Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  “He is Russian,” Zolat explains, switching to Phonigi. He sounds petulant. “You did not say that there would be Russians. This was not in the plan.”

  The Russian athlete can die just as easily as the American journalist, Akaso thinks, but he holds his peace. This is a tricky situation; it calls for diplomacy, not force.

  It had been difficult to recruit Zolat and Harakeem. During the bloody days of the failed revolution, Red October had maintained, at best, an uneasy truce with the Freedom Party of Akaso’s father, Mantu Siko. And even though the forces of General Tanami had brutally crushed the warriors of Red October and the politicians of the Freedom Party with equal vigor, the scattered remnants of the two groups remain wary of each other.

  “Hotheads,” say the followers of the martyr Mantu Siko. “You brought destruction down on all our heads with your violent acts.”

  “Cowards,” the men and women of Red October counter. “Your spineless refusal to fight guaranteed the success of our enemy.”

  But despite the lingering ill feelings, when Akaso Siko decided to mount an operation that might require the use of force, there was no doubt in his mind which group would better be better able to help him achieve his aims. His father’s followers are loyal, but weak. Red October owes him no allegiance, but they welcomed the chance to strike at a common enemy.

  And they were not deterred by the prospect of violence.

  In fact, the possibility of committing violent acts against Americans – any Americans – was greeted with relish when Akaso proposed his ideas to the leaders of his local Red October cell. The Americans are, after all, the criminals who prop up the regime of the tyrant Tanami. Without them, his reign of terror would not be possible.

  But nobody expected the Russians. The Russians, simply, were not in the plan.

  The problem, as Akaso immediately recognizes, is that the Russians had provided the financial and logistical support that had allowed the Red October movement to flourish, albeit briefly. Even now, Russian funds were reportedly keeping the few surviving revolutionary cells alive. Any member of Red October would be understandably uneasy about killing one of their benefactors.

  The Red October are brutes and thugs, Akaso thinks. But even they are not so stupid as to bite the hand that feeds them.

  And it is more than politics, of course. Zolat was raised and educated in the old Soviet Union. His education was primarily in the ideology and practice of revolution, but he had unavoidably absorbed a great deal of Russian culture. He speaks fluent Russian, he drinks Russian vodka, he fondly reminisces about Russian women. He even plays Russian card games to pass the time.

  He will not easily accept the idea of killing a Russian athlete.

  “Tell him we mean him no harm,” Akaso suggests. He slides his sunglasses back on to his head; they make him feel more authoritative, and he desperately wants to maintain control. “All we want are the two American girls. Tell him to stand aside, and we will not hurt him.”

  Zolat just stares back at him. God damn you, Akaso thinks, as he struggles to maintain his temper. You are letting one, solitary, unarmed athlete interfere with our plans just because he is a Russian. You are trying not to let it show, but I can see that you are watching me, evaluating me, waiting for me to make a mistake so you can report back to your “comrades” that the son of the great Mantu Siko is not capable of leadership under pressure.

  “TELL HIM!” Akaso screams. No, that won’t do, he thinks. I must maintain my poise. He waves his revolver in the air, trying to look casual. “Tell him that we wish him no harm.”

  And then again, with as much quiet force as he can muster: “Tell him.”

  5.1.10: Old Sataru

  And suddenly, it occurs to Jillian that this distraction might provide an excellent opportunity for them to make a quiet exit.

  “Sunshine,” she whispers. “Let’s get out of here. Just start backing away, real slow.”

  “Are you sure?” Sunshine sounds concerned.

  Instead of answering, Jillian begins to inch backward, one tiny step at a time, shuffling her feet, moving her body as little as possible. And after a quick look around to make sure that the gunmen are not paying attention, Sunshine follows suit, moving painfully slowly, one small step, and then another, and then…

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  And then they both freeze as Akaso Siko glances in their direction.

  He frowns. Aren’t they farther away than they were a few seconds ago? Are they trying to escape? Wonderful, he thinks: While Zolat pleads with this Russian to allow us to continue our kidnapping, our quarries slip away right before our eyes.

