by Eddy Will
Jack grabbed a large glass pitcher and hurled it in a high arc across the store.
The pitcher crashed against the far wall and shattered, broken glass raining on shoppers and store clerks. A woman screamed. The killer’s head snapped in the direction of the sudden commotion. Jack ran across the open area and pushed through the exit door. He found himself in an alley. A delivery truck blocked the alley on one side. Jack ran the other way and had almost reached the street, when the black Mercedes Benz screeched around the corner and entered the narrow access alley. Jack spun around. He raced toward the delivery truck aiming for the tight space between the truck and the wall. The driver of the Mercedes gunned the engine and pursued his prey. Jack was not going to make it. It was too far to the safety of the delivery truck.
Workers pushed a steel dumpster into the alley, the heavy metal casters rumbling noisily across the asphalt. Jack cursed and bounced off the obstacle suddenly appearing from the recess of a loading dock. Jack swung around the dumpster, struggling to keep his balance. His arms flailed like windmills, his legs strained to stay upright. But he kept moving forward. He heard the shouts of the workers moving the dumpster and then the frantic screeching of brakes. Jack did not have to look, he knew the opening had just become too narrow for the hulking limousine. But he did not slow. He reached the delivery truck and squeezed through the narrow gap between truck and wall. Gunshots exploded in the alley and chunks of brick shattered by a bullet rained on Jack. Jack flung himself to the ground as more shots punched the brick wall. He rolled under the delivery truck. Two men had left the Mercedes Benz and pursued their prey on foot, firing their weapons as they closed in. Jack rolled out from under the truck and scrambled to his feet. He reached the cab of the truck and tried the door. It was unlocked and the keys dangled in the ignition. Jack climbed in and started the engine. He slammed the automatic shift lever into reverse and stood on the gas pedal. The workers hurried to push the dumpster back into its recess. The big truck shook as the gear engaged and jerked backwards, accelerating with surprising speed. Jack steered by looking through the side mirrors but precision was not required for this maneuver. The walls to the left and right would keep him on track and the sound of crushing metal would tell him he had reached his target. The truck picked up speed, the square box of the vehicle leading the charge. The metal sides screamed in high-pitched agony as they scraped against the walls, first on one side then the other. The killers beat a hasty retreat, sprinting for their car and the relative safety behind. One jumped on the hood of the Benz, then on the roof racing to get out of the way. The other ran along the side of the car.
Seconds later the rear of the truck slammed into the sedan, crushing the front like an aluminum soda can and pushing the vehicle down the alley. The Benz twisted in the narrow alley, wedged between two walls of brick. With nowhere else to go, the Mercedes began to roll on its roof. Jack pushed the upside-down wreck to the end of the alley, the killers stumbling to get clear from the avalanche of twisted steel chasing them.
Jack stopped the rampage abruptly and slammed the truck into forward gear. The battered delivery truck rumbled along. He stopped at the same spot from where he had taken the vehicle and jumped from the cab. On the far end of the alley the killers were trapped by their own car, smoke rising from the obliterated engine.
A crowd gathered at the mouth of the alley, alerted by the ear-shattering noise. Jack slowed his pace.
“Call 911,” he said, “there has been an accident in the alley.” He then turned the corner and walked away, forcing himself to move slowly and not attract attention. His eyes constantly searched the street for the killers. Sirens announced the imminent arrival of law enforcement and rescue crews. The persistent wailing was not only a warning signal for Jack, it would also force the killers to abort their hunt and blend into the crowd. Jack had made enough noise to scare them off.
For now.
Chapter 16
London, England, August 2, 2012, 5:09 PM
Johnny Rotten and the Sex Pistols screamed their version of God Save The Queen at high volume from hefty speakers, echoing off the stark brick walls in the large and sparsely furnished living room. Styx dropped the long ash from her cigarette into an ashtray already brimming over. She sat cross-legged and hunched over, her eyes glued to the large display. An empty coffee mug displaying the inscription ‘Anarchy’ sat next to the keyboard. An electric guitar leaned against the desk within arm’s reach, plugged into an amplifier. The desk was one of only two pieces of furniture in the large room, the other a grand piano in the center of the room. The walls bare, not a single picture, poster or painting. Her eyes stared at the display but her mind struggled to process Maria’s late night conversation. Nothing alarming had been said during the phone call and yet Styx was unable to push the conversation from her mind. Something had been wrong but she could not put her finger on it.
And as Johnny and Sid perfected total musical destruction, Styx’s fingers entered the name she had heard Maria say: Jack Storm.
What she found raised more questions than answers: An Associated Press article reporting on an avalanche in the mountains of Peru and the confirmed death of two U.S. mountain climbers. It mentioned a third missing climber, American Anna Jaeger. And it particularly mentioned the missing climber’s husband, Jack Storm, frantically searching for his missing wife.
