I grabbed the paper and ran down the hall.
* * *
THE PLANE LANDED WITH a bump, and the brakes pushed everyone forward in their seats as the 777 slowed. The flight was headed to Dushanbe, Tajikistan, with a half-hour layover in New York.
Taras Karjanski had specifically picked the flight. He got up from his seat and slipped into the bathroom at the end of the aisle. He smiled at himself in the mirror. He had long hair and a scruffy beard, topped off with bushy eyebrows. He looked like a stoned punk rocker who had never grown up. His disguise was perfect.
Of course it was perfect. Would he accept any less? Where are you going? What do you think you will accomplish this way? His head was a mess of voices and arguments. He stuffed the disguise down the trashcan and covered it with paper towels. Then he took off his coat, and stuffed it in the cabinet under the small sink. His shirt was reversible, and after he was finished, he looked like an executive on his way to an important meeting. His brown leather suitcase had his updated passport, and in seconds, he walked off the plane with the other passengers looking like another man.
His baggage went on to Dushanbe, as well as his follower who would be on the next flight. Detective Weston had a sharp mind, but not compared to Taras. In a few days, Detective Weston would be taken care of.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A COLD STEEL-BLUE BMW pulled up to the curb in front of the Lalo Café on West Eighty-Third Street and parked. The famous café was a popular place, known for its European style décor, and cuisine. As usual, it was crowded for lunch. A dark-skinned man opened the car door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He had thin, well-groomed hair and dark sunglasses. His driver was a short, fat man, with a bulge under his suit jacket.
The Red Dog watched from his cab as they entered the café and found a table right in the middle of the restaurant. Smart, Mr. Dior. You think you are safe in there with all of your drones eating their soup of the day.
The name he was using on this trip, the one the buyer knew him as, was Azar Georgian. It was the name of a Russian dog that suited him perfectly. He liked to use names that only he knew the meaning of. It made him feel like he was in on a joke that only he knew the punch line to. Time to party. Are you ready to meet The General? I don’t think you are. I think you’re scared of me, as you should be. Let’s just get this over with and move on. Shut up, you coward! Do it or go home!
Azar entered the café with confidence pouring from his body like sweet oil. He smiled with all his charm as he shook the hand of Mohammed Dior. Dior was the president of OPEC and owned over half of the world’s oil refineries. To the rest of the world, OPEC was just trying to help keep the prices consistent as an impartial party, but in the real world, he was lining his pockets with millions each year. “Hello, my friend. You look wonderful, as expected.” The Red Dog was out and laying it on thick. “I hope your stay has been pleasant.”
The oil lord was sitting without expression and still wore his dark sunglasses. When he finally spoke, it was with a thick accent. “You have something I want, Mr. Georgian. I won’t waste your time or mine with small talk.”
Azar smiled and pounded the table with his fist. The bodyguard moved his right hand with a speed that only came from experience. “I like you. Going right for the jugular. I think we will be getting along great, you and I!”
The café had more than fifty people sitting in different places and even had a line out the door of impatient people waiting to get a table. Half of the people kept looking over to the table where the strange people sat. The presence of a clean-cut businessman in a ten thousand-dollar suit was a little out of place in this casual café.
You picked this place special, didn’t you, Mr. Dior? You think you’re safe from me. “I want all of your shares in your company, and then you can have all of my shares. It will be an even trade.”
The dark man laughed then took off his sunglasses. His eyes were dark black with pure evil seeping out like dripping wax. “You will get my shares when I have the deed to your company.”
“And you shall have it.” The Red Dog pulled out a thick folder from his briefcase. The deeds to twelve nuclear power plants were inside. “You may sign your name on the bottom of each of these and you will own enough power to blow up the world, if you wish.”
Mr. Dior’s face broke into a smile as he flipped through the deeds. He was going into business, the nuclear bomb business. His eyes perused each page slowly.
Do it! The Red Dog screamed.
