Bear

by Matt Rogers

  ‘You think the guy across from us speaks English?’

  ‘How am I supposed to know?’

  ‘I don’t know what it’s like in Russia. Many of you speak English?’

  ‘Roughly a third of us. Most have some kind of grasp on it. We need to in this day and age.’

  ‘Okay. Perfect.’

  ‘Why do you need to know?’

  ‘I need to catch him off guard. And I need him to understand.’

  ‘He’s coming.’

  Slater noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and spotted the guy in the expensive suit slinking slowly out of his seat. He was cautious and hesitant and in no way comfortable with approaching, but Slater could tell the guy didn’t have any other choices. Without his two friends he seemed lost. Nervous and uncomfortable and out of his element.

  Suddenly, Slater realised the dynamic wasn’t what he originally thought. He thought the guy in the expensive suit might have been held against his will by the two henchmen, but they hadn’t been sitting across the aisle seats to prevent him from leaving.

  They’d been protecting him.

  Not keeping him in.

  Keeping other people out.

  ‘Sit the fuck down,’ Slater hissed before the man even had the chance to open the conversation.

  It took the guy entirely by surprise, and he flapped his lips like a dying fish, trying to formulate a response.

  Before he could, Slater yanked one of the dead men’s Desert Eagles out of his jacket pocket and waved it in the direction of the man. ‘Three seconds before I blow your brains over the far wall. I’m not afraid to.’

  The guy sat down next to Viktor, never taking his eyes off Slater for a second. He didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, didn’t move. Slater realised the fear he’d seen in the man’s eyes hadn’t been because he was being held hostage.

  It was because he was scared to reveal something.

  He was implicit in all of this.

  Somehow.

  ‘English?’ Slater said.

  ‘Yes,’ the guy said, with less of an accent than Viktor.

  ‘You someone important?’

  ‘You going to kill me?’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘Sort of important,’ the guy said.

  ‘You’re a businessman?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I would rather you kill me than tarnish my reputation.’

  ‘Who said anyone’s reputation is being tarnished?’ Slater said.

  ‘Why else would you be here?’

  ‘What are you involved in?’

  ‘Like I said … I would rather you kill me.’

  He was sweating and shaking and pale, but he seemed sincere enough. Slater tucked the Desert Eagle under his jacket as a staff member strolled past their aisle, offering a warm smile as she glanced into the four-seat booth. Slater smiled back, and she continued on her journey down the carriage. Breathing a sigh of relief, he poked the barrel of the pistol against the inside of his jacket material, letting the businessman know he could kill him with a simple pump of the trigger.

  ‘What do you want?’ the businessman said.

  ‘You ever seen this guy before?’ Slater said, motioning to Viktor with the gun barrel.

  The businessman glanced across. ‘No.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Slater said again.

  ‘I told you, I’m not—’

  ‘You really ready to die?’ Slater said.

  ‘Iosif.’

  It meant nothing to Slater. ‘What business do you have in Vladivostok, Iosif?’

  ‘Where are my friends?’

  ‘Those were your friends?’

  ‘My business associates.’

  ‘I thought they were holding you hostage. You seemed awfully scared.’

  ‘I’m not scared.’

  ‘You look terrified.’

  ‘Well, I am now. You’re pointing a gun at me.’

  ‘You looked pretty scared before guns were in the equation.’

  ‘I’m a nervous guy, I guess.’

  ‘Your English is quite good,’ Slater noted.

  Iosif shrugged. ‘You want to be anyone in this country, you learn English. Helps with international trade.’

  ‘Is that what you do?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘You going back home too?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. You been to Vladivostok before?’

  ‘A couple of times. It’s not my favourite place on earth.’

  ‘So why are you headed there now?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘Contract work.’

  ‘Stop bullshitting, Iosif. Tell me about the Medved Shipbuilding Plant.’

  Iosif tried acting nonchalant, but it was difficult with a barrel aimed at his face through a jacket. The blood started to drain from his cheeks, turning them white. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Your business associates did. They tried to kill me because they overheard myself and my friend Viktor here talking about the plant. What do you know about it?’

  ‘My business is there, that’s all.’

  ‘You’d better start being clearer, and you’d better start filling me in, or I’ll blast a hole through your chest. I’m not joking. I killed your two friends just five minutes ago. If you think I’m bluffing, try me.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re bluffing.’

  ‘Then start talking. Start giving me information, or this is going to get painful.’

  Iosif sighed and bowed his head. ‘Look, I’m going to Vladivostok for personal reasons. I’m visiting friends. They’re doing something … illegal. Unsavoury. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘You’d better start talking about it, or—’

  Commotion flooded the carriage, causing an outpouring of protest. Slater masked the sight of the Desert Eagle poking against the inside of his jacket but kept the weapon trained in the direction of Iosif. At the same time he flashed a glance in either direction down the aisle, leaning across to get a better look. It sounded like all hell was breaking loose — in neighbouring carriages he heard literal cries of distress.

  Shit, he thought.

