But now that he had been captured by the enemy, having had missed his initial chance to fight to the death, he would have to come up with some late-term strategy to take as many of them down with him as he could. He tested the bindings, trying to free an arm or a leg. They were tight, very tight. Whoever wrapped him up knew what the hell he was doing. Because of the absence of light, he had no idea what the size or layout of the room was so all he could do was sit in the dark and wait. With the way his luck had been going lately, he surmised with fateful resignation, chances were pretty good that he would be going down death’s hoary path all by himself.
Below the distant hum of the machinery, Killian thought he heard something. He held his breath and strained to listen through the white noise. Voices. He listened harder, but he couldn’t make out what was being said. Even as the voices drew nearer, the words continued to be unintelligible. Very near now, he could tell the voices were speaking in a foreign language. A Slavic language. Russian.
He could feel the pressure drop in the room when its door opened. He kept his head drooped down to his chest and remained unmoving as bodies entered the room. He tried to count the footsteps. Four, maybe five people had entered. He had no idea what they would want with him, but he was certain he was about to find out very soon.
The hood was taken from his head. The sudden light beaming directly in his face was blinding, severe, triggering burning pain from the back of his head to throb its way forward to the front. Pulsing pain. The light was so bright it felt as if his pupils had been dilated. He felt its heat on his face. He tried to see through the explosion of white, the explosion of pain, to try to come to an understanding of what he was up against, but all he could make out were blurry, ghost-like shadows behind the light.
One of the shadows walked up to him and leaned close to his face, as if he were being looked into deeply, as if he were being studied.
“So, are you finally ready to talk to us?” the heavily-accented voice said from the shadow face.
“Where am I? Why am I here?” Killian said. He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to bring clarity to his vision, trying to blink away the pain. A large hand began pawing around the back of his neck. It made its way up the back of his head until it found the fresh injury. It squeezed hard on the spot and there was another explosion of pain, one that burned white and yellow fire into his eyes.
The hand was removed and the blurred, shadowed face pulled back from him and began to laugh. “Why, it seems our friend Mr. Hammond did a wonderful service there on the back of his head. No wonder he was out for so long.”
The corner of McKnight’s mouth curled slightly upward in the best it could do for a smile.
What little Killian could see before was now lost to him. The new level of pain, a white mask of pain, hid the world away from him for an unknown period of time. Perhaps he slept.
When he opened his eyes again, the pain was still there, but the light didn’t seem as bright and his vision was beginning to come into focus. He could make out that he was in a small, windowless room, a cabin of a boat, perhaps. Many men had crammed themselves into the room and stood around him; several were holding automatic rifles leveled at his head. He felt as he did when confined to a hospital bed with his team of doctors standing over him, studying him, talking about him and his condition as if he wasn’t there.
Lukos Sabra stepped forward and leaned his face in closely to Killian’s. He grabbed the sides of Killian’s head and forced the eye lids open wide with his thumbs. He peered deep into the opened eyes. He then stepped back and stood next to Vasily Rudenko. In Russian he said, “His eyes aren’t as dilated now. Perhaps we can proceed.”
Rudenko nodded his approval and walked up close to Killian. He squatted down so that their faces were level with each other and then said in Russian, “Mr. Sabra, please ask our host to allow us the exclusive use of the room.”
Having already understood what Rudenko had said, a look of indignation came over DeBlanc’s face. Before Sabra could speak, he spoke directly to Rudenko. “Excuse me, Vasily, but if you think you can come on my yacht and begin ordering—”
McKnight stepped next to DeBlanc and said, “Perhaps, Mr. DeBlanc, it’s in your best interest for you to not be around for what comes next.” He then looked at Henderson and nodded toward the door. Henderson went to the door and opened it for DeBlanc.
Rudenko stood quickly and spun around toward them. In English he said, “Please, Louis. You must realize I mean no disrespect. It’s just that there are some things that I need to discuss with Mr. Lebon that are sensitive to my government. Things you needn’t trouble yourself with, my good friend.”
