Bear

by Matt Rogers

  Pasha nodded immediately. ‘Do it. We can handle ourselves — I told you. Besides…’

  He trailed off as he sensed a pair of men moving along the sidewalk, hustling past them in the lip of the alleyway. This time, Slater got a better look. The pursuers wore traditional Russian fur caps and were clad in similarly large overcoats. Their faces were hard, cruel, unwavering. They had their gazes locked dead ahead, and they moved past without acknowledging the presence of the three men standing in the shadows of the alleyway.

  As soon as the pair strode out of sight, Slater said, ‘They looked like—’

  ‘The secret police,’ Bogdan whispered, his expression pained. ‘This is very dangerous world.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Pasha hissed. ‘But go. They were going after the guy from the shipyard.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I know Russia.’

  ‘I thought this was government conspiracy,’ Bogdan muttered, furrowing his brow.

  Slater shrugged. ‘I don’t know what the hell this is. Maybe this is something else entirely. Maybe the secret police want to find out what’s going on just as much as I do.’

  ‘You shouldn’t involve yourself with them,’ Pasha said. ‘No matter how desperate you are for information. They will turn on you and lock you up for the rest of your life without hesitation.’

  ‘I’ll be careful. You two will be okay?’

  They nodded in unison.

  ‘Just grateful we don’t have to go back to Medved,’ Pasha said, breathing a sigh of relief.

  Bogdan joined him in the overt gesture, even going so far as to wipe his brow.

  ‘Thank you for everything you did for us,’ Pasha said.

  ‘Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when I figure this out.’

  ‘I doubt we’ll ever see each other again.’

  ‘That photo of Viktor,’ Slater said. ‘Do you still have it?’

  ‘Of course,’ Pasha said, peeling the crumpled piece of paper out of his jacket pocket.

  He handed it over.

  ‘Why do you need it?’ the man said.

  ‘Got a feeling I’ll run into some of the people responsible for his death. I want them to recognise who I’m talking about.’

  ‘I hope you run into them. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.’

  ‘He was a good man,’ Bogdan said.

  Slater nodded.

  He wanted to say, The world’s a bitch. Bad things happen to good people.

  But he figured it would be best not to inject absolute pessimism into the pair.

  ‘Get out of here,’ he said, realising how much time had elapsed.

  He had some catching up to do.

  Shaking each of their hands, he tucked his chin deeper into the winter jacket draped over his frame and hurried out of the lip of the alleyway, moving fast to catch up to the man from Medved and the two secret policemen hot on his heels.

  35

  They made a strange convoy.

  The blonde-haired man from the shipyard taking the lead, seemingly oblivious to his pursuers. The two secret policemen hunched over, hands in their pockets, moving fast to cover ground and catch up to the lead guy.

  And Slater trailing behind them, eyes boring into their backs, making sure he didn’t lose them. This street was one of the busiest he’d seen in Vladivostok, and passing cars sent plumes of rainwater kicking up, drenching the roadside concrete. The wind bit deep, bypassing Slater’s jacket and needling his core.

  He shivered, steeled himself against the numbing chill, and quickened his pace.

  The three separate parties moved rapidly in the direction of the port, heading for the icy Sea of Japan. Slater knew exactly where the lead man was headed.

  Medved Shipbuilding Plant.

  Finally, after hearing rumours about the place for so long, he would soon be stepping foot inside, armed with a gate code and a death wish.

  He didn’t even have a gun.

  The mercenary’s blood dripped off the serrated combat knife wedged into his belt, staining one side of his jeans. He pulled his overcoat around the crimson stain and moved to close the distance, darting between a cluster of pedestrians to catch up to the two secret policemen. He wanted to be right on their heels when they moved to intercept the first guy.

  Because he needed the first man alive.

  He needed answers to the dark web of lies that had seen Natasha wrenched from her bed and carted off to an unknown location.

  Natasha’s involvement made him angry. And anger clouded his judgment. And a clouded judgment skewered his rational mind, putting vital tendencies by the wayside in favour of intense focus on a single point in front of him.

  And it all added up to make him blissfully unaware of his surroundings.

  He didn’t consider the multi-faceted nature of his enemies in Vladivostok. He forgot how little it had to do with the secret police. He forgot about the other shadowy forces at work in the gloom.

  So when the giant Russian man on the other side of the road weaved between cars, making a beeline for Slater’s position, he didn’t even notice.

  He kept his gaze fixed on the secret policemen. He saw the first guy turn into a side street, and the pair of policemen quickened their pace to follow.

  Then a giant tackled him around the mid-section, wrenching him off the sidewalk, dragging him forcibly through the open doorway of an abandoned shopfront.

  An expertly timed move, utilising the weight advantage to knock Slater off-balance.

  He was helpless to resist as he stumbled up the tiny flight of concrete steps and sprawled over the threshold, tumbling head over heels into the dark space that stank of rot and disuse.

  He wondered if every building in Vladivostok was as rundown and deserted as he’d been led to believe.