  “Harakeem,” he barks. The young gunman stares back at him nervously. “Harakeem, go fetch the American women. Put them in the van.”

  “They are not going anywhere,” Harakeem counters. “I will get them later. This is too good a show to miss,” he adds, indicating with a wave of rifle barrel the continuing animated discussion between Zolat and Karl.

  He is embarrassed about posing for the photographer, Akaso realizes, so now he is trying to show me how tough he is. If I cannot make him do as he is told, we might as well climb back into the van and go home.

  “They told me you were a warrior,” Akaso says scornfully. “Who would have suspected that you would be afraid of two women? Fine, I will go get them myself. You stay here and watch your ‘show.’”

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  Harakeem scowls. “No, you stay here,” he says. It would not do to have Akaso Siko telling stories that he, Harakeem Anduwat, was afraid of anything. And being accused of fearing women was especially degrading. As far as I’m concerned, Harakeem thinks, Akaso Siko is nothing more than a loudmouth braggart. But because of his father, he commands much respect – especially among people who don’t know him very well. No, it would not do to have him spreading stories about me.

  “You stay here and supervise Zolat,” Harakeem says sarcastically, as he begins to walk off. “I’ll get the women. I wouldn’t want you to get your hands dirty.”

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  Oh, shit, Jillian thinks, here comes one of them. If only we had tried to get away just a few seconds earlier, while Karl was distracting them, I’ll bet we could have made it. Damn it! Why wasn’t I thinking…

  And then the young gunman is getting closer. He looks angry and very determined. He’s waving the gun at them, and he’s shouting something incomprehensible, over and over again, occasionally punctuated by two of the few English words that he seems to know: “Into truck! Into truck!”

  And then he’s right in front of her, his face an angry snarl as he barks orders at her, his eyes bottomless pools of rage…

  And then, suddenly, she’s angry too. How dare he treat me like this! I’m an American! I’m an Olympic athlete! And he’s nothing more than a disgusting, dirty, smelly foreigner!

  From up close, the gunman’s weapon is even more frightening than it had appeared at a distance. Although it’s small – much smaller than the weapon that was held by the guard at the gate – it’s filled with cold, hard menace, compact but deadly. He had leveled the business end of the weapon gun directly at her chest as he approached – and now that he stands in front of her, he jabbers some incomprehensible commands and shoves the rifle barrel into her ribs for emphasis.

  Jillian’s anger bubbles over. She slaps at the gun, nearly knocking it from the surprised gunman’s hands.

  Even as she does it, she knows it’s a mistake. What am I doing? she asks herself, as her arm knocks the gun barrel away from her side. That’s only going to piss him off even more.

  The gunman juggles the gun momentarily, nearly dropping it to the ground. And then he’s livid. He jams the gun back into her ribs.

  And this time, she doesn’t try to knock it away.

  Oh, dear God, Jillian thinks, what have I done? He’s going to kill me now, for sure. He’s going to pull the trigger, and the bullets are going to explode fro
m the barrel and into me, and it’s going to hurt so bad, and I’m going to bleed, and I’m going to die. Dear God, sweet Jesus, don’t let me die, I don’t want to die, not now…

  And then everything seems to happen at once.

  Jason Stackhouse blindsides Harakeem, tackling him from behind and sending him sprawling to the ground. At the same time, Karl grabs for Zolat’s gun and nearly wrestles it away from him in one strong jerk. And then Olga and Marta are shouting, and then everyone in the crowd is screaming, like spectators at a wrestling match, and then Akaso is yelling, red-faced…

  Jillian grabs Sunshine’s arm and spins her around. “Quick, over there, head for that alley.”

  “Jill, if we try to run they’ll shoot us.”

  “No they won’t!” Jillian shouts as she tugs on Sunshine’s arm insistently. “Don’t you see? They want us alive. If they wanted to shoot us, we’d be dead already. MOVE IT!”

