Wallbanger
Page 1
Fresh Whet INK publishing
WALLBANGER copyright October 2011 by Sable Jordan
ISBN: 9780983894612
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
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First Edition October 2011
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WALLBANGER
By Sable Jordan
Prologue
St. Petersburg, Russia
Men his age were supposed to die quietly in their beds. Coddled in warm blankets and soft pillows. Not in a dank basement—frail arms tied above their heads and strung up to a meat hook like a slab of beef. He never dreamed the end would be so heinous. Now, a flash bang and bullet? Sure. That would have been fitting. Full circle. Instead, his captor seemed more intent on prolonging the pain than on killing him. Nikolay desperately wished for the latter.
Another electric current zinged through every wrinkle of his naked body, and he jerked at the effects of the cattle prod.
“Where?”
“I…I—” A sharp smack interrupted his stuttering. Blood seeped from his nose again, blocking already impaired breathing.
How long had they been at this? Hours? Days? He’d lost control of his bladder early on, and often thereafter, the room smelling of stale urine, feces, and sweat. But he told them nothing. Even when his legs and back were slashed with the knife he maintained his secret.
“You should know,” the voice said in Russian, “we have just found the engineer.”
The struggling heart beat faster in his chest.
A camera phone was forced into view, the screen’s harsh light causing him to squint in order to bring the image into focus. There was no mistaking the man on the display. Anders Yurevich, gagged and tied to a chair, his dark eyes wide, frightened orbs.
“Save him, Niko. Do something right for once in your miserable life. Tell me who has Harvey,” the Russian sniffed twice, “and I will let your friend go.”
He continued watching the live feed. Yurevich whimpered—a shadow crossed the screen, cleared out again. In the background, the room had been ransacked, papers, clothes, and other oddities littering the space. The camera zoomed in so only the distressed face filled the bright square. When the gag was yanked from the Belarusian’s mouth he begged, “Please! Please! I don’t—”
A loud retort. The forehead bloomed red.
Nikolay cringed, unusually saddened by the death of an innocent. A rare moment of regret.
The device was removed. “You don’t want to end up the same way, do you?”
He would, though. Not at the mercy of a bullet, but dead nonetheless. Of that he was certain. With the amount of pain he was in, the real travesty would come from Nikolay not dying. The only measure of comfort was that his instructions would be carried out: Get Harvey to the American. He will do the rest.
“Tell me!” the man demanded, breaking into his thoughts.
Nikolay stared at the monster he’d helped create, watching the creature’s eyes shift suspiciously while he rubbed at his nose. Some things would never change. The boy didn’t know, and that thought comforted him too.
“You…nev…never find…he..her,”—Nikolay wheezed, dizziness making him slur—“Harvey.” The punch to his gut would have doubled him over, but being suspended kept him upright. Aged joints would give out soon. Already the bones threatened to slip from their place.
“Speaking their filthy language, too? The clothes, the house. Disgrace to your proud heritage.”
Another 5,000 volts from the cattle prod and he felt like his whole body had caught fire. His mind was slowly turning liquid, thoughts harder and harder to formulate. Any more punishment would lead to Nikolay talking, and that he could not risk.
He had to die. Soon.
“Give it to me!”
Spittle landed on his face. “Never…fi—” He was struck again, but it didn’t matter. Enduring this pain meant she was secure. The American will take care of Harvey. He’ll do right by her. Nikolay’s delirious laugh turned taunting. “You…Chern—”
Phenomenal pain detonated in his head when a rod was forced into his anus. He would have screamed, but the entire ordeal was too much for his tired brain to process. Breathing gone rampant, his heart worked so hard it would no doubt explode in his chest.
“I can do this all night, Nikolay. I can make this last a long, long—”
“Ahhhh!” The activated switch sent a short shock, but the effects were lasting. His heart thudded faster, the sound echoing in his ears.
“Again,” the monster commanded. Another burst locked the old man in a rigid state. “You will tell me, Niko.”
He gasped for breath; lungs nearly lost the fight against hyperventilating. Once he managed a pace slow enough to speak, he babbled nonsensically.
“Ready to talk?”
His tired head lolled.
The man leaned a bit closer. “Who has Harvey?” he whispered.
With a bloody, defiant smile, Nikolay opened his lids just enough to look into the bland face. “Chernyi…Russkii.”
Flat black discs stared back; the squared head nodded.
Prod triggered, Nikolay’s agonized body danced on the string, a macabre marionette.
1
Panamá Provence, Panama
“Let me out here.”
The vehicle eased to a stop two miles south of the passenger terminals of Tocumen International Airport. In the back seat, Kizzie Baldwin removed the cable from the disposable cell phone and powered the device off and then on again. She thumbed through the data on the back end and, satisfied, shoved it into a pocket while marking the time on her wristwatch. A quick pat to her ankle to check for her lucky knife, she stepped from the car into the dark Panamanian morning.
