Bear

by Matt Rogers

At that point, Slater was helpless.

  Ruslan tore the Makarov from Slater’s grasp and stomped down on the combat knife, wedging it between his giant boot and the dusty concrete. In desperation mode, Slater grasped at the hilt of the knife with a couple of fingers, hoping like all hell he could dislodge it from underneath the boot before he lost all control of the situation.

  Ruslan noticed, and stomped down with his other boot.

  Crunch-crunch-crunch.

  Three broken fingers.

  Nauseated, shocked, thoroughly rattled by the reverse in momentum, Slater instinctively snatched at his hand. Someone came up behind him and grabbed a handful of his hair, smashing his temple against the concrete. Slater moaned and rolled onto his back, reaching for the newcomer, trying to immobilise them.

  Someone shoved a gun barrel between his teeth.

  He sighed, tasted the harsh acrid tang of metal, and lay still.

  He couldn’t speak, but he could think.

  Fuck, he thought.

  44

  Before Slater could even get a proper look at the newcomer, Ruslan dashed over and stomped down on his forehead.

  Crrraaaackkkkk.

  For a moment, Slater thought his skull had exploded. Sandwiched between Ruslan’s boot and the concrete floor, an ear-splitting impact resonated through him, rattling his brain, thundering against his temples.

  As he fought to hold onto consciousness, he figured it was one of the more devastating blows he’d ever taken in the field.

  Perfectly placed.

  With an uncanny amount of power behind it.

  As Ruslan removed his boot, Slater audibly moaned. An involuntary reaction to the strike. If the man had stamped on his head any harder, it might have caused irreversible brain damage. In any case, it rendered him useless. A small parcel of energy reserves he kept in the back of his mind for times of extreme emergency fizzled out. His brain reeled. His vision swam. His ears throbbed. His temples screamed for relief.

  Seeking reprieve from the agony, he wondered for a terrifying moment if he would ever be the same.

  Then the initial wave subsided, replaced with something close to acceptance. To avoid hyperventilating he concentrated on his breathing at the expense of everything else, allowing Ruslan and the newcomer to drag him into the corner and drop him in a heap on the floor.

  They backed off.

  Slater shut his eyes, figuring if they wanted to kill him they would have done it already. He had to use every fibre of his concentration to prevent himself descending into a full-blown panic attack. Because the stomp to the head had rattled him in a way he wasn’t accustomed to. In this state, he was actively flirting with permanent scarring. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t see, couldn’t here. The uncertainty threatened to compound, the fear adding to itself in a natural downward spiral, and he forced himself to avoid that chain of events with all the willpower left in his broken body.

  Ironic.

  He had tested the limits of the human body so many times he’d lost count. He’d been shot, stabbed, beaten to within an inch of his life, and still managed to push through to completion of the mission. But the brain was a fickle bitch. Sensitive as all hell. Knocked in a certain direction, pushed a sliver too far, and it could cause permanent, debilitating damage. Slater allowed the pain to seep away and hoped with everything he had left that he wouldn’t be crippled by the injury.

  But, piece by piece, his cognition returned.

  Not enough.

  Nowhere near enough.

  But a piece of it came back, squashing down the anxiety building in his chest. He could string a cohesive thought together. He could open his eyes and look at his surroundings.

  Not that they were any brighter.

  Ruslan Mikhailov loomed over him, sadistic venom in his eyes, just waiting for the word to finish Slater off. But he was hesitating. Controlled by an invisible leash that belonged to the man behind him.

  The newcomer.

  This guy was short in comparison to Ruslan, no taller than five foot nine, but despite his age he kept himself in good health. Slater figured he was early sixties with a coarse mop of black hair swept back off his wrinkly forehead. He carried himself with an uncompromising air of superiority — despite the shocking violence carried out by Ruslan right next to him, he stood with perfect posture, his gloved hands clasped behind his back, his brow furrowed as he scrutinised Slater.

  Slater figured the man could see right into his soul.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘I figured one of you would be back.’

  ‘Have we met?’ Slater muttered.

  At least, that’s what he wanted to mutter. What came out was a garbled string of indecipherable vowels.

  Oh, Jesus, he thought. I’m messed up bad.

  The old man squinted. ‘What?’

  Slater took a deep breath and tried his best to calm himself down.

  You’re not dead yet. You can push through this. Just make it to the next second.

  One foot in front of the other.

  ‘Have we met?’ he said, this time his speech clearing, his heart rate settling.

  The panic at anything surrounding brain injuries had taken a backseat, and he realised most of it had been terror rather than actual physical consequences.

  They would come later.

  In his old age.

  If he ever got there.

  ‘No,’ the old man said. ‘I know who you are though.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Do you recognise me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are concussed, I presume.’

  ‘Are you important?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about that. But I was a public figure. High in Russian government. If you piece it together yourself, then props to you.’

  ‘Got a name?’

  ‘Magomed.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s all I’m prepared to go by.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Why am I still alive? You realise what you’re doing, right?’

  ‘The old trope?’ the man said with a wry smile. ‘Leaving you alive so you can catch a second wind and fight back? Of course. But, as much as it’s a trope … you have to admit it’s goddamn exciting. When else do I get a chance to talk to someone on my level?’