The fat driver opened a laptop and began typing. The funds and shares were transferred to five different accounts throughout Europe that Azar had given them. After confirming with the bank that they had made the transfer, the Red Dog hung up his cell phone.
“It has been a pleasure doing business with you, my friend.” Do it, you coward! Don’t push me. I’m the one in charge!
Standing to his feet, the Red Dog pulled out a 9 millimeter and shot the fat driver in the head before he even had time to react. Blood sprayed out the back of his skull and showered a man who was sitting nearby. The man screamed in shock and jumped to his feet, his white t-shirt splattered in blood.
The bodyguard toppled backward, and, as he fell, Taras swung the gun toward Mohammed Dior and sent three rounds into his face. The recoil of the weapon shattered the room with sound, and people began to scream and run for the door.
Taras shot two more rounds into the air and commanded the panicked crowd in a voice that stopped everyone in their tracks, the voice of a lunatic that did not even seem human. “Everyone sit down, or I will kill every one of you where you cower!”
The frightened crowd stopped cold and looked at the tall Russian. He turned to meet their gazes and his dark eyes flashed. “Good. Now, everyone sit down. I will be on my way, and no one else has to die.” A tall kid in his mid twenties jumped up with a curse as he made a beeline for the door. Taras squeezed the trigger, the boy’s head made a popping sound, and he fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
“Anyone else want to die?” Taras smiled and let out a little laugh. “I thought not. I have one thing more to say.” He bent down, took his deeds from off the table, and stuffed them back into his briefcase. He snatched the set of car keys from the table, as well. “If any one of you talk to the police and say so much as a word of what you saw here today, I will find you and then kill you and all of your family. You don’t want to test me.”
The place was silent as he spoke. A woman to his left had tears streaming down her cheeks, and the men in the room looked beaten, and stared down at the floor. Everything happened so fast that no one had time to think.
Taras walked from the Lalo Café and got into his car. The tires of the blue BMW squealed, and he disappeared around the corner.
The café filled with screams and cries, as the horror of what just happened dawned on them. The three bodies lay silent, and people tripped and slipped in blood as they tried to run from the café. In broad daylight, in the middle of New York City, the Red Dog had just murdered one of the most powerful men in the world.
* * *
I’D BEEN CALLED INTO Solomon’s office and I stood before his desk like a student before a principal. I still hadn’t gotten over the newspaper I had found in my office, but at this point, it had to be put on the back burner.
“Mark, it’s time to take Detective Weston in,” Solomon said. “He’s on the tail of The General, and we need to team together if we plan on catching this monster.”
I had seen the reports on the local news about the murder in the middle of a crowded café and knew it was Taras. It was a gutsy move to do something like that. “Where is he?”
“On his way to Dushanbe. Our Taxi would take too long, we have a private jet waiting for you at the airport. You need to get this guy before he does what I think he’s planning on doing.”
I had a feeling Solomon was holding back some important information, but I didn’t push for it. He was the type that just required a “yes, sir,
” and so that’s what I gave him. But before I left, he grabbed me by the arm. His eyes were bright, full of emotion.
“What is it, sir?” I asked, uncomfortable under his gaze.
“You might start experiencing…” His eyes shifted, trying to think of the best word, “strange things. Things you can’t explain.”
I looked down.
“Just don’t—don’t change who you are,” he said.
I had no idea what he meant. Experience strange things? Change who I was? What did—suddenly I heard a beeping sound behind me. A fast-paced, monotone, beeping, like a hospital monitor. I turned, but then it stopped. “Did you hear that?” I whispered.
He gave me a knowing look. I swallowed, and felt my hair stand up on end.
“Don’t change who you are.”
* * *
I GRABBED A CAB and called K on the way to the airport. She didn’t answer, so I left a message. I wouldn’t be home for dinner tonight. Or the next.