Styx sat back in the chair and lit another cigarette. She exhaled the blue smoke and struggled to make sense of what she had just learned. What business could Maria have with mountain climbers in Peru? Yet Maria had been adamant that this Jack Storm had become a ‘liability’. Styx stared at the computer screen, her mind unsettled. She thought about Maria and had to admit that she knew very little about her new girlfriend. She had been content with the casual and physical nature of their relationship. She had thought it cool and unconventional, and Styx was all about unconventional. But now questions rose in her mind and answers appeared elusive. Maria did not make sense and a feeling of dread filled her heart. She did not want the honeymoon to end but her instincts raised flags.
The redheaded punk stubbed out her cigarette and crossed to the grand piano. She sat and began playing a Sonata. The notes came out quickly and sprightly. Her slender, long fingers flying across the keys confidently and expertly, but her mind elsewhere. Screaming, wild and destructive punk rock music numbed her brain and allowed her to push the demons haunting her into dark recesses of her mind, at least for the moment. The piano had a soothing, calming effect. The inevitable order and complementation of well arranged notes enabled her mind to sift through puzzles without conscious effort. And as the sound of the piano filled the space, moving from measure to measure, her brain and intuition joined forces and set to work on unanswered questions and missing connections.
Styx ruled out a romantic involvement resulting in hard feelings. Further, Jack Storm is neither an artist nor does he seem to have the resources to be a collector of over-priced art. The missing wife.
Styx stopped playing in mid-measure and rushed to the computer. She typed in the name Anna Jaeger. The missing climber did not appear involved in the art world either. As expected, her interests aligned with that of Jack Storm, an outdoor girl, far more interested in physical challenges than artistic ones. Styx was unable to see a connection between Maria and the American climbers, much less an acrimonious one. And yet, there was. The two worlds were linked through a late night phone call for which Maria had left a warm bed and a passionate lover. Styx lit another cigarette as she pondered the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Chapter 17
The Carpathian Mountains, Romania, August 2, 2012, 6:12 PM
The landing pad was brightly lit in expectation of the arrival of an inbound helicopter from Bucharest. Black asphalt, wet from rain reflected the powerful lights. Two men in rain slickers stood near the landing pad ready to assist, one holding on to his head gear in the face of a driving wind.
‘Not the perfect weather I
had hoped for,’ Matthew Remington thought from the interior of the private aircraft. His eyes focused on the scene beyond the window. The pilot had pivoted the aircraft allowing Remington a good view of the landing zone. The helicopter shook from a gust of wind and the pilot struggled to steady the chopper. Another adjustment and the helicopter set down. The welcome party leaned hard into the sudden wind generated by the blades of the aircraft. The pilot powered down the engine and moments later it was quiet inside the cabin.
“Welcome to Okhota Lodge,” the pilot’s voice announced into the headset covering Remington’s right ear. The men in yellow slickers ducked and hurried to open the cabin door. Remington stepped out and into the rain. He stood for a moment, breathing in the wet air and stretching his body which had been cramped into the small helicopter for the last hour. The fresh air, the cold rain and the gusty wind made him feel alive, giving his impending adventure an added ingredient. Remington did not mind inclement weather. It was a steady reminder that he was out in the wild, out in nature and away from the comforts of civilization. He did not mind as long as those comforts remained within easy reach. It was fun playing the part of the rough outdoors type as long as a dry and warm space with a hot drink was not too far removed.
“What a beautiful evening,” he said to the two men, grinning, knowing that they could not disagree more. For these men this was not a temporary game, it was their life. They did not play outdoors man for a week, they lived it, and cooperating weather was far more desirable than pouring rain. These men would spend the next five days making sure the guest from America had everything he needed. No, for them it was not a game, it was their life.
Remington climbed into the oversized SUV and settled into the heated leather seat, while the two men loaded the American’s luggage into the back of the vehicle.
Twelve minutes later Remington entered the expansive lobby of Okhota Lodge. A fire roared in the massive stone fireplace. Diana greeted her guest, extending a bejeweled hand.
“Welcome, Mr. Remington. It is, as usual such an honor,” she said. Dressed in long white flowing robes, thin, brown leather straps crossed her ample chest and wrapped her waist. Her hair was carefully and meticulously shaped into a tall arrangement of black wavy curls, a thin white band snaking in an out of the elaborate creation. Long earrings and gold arm braces as well as a pendent completed the look. She was a goddess, from head to toe, flanked by a half dozen beautiful women, dressed in similar but less intricate costumes.
“I take it you had a pleasant journey,” Diana said, playing the part of the hostess with exceptional grace.
“I did and I am glad to be here,” Remington said, kissing Diana on both cheeks.
“Well, Mila will show you to your quarters and once you’ve had a chance to freshen up, dinner will be ready for you,” Diana said. A slight flick of her wrist propelled the woman who was Mila forward like a puppet manipulated by the puppet master.
“Please follow me, Mr. Remington,” the tall, blond woman said, her words softened by a slight Eastern European accent. She led the way up a wide curving staircase, her hips moving under the soft dress with every step. Remington smiled as he followed the beautiful woman up the stairs. He would have another exiting and satisfying week. Diana’s hospitality was as impeccable as it was all inclusive.