  Beside Magomed, Ruslan stood deathly still, too high on adrenalin to decipher the subtle insult. But he clenched the Makarov tighter, aiming it square between Slater’s eyes, hoping for any excuse to pull the trigger. Slater wouldn’t give him one.

  Magomed shrugged. ‘I figure I’ll take my chances. You’re dangerous, for sure. I know exactly what you did on the Kamchatka Peninsula.’

  Slater paused. ‘You do?’

  ‘How else do you think I know you?’

  ‘So you don’t have a name? You don’t know anything about me? You just watched me storm a gold mine on surveillance footage?’

  ‘I was still in my old position back then. We did everything we could to track you down. You and your friend. Where is he?’

  ‘Long gone. Trust me, I wish he was here.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t. Maybe this is really the end. You seem like a man with a lot of experience. Maybe it all comes crashing down here.’

  ‘Probably,’ Slater admitted, barely able to think straight.

  Behind his eyeballs, a migraine roared to life.

  He lowered his head into his palms, inciting an exaggerated reaction from Ruslan. The big Mikhailov brother leapt back, anticipating an attack at any moment, the Makarov shaking in his hand.

  Slater looked up and smiled through bloodshot eyes. ‘A little jumpy, Ruslan?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  ‘You’re just as nice as your brother.’

  ‘Don’t talk about him.’

  ‘Listen,’ Slater said, turning to Magomed. ‘I could spend all day bickering with this guy, but you’re the real problem, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m the one who has to decide what to
do with you.’

  ‘You should kill me. That makes sense.’

  ‘I will. But I’m choosing how to do it.’

  ‘Why?’

  Magomed sat down with his back against the opposite wall, his posture still immaculate. He breathed in, and breathed out. Then he said, ‘Because it will be one of the last things I do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In twelve hours, I will die.’

  45

  Silence fell over the desolate building. Wind howled at the exterior walls, muffled by the concrete, but the ghastly wailing filtered through the open doorway all the same. The overhead lights flickered, the bulbs flashing on and off intermittently, plunging the three occupants of the sparsely furnished room into darkness with a strobe-like effect.

  Slater thought long and hard about what Magomed had just told him.

  ‘What you’re about to do…’ he said. ‘You’re sure it will get you killed?’

  Magomed looked up and ran two hands through his coarse black hair. ‘Yes. Now, adhering to the tropes, this is the part where I would tell you every detail of my plan and allow you to break free and catch up to me, thwarting it at the last second?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Slater said.

  ‘I’m afraid today isn’t that kind of day. And I’m afraid I have to go.’

  ‘What does that mean for me?’ Slater said.

  Something felt different about the atmosphere. He’d put his life on the line more times than he could count. He was almost numb to the effects. He’d survived close calls with death at such a consistent rate that at some point it had all blurred together into a never-ending stream of carnage, like he was destined to reach the brink of getting murdered over and over and over again.

  Deep down, subconsciously, he barely thought about the consequences of his actions anymore.

  Because he always knew he’d find a way out.

  But this time…

  This time, there was a finality to his words that he’d never experienced before. He couldn’t see a single path to victory, no matter where he looked. He glimpsed the giant bayonet in Magomed’s hand, slick with blood, and figured the man had attended to business before he entered the shipbuilding plant. He must have been following Slater, as Slater followed Ruslan.

  Ruslan.

  Then there was the matter of the giant, wielding both Slater’s weapons in his hands. He was a trained mercenary, a force to be reckoned with in combat, and even though Slater could best him in hand to hand combat he hadn’t a chance at victory when faced with a Makarov pistol and a serrated combat knife.

  And that wasn’t factoring in his horrific concussion and the three badly broken fingers on his right hand.

  He didn’t even think he could fire a weapon if he got his hands on one.

  So, as he said the words, he truly believed them.

  His life was in the palm of Magomed’s hand.

  No backups.

  No Plan B.

  Just hope.

  Something about it humoured him. Whether due to the way Ruslan had scrambled his brain, or the sheer disbelief that he’d made it so far in life only to fall at one of the final hurdles, he began to chuckle.

  Magomed narrowed his eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘I just didn’t think this would be the place it all came to an end.’

  The old man shrugged. ‘Sorry to disappoint. Were you expecting a nobler death?’

  ‘Maybe. Something like that.’

  ‘Well, I think I owe it to you to give you a memorable one.’ Magomed turned to Ruslan. ‘You think you can handle him?’

  Ruslan nodded without a moment’s hesitation. Too fast. He was overcompensating for the way Slater had manhandled him earlier, separating himself from the past, trying desperately to reassure himself that he had control of the situation.

  Slater might have sensed opportunity, had he not barely been able to raise his arms. He couldn’t even consider mounting any kind of retaliation.

  Not for a long time.

  Not until some of the short-term concussion symptoms leeched away, replaced by a muddy middle ground before he transitioned into the months of recovery.

  Because a good concussion scrambled your wires for half a year, sometimes more.