She watched the taillights of the rental fade away, and then headed in the opposite direction, moving toward the fence enclosing the runway. Tocumen was expanding, a fact she’d exploited more than once, and with the early hour it was easy to slip into a break in the gate covered by little more than a few lengths of bright yellow precaución tape.
A standalone portable building sat just inside the fencing, but she avoided the door she knew to be locked, making her way to the window at the back of the structure. With the muggy weather, the construction crew always left the single aperture open, which suited Kizzie’s needs just fine. A glance around to ensure she was alone—not a soul, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Already she could hear the sounds of the port coming to life as the first flights were prepped for departure. Daylight was fast approaching, and the next shift of builders would stream in within the hour.
No other option, Kizzie could only hope they stayed asleep. She tipped forward to land hands first on the metal flooring and wriggled her hips through the narrow opening, legs and feet slithering in behind.
The bodies on the bed shifted, and Kizzie crouched low, keeping to the shadows for cover. A soft grunt and the man’s arm slipped from his mate’s back, hanging off the side of the small berth. In the sliver of light, she could just discern the ring on his finger.
No one would subject the Misses to this, she thought absently, the combined stenches of stale beer, leftover food and the couple’s nighttime escapades assaulting her nose. She pushed the distraction away and quickly mapped out a route to the exit across the portable.
Stepping lightly, she skirted the sleeping figures and glass landmines, arriving at one of the open lockers that housed the construction gear. She donned a smelly helmet, goggles and a neon vest before grabbing the closest clipboard and a roll of duct tape and heading for the door.
“Rafael, yo leve. Yon moun isit la se.” The urgent words floated over in whispered Creole, just loud enough for Kizzie to translate. Rafael, wake up. Someone’s here.
She froze. This was supposed to be the easy part. Is there ever an easy part when it comes to being a secret agent, Kizzie? Even something as simple as this was fraught with complications, like hung-over construction workers cheating on their spouses. People really don’t get how difficult this job can be, she mused. Hollywood spy thrillers didn’t account for things like human interruption.
From the sound of knocked over glass, the woman was on her feet, looking for her clothes, Kizzie assumed. The man adjusted on the cot, his feet thudding on the floor. She angled her head to keep an eye on the silhouettes behind her while inching toward the door. A light came on, and her head snapped forward. She tugged the helmet down a bit more. Adrenaline buzzed through her body and kicked into overdrive, readying for a fight.
The woman continued in her native tongue. “If anyone finds out, your wife will kill me, Rafael! I have to get out of here!”
For his part, Rafael seemed disinterested. “Calm down. It’s only Bella.” He switched languages, addressing Kizzie in Spanish. “Bella, why are you so early today?”
“Lo siento, jefe,” Kizzie responded, muttering to disguise her voice. “No he visto nada.” She took another step toward the door, placed her hand on the knob.
Rafael laughed, went back to Creole. “See? Bella didn’t see nothin’. Bella never sees nothin’. Now come back here. We have a few min—”
His words snipped off as Kizzie left the unit, slamming the door shut behind her. She checked her watch—took a tad longer than expected—and hustled across the asphalt to the hangars.
Locating the desired building, she waited for a maintenance worker to leave out before she slipped inside. “Dammit.” The plane she needed was already gone. For a brief moment she considered using the one that remained, a large FedEx cargo carrier. But she had no idea where it was headed, or when it was leaving. She’d have to track down her bird.
Closing her eyes, she recalled the image from the screen she’d studied not twenty minutes before: Flight 1405 to Medellin, Columbia. Departing Gate 16.
Gate 16. Other end of the damn airport. Great.
Another anxious glance at her watch—time was running out.
“Screw it.” Commandeering a nearby cart, Kizzie took to the tarmac, riding in the open straight toward the gate. Someone in an approaching vehicle waved, and she lifted her hand, shouted “Buenos dias!” without taking her foot off the accelerator. As slow as the buggy moved she could have covered the distance faster on foot. But nothing would bring more attention than a hardhat-wearing woman in neon streaking across an open runway. She’d have to be patient.
She hated being patient.
I can still turn back. Technically, she wasn’t rogue yet. She’d been contemplating that very thing while sitting in the back of the car, even as she peeled open the plastic packaging of the cell phone and brought up flight plans on an iPad. She was a good agent; had done everything Bill Connolly had asked of her without question, and then…this. This chance at redemption for the Mauritius job—the seed of doubt from the Mauritius job.... Right or wrong, this had the potential to blow up in her face and see her imprisoned at best. “At worst” was an option she didn’t want to think about.
