the US, but a small town always yielded interesting foods. “I’d like to go with you.”

  He turned to her, and they both paused with her bold statement.

  She explained, “Local ingredients would round out what I’ve got here.”

  He nodded with understanding, then returned his attention to the window in the door. “There might be food out there.” He swung open the back door.

  Warm air swept into the kitchen. The land smelled dusty and dry, but not dead. A sharp mineral aroma on the breeze brightened Hayley’s deep breath. She was drawn to the open door and stood just behind Art.

  He pointed at several sprays of pale green that poked up from the cracks in the earth. “That’s edible, isn’t it?”

  “It’s green.” Without thinking, she put her hand on his shoulder to move him aside. He stood solid. The resistance was charged. She could push harder. No doubt he could push back. They could clash together.

  His eyes were heavy lidded. Lips parted. Did she gasp a short breath?

  Without blinking, he took a step back, giving her the space to pass.

  Head spinning slightly, she needed all the fresh air she could get. The oven-dry desert wasn’t as hot as it had just become in the kitchen.

  A set of concrete stairs descended from the kitchen to the ground. Was she dizzy from the moment with Art, or were the steps uneven?

  He followed a few paces behind her. The dirt was hard packed under her feet. A lizard scurried for safety. She made a line for the closest plant, but Art took his time, always assessing around them. He turned, scanning the house, the ground, the wall surrounding the compound.

  “Just because it’s green doesn’t mean it won’t kill you.” He thrived in the light. His broad hand smoothed over his bald head like he was knocking off a hat to soak it all in.

  The air tasted wetter when she leaned low to the plant. The bigger leaves were broad and pointed, with jagged edges. Smaller sprays of thicker leaves reached higher.

  “I think that’s called shepherd’s purse.” Art’s attention kept shifting from the house to the wall. A guard sauntered along the edge of the house but didn’t linger near them.

  Her hand hovered close to the plant but didn’t touch it. “Edible?”

  “Yeah. That’s what they taug
ht us in some of our desert training.” He crouched next to her and plucked off one the larger leaves. “Hardy things.” He popped it into his mouth and chewed. “Like us.”

  They were both paid by the bad guys to use their knives. Could she judge him without judging herself?

  She also pulled off one of the larger leaves and dusted it. Putting it in her mouth and chewing released a peppery flavor. It would be a good accompaniment on top of a salad, or cut into ribbons for fish or chicken.

  For a moment, the house and guards and the compound walls weren’t there. It was just her and Art in the desert. He watched her chew with a grin on his face. It was the same grin she felt as she’d discovered the food.

  She grabbed the base of the plant and pulled it up, roots and all. Art walked to another one nearby and did the same.

  She asked, “When did you eat goat eyeballs?”

  He knocked dirt from the roots and said, offhand, “We were making good with a village malik in Afghanistan. It was an important meal, but not something I’d order again.”

  The sunlight seemed to dim as Art’s posture changed. The ready soldier stepped away from the area with the plants, eyes scanning. He cocked his head, listening, then glanced at her.

  “That’ll be Ilyin, incoming,” he said. “Boss number three. Another mouth to feed.” He was back on the job, walking with intent back toward the house, his shoulders swinging slightly with that badass theme song.

  Their connection thinned with the distance. His game face was back, and she missed the unguarded truths they’d been passing back and forth.

  After a few steps, he stopped and turned back to her. “You had zucchinis in your bags. Can you make zucchini cakes?”

  The desert plant would give them a perfect kick. “The best you ever had.”

  His smile was more dangerous than his hidden knife. Even a few steps away, he could make her pulse kick faster. “Kill me with them.” Then his dark edge came out. The serious eyes. He held up a cautioning finger. “With the boss comes a bodyguard. Another player in Garin’s game.”