Mila and Remington entered the sprawling suite on the second floor. It was the same suite he stayed in every year. An over-sized four post bed piled high with pillows and blankets stood in the center of the large bedroom, making it accessible from all sides. Across the room a fully stocked bar contained Remington’s favorite brand of Gin. A freshly filled ice bucket and serving-size tonic bottles waited next to a small plate of freshly cut slices of lime. Remington’s luggage already sat next to the bed, his rifle case carefully placed on the dresser.
“Do you care for a drink before you freshen up, Mr. Remington,” Mila said. “Maybe the usual?”
“Yes, that would be great,” said Remington. He watched the beautiful woman walk slowly to the bar, drinking in her curves, undressing her with his eyes long before she reached the bar. It was a game Diana’s girls played well, Remington thought with appreciation.
Mila turned, a glass of Gin and Tonic with a slice of lime in each hand, and sauntered over to Remington, her eyes never leaving his. They toasted and Remington drank. He did not notice that Mila barely sipped her drink and as a matter of fact had poured no alcohol into her glass. It was the illusion that mattered, not the reality, and Diana would not have her staff intoxicated while on duty.
“Hot shower?” Mila said sweetly, smiling.
The American nodded while taking another sip. “That sounds like just the ticket,” he said after he swallowed. Mila disappeared into the bathroom and Remington heard the shower moments later. He quickly gulped down the rest of the drink and headed to the bar for a second. This was his vacation and he felt he deserved every amenity this trip would offer. He was, after all, a red-blooded male, a successful one at that, and he had it coming. He worked hard, or so he thought at any rate, and he deserved to play hard. He took quick sips from the fresh glass and headed into the bathroom. His eyes widened like those of a school boy when he saw Mila naked in the shower, soaping up. A hot shower was just the ticket, but a hot shower with beautiful Mila was more than he had expected.
Chapter 18
Carpathian Mountains, Romania, August 2, 2012, 6:15 PM
The thundering roar of a helicopter had woken Anna Jaeger from an uneasy sleep. She was grateful for the interruption for her sleep had been filled with nightmares of men grabbing at her from icy crevices, strong hands reaching up from the snow and clamping her ankles and pushing her off balance while climbing the steep face of a mountain. And then she was naked, running through a thick forest, prickly branches beating and scratching her vulnerable body, the heavy, growling breath of other men not far behind, their burly, thick bodies suddenly turning into sleek, long-legged wolves, flying through the brush, yelping and growling at their prey. She had reached a steep rocky cliff, the tall trees had disappeared and there was nowhere to go. She turned in horror just as the hairy creatures broke through the brush, their green eyes sizing up their meal. There was no place to escape. The predators lowered their heads, long lines of drool running from their sharp-toothed snouts, putrid breath shooting in bursts of clouds from their hungry throats. And their snarls turned to grimacing smiles. The animals knew they had won. She was trapped. The growls turned into a thunderous roar. In a fit of desperate panic she turned and leapt off the cliff into the foggy nothing.
That’s when Anna had awoken, the roar of a helicopter tearing her off that cliff and away from the hideous creatures. She snapped open her eyes and forced the nightmare from her mind, focusing on the sound coming from somewhere above and outside of the small room that was her prison. And her garish dream was replaced by the nightmare she was living. It had not gone away, it had not been a dream within a dream. It was real. She sat up on the narrow cot and stared at barren concrete walls lit up by stark and cold overhead fluorescents. The rumbling sound grew louder still and then she was sure it was an approaching helicopter. Something was going on outside her cell. Someone was coming. She got to her feet and remembered the encounter with the frightening woman who had laid out the rest of her life for her. Her mind refused to believe what her ears had heard. It could not be so, she told herself. It had to be some cruel joke, but there were parts of her brain that had begun to contemplate her fate and how to best approach it. There was a sick human being out there who clearly had the resources to make his or her every fantasy come true, and one of those twisted fantasies was hunting her in the wild like a rabbit. It was unimaginable, yet it was happening. To her.
She repeated her assessment of her cell, searching for a way out, looking for an escape route. But the square room had no escape. The only opening in the concrete walls was a small vent cover at the top of the rear wall, the vent too small for a human to fit, and the door, lock
ed and heavy. She was trapped and at the mercy of her captors.
The small window in the door filled with a hard face, the pockmarked nose almost pushing against the thick glass. Seconds later the locks snapped and the door opened into the cell. The hard-faced man entered with a tray of food, while another filled the doorway with his stocky and broad frame. The guard placed the tray on the cot, then turned to Anna and stared at her without moving. Terror stormed into Anna’s heart for she recognized that look. It was the look of hunger and desire that existed within the basest of base impulses. Anna stepped back against the wall, putting as much distance between herself and the human animal in her cell. She decided that she would rather die than allow him to realize his sick fantasy.