Ruthless (Out of the Box Book 3)

by Robert J. Crane

  “This is disgusting,” Matfey said, shaking a finger at Markovic. “How do you even feed them?”

  “They are spoon-fed from a distance by soldiers on platforms that slide into place specifically for the feeding,” Markovic said. “No one gets within ten feet of them at any time.”

  “You said there were four prisoners,” Matfey said, barely getting his voice under control. “Where’s the last?”

  Markovic gestured down to the floor far below. “In a cell in the bottom. He is not allowed even within ten feet of another human being.”

  “And their waste?” Matfey asked. He could feel his eyebrow twitch, and the smell was obvious in the air, nearly enough to gag him.

  Markovic shrugged, an empty, uncomfortable gesture.

  “This is an affront to basic human dignity,” Matfey said, shaking his head. “Get them out of there.”

  Markovic stared at him. “You have no idea what you are about to release. They are monsters—”

  “There is only one monster in this room,” Matfey snapped with no small amount of contempt, “and I am looking at him. Are you going to do as I ask or not?”

  Markovic hesitated, but caught Pasternack’s eye. Finally, the warden acquiesced with a single nod. “It will be as you say,” Markovic said, and waved his hand at a booth that hung on the wall opposite them. Soldiers moved around in there, silhouettes in the dark, highlighted by a red glow from a console.

  Matfey stood back and watched. A few soldiers appeared, platforms moving into place with a mechanical whirring of old machinery. The steady clack of the machinery was enough to drive a man mad after a long enough interval. Nothing in the room looked new; it all looked like castoffs from seventies-era Soviet space engineering. But the platforms moved, and Matfey watched as the soldiers brought them closer to the prisoners; hesitantly, as though crossing lines they had never imagined they would cross.

  The elevator from the bottom of the room rose next to them; a man with a beard down to his belly stood upon it. He was crooked, hunched over, but his eyes gleamed with a bluish intensity that bespoke his intelligence. Two soldiers with AKs stood just behind him, barrels leveled. They were both young and tentative, warily keeping an eye on the man. Matfey figured they both looked about two seconds from running from the room.

  “My name is Matfey Krupin,” he said, looking at the man as tenderly as possible. He could not imagine that this fellow had had much kind treatment over the last thirty years. “I am here to set you free.”

  The man stared at him, then turned to look over the proceedings. The rattle of chains being unlocked filled the air. “Are you now?” He licked his lips. “Are you, truly?” His voice was hoarse, as though it had seen little use in years.

  “I am,” Matfey said, and extended his hand.

  “Don’t!” Markovic shouted from across the void, where he stood upon the platform by the woman.

  Matfey stared at the lieutenant colonel, ready to let fly a contemptuous word, when he felt a gentle pressure upon his hand and turned to find the man had taken it. “Leonid Volkov,” the man said, his teeth black around the edges in a smile. He turned his head and bushy beard to look at Markovic. “I can take a hand of a friend without hurting him, Lieutenant Colonel.”

  Markovic looked as though he wished to say something in reply, but he withheld it. Maybe he was finally getting wise, Matfey thought. One of the two men who had been hung upon the wall was down now, staggering upon the platform with two soldiers, a strange sight with his missing arms.

  “Why now?” Volkov asked, his voice rough.

  “There has been a revolution,” Matfey said with a smile. “Out with the old, in with the new. All political prisoners are to be released.”

  “‘Political prisoners’?” Volkov said with a low laugh as the platform bearing the first freed man eased closer to where they stood. “Well … that’s good to hear, isn’t it, Miksa?”

  The platform that the first armless man was on bumped steel against steel as it docked with their own, and he staggered over to stand next to Volkov. The man named Miksa said nothing, looking up with dazed eyes and a flat, dark face. His hair, too, was long, and his beard also out of control. He did nod, however. The two soldiers with him exchanged furtive glances with the others, idiot dogs in a world beyond their comprehension, Matfey knew.