  The assailant loomed in the doorway, backlit as a dark silhouette against the gloomy sky outside. Slater lay sprawled on his back, out of breath, shocked by how hard he’d been thrust off-course. It took him a moment to regain his composure, and the big man made use of that opportunity to surge into the store. He reached down and grabbed two handfuls of Slater’s jacket and hauled him off the ground, taking the burden of Slater’s entire bodyweight.

  Greco-Roman wrestling at its most fundamental.

  All the reflexes and strength and brutal ability to beat down other human beings was rendered useless. Slater found his limbs flapping in the air, and the ever-mounting frustration of being wrenched away from his main focus sent chills down his spine.

  Then the big man hurled him into the wall, crushing the faded plaster, sending him tumbling into the interior of the structure. One arm pinned against his side, both legs splayed at awkward angles, Slater scrambled to lever himself out of the hole in the wall. He planted one foot down on the rotting floorboards, started to worm his way out of the darkness…

  …and sensed the big man stepping in to unleash a powerful right hook, heading straight for his chin.

  If it connected, lights out.

  Especially coming from a man of that size.

  Slater hurled himself back into the dented plaster, slamming the back of his skull against the jagged material. Thankfully, it caved under his weight, preventing him from concussing himself in an attempt to avoid the incoming punch.

  The fist sailed past, taking another vicious chunk out of the plaster beside Slater’s head.

  He caught the arm, used it to yank himself out of the wall, and thundered an uppercut into the guy’s throat.

  Choking, spluttering, wheezing, he went down.

  Slater grabbed him on the way down and smashed the back of his head against the wall, crushing more plaster. He kneed the guy in the face, breaking his nose, then dropped an elbow into the top of his skull with enough technique and raw strength behind it to stun the guy into a semi-conscious state.

  Fight over.

  Just like that.

  Panting with exertion, Slater crouched down and grabbed a handful of the man’s hair. The guy was b
leeding profusely from the mouth and nose. His alertness diminished, his eyes partially glazed over, he was in no position to fight back. All from a concentrated barrage of strikes from Slater that had lasted no more than a couple of seconds.

  When he won, he made it look easy.

  He stared into the big man’s dazed eyes and said, ‘You’re going to answer a few questions for me.’

  36

  ‘You speak English?’ Slater said, his voice resonating through the empty space.

  In a rare stroke of luck, the rotting door frame had swung shut behind them as they’d stumbled into the shopfront, sealing them off from any prying eyes on the street outside. The room was dark and decrepit and dank, devoid of any furniture, a perfect interrogation site.

  Slater hadn’t anticipated having to deal with this, but he’d never needed to worm answers out of a hostile under such considerable time constraints.

  The big man hesitated for a moment, then shook his head.

  Slater punched him in his broken nose.

  The guy howled, hands flying to his face, and a giant sob wracked his body.

  Slater didn’t feel a shred of remorse.

  ‘You speak English?’ he said again.

  ‘Yes,’ the guy mumbled, his voice stuffy, both nostrils clogged with blood, his septum mangled.

  ‘I don’t have much time,’ Slater said. ‘Why didn’t you shoot me?’

  ‘I don’t have a gun. I wasn’t expecting to run into you on the streets like that.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I work for Medved Shipbuilding Plant. I’m in security.’

  ‘What did you do before this?’

  ‘Russian military.’

  ‘Most of your co-workers do the same?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me everything you know about what’s happening with the icebreaker.’

  The guy raised his gaze to meet Slater’s, intensity in his eyes. ‘You have to believe me. I don’t know.’

  Slater reached out and flicked the guy’s septum with the tip of his finger.

  As subtle as the gesture was, it brought about a world of agony. The man howled and cowered against the crumpled wall.

  ‘What were your orders?’ Slater said. ‘Regarding me.’

  ‘We’re told to intercept you as soon as we find you in Vladivostok. All the guards have the same orders.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘The boss.’

  ‘Who’s the boss?’

  ‘I’m not telling you anything.’

  Slater raised a fist, threatening a third consecutive shot to his shattered nose. The guy audibly whimpered.

  ‘Okay,’ the man hissed. ‘Okay. But if I tell you the truth you won’t believe me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We don’t know who the real boss is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our orders get passed through a shell corporation of sorts. We have people to report to, but they’re just independent contractors or something. The real orders come from somewhere else.’

  ‘And you’re okay with that?’

  ‘Most of us are desperate for work. We just do what we’re told.’

  ‘You’re a certain type of worker, though, aren’t you?’

  The big man said nothing, wincing as pain seared through his broken nose.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ the guy finally said.

  ‘All of you are waiting for something, and you know it. I assume there’s a big payment coming down the line. When you go through with what you’re ordered to.’

  The man hesitated, and Slater raised a fist, taking aim at his nose.

  ‘Ah!’ the guy howled. ‘No. Don’t. Okay, okay, fuck. I specialised in counter-insurgency when I was in the military. I’ve killed people before. I don’t have a problem with taking another man’s life if the money’s right. There we go.’

  ‘Why the hell did you rattle all that off like it belonged on a resume?’

  ‘Because that’s what I was asked when I applied for the job. Those three specific questions. And I was told not to tell a soul, and that there’d be a certain kind of payoff at the end of the contract that would use all the skills in my arsenal. But I wasn’t told what it was. We find that out tonight.’