  There was no guarantee Slater would be the same person, even if he made it out of this concrete bunker alive, even if he somehow managed to thwart Magomed and a literal army of mercenaries. It was all hopeless — impossible challenge stacked on top of impossible challenge.

  ‘Good,’ Magomed said. ‘Because the men are expecting me.’

  He crossed the room and crouched down next to Slater, the hand clutching the bayonet tingling with anticipation.

  As if to say, Try it. Something. Anything. See where it gets you.

  Slater had nothing to offer. Instead, he managed a wry smile. ‘This is the part where you leave me to kill your henchman?’

  ‘I guess,’ Magomed said, staring into Slater’s eyes. ‘But we both know there’s nothing left in there. There’s no fight in you. This is the end of the road.’

  ‘I beat your man before,’ Slater mumbled.

  ‘This time I’d say the odds are ever so slightly stacked in his favour.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So much hope in those words,’ Magomed said. ‘I spent my life reading people. Learning how they tick. And I know how you’re ticking, right here, right now. You’re in a world of trouble.’

  ‘I am,’ Slater said, nodding in agreement.

  ‘I hope you find a way,’ Magomed said softly, out of earshot from Ruslan. ‘It’d make things exciting, wouldn’t it? Instead of effortless. Now, that would be quite the way to go out.’

  ‘Don’t count on it.’

  ‘I’m not. Wishful thinking. Truth is, I can’t afford the risk. But it’d make a good tale all the same.’

  ‘Yeah…’

  Slater’s head hurt. His brain hurt. His mind hurt. His soul hurt. He didn’t know what to do, how to think, where to direct his final scraps of attention. Ultimately he elected to slump against the wall and focus on his breathing, the only thing he could control. He thought he’d known the limits of pain, but this headache was something unprecedented. He hadn’t imagined the human body capable of producing this kind of agony. He was surprised he was even conscious.

  Still, Magomed lingered.

  The old man said, ‘You’re really not going to try anything, are you?’

  Slater whispered, ‘Are you expecting me to?’

  He barely had the energy to talk.

  Magomed shrugged. ‘I don’t know. None of this is what I expected.’

  ‘You wanted a challenge?’

  ‘I wanted glory.’

  ‘You’re becoming a martyr for your plan. Isn’t that enough glory?’

  ‘Probably,’ Magomed said, and restlessness sparked behind his irises.

  ‘Is this the part where I convince you to change your mind?’ Slater said, putting everything he had into forcing a sardonic smirk. ‘You know … try to make you doubt your motivations.’

  Magomed smirked too. He got to his feet, rested a palm on the top of Slater’s head, and gripped his skull tight, fingers pressing hard into his temples.

  A final gesture of farewell.

  ‘This isn’t that kind of tale,’ he said, and walked straight out of the bunker.

  46

  ‘Who is he?’ Slater said.

  He hadn’t budged an inch since Magomed left.

  In fact, his situation had only grown more dire.

  Ruslan hadn’t taken any chances when left to his own devices. Slater figured the memories of the beatdown were still fresh in his mind. The big man had disappeared into an adjoining room and returned seconds later with a pair of steel handcuffs. He’d approached Slater, seized one of his wrists, and fastened it to the portable heater built into the concrete wall beside him.

  Chaining him in place.

  Now he was utterly helpless.

  That had
been his one chance to retaliate. Ruslan hadn’t disappeared for long, but opportunity had screamed in Slater’s face. He was alone. Magomed was gone, heading off to rendezvous with his forces somewhere else in Medved. The shipbuilding plant was enormous enough to swallow him up. Slater doubted he would ever see the man again — even if he broke free, even if he shrugged off the effects of the concussion.

  Which wasn’t possible.

  He’d tried everything possible to override his body’s natural tendencies and shut the concussion symptoms away in an internal vault until he was safe. But nothing responded. He squirmed and grimaced and willed himself to his feet, to no avail. It would take hours for the initial symptoms to dissipate. Then every movement would be painful, possibly for months on end. In that state he could force his emotions aside and escape, but that would require an overnight wait.

  Time he didn’t have.

  So he’d watched helplessly as Ruslan secured him, eliminating any hope of survival.

  Now the giant man sat facing him, cross-legged on the concrete floor.

  A strange sight indeed.

  And Slater figured if he was still alive, he might as well find out as much about Magomed as he could.

  Ruslan ignored his enquiry. ‘That’s not how this works.’

  ‘You don’t want to talk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why am I still alive? You realise how stupid you look, right?’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘I’ve been in worse situations.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  It was true. Slater had a past stacked with impossible odds and miraculous second winds, but he’d never crawled out of a hole this deep. He was defenceless, and as incapacitated as it was possible to be.

  He regarded the steel cuff biting into his wrist, swimming in front of his eyes as his brain mercifully pleaded for respite. But he couldn’t hand it unconsciousness. Not yet. Because there was still a sliver of hope, no matter how frail.

  With each passing second, that hope ebbed steadily out into the vicious wind.

  Carried away forever.

  Ruslan sneered. ‘That woman … she must have meant a lot to you.’

  ‘I didn’t know her that well.’