  There was a scrape as the second platform brushed against theirs, and Matfey looked up to see the second armless man stagger forward, using his legs for the first time in decades. “Politics certainly did land us in here,” he said, smoother than Volkov. “Of one kind or another, eh, Leonid?” Matfey realized with some surprise that this man had sharp features under the layers of dirt that his imprisonment had left. Matfey silently cursed these soldiers and their reckless cruelty again.

  “Indeed, Vitalik,” Volkov said with another rough laugh. His eyes turned in silent expectation as the platform began to move with the last member of their quartet. Matfey turned to see the woman standing—still naked, but somehow statuesque now that she was free of the restraints. The marks of imprisonment were still visible on her skin, along with years of dirt and blood. Pale, shriveled flesh showed in clean spots here and there, and the woman stood tall, completely unselfconscious as she looked toward them. The platform carried her steadily along, the clank of gears loud enough to make conversation difficult, but not impossible.

  “How are you feeling, Natasya?” Volkov called.

  The platform’s gears ground slowly, ratcheting her closer to them. She ran thin fingers over her dappled skin, then through her twisted, dirty hair. “I cannot recall an occasion when I have felt better,” she said, and her voice was strong. “And you, Leonid?” She waited for his response, which was but a nod. “Fenes?” She glanced at the man Volkov had called Miksa and received a nod of the head in return. “Kuznetsov?” The last was directed at the one Volkov had called Vitalik, and she received a third nod in reply. “Very good,” she said.

  “What shall we do, Natasya?” Volkov asked as the platform docked, the clang of metal meeting its counterpart nearly striking his question from the air with its violence. “Our new friend here says he is here to free us.” Volkov nodded at Matfey.

  The woman stood there, straight, next to Lieutenant Colonel Markovic, who looked about fit to shit his pants. She stared at Matfey, her eyes surprisingly blue. Hers bored into his, and he felt a hasty need to say something, as though a weight or pressure was upon him. “It is true. I have come to free you, to bring you back to Moscow if you would like.”

  “In chains?” she asked, holding up her now free hands.

  “No, of course not,” Matfey said. “You are free people. You may go anywhere you want.”

  Her face was inscrutable, and she did not look away from him. “Anywhere?” she allowed at last. The aura of suspicion he had suspected was already evaporated. Clearly grateful, Matfey figured.

  “Anywhere,” Matfey said, and he felt curiously awed by this naked woman, so commanding even in this state. He could feel the other prisoners’ deference to her. How impressive, to be so in charge while standing there without a stitch of clothing to give her dignity. Truly, this was a dignity even prison could not deprive her of. “The new government is very eager to make your acquaintance, to make restitution for past wrongs done by the … previous administration.” Matfey looked at Markovic, but the lieutenant colonel did not meet his eyes.

  She pondered him with a long gaze, and then finally, nodded her head, passing judgment. “I think we will go with our new friend to Moscow, then, and see what he has to offer.” Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps we will see how things have changed in our long absence from the world.”

  “I think you’ll find the world has gone in quite a different direction since 1982,” Matfey said with a weak smile. “Things have … changed. The world has become more closely stitched together.”

  “And … our people?” This from Leonid, his dark, matted beard blocking sight of his lips.

 
; “The Russians are now free,” Matfey said, feeling that smile spring to his lips once more. “Finally, truly—”

  “Not the Russians,” Natasya asked. “Our people. Metahumans.” She blinked her eyes, then shook her head. “You probably have no idea of what I speak.”

  “No, I know of metahumans,” Matfey nodded enthusiastically. “Everyone knows about metahumans now.” The heads of the four prisoners came up at that and he could feel their questioning looks. “I will explain in the truck, but let us say that … again … the world has changed in your absence from it.”

  1.

  Three Months Later

  Liberty Street

  Lower Manhattan

  Eric Simmons

  “Oooh, baby, baby,” Eric Simmons said as he stared at the last half-foot of wall. The drill was quiet, the blades nearly ready for the last push. The winter chill had followed him down into the basement across the street as he’d descended from street level and followed the tunnel they’d been oh-so-quietly working on for the last six months.