  He’d shoved both of the bodyguards’ corpses into a supply closet connected to the staff’s quarters, but it had been a rudimentary job only intended to get him safely through to Vladivostok. It seemed that either the Federal Security Service officer in the bathroom had been discovered, or the supply closet had been opened.

  Either way, the carriage suddenly came alive with nervous energy.

  Three plainclothes officers rushed into the aisle — one of them shouted a long string of Russian to the passengers in the cabin, then handed it over to a second man who repeated the spiel in English.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘There has been a critical incident onboard this train. I would like to ask you to remain in your seats until we arrive in Vladivostok, for your own safety. Once we arrive we will arrange transportation to the nearest Primorsky Krai police station for questioning. If I could ask you all to make no sudden movements and stay where you are seated, we will get to work securing this train. Thank you for your patience. I must ask you all not to panic. This situation is under control.’

  Shit, Slater thought.

  They knew there was a murderer onboard. Anyone jumping to their feet in an attempt to flee would be swarmed by every security officer on the train. Slater saw the glint of gunmetal out of the corner of his eye and realised one of the officers had drawn their weapon. He had it aimed at the floor, but he was scouring each booth for any suspicious activity.

  The tension ran thick in the air.

  Slater knew he had no choice but to stay where he was seated.

  If he killed Iosif, he would need to mow down every officer on the train.

  For now, he was trapped.

  13
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br />   They made an odd trio — Slater, Viktor, and Iosif.

  Neither of them had any connection to the other, apart from the Medved Shipbuilding Plant linking Viktor and Iosif. Perhaps they came from different sections of the plant; perhaps their business was in no way connected. But Slater couldn’t know for sure, because his line of interrogation had ceased with the sudden presence of the officers. Slater scrutinised their clothing but couldn’t make out whether they were undercover members of the Federal Security Service, or members of a different faction.

  He doubted they were connected to the man he had killed in the bathroom.

  That man had been after Viktor.

  Investigating him.

  Following him.

  These men seemed more like officers of the peace, stationed on the train to prevent any kind of disruption, there to respond hastily in the event of an emergency like the one they were dealing with right now.

  Slater found it odd how many policemen had flooded the train’s aisles — if there were three in this carriage, it meant there had to be at least ten or fifteen spread across the entire train. But, then again, desperate times called for desperate measures.

  And these were desperate times.

  Slater had been keeping a close eye on the news ever since he’d made it out of active duty. His mission to rescue Jason King had elevated tensions between the United States and Russia to heights unseen since the Cold War. That had happened months ago, but the world had changed regardless.

  King had been sent into Russia to investigate the disappearance of aid workers on the Kamchatka Peninsula, and the havoc he’d caused had seized the attention of the political elite in Moscow. Slater’s involvement had only escalated tensions, until the shadowy elite had deemed it necessary to destroy a great swathe of the peninsula with a ballistic missile to preserve their dark secrets.

  It had then become public knowledge that a black operations soldier working for the U.S. government had infiltrated Russian soil. Since then, the respective governments had been embroiled in political conflict. Each side knew the gravity of what they were doing — an escalation to actual war would wipe both countries out, so efforts were being made to calm things down. Slater had watched the political battle unfold from the sidelines, holding the knowledge that he was partially responsible. If he’d never gone to Russia to help King, the man would have died deep underground, carrying his secrets to his grave.

  Instead, they’d escaped, and Black Force collapsed in the aftermath of the failure in Russia. Slater and King had been cast out into the world and hunted for their wrongdoings. Only recently in Macau had Slater discovered he was no longer a topic of interest to America. They weren’t searching for his head anymore. They had their own problems to deal with, and ultimately they’d concluded that he’d done the right thing in the Russian Far East.

  He was, in all respects, forgotten.

  And that suited him just fine.

  It left him free to wander the globe.

  But Russia was still volatile, with most of its citizens reeling from the news that America had inserted an agent into their country who had killed a vast swathe of their people, no matter how corrupt they were. Tensions were still at an all time high. People were angry.

  And, it seemed, the Trans-Siberian Railway had become a hotspot for potential terrorist activity.

  So the three plainclothes officers kept watch over the carriage as the train screamed toward Vladivostok, its pace increasing as the drivers recognised the need to arrive in a hurry. The more time they spent on the move, the more chances the murderer had to devise a plan of escape.

  Slater couldn’t imagine the police presence that would be waiting for them in Vladivostok.

  He needed to think. Frustration boiled inside him, mostly due to the fact that he’d uncovered almost nothing about either Viktor or Iosif’s intentions. Both were stubborn bastards who needed to be poked and prodded and coerced into revealing the slightest details. And there was no way to force anything more out of them whilst three police officers patrolled the aisle directly alongside them. Complete silence had fallen over the carriage — the kind of terrified silence that began when ordinary folks were scared for their lives.

  They didn’t know what was going on.

  Slater did.