  ‘Who’s telling you tonight?’

  ‘The guy behind it all. He’s heading for the shipyard now.’

  ‘You just passed him. I was following him when you tackled me.’

  The guy’s eyes went wide. ‘I did?’

  ‘So you’ll be in trouble if they find out you’re talking to me?’

  ‘I’m a dead man if they ever find out what you know.’

  ‘Then you’d better hope I succeed.’

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’

  Slater glanced at the doorway. ‘I’m on a tight schedule. I need to catch up to someone. I’m not going to kill you. But I need to make sure you’re not going to follow me. And if I were you, I’d get as far away from Medved as you can. Because that’s where I’m headed, and nothing good follows me.’

  ‘I won’t follow you,’ the guy muttered, his nose starting to swell.

  ‘Maybe. You already proved you don’t have a conscience though. It wouldn’t be hard for you to lie to me.’

  ‘Please, just let me—’

  Slater stepped back, creating space between them, and then launched a thunderous punch into the bridge of the guy’s badly mangled nose.

  A fourth consecutive strike, but this one had considerable weight and technique behind it, and the resulting crack sent a chill down Slater’s spine.

  The big man screamed and collapsed on the floorboards, passing out from the pain.

  ‘You would have killed me,’ Slater muttered to no-one in particular, his voice falling on deaf ears. ‘This is a courtesy.’

  He threw the door frame aside and ran out of the shopfront, hoping he didn’t have to make up too much ground.

  37

  As soon as he stepped back out into the open, a dark chill worked its way down his spine. He sensed death in the air — some kind of sixth sense activated deep within him, letting him know that something had changed since his confrontation with the mercenary. There was nothing palpable, but he’d spent so long surrounded by combat that the mere presence of violence and bloodshed tickled his awareness levels.

  Checking to see whether anyone had noticed his violent detour into the shopfront, he came away satisfied.

  Everyone in Vladivostok minded their own business.

  The pedestrians milling around when the big Russian had tackled him through the doorway were long gone, replaced by a fresh cohort of glib, unfamiliar faces. None of them gave him a second look.

  He picked up where he left off, double-checking his combat knife still rested in the same position in his waistband. He shuddered at the thought of the blade slipping out of his belt in the previous fight. All it would take was a single scrape against the side of his thigh to sever an artery, considering how effortlessly he’d cut the throat of the mercenary in the alleyway.

  There was no sign of the blonde-haired mystery man or the two pursuing secret policemen, but Slater could estimate where they’d been heading. He made for the port, heading in the direction of the ocean. The wind picked up, blowing a gale, coming off the Sea of Japan and lashing through the city streets. Vladivostok had long ago hardened itself against the conditions, its residents growing accustomed to the assault from the elements, but it would take Slater some time to adjust.

  The cold seeped into his bones, stiffening his joints.

  He gulped back apprehension, moving as fast as he could in an attempt to keep warm.

  If anyone else ambushed him now, he would be unusually slow to react. He would need the extra half-second to loosen his joints, and that could kill him.

  With a rare bout of fear coursing through him, he turned onto a side street as the light in the grey sky began to diminish. Surprised, he flashed a glance at his watch. It was
approaching evening time. He shook his head at how fast the day had flashed by, a whirlwind of discovery after discovery.

  He must have spent hours with Bogdan and Pasha, but it had seemed like minutes at the time.

  He hoped like hell they’d made it to safety.

  He would never know.

  Oh, shit.

  The sight ahead froze him in his tracks, barely discernible amidst the quiet residential street but easily apparent to someone with Slater’s experience.

  The bodies of the secret policemen lay splayed across the dirt under the shadow of a bush. The brambles draped over their bloody features, their cold dead hands already freezing over in the arctic conditions.

  Slater felt sick to his stomach.

  He’d missed it. The blonde guy had slaughtered the pair of them for even daring to follow him, and now he was gone.

  No, not gone.

  There.

  Slater saw it at the edge of his peripheral vision, a brief flash of an overcoat disappearing around the corner of the next street, hundreds of feet in the distance.

  He didn’t even have time to determine a cause of death. He didn’t know whether the secret policemen had been stabbed, shot, beaten to a pulp…

  He simply had to move.

  Reeling from one objective to the next, he broke into a flat out sprint down the quiet residential avenue. Dusk fell, and the sounds of the city fell away, replaced by the industrial uproar of the port. Slater imagined Medved Shipbuilding Plant was just one node of a gargantuan industry operating at the edge of the Russian Far East. And such an isolated location would be rife with exploitation — it was the nature of the beast. He recalled his last visit to the Far East and the nightmare he’d freed Jason King from. He recalled the horrors King had discovered in the depths of a gold mine.

  Vadim Mikhailov. An ex-KGB executioner. The man who had led an army of hired guns, kidnapping innocent aid workers and villagers from the Kamchatka Peninsula and forcing them to fight to the death in a shocking tournament-style display of entertainment, live streamed from the pits of the gold mine to the faceless Russian billionaires and oligarchs bankrolling the bloodsport.