Flint looked at him squarely. “So, what are you getting at, or are you never going to tell me?”
Savchenko moved to discipline Flint. Again, Arman gave him pause. “Please, Mr. Savchenko, I believe we can be tolerant with Mr. Stryker for just a moment more.”
Savchenko resumed his stance, scowling at Flint the whole while.
“Mr. Stryker, you are trying my patience, but again I will show how magnanimous I can be. Essentially, my organization believes that ‘to the victor go the spoils.’ Humanity doesn’t deserve a beneficent overseer to give them aid and comfort. Mankind deserves a firm boot on the back of their neck, keeping them down and subservient, so they can be controlled like the sheep they are. Those who are powerful and intelligent deserve the best there is in life, and those who are weak-minded and ordinary deserve the leftovers, if they deserve anything at all.”
Shocked, Flint stood with his mouth agape.
“Mr. Stryker, after reviewing the results of Dr. Malloy’s tests on you, we believe that you are an exceptional individual and worthy of joining us on our mission of saving civilization from its plebeian existence. With the proper training, and cultivation of the correct mindset, we believe you are a valuable tool we need to achieve our long-term objective.” Arman’s eyes glittered as he concluded.
“Mr. Stryker, all my organization cares about is creating a chaotic and anarchic environment whereby society is controlled by an authoritarian governing body created solely for the purpose of generating income for a select group.” Arman’s eyes took on a decidedly wild cast as he continued, “Governments rise and fall, Mr. Stryker, but money – money is king! The majority of mankind is simply chattel meant to be ruled with an iron fist that doles out just enough to keep them perpetually dependent on those in charge for their continued existence. Much like the medieval feudal system, we, the select few, will reap the monetary rewards and tolerate no dissent! Those who work with us, will be rewarded appropriately. Those who do not, will doubtless suffer much and ultimately perish…” Arman paused for emphasis - “Many with assistance.”
With his last statement, Arman once again assumed his placid, serene countenance. The murderous glint in his eyes, and the imperious set of his jaw, however, gave Flint no cause to doubt exactly what he meant.
Thirty-Three
Flint stood in silence as he mused over Arman’s manic soliloquy. Arman stood facing Flint, his hands clasped behind his back. Savchenko shifted his stance, eyeing Flint, his baleful eyes burning a hole through Flint’s skull. In the shadows, Amber groaned weakly, sobbing quietly.
Flint clucked and shook his head. “Let me get this straight. Both your organization and this Linchpin group somehow see in me — a very average guy, hell, a below average guy, as something special. For some unknown reason, you think I’ll be able to somehow make a difference in your respective group. I don’t get it.”
Arman wagged his finger at Flint. “It will not be you alone, Mr. Stryker. The organization I am a part of has assembled a very capable team of operatives that operate on a global scale. We exert influence and create opportunities for achieving our goals both covertly and overtly. For Linchpin, it is the same, albeit for different results. You think you can make such a difference?” he laughed, regarding Flint with disdain. “I can assure you that you would be one tiny cog in the machine — a useful one — but only one nonetheless.” He crossed his arms and stood looking haughtily at Flint.
Flint exhaled, cocking his head at Arman. “I have no idea what either of you want with me, but I’m not the guy — for either of you. The sooner both of you understand that, the better off we’ll all be!”
Arman watched as Flint ran his hand through his scruffy auburn hair. He noticed the dark circles under his eyes and watched as Flint’s eyes flicked to the young woman who lay whimpering in the shadows. “Pity, Mr. Stryker. Although I find you witless, I was open to the idea of, ah, exploiting your talents to our benefit.” He motioned to Savchenko. “Kill him and then the girl!”
Arman’s hired thug moved briskly to grab Flint. Smaller and more agile, Flint eluded his grasp, using a front kick to knock Savchenko off balance. As the goon stumbled, Flint used an inside foot sweep to knock Savchenko off his feet. Arman, stunned that Flint was able to knock the big man down, reached for the Glock 19 in his shoulder holster. Flint responded with a powerful right jab to Arman’s face, followed by a front elbow strike, sending the man staggering away from Flint.