  Sunshine’s face reflects a terrible uncertainty, and Jillian’s sure that she’s going to have to escape alone. But at the last instant, just as Jillian releases her hold on Sunshine’s arm and begins to turn away, Sunshine whirls around and follows Jillian into the crowd.

  Immediately she hears Akaso screaming. She doesn’t understand a word he’s saying, but he sounds furious. He yells out a few more words, which sound like commands. He’s sending the gunmen after us, Jillian thinks. But at least nobody’s shooting at us…

  But then Akaso’s angry words are punctuated by a shot, and then one more, and then another. And then someone is screaming. And suddenly Jillian isn’t so sure that Akaso won’t shoot them after all. A wave of fear washes over her. Even as she runs, she braces herself for the pain of the bullets that will be tearing into her back, any second now…

  But the impact never comes. He’s just firing warning shots, she realizes. I was right, he’s not going to shoot us!

  Akaso is still shouting – it’s getting softer, but he’s still barking commands. My God, she thinks, he sounds like an absolute madman. Which, I guess, he is.

  When they reach the edge of the crowd that lines the square, Jillian glances over her shoulder. Good, she thinks, Sunshine’s right behind me.

  But then, over Sunshine’s shoulder, she sees the two gunmen in hot pursuit, guns in hand.

  “THEY’RE RIGHT BEHIND US!” she screams to Sunshine, who glances back to confirm the awful truth. “HURRY!”

  And then people are moving out of their way, slowly, too slowly, and then Jillian is pushing people aside, knocking them down, clearing a path. Oh God, she thinks, they’re going to catch us.

  But then, suddenly, she bursts through the trailing edge of the crowd and into the open. “THIS WAY!” she yells, hoping that Sunshine is still behind her, and she runs off into the alley. Please, God, she prays, please don’t let this be a dead end.

  She hears shouting behind her. She knows that the gunmen are not far behind.

  The claustrophobic alley opens up into a wide dirt path just as Sunshine pulls up beside her. And now they’re sprinting furiously, running as fast as they possibly can.

  Running faster than they ever thought they could run.

  Running for their lives.

  5.1.11: Old Sataru

  When Jason tackled Harakeem, he made the mistake of grabbing him around the knees. As a result, even though Jason knocked the gunman to the ground, the surprised Harakeem found himself with his arms free and his weapon still clutched firmly in his hands. And even before he hit the ground, he was already swinging the barrel of the rifle so that it was pointing in Jason’s direction.

  Jason rose to his knees and prepared to pounce. But Harakeem squeezed the trigger and fired a staccato burst of bullets into Jason’s belly. With an anguished scream, Jason grabbed at his gut and collapsed in the dusty street.

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  At nearly the exact same moment, Karl succeeded in wresting Zolat’s gun away from him. But Zolat actually relinquished the weapon more easily than Karl had expected – and Karl, suddenly off balance, stumbled and fell. He landed squarely on the gun, which fired one muffled shot when it struck the ground.

  And when Karl moaned and rolled off the gun, the dust of the street was speckled with his blood.

  5.1.12: Old Sataru

  “AFTER THEM!” Akaso shouts.

  The fools! he thinks. Unbelievable. Both of them nearly lost their weapons. It is only through sheer luck that they did not.

  Or perhaps, he thinks with a grim smile, luck had nothing to do with it. Maybe fate continues to smile on our enterprise after all.

  As Zolat and Harakeem gather their wits and their weapons and take up the chase, Akaso surveys the scene in the square.

  The American journalist lies where she fell. A small crowd has gathered, peering down at her and pointing as if she were some kind of sideshow curiosity.

  The American athlete lies face down, spread-eagled in a widening pool of blood. His head twitches and he emits a low, continuous moan. So miraculously, it appears that he is still alive.

  The Russian athlete lies on his back, motionless. His ashen-faced compatriots kneel by his side. One of the Russian women cradles his head in her hands.

  Messy, Akaso thinks, shaking his head. Too messy. This was supposed to be a clean operation. What had Zolat said? We will execute this procedure with surgical precision. What a sad joke.