DeBlanc was about to protest when McKnight gently but firmly grabbed him by the elbow. “Please, Mr. DeBlanc,” he said as he attempted to steer his impetuous boss toward the door, “let’s leave them to their business. That will allow you the opportunity to get to know your latest acquisition.”
DeBlanc jerked his elbow free from McKnight’s grip and began straightening out his necktie. “Very well then, Vasily,” he said regally, “At your request I’ll allow you the private use of the cabin. If by chance you find you need my assistance, I’ll be up in my own cabin enjoying the pleasures of two very beautiful young twins.” He then turned and stomped out of the room. Out in the passageway, he stopped to wait impatiently for his two bodyguards to join him.
McKnight nodded to Henderson for him to follow DeBlanc out. When Henderson was also out in the passageway, he closed the door on the two and turned to join the Russians.
“Thank you for that, Mr. McKnight. I know something like this is hard for Mr. DeBlanc,” Rudenko said as he walked over to McKnight and took the bodyguard’s large right hand in both of his. “Now it pains me to say this to you, Mr. McKnight, for I know in you Russia has a very good friend, but I sadly must ask you to kindly depart the room as well. At least for the time being.” He gave McKnight’s hand a dismissive pat before releasing it and turning back to his hostage.
McKnight hesitated. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Mr. Rudenko?” he said. He looked at Sabra and tried to assess the shorter man’s abilities. “I mean, we are dealing with a Navy SEAL here. The man’s a highly skilled fighter and killer. He’s been trained to overcomes situations just like this.”
“Yes, yes, thank you, Mr. McKnight. We are completely aware of Mr. Lebon’s noteworthy skills,” Rudenko said. “However, Mr. Sabra himself is highly skilled in Mr. Lebon’s trade.” He looked at Sabra and gave him a slight bow of the head in salute of the undercover agent’s abilities. Sabra returned the gesture. “And, if I may, I, too, am trained in the art of combat; although, I must confess it has been some years since my skills have been put to the test. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m sorry, you simply cannot possibly be present in the room during our discussion with Mr. Lebon. State secrets. I’m sure you understand. Now, perhaps you would be so kind to wait out in the passageway, in case you’re needed.”
McKnight nodded. “Okay, Mr. Rudenko, if you think it’s best I will. But before I do, there is something I need to take care of first.” Without waiting for Rudenko to respond, he walked straight over to Killian and swung at him with a powerful roundhouse.
Killian barely had time to react to the swing. He pulled his chin in and offered the side of his head to the punch instead of his face. Upon impact, there was a loud crack and, despite the pain McKnight’s large fist had inflicted upon his head, Killian was pleased to know the cracking sound was the breaking of at least one bone in McKnight’s punching hand.
“Son of a bitch!” McKnight hollered out as he tried to shake away the pain from his mangled fingers.
Killian laughed. “You seem to be a little rusty on the finer points in the art of torture, a skill a traitor like you surely must have picked in the war running illegal—”
“Shut the fuck up, you sorry mother fucker,” McKnight growled as he began throwing a flurry of wild punches with his left hand to the side of
Killian’s head and face.
Rudenko let the bodyguard go at his hostage for a few grueling, eye-wincing moments before he said with only a slight hint of mockery, “Okay, Mr. McKnight. Better stop now before you break your other hand, too.”
McKnight got three more shots in before pulling himself back. He stood looking down on Killian with crazed eyes, as if Killian were prey he had just slain. His chest heaved as he panted from the exertion, his face was flushed, and his bald head had beaded over with sweat. He then turned and looked at Rudenko with the same crazed eyes, as if he wanted to inflict the same punishment on him that he had just inflicted on Killian.
Rudenko saw the look in McKnight’s eyes and took several cautious steps closer to Sabra. “Is there a doctor onboard, Mr. McKnight?” he asked hastily. “Perhaps you should go get that hand checked out.”