Flint grabbed the folding chair formerly used by Professor Huxley and spun to find Savchenko struggling to his feet. Flint folded it and slammed the chair back with all his strength into Savchenko’s mouth. The brute’s head snapped back as the chair found its mark. Two more hard, quick jabs, and Savchenko’s nose gushed a fountain of red, and three of his teeth splintered. “My teef!!” the big man roared. “Aarrrgghh! I’ll kill you!”
“I don’t think so,” Flint said as he delivered a crushing knee strike to Savchenko’s groin, sending him collapsing to the floor.
As Flint turned to deal with Arman, he heard the crack of gunfire. In the tight confines of the room, the sound was deafening. Pinpricks of lights dotted his vision, as a dark shadow passed through his consciousness. He placed his right hand to his temple, feeling the sticky dampness of his blood. He’d been shot!
Like the roar of a waterfall, Flint’s ears still rang with the reverberation of the gunshot. Another close-range report, and Flint felt a searing burning in his side. Clenching his side, he fought to remain awake, falling to his knees.
The room swam before Flint’s eyes, the blood from his head wound blurring his vision. He saw Arman clutching his nose, blood spurting between his fingers. Good. Hope he’s a bleeder, Flint thought as he suppressed the urge to laugh.The bad news was that Arman still had the gun in his other hand.
Flint tried to raise himself from the kneeling position, waving his bloody right hand like a drunk. As he stood, he could feel vertigo overtake him as he began to topple like a punch-drunk prizefighter.
Why doesn’t Arman shoot? He’s still got the gun, worried Flint as he felt the world slip away and the lights went out.
Thirty-Four
Flint was aware of being in a very dark room. Pitch black, there was not even the smallest sliver of light anywhere. Am I dead? he wondered.
He tried to move and couldn’t. He felt a crushing weight on his chest and stomach. Each breath was agony and felt like he was being squeezed by a giant hand. In total darkness.
If I’m dead, I shouldn’t feel pain, right? he wondered. He attempted to move his arms — nothing. His legs were like lead weights; the harder he tried, the more they seemed to be bolted to the floor. My God, he reasoned, am I in a casket?
Off at a great distance, he could hear tiny voices, like Lilliputian villagers calling his name. “Hello?” he called. He wasn’t sure if he actually spoke or whether he imagined it. The villagers ignored him, so he guessed he really didn’t speak aloud, but their voices seemed to be getting louder.
Actually, it was only one voice that seemed to be getting louder. It was Amber’s, although it sounded strange… “Wake up! Wake up!” She was nuzzling him. Oh… that felt so good. Man, I’m glad I found her! I could never forgive myself if anything had happened to her…
“OW!” She’d slapped him! “OW!” She’d slapped him again!
“Wake up, Stryker! Wake up before I kill you!”
Huh? She never called him Stryker before. It was always Flint, or sugar, and occasionally dumbass, but never Stryker. Although, she had threatened to kill him once or twice, she was only kidding… Wasn’t she?
The pressure on his chest was much worse. It was as if some really heavy person was kneeling on his chest. OW! “Dammit, Amber, quit slapping me!”
Smears of light began to come on in the room. He felt as if he were looking at everything through shredded cotton.
Another slap! “OW!” Amber was really laying into it, and she was going to have to cut back on
the sweets, she was crushing him.
Man, my head is killing me, he thought. And my side feels like it’s on fire…
The light began to get brighter, although his vision didn’t seem to be getting much clearer. “Stryker, wake up, you worthless bastard!”
Slap! “OW!”
Really? “Worthless bastard?” They’d have to have a talk about this, if they were going to continue seeing each other.
Another vicious slap, only this time his head snapped to the left. The light came pouring into his eyes like the blast from Saturn rockets during takeoff.
That’s when he awoke to Savchenko kneeling on his chest, his arm drawn back, ready to strike him again. Arman stood looking on with a bloody rag to his nose.
Thirty-Five
Savchenko grimaced at him, his broken nose and the three broken teeth made his face look like a half-rotted jack-o-lantern. His arm was still poised, ready to deliver another stinging blow.