  At least no one stole the van, Akaso thinks, as he jumps back in. I had better follow the two stooges and hope against hope that they are able to catch up with Jill Kendal and her redheaded friend.

  If we cannot catch them, it will be a major disappointment.

  But if we can capture them, he thinks, nodding with determination, if we can capture them, it will be a monumental victory.

  A victory for the people of Qen Phon over the forces of tyranny.

  A victory for the revolution.

  A victory for the ideals that my father died for.

  And, of course, a significant victory for me.

  5.1.13: Old Sataru

  “Where is he going?”

  “Karl!” Marta’s hands fly to her mouth. “Karl, you are alive!”

  “Where is he going?” As soon as Akaso slams the door of the van, Karl sits up and grimaces. “It is only my arm. It hurts, but I think it is not serious. Where are the Americans? Where are the men with the guns?”

  “The girls ran off,” Olga says. “The men with the guns chased after them.”

  “Then I must follow,” Karl says, struggling to his feet as Akaso wheels the van around in the narrow square. “The girls may need my help.”

  “Karl, no, you are in no condition to…”

  “Olga,” Karl commands, “go get some assistance. There was a policeman stationed back by the gate, remember? Bring him here. With an ambulance.”

  “But Karl…”

  “Do it, Olga. Marta, you stay here with them.” He motions at the inert forms of Leida Andersen and Jason Stackhouse, who lie perhaps fifteen feet apart. “Do not let these people touch them. And be certain that no one touches the camera.” The crowd has already begun to press around both of the victims, and several children are eyeing Leida’s camcorder with obvious interest.

  Without waiting for a response from either woman, Karl begins to trot off after the van as it weaves its way out of the square. Pulling his shirt over his head, he quickly wraps it around his left arm, just below the shoulder. That should hold me together for a little while, he thinks.

  But this is too slow, he realizes, as the van begins to pull away. I will not be able to keep up with him on foot.

  But there is a simple solution to that problem…

  Bicycles. Everywhere.

  He quickly evaluates his options. Nothing I would want to race with, he thinks – but that one looks sturdy enough…

  He snatches the bicycle away from its surprised owner and mounts it with a running start. And gritting his teeth as a searing pain tears through his upper arm and sho
ulder, he begins to pedal furiously after the retreating van.

  5.1.14: Old Sataru

  After just a few minutes, Jillian realizes that they are going to get away after all.

  They had run down several streets, they had scurried around countless corners, they had shoved their way through endless crowds, they had knocked over numerous pedestrians, and they had nearly destroyed a small leather-goods stand when they decided to save a few seconds by running through it, rather than around it. And still the gunmen had been on their heels, yelling and cursing.

  But now the noise behind them begins to subside, and Jillian realizes, with immense relief, that they’re beginning to put some distance between themselves and the danger that pursues them.

  “We’re losing them,” Sunshine says, as if she’s reading Jillian’s thoughts.

  “Don’t slow down,” Jillian warns. “Not yet.”

  And so they race through the dusty streets and alleyways of the ancient village of Sataru, running side by side in the fading light. This way! Jillian shouts, and they duck into an alley. Over there! she points, and they zigzag through a maze of narrow, twisting lanes.

  Finally, after they’ve heard no sound from their pursuers for a few minutes, they slow to a nervous trot, constantly looking over their shoulders for any sign that they need to pick up the pace again. And after they’ve proceeded this way for a while, they relax enough to take a chance on slowing to a walk.

  “We lost them,” Jillian exults. And suddenly, she feels jubilant, exhilarated. “We lost the sons-of-bitches,” she says, and she laughs. “Holy shit. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my entire life.”

  “I was afraid, too,” Sunshine admits. She sighs. “It’s kinda disappointing, in a way. I mean, I know there isn’t any reason to be afraid of death, but when he shot Leida…” She shudders. “I guess I still have a lot more work to do on myself than I realized. I’m going to have to talk this out with Nathan, for sure.”