After the madness had left him and his panting had slowed, McKnight said, “No doctor onboard. All staff returned to shore with Mr. Hammond, per Mr. DeBlanc’s orders.”
“Yes, of course, of course,” Rudenko said, his usual assuredness returned. “I tell you what, Mr. McKnight,” he said as he walked toward Killian and began assessing the damage. “Now that you got that bit of frustration out of your system, why don’t you get yourself fixed up the best you can and then wait for my word outside the door as we already discussed?”
“I’ll be fine,” McKnight said as he walked to the door. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”
After McKnight had departed the cabin, Rudenko looked at Sabra and smiled. In English he said with a chuckle, “Well, it appears Mr. McKnight has… how does the saying go? Softened Mr. Lebon up for us. Wouldn’t you agree?”
A smile barely cracked on the agent’s face as he nodded slightly and said, “Da.”
Rudenko, still smiling, turned to Killian. “I do apologize for Mr. McKnight’s unacceptable behavior, Mr. Lebon. But it seems he had some past grievances with you that just absolutely had to be addressed. Anyway, now that it’s all been taken care of, let us proceed with the business at hand, shall we?”
Despite Killian’s success in avoiding direct hits of most of McKnight’s wild punches, the damage from those that did land on target added up. From what he could tell through a consciousness he was barely holding on to, he had a badly split upper lip, his left eye was swelling shut, his nose was probably broken, and a loud, high-pitched ringing sound was whining in his ears. Blood from his nose ran down and mingled in his mouth with the blood from his split lip as his head hung lifelessly down to his chest. “Cut the bullshit, Rudenko,” he said. His hoarse voice was barely audible. “We all know this is all about my father.”
Rudenko smiled and looked back at Sabra. “Well, it appears Mr. Lebon is as intelligent and insightful as advertised.” Then to Killian, he said, “That certainly should make things much easier for all of us, don’t you agree?”
“So you really set up this elaborate, dangerous scheme of kidnapping two innocent women, knowing I would try to rescue them, just so you could interrogate me about my father?” Killian shook his head slowly, painfully. “Unbelievable, even for Russian intelligence.”
Rudenko smiled broadly. “What’s really unbelievable are the actual facts of the matter. I hardly believe them myself. But the truth is the three of us ending up right here where we are in this small cabin on this very ostentatious yacht is all a matter of the severest coincidence.
“So, I’m supposed to believe that it was a coincidence that you just happened to kidnap my friend to use as a sex slave for that creep DeBlanc? Give me a break. Why is the Russian government running sex slaves for some perverted casino owner?”
“Ah, perhaps he’s not quite as intelligent as we thought, Mr. Sabra,” Rudenko said still looking down upon Killian. “Come now, Mr. Lebon,” he said testily, “let us not get mired within the insignificant details of how our meeting like this came to be. Let us instead focus on the reasons why it came to be. Simply put, I need to know exactly what you and your father discussed during the video call you two had right before his untimely death.”
“You mean his untimely murder, don’t you?” Killian said, trying hard to stare down Rudenko through the pain.
“Again,” Rudenko said impatiently, “more insignificant details. The video call, Mr. Lebon. What was discussed?”
Killian ignored the question. “So, how does all this work? You keep DeBlanc well-stocked with women and drugs and as payment, he allows you to funnel illicit rubles through his casino?”
“My, my, you have regained yourself with this latest insight of yours, Mr. Lebon.” Rudenko said smiling. “But you see, it’s this keen insight that you have which leads me to believe that you are keenly aware of what your father was involved in before his death. So, I must insist that you provide us the information we are requesting, or I will be forced to ask my associate here to compel the information from you.”
Sabra walked up next to Rudenko and poised the butt of his rifle over Killian’s head, prepared to strike on command.
Rudenko put a hand on the agent’s shoulder to restrain him. “No, not yet, Mr. Sabra. I’m holding out hope that we can do this without any further violence. We all know that our war hero here is just a small piece of shrapnel away from death. I wouldn’t want to do anything that may facilitate his demise... at least not yet.”