Flint mumbled, “It’s good to see you, Savchenko. I hope you can find a plastic surgeon with a sense of humor.”
With that, Savchenko’s arm cracked across his face like a thunderclap, loosening several layers of cartilage in his nasal passages. Arman shouted, “Enough, Savchenko! I want Stryker awake to hear this…”
Savchenko grunted, and pushed himself off Flint, using both knees to give one last shove to his rib cage. He felt sure he heard at least one of them crack. Flint watched as the golem explored his damaged mouth with his fingers, touching the broken teeth gingerly.
Arman was instantly kneeling and in Flint’s face, the Glock pressed hard against his forehead. His breath smelled metallic — from the bloody nose Flint reasoned, and he was so angry, his words were punctuated by spittle. “I was going to kill you as you lay there helpless, Stryker! I was going to unload this gun’s magazine into your worthless brain, saving the last bullet for your precious Miss Lakeman!
“Fortunately for you, after my first shot grazed your head and the second shot caught you in the side, my gun jammed. You passed out, and it was all I could do to keep Savchenko from snapping your worthless neck. I thought, ‘Why kill this miserable excuse for a human being? His whole life has amounted to nothing, and the one noble thing he attempts, he fails miserably.’”
Flint jerked, but was unable to sit up, his body emphatically resisting his brain’s suggestions. Savchenko frowned at him, making a slashing gesture across his throat with a meaty hand.
“That’s right, Stryker. I’m afraid your Miss Lakeman didn’t make it. Perhaps it was the three fierce kicks Mr. Savchenko administered to her head. Or maybe it was the hand held firmly over her mouth and nose until the light went out in her eyes. I know because I watched it!
“Yes, Stryker, Miss Lakeman is dead. Completely and irreversibly dead. And there was nothing you could do to save her.”
Flint sagged, and sobbed, his voice turning into a mournful wail. As furious as he was, his body would not respond otherwise.
Arman moved around Flint’s head, making his face appear upside-down. He glanced at his watch. “I expect our friends from Linchpin to arrive here any moment, and what will they find?” He gritted his teeth and hissed, “If you live long enough for them to show up, they’ll find a broken, useless boy-man that let his woman die and did nothing to prevent it!”
Arman wiped his nose and moved outside Flint’s peripheral vision. “And you will have to carry that with you for the rest of you wretched life, Stryker! Your ultimate failure!” He nodded curtly at Savchenko and turned to the door.
Savchenko leaned into his field of vision, his yellowed, broken teeth grinning out of his pock-marked gargoyle face. “Pleasant dreams, asshole!” With that, he delivered a ferocious kick to Flint’s temple, sending the world once again into a kaleidoscopic whirlwind and then darkness.
Thirty-Six
Flint was dead again. At least he hoped he was. If Amber was dead, he had nothing left to live for. Even though she’d dumped him, as long as she was alive, there was still a chance they’d get back together. I know she was really mad, but she’s been mad before. I’d just turned on the ol’ “Stryker Charm,” or do something goofy or stupid and she’d take me back… until the next time.
Now there would be no more next times.
Flint hoped he was dead. He couldn’t stand it.
It was dark, as dark as it was the last time until that ape Savchenko assaulted him back into consciousness. No light. Not even a pinpoint anywhere in the darkness. Maybe he really was dead. Where was that light he was supposed to walk to? Maybe he was headed to the other place. That’d be justice. He couldn’t save Amber; he didn’t deserve mercy and grace.
He could hear those Liliputians again, far away, off in the distance. Didn’t sound like Amber this time. Didn’t sound like Arman or Savchenko either. Maybe it really was Liliputians this time. Are Liliputians real?
“Stryker! Wake up!” Slap! Again with the slapping. Was that a thing and he just didn’t know about it? Maybe he imagined it, but he was pretty sure he could hear those Liliputians talking, and they were getting closer.
Light was beginning to peek through his eyelids, like the dawn cracks the horizon during a storm. Dark everywhere and then a tiny speck that streaks across the skyline and starts to spread upward.