  “You trip the sensors?” Keith Bailey asked him as he sauntered up. Bailey had on his drilling goggles, looked like a frigging dork between those, the electronic earmuffs, and his grey boiler suit. Like the world’s dustiest janitor, dirt dandruff resting on his shoulders from the tunnel’s constant settling.

  “Yep,” Eric said breezily, staring at that last segment of wall between them and the big score. “I hit ’em with a big ass quake over on Wall Street, like 5.5 on the ol’ Richter scale, then dropped a smaller one, maybe a 4.2 at the corner of Nassau and Liberty for about ten seconds.” He stretched, flexing his arms as he interlaced his fingers above his head. “They are primed, baby. Let’s do this.”

  Keith nodded once, then turned his head toward the drill panel. He was on his job, which left Eric to watch, running a hand through his long, blond hair. Six months of planning for this. That’s what it had taken. Little scores to bankroll things, some bank jobs out of state and in Jersey, enough to fund the drill and the escape route.

  And Eric had spent the last six months walking every street in Manhattan and riding the subways constantly, dropping quakes on the entire island. He’d even done a couple in Brooklyn and Queens for coverage. It was a treat, watching people scream and run as the ground started shaking. It wasn’t something New Yorkers were used to, after all. Except maybe the ones who came from L.A.

  “How long do you need?” Eric asked as the drill throttled up. It wasn’t too loud, but it was still a four-foot-across circular drill designed to cut through concrete and rock. The diamond tips hadn’t been cheap, either. That had been a whole score from a bank in Yonkers, just to pay for the bits.

  “If your girlfriend’s right—” Keith started.

  “Cassidy is always right,” Eric said, good humor gone in a second. He brought back the smile when he noticed Keith almost flinch back. “The sooner you realize that, the smoother your life is gonna go, my friend.”

  “Yeah, well,” Keith said, voice sounding a little hollow, “she told me it’ll only take a couple minutes on this last foot, so …”

  “So a couple minutes it is,” Eric said, settling back to watch. “Crew’s ready?”

  “They’ve been ready for months,” Keith said, and the drill revved up as he cranked it forward. The ground started to shake, just a little, nothing like what Eric had just laid down up on the surface. This was a little bitty shake, maybe 1.2 on the scale. Eric knew the Richter scale. Knew it like the back of his hand. He’d been raised in L.A., and some things you just absorb in quake country.

  “Settle back and we’ll be through in a minute!” Keith called to him over the low, muffled rumbling of the drill.

  Eric leaned against a dusty wall. The moment was coming. Here they were, eighty feet below Liberty Street in lower Manhattan, six months of planning to lead to this moment. It was gonna be a triumph, the cap on this whole frigging brilliant op. He thought of Cassidy, of how she’d planned this whole thing, and he pulled out his cell phone. One bar of signal, which was probably due to the repeater they’d installed in the basement where the tunnel started. They’d needed communication, after all.

  Almost through, babe, he typed into the text message. See you soon, he finished and hit send.

  Then he settled back to watch Keith Bailey dig the final foot into the vaults of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York, daydreaming about the $200 billion dollars in gold that he’d be laying his hands on in less than a minute’s time.

  2.

  Sienna Nealon

  “‘Almost through, babe,’” Felix Rocha read aloud in the back of an NYPD panel truck, “‘See you soon.’”

  “Oh, Mr. Rocha,” I said, deadpan, turning his heavily-gelled head around to look at me quizzically, “restrain your romantic side. You can see me right now.”

  “It’s the text message,” he said with utter disgust. “Originates from Eric Simmons’s phone.”

  “Suuuuuure,” I say, taunting him. I was probably creating a hostile environment, but Rocha did it everywhere he went. The man had the personality of a particularly corrosive acid, so I didn’t mind having a little fun with him.

  “How the hell did you pull his text message in real time?” asked the NYPD Lieutenant, Allyn Welch, who was sitting to my left.

  “This piece of equipment is called a VME Dominator,” I said. “It does cool things like that.”

  “That’s classified,” Rocha said with great annoyance. Rocha worked for the NSA, with us, and without a hint of politeness, patience or nicety.