Sabra lowered the rifle and stepped back from Killian.
“Although,” Rudenko continued, “we do know from Mr. Sabra’s excellent reporting that perhaps you would prefer death over the pain of living. Is that true, Mr. Lebon? Did you, in fact, try to end your life, and that if it wasn’t for the happy chance that your good friend Ms. Gunther happened by your farm that sad day that you would no longer be of this Earth?”
Killian struggled against his bindings, trying to get as close to the Russian as he could. “Make no mistake about it, Rudenko,” he said, raging, “I intend to live long enough to ensure your corrupt, miserable life comes to a violent end.”
“And what about all those evil-looking crosses?” Rudenko said, continuing to taunt. “Mr. Sabra shared with us the most splendidly macabre photos of them hanging in your barn. Please tell me their significance, Mr. Lebon. I really must know.”
“Fuck you,” Killian said without raising his head.
“Yes, you’re right,” Rudenko said. “Now I’m the one getting us mired in insignificant details. Back to business then. Were you aware that your father was, at one time, a good friend of Russia’s? He used to provide us with such useful information about such interesting, highly sensitive topics. You knew this about him already, yes?”
Killian didn’t answer. He just stared straight ahead at nothing.
“Yes, I’m sure you at least had some idea that your father was a traitor to his country. Mostly he provided us information related to your government’s cyber security efforts. But did you know, that, from time to time, he would even tell us a little bit about you and your special forces activities?”
Killian looked at Rudenko. “Bullshit,” he said. “My father never had any information about what I did. We never once spoke about any of my operations.”
“Yes, be that as it may, he was still a concerned father who, as resourceful as he was, made it his business to find out what dangers his son faced. And, happily for us, he would keep us informed about them as well.”
Killian shook his head and laughed. “You’re so full of shit Rudenko, it’s disgusting.”
“Oh, Mr. Lebon, there’s so much more we could discuss about how useful your father was to us; but time is short, so back to the conversation between you and him, Mr. Lebon?”
Killian stopped laughing. “Like I said before, asshole… Fuck. You.”
Rudenko smiled and then nodded thoughtfully. Turning to Sabra, he said, “You know, it’s hard to negotiate seriously with a man who doesn’t seriously value his own life.” He turned back to Killian. “In that case, we must find a life in which he does find value for us to be able
to negotiate seriously.” Without taking his eyes from Killian, he said, “Mr. Sabra, please ask Mr. McKnight to fetch Ms. Gunther for us. Perhaps she could assist us in compelling Mr. Lebon to take our negotiations seriously?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
DeBlanc, his little legs working like pistons in a speeding engine, marched up the passageway. “Who does that damn, pompous Rudenko think he is coming aboard my yacht and ordering me around like some servant?”
Henderson struggled to keep up, his large frame hindering him through the narrow passage and low hatchways. This was his first time being alone with his boss and he wasn’t sure if he was expected to respond or not. But he quickly decided, since he wasn’t addressed specifically, he would err on the side of caution and remain silent. As he focused on trying to keep pace with DeBlanc, while at the same time not catching his forehead on any of the objects hanging low off the overhead, he didn’t notice until it was too late that DeBlanc had stopped at the elevator. He ran right into his boss, sending him sprawling to the deck. Apologizing profusely as his superior lay stunned and frazzled, Henderson picked the diminutive man up as a parent would to a fallen child. After setting him down on his feet, he began brushing off his jacket and straightening out the creases.
“Get your hands off me, you dumb oaf,” DeBlanc hollered as he struggled to regain his composure. He jabbed a thumb at the elevator call button and then turned, red-faced, back to Henderson, who thought for sure he was in for a royal ass chewing. Fortunately for him, DeBlanc was still too upset with Rudenko to fret over an inferior’s clumsiness. “God damn it, why did my greedy father ever let himself get involved with those god damned Russians?”
The Good Kill Page 34