A wave of loneliness washed over me. I hated the fact that I couldn’t share such a big part of my life with her. But wasn’t it worth her safety to keep her in the dark? A year ago, she and my daughter had been kidnapped, and the pain of almost losing them again was just too much. But not knowing didn’t keep them safe back then, so how was it keeping her any safer by not knowing now? I had to tell her, it was eating me up inside. She was my soul mate, my love. I needed to be able to talk to her, to confide in her.
What Solomon had told me put me on edge, too. How could I prepare for something if I didn’t know what it was? Biting my lip, I thought of all the memories of my childhood that had come back to me, of my training at the WJA. But nothing seemed out of place. At least, not out of place for the WJA. I suddenly cursed and yanked on the wheel, cutting across two lanes…I almost missed my exit. Solomon and his cryptic messages would be the death of me.
The jet was running as I pulled onto the tarmac. The engines roared in the evening air as I climbed aboard. I looked over my shoulder and saw the New York City skyline. It was a beautiful city, and I couldn’t help but feel sad at what it was becoming. The city of fear.
* * *
A MUSHROOM CLOUD ROSE from the New York City skyline as yet another bomb detonated. I could see two mushroom clouds now. The city, in less than an hour, was all but destroyed. The schools had been the main target, with hospitals next. In all, twenty-seven nuclear bombs went off, killing everyone in their paths.
The projections of the number of people killed, including from the fallout, came to more than eight hundred thousand, and half of New York City’s landmass was left uninhabitable.
I opened my eyes and bolted out of my airplane seat. Sweat poured from my back and arms. I opened my eyes and looked around the G5. I knew it was just a dream, but my dreams always came true.
* * *
THE FLIGHT FROM LA to Dushanbe was long and miserable. Kirk Weston stretched his back, and then reached for his carry-on. He was only about three hours behind Taras Karjanski by his calculations, and his tracking device showed that Taras was still close enough to get a signal. The device came back on once the plane started to descend into Dushanbe. He figured Taras has found it, or maybe it just quit working, but now that it was back, it worried him a little.
Why is he still in the airport? Could he be waiting for me? Kirk was always careful, but he just had bad luck. “If it wasn’t for bad luck, you wouldn’t have any,” his mom used to say.
The airport was dingy and hot. He tried to wipe the sweat from his forehead, but it didn’t help. He looked around and didn’t see the Russian. Come on, neighbor, come out and play!
Kirk looked down at his watch and carefully followed it to the baggage claim. Kirk cursed out loud and kicked the ground when he saw a single suitcase going around and around the baggage claim track. Where was Taras? Fine, I’ll take your suitcase and see what you’ve got for me.
The black suitcase was heavy. Kirk hauled it over to an empty counter to look through his new and only lead. “Stupid, stupid, stupid! I should have known.” Kirk sighed and unzipped the suitcase. A pair of pants and a shirt lay on top. Kirk mumbled as he went through Taras’s garments, feeling like a creep.
Something hard was mixed in with the clothes. Kirk felt it, picked it up, and looked in horror as the timer on a chunk of C4 counted down from ten.
“Bomb, bomb, bomb!” Kirk screamed as he dropped the device and ran for the door. Everyone within earshot screamed and ran when they heard him. No matter what language you speak, everyone knows the word bomb.
The ten seconds seemed faster to Kirk than it should have been, and as he ran to the exit, he could hear his heart throbbing in his head. The blood was pounding in his ears, thud, thud, thud. He saw a woman running with a child in her arms. She was screaming. He was screaming, too, but he couldn’t hear anything. Just—thud, thud, thud.
You never know what you will think of when you’re about to die. Maybe your family, or what you should have done with your life. Kirk could only think about this woman and her child, running.
The bomb ignited and a ball of molten hot fire erupted from the baggage claim. Kirk had his hand on the door when he felt the heat from the blast hit him in the back. I am going to die.
The force of the bomb sent Kirk flying into the air. Glass and metal splintered past his head with a sizzling sound. He felt heat, or maybe it was pain, light up his back. He scrunched his eyes shut when he saw the ground coming up fast. The hard fall took the breath out of him.