  When the officers made it to the other end of the carriage, Slater threw caution to the wind and jabbed the barrel of the Desert Eagle against his jacket, displaying it to Iosif. The man deliberately ignored it, pretending not to see. He stared out the opposite window.

  ‘Hey,’ Slater hissed under his breath. ‘Start talking or I’ll kill you right now.’

  Moving painfully slowly — which Slater knew was deliberate — Iosif craned his neck to meet his gaze.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ he muttered.

  And he was right.

  Slater clenched his teeth to stop himself reacting.

  He couldn’t do a thing.

  His threats fell on deaf ears, because Iosif knew Slater would have to shoot his way through an army of police officers if he decided to fire the weapon. Iosif thought Slater was scared of failure, but Slater knew it wouldn’t be a problem.

  The truth was, he’d killed enough officers of the law today.

  There was a Federal Security Service officer lying dead in a small bathroom just a few dozen feet from his seat, who in all likelihood hadn’t deserved it. He’d tried to shoot Slater, but, all the same, Slater found himself wracked with guilt. The guy had been pursuing Viktor, who — as far as Slater knew — was probably knee deep in some kind of horrific shit himself. Perhaps he should have stepped back and let Viktor get arrested.

  But there hadn’t been any time for that. He’d found himself sandwiched between two parties and forced to act.

  That kind of situation seemed to present itself rather frequently in his life.

  He let the Desert Eagle fall back against his hip and sent a piercing glare across the booth, letting his rage brim to the surface for a brief moment.

  There would be hell to pay if he made it off this train at Vladivostok without incident.

  There would be chaos when the passengers departed, and in all likelihood Iosif would take the opportunity to disappear. Chaos didn’t favour someone trying to keep tabs on two men, one of whom wanted nothing to do with him.

  But Slater realised, in a fleeting flash of colour, that Iosif wasn’t his main priority. Viktor wanted to cooperate with him, and all roads led to the Medved Shipbuilding Plant. Even if Slater lost Iosif, he would get all the information he needed out of Viktor. Just because he didn’t know anything right this second, it didn’t mean all hope was lost.

  Viktor wanted to help.

  The tense silence reached a fever pitch as some of the passengers noticed Vladivostok approaching out the window. Slater craned his neck to see out the glass pane beside him after he realised there was no point trying to keep watch over Iosif. The man wasn’t going anywhere for the foreseeable future. Even if he tried to run, the officers would have him in handcuffs before he could make it out of the carriage.

  All bets were off when they arrived.

  Slater caught a glimpse of the approaching port city, which seemed to carry with it a shift in atmosphere. They were no longer travelling through the desolate, inhospitable stretches of the Russian Far East — instead, civilisation approached. It brought with it a sense of safety, of community. They raced toward the city with the subtle understanding that Vladivostok had infrastructure and resources — they wouldn’t be abandoned in the Siberian wilderness if they broke down, as shelter and food and drink were only a few miles away now.

  Even from this distance Slater could sense the activity taking place within the city limits — he saw flashes of snow-covered roads clogged with vehicles, and looked out across a sea of residential buildings crammed side by side, awfully similar to Khabarovsk.

  As they approached, Slater swallowed a ball of anxiety. Those kind of sensations didn’t come to him ofte
n, but he didn’t like anything about this situation.

  He’d been thrust into a labyrinth of mystery.

  It was a grim day, the air thick with drizzle and the sky overhead swirling with storm clouds. Snow covered the buildings, and misery dripped in the air. The tension made the artificial air-conditioning inside the carriage seem sterile, not at all comfortable. Slater swallowed again.

  The train rocketed toward the train station in downtown Vladivostok.

  He had never been more uncertain.

  14

  Frozen in place on the tracks, surrounded on either side by empty concrete platforms, Slater quickly understood that he would have to try something drastic if he wanted any hope of making it out of sight of the authorities with Viktor and Iosif in tow.

  They had been stopped at the train station for nigh on thirty minutes now. Everyone had been ordered to remain in their seats until the platform was secure, at which point the civilians would be ushered out into the cold carriage by carriage, to be screened and processed and shipped off to the nearest police station for questioning.

  Slater had no interest in taking part in any of that.

  But he simply couldn’t find a window of opportunity. Viktor and Iosif sat side by side across from him, still as statues, neither of them going anywhere in a hurry. The three plainclothes officers continued to patrol, every now and then throwing odd glances into Slater’s booth, but never growing suspicious enough to vocalise any of their concerns.

  Slater grimaced. He had to get off this train. And going about it in an orderly, cooperative fashion wouldn’t get him anywhere. He noticed the three officers growing lackadaisical in their patrols. They were still keeping disciplined by sectioning off three portions of the carriage and checking the booths for any sign of trouble, but Slater started to sense minute-long windows where none of the three looked at him.

  The mechanical hiss of doors opening rang through the carriage. Ever so slowly, trying to minimise the attention on him, Slater looked over his shoulder and felt a blast of cool air on his face, washing in from the far end of the carriage, coming in through an opening just out of sight.

  Natural air.