  I exchanged a look with Welch, who was viewing Rocha with great suspicion—as one might do when someone’s being an ass to you. “He can also make it turn on the microphone to listen in on their conversation, but he’s being coy about it because you’re in the truck.” I glanced over at Rocha, and saw his jaw lock tightly, his already puckered lips pressing even closer together. I have that effect on people sometimes.

  The back door of the truck opened and closed as a tall guy stepped inside, shivering and shaking his dark coat to drop a few flakes of snow off the shoulder. “It’s not exactly Minnesota,” Reed said as he entered, “but it’s pretty cold out there. Nice wind whipping between the buildings, kinda feels like the prairie.”

  “Maybe you can use it to float between the buildings like Mary Poppins,” I suggested, shooting my brother a smile, which he returned.

  “More like Spider-Man,” he fired back. “And maybe I will.”

  “I’m still back on this cell phone thing,” Lt. Welch said, running a hand over his thinly combed-over hair. Poor guy was having trouble letting it go with dignity. “So you can use a suspect’s own phone against them as a bug?”

  “Yep,” I said before Rocha could spew the words “IT’S CLASSIFIED!” into the air like an ant bomb. Which he probably needed to do desperately, since he had a bug up his ass the size of a New York taxi.

  “How does it work?” Welch asked.

  “By violating all your rights to privacy in less time than it takes you to say—” Reed started.

  “It mimics a cell phone tower and routes your calls, text and data through it,” I said, and then shot an annoyed look at my brother. “And will you lay off already? We’re using it to monitor someone who’s drilling a tunnel into the biggest gold depository in the world; it’s not like we’re listening in on Grandma’s innocent conversation with her babies or some kinky convo held between a bondage queen and her biggest client.” I stared him down for a second, and my confidence wavered. I looked over at Rocha. “Uhm … how many cell phones are we intercepting right now, just out of curiosity?”

  Rocha sent me a look of pure loathing. “That’s classified,” he said petulantly.

  “Your hairstyle is classified, too, isn’t?” I asked. “The amount of gel you use on a daily basis? Number of toilet paper squares consumed per wipe?” He got a look that told me he was pissed and turned back to his screen. I turned to look at Lt. Welch. “As you can tell, we a
re a highly professional organization.”

  Welch nodded sympathetically. “We all have our assholes to deal with.”

  “Hey!” Rocha said, more than a little annoyed.

  “I don’t even want to know how many squares per wipe it’d take to clean you up,” I said. Rocha just grunted, giving up the fight, and turned back to his console without another word. “So, they’re about to break through.”

  “Should we go?” Welch asked me.

  I glanced at Reed. “Sure, why not?” I nodded toward the back of the van. My brother opened it and held the door for me as I popped out onto the New York street.

  Flakes gently fell from the sky as I stood in the middle of a rush hour the like of which I’d never experienced. People were surging up both sides of the sidewalk in mighty throngs. Reed had told me about this place, about the energy of the crowds, how it’s almost a living thing. I stood there on the sidewalk just feeling claustrophobic and wishing for the wide, sprawling view from my office. It looked out over lovely snow-covered fields at the moment, and now that we ran a much smaller organization than when I started on the campus, it was rare that I saw anyone outside my window.

  Solitude, thy name is bliss.

  I stood on that street, and there was no bliss to be found. A steady line of cars inched by, passing the panel truck at about two miles per hour, with frequent stops as the traffic lights changed. There were a lot of honks, I noticed, more than I thought was reasonable. Of course, I think more than one honk at a time is kind of unreasonable. Either the person knows they’re being an ass or they don’t, and no matter how many times you honk at an asshole—like Rocha—he’s not going to stop being an asshole.

  That might just be my life’s philosophy: people don’t change.

  “Come on,” Reed said to me, jarring me as he slammed the van door shut. Welch strode ahead of us, right into traffic without a care in the world. I blanched on his behalf and then remembered that a taxicab traveling at two miles per hour couldn’t really hurt me. Maybe him, but not me, and I started forward to follow. A cavalcade of horns followed me, and I flipped a bird at the guy, unveiling my inner New Yorker, I suppose.