Kirk looked up from his back at the blue sky. A single bird grabbed his attention as a rain of fire and debris came down on him. The bird flew on, unaware of the chaos below him.
The entire west side of the airport was blown apart, from the east end all the way to the south side, making a crater full of concrete and wood. The fuel from a nearby tanker truck made its own bomb and was thrown fifty feet into the air, tumbling end over end.
He had been beat, but even in the face of certain death, he tensed every muscle in his body and braced for what would come next. They had tried to kill him once, and he would not go out like this, not on his back like a wounded deer. Kirk clenched his fists and screamed. The last thing Kirk saw was that truck falling from the sky and coming right for him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE FLIGHT TO DUSHANBE took longer than I wanted. I was used to being able to travel halfway across the world in hours in the Taxi.
Solomon had told me I needed a partner, so I’d requested Isis Kanika, and she’d agreed to come along to give me a hand with the mission. Kirk Weston could be a difficult man to handle. Between his personality and his stubborn nature, he could be dangerous and irrational.
Isis sat on the other side of the aisle. Isis was from Egypt originally, and had dark smooth skin and black hair that looked like silk. She was five-foot-seven, I guessed, maybe a hundred pounds, and her body was trim, fit, and strong. The person who underestimated her would be mistaken, for she was deadly with a knife and a master of hand-to-hand combat.
Isis was going through a file the agency had on Kirk Weston, not because she didn’t know all about him, but out of habit. Isis probably knew more about the detective than anyone else did. She was in charge of his original kidnapping and did all the research herself.
I leaned on my elbows and tried to shake the uneasy feeling that was starting to cast its shadow over me.
“I am glad you came along on this mission, I miss having you back me up,” I told Isis.
“Back you up? I thought it was the other way around.” Isis smiled. I was about to protest, but she held up her hand and said, “No matter who backs who up, it is nice to work with you again. Out of all the people I’ve worked with over the years, you are by far the most fun, not to mention interesting.” Isis smiled with a look that said more than words could. “So, are you still having…you know, dreams?”
“Yeah, they still come, just not all the time. They are much shorter and I can tell at once if it’s a glimps
e or just a dream.”
“Have you been able to call them up, you know, make yourself glimpse something just by thinking about it?”
“No, and not that I haven’t tried. I think it only works if it’s something with a strong emotional connection to my life or to me personally. Like with K’s kidnapping, that was easy because I love her. But every time I try to force it with a job, nothing happens.”
“Well, I hope it comes in handy again for us,” Isis said. “We might need it.”
Isis handed me the file and I flipped through it. Kirk Weston had been married to Debbie Hiet for eight years, and, after an ugly divorce, Debbie had moved back to Alpena, Michigan, to be closer to her family. They kept in touch here and there, but nothing worth reporting.
As if reading my mind, Isis said. “He loved her. I mean Kirk, he loved Debbie. You can tell when something that ugly goes down, there is a lot of emotion on both sides.” Isis seemed sad and the thought crossed my mind that she was not just empathetic, but knew what it felt like from firsthand experience.
“Yeah, on the surface he seems so hard and controlled, but it’d got to hurt to lose everything in the divorce—house, dog,” I said. “The dog was the worst, no guy wants to lose his dog.” My attempt at humor did not register. Isis was not in a joking mood.
“He is a good cop, but his attitude gets in the way. He would have been captain a long time ago if he could’ve held his tongue every now and then,” Isis said, still deep in thought about Kirk.
“That’s why I like him,” I said. “You never have to guess what he thinks or how he feels. It’s just out there for everyone to see, and he doesn’t care whose feelings he hurts. Good thing to have in a cop.”
A crackle broke the air and the copilot began his announcement that they were being rerouted to an alternate airport. “There was a bombing at the Dushanbe airport. We have to land fifty miles farther south.”
DREAM ON (Mark Appleton #2) Page 5