“He’s starting to come around. Give him a hit of the ammonium carbonate to help him break through!”
“OOF!” Flint sputtered and jerked his head instinctively.
“He’s up!” he heard a male voice shout. He could feel someone supporting his head. The same voice said, “You take it easy, Mr. Stryker. We’re gonna take good care of you, but first we have to make sure we can transport you.”
Flint willed his eyes open, much as a newborn does, adjusting to the light. “W-where—?” he croaked. “W-where…”
“Shhh… you just hold on, Mr. Stryker. We’ve got you. You’re gonna be fine. Just a few more minutes…”
Flint tried to turn his head. Mr. Voice Man urged him, “Please be still, Mr. Stryker. You’ve got a couple of nasty bullet wounds, and it looks like severe head trauma.”
No kidding. Ya think?
Flint peered out of the corner of his eyes. He could see a wad of sheets against the wall.
No! It wasn’t a wad of sheets. It was one sheet. Covering a body. Amber’s body.
A hot rush of tears flooded Flint’s just-opened eyes. A muffled sob choked in his throat. His chest heaved. That was it. Confirmation. Amber was dead. Dead and gone forever.
“Hold on, Mr. Stryker, we’re going to give you something to take away the pain and help you rest.”
Flint felt the pinprick and the rush of warmth flowing through his bloodstream. His tongue thickened, and his eyes grew heavy. Before it all slipped away, he had one last thought: Take away the pain? Good luck with that…
Thirty-Seven
Flint stared out the window, oblivious to anything and everything. He was in a hospital, or at least a medical facility of some kind. He’d given up trying to figure out where he was. He could see no identifying landmarks outside his window. He was just here — wherever here was.
He wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d been here. His best guess was at least a couple of days. He’d been shot twice and kicked by that overstuffed Cossack Savchenko at least once, and it had looked pretty bad for a while. The doctors (at least he thought they were doctors) seemed to think he’d be okay with treatment and a little rest.
Dr. Malloy, Seven, and Serafina Ferrari had all been in to see him at various times and seemed relieved he was on the mend. Ms. Ferrari had volunteered to give him a “deep tissue massage,” and the chief nurse was not amused. Dr. Malloy appeared to be really glum, but Seven just looked irritated and kept looking at his watch.
There was a knock at the door, and Dr. Malloy stuck his head in and gave Flint a thin smile. “How’s our patient doing today?”
Flint turned toward the door, half his head swathed in bandages, revealing only one e
ye. He angled his head to get a better view of the doctor. “Hi, Doc. Good to see you. Come on in!”
Flint was pleased to see the doctor. In spite of all that had happened in the last few days, Doctor Malloy was one of the few people left in this world who genuinely cared about him. The doctor edged his way between the chair and Flint’s bed. “Mind if I sit?”
Flint shifted himself on the bed so he could see Malloy better. “Sure! I can manage to carry on a conversation with one eye.” Malloy grinned. Flint was glad to see that smile — it was a lot better.
Malloy cleared his throat. “Flint, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry—”
“Doc, you don’t have to apologize,” Flint cut in. “It’s not your fault that Amber died. Pure and simple, I didn’t stop Arman and Savchenko, and she paid the price. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s my fault.” His voice was flat and lifeless — overburdened by exhaustion, pain, and grief.
“Flint, that’s not true. Had I not been evaluating you as an asset for Linchpin, you would never have been on their radar. Seven concurs and offers you his most heartfelt sympathy.”
Flint smirked as he looked at the doctor. “Yeah, right. I’m sure Seven has already moved on to the next candidate — ready to slip him into the fold and quietly move along.”
Malloy paused and shrugged. “It’s true, he is a man that sees the threats that surround us and fears we have no time to waste.” He paused, then continued, “Flint, we just want you to know, that while you were here, we handled all of the, ah, necessary arrangements regarding Miss Lakeman’s passing. Unfortunately, her death will be listed as an act of random violence with little hope for a resolution. Her family will receive a large anonymous donation which will hopefully at least give some comfort in their grief.”
Lessons Learned: The Flint Stryker Thriller Series - Book 1 Page 9