Kizzie bagged the conversation with her conscience and focused on the task. Two gates away the hulking white mass of the Copa plane was being stuffed with luggage and refreshments. One worker on the ground saw the bags loaded onto the angled conveyor belt. She assumed another was at the top, waiting to offload. She pulled the buggy to a stop before the man, motioning with the clipboard and feigning urgency in rapid Spanish. “Tengo que comprobar la aeronave.”
The man frowned, shrugged. The same message in Creole garnered a similar result. She inhaled deeply and huffed. Why was this so hard?
“Listen, slick. I’m guessing you don’t speak Russian or Japanese, so we’re down to English, French and snark.”
A wide grin split his face. “English will do.”
Duct tape in one hand, Kizzie pointed at the plane with the clipboard in the other. “This bird just left maintenance, but no one signed off. Need to do a quick check to the radar altimeter.”
His gaze roamed over her attire. “Does that involve baggage?” Kizzie shook her head and he shrugged. “Not my department. Go on up.”
She boarded the underbelly, acknowledging the second attendant and feeding him the same line in Spanish. He gave her little thought and went back to his job. Moving out of his line of sight, Kizzie accessed a crawlspace and made her way inside.
In the craft’s main control area, a bevy of wires and cable sat coiled on the floor. She pulled the cell phone from her pocket and paused.
Don’t do this.
There it was, the voice of reason, squeaking through the din of cogs turning in her head. She shouldn’t do this. She should go back to her home in nearby Casco Viejo, fold her laundry, and wait for—
Her hate for laundry—and all things domestic—was eclipsed only by her hate for waiting. And with the way things went down, there was no telling how long she’d be doing just that.
Palming the device, she keyed in the number and sent off a short text message, heart pounding wildly as she watched it go through its ministrations: Sending…. Sending…. Sending…. Sent.
Now there was no turning back.
Kizzie turned the phone off and then moved a heavy batch of cable, making room to secure the device to the belly of the huge metal plane.
* * * *
On the airport perimeter road, Xander Duquesne studied the neon blur boarding the cargo hold of the Copa. He checked his watch—a touch behind schedule, but nothing they couldn’t make up for. In the passenger seat of the rental, Phillip Marchande reclined, eyes closed. The previous night was a long one for all parties involved, and sleep was not on the agenda. Phil being integral to the next phase of the operation, Xander didn’t begrudge the man this short reprieve.
Still early morning, the dark sky and poor outdoor lighting concealed the black car well enough should anyone look in their direction. All was quiet in the area. A good sign. Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, Xander returned his attention to the aircraft.
“Think it’ll hurt?”
He should have known Phil was awake. “What’s that?” he asked, not bothering to shift his gaze.
“The bullet she puts in your brain when you tell her what she’s in for.”
Xander let out a thoughtful sigh. “Y’k
now, you’re very preoccupied with my demise of late, Phil. It’s kinda disturbing.”
“No sense running from a fate that’ll catch you anyway. Just want to prepare you, because she’s going to kill you.”
“There insurance money you get in the event of my death?” But Xander knew Phil was right. Kizzie was going to be the death of him—either by her own hand or through her stubbornness.
“No, sadly,” Phil said. “An oversight on my part. I’d be rich by the end of the day.”
All told, Xander and Kizzie had been acquainted less than ten hours—two of which were spent on a yacht in the middle of the Indian Ocean fourteen days before. They’d been on different teams at the time—hell, they weren’t exactly on the same team now—but the dividing line was a lot clearer then. Kizzie was the face of good; Xander the face of evil. She’d pulled a gun on him; he’d spanked her thoroughly for it. He smiled at the memory. Nonetheless, they’d parted ways with their roles intact.
It was the disappearance of Nikolay Sokoviev that prompted Xander to track Kizzie to Panama. At least that’s what he told himself. Nikolay was his only access to Harvey, but with the old Russian gone, Xander was forced to work with the next in line. He ground his teeth at the alternative and forced away the chill that inched down his spine with what he planned on having Kizzie do.
“Ten grand says she kills you, X,” Phil said, lifting the seat back and cracking his neck.
If he did die, he wouldn’t have to pay, Xander reasoned. Either way he was a winner. “Double it.”
“Pretty confident for a dead man. Would you prefer a Christian burial?”
Xander shook his head and grinned. “Save the pine box, Phil. The devil won’t care either way.”
She knows what she was getting into. But he couldn’t convince himself of that lie. Kizzie knew what he’d led her to believe, and while what little Xander had told her was factual, it was by no means the whole story. She’d never know the whole story.
The last eight hours of their short acquaintance started in much the same fashion the first two had begun—with Kizzie holding a gun to Xander’s head. To double the effect of her menace, she held a sharp blade to Phil’s neck. And once she was talked out of killing them both, and summarily warned not to repeat the offense, Kizzie spent the remainder of the time trying to pry the details about the job from Xander’s sealed lips. “Not until we leave Panama,” he’d said. “Only way to be sure you’re in.” It didn’t stop her prodding.