Hail Warning

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Hail Warning Page 25

by Brett Arquette

Kornev held up his injured hand and looked at Hail scornfully. He said nothing.

  Hail pointed at the Hummer and asked, “Who is that standing in front of your SUV?”

  The question caught Kornev off guard. He had completely forgotten about Tonya.

  “Just a girlfriend,” he said indignantly, as if explaining anything to the cowboy was beneath him.

  “Can she be trusted?”

  “Can any woman be trusted?” Kornev shot back.

  “Good point,” Hail smiled.

  Kornev said, “Why don’t you get to the point so I can get some help for my hand before I bleed out.”

  “You’re not going to bleed out,” Hail said, “and quit being a baby. After all, you’re a big badass arms dealer. Maybe the biggest arms dealer in the world. I’m sure that a little ol’ bullet hole in the hand is nothing to you.”

  Frustrated, Kornev asked, “Who are you? How do you know me? How do you know what I do?”

  “Because you’re on the radar of just about every intelligence organization in the world. You sell nasty weapons to bad people. What? Did you seriously think that nobody knew who the man behind the curtain was?”

  “What do you want?” Kornev said angrily.

  “You can think of me as a recruiter,” Hail said, smiling.

  “Recruiter?” Kornev questioned, not quite understanding the term.

  “You know the guy they send out to get men to sign up for the military.”

  “I’ve already been in the military,” Kornev said, adjusting his makeshift bandage on his right hand.

  “Yeah, and the military you sold most of their gear to other countries as well,” Hail responded dryly.

  Kornev said nothing.

  “I like to get right to the point, Kornev. The United States government wants you to become their employee.”

  Kornev laughed despite the pain.

  Kornev said, “That’s OK. I’m doing just fine. Got 401k and lots of benefits where I am now.”

  “Officially, the only benefit you have right now is a death benefit. Meaning, that many people would benefit from your death,” Hail said. “Choose not to accept our offer, and I will collect on that policy.”

  Kornev looked Hail over for a moment, trying to place a face that looked so familiar.

  Kornev tightened the towel around his hand, winced in pain and said, “Humor me. If I decided to accept your offer, just how is this arrangement supposed to work?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” Hail said, adjusting the brim of his cowboy hat back on his head a little. “What we propose is that you continue selling all the arms you’ve been selling. Just make sure that we know who you are selling to and what you are selling them. The little stuff, small arms and such, we don’t care about. But the big stuff like the weapons that can bring down commercial aircraft—there needs to be a measure of accountability. You can think of it as the three R’s.”

  “The three R’s?” Kornev asked.

  “Restriction, redirection and repurposing will be done with the large arms. On a case-by-case basis, we will determine what major arms can be sold and to who.”

  “That could get me killed,” Kornev said.

  “The way I look at it is, you have three choices: 1) Get killed working for us, 2) Get killed by turning us down, or 3) Quit the business entirely. Just so you know, I will still kill you if you take option number three.”

  “And why is that?”

  Hail picked up the .38 in front of him, leaned in and very slowly placed the business end of the gun on Kornev’s forehead. Kornev flinched when the stainless-steel tip of the barrel touched his skull.

  Hail pulled back the hammer of the weapon and said, “Because you are the no-good piece of human sewage that sold the missile to the assholes that killed my family.”

  Hail froze there, with the .38 pressed hard into Kornev’s brain box, willing himself to pull the trigger. The guy was right there. It would take Hail less than 7.9 pounds of pressure to pull the trigger less than .55-inch and this scumbag would be gone. To Hell? Hail didn’t really care where Kornev went after he left this world. He hoped it was some place unpleasant, but watching the man die would give him a great deal of enjoyment.

  Kornev must have sensed all those feelings coursing through Hail, because he said nothing. He sensed it wouldn’t take much in the way of provocation for the man to pull the trigger. And out here in the middle of the desert, no one would even hear the gunshot. He could throw Kornev’s body out into the badlands. Birds and small animals would have picked his bones clean before he was found, if he was ever found. And that was a big if, because no one would ever come looking for him. He had very few friends.

  Behind Kornev, still standing in front of the Hummer, Hail saw Kara shift her weight and put her hands on her hips. This had not been part of the plan, and Kara was trying to send him a not so subtle message: Quit the Rambo act and get on with it.

  Hail told Kornev, “Before you die, you are going to tell me who you sold the surface-to-air missile which took down United 9257. It was flying out of Düsseldorf. My wife and kids were on that plane.”

  Kornev said nothing. This really didn’t seem like the time to piss this man off, you know, with the gun resting on his skull and all.

  The cowboy wasn’t talking anymore, and Kornev felt that he was waiting for a response.

  “Can I have some time to think over your offer?” Kornev asked in a defeated tone.

  Hail commanded the drones: GUARD OFF. He withdrew the gun from Kornev’s head.

  Using his free hand, Hail slapped the Russian’s stunned face. Smack-smack. Hail first used the front of his hand, quickly followed by the back of his hand. The blow was so forceful and violent that spittle flew from Kornev’s gaping mouth.

  GUARD HEAVY, Hail ordered the drones, and they snapped back to attention.

  Kornev placed his uninjured hand on his left cheek, and he looked both shocked and pissed.

  Hail leaned back in his chair to adjust his cowboy hat, which had shifted during his brief assault on Kornev.

  Choosing to ignore what had just happened, Hail said casually, “Actually, Victor, actions speak louder than words. We are going to watch you very closely.”

  Hail set his .38 back down on the table in front of him.

  He continued, “If we discover that you are still selling and not telling, the next time you see my drones, you better have a pocketful of corks for all the new holes you will need to plug. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” Victor said reluctantly. Hail could tell that Kornev wanted to kill him every bit as much as Marshall wanted to end Kornev’s life.

  Kornev glanced down at the guns on the table.

  Hail noticed his interest in the weapons and gave the order: GUARD OFF and the drones’ miniguns sagged, pointing to the ground.

  Hail asked, “You are wondering why there are two guns on the table, aren’t you?”

  Kornev said nothing.

  “I wanted you to understand that I’m a fair man. You are an expert in weapons. You understand that these matching guns are identical in every way. The only thing you really don’t know is if I’m faster than you, because you don’t know a damn thing about me. But I know everything about you.”

  Kornev looked up from the guns and stared at Hail.

  Hail continued, “The drones aren’t guarding you. If you think you’re faster than me, the gun is right there. Go for it. Who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky?”

  Kornev looked back down at the guns and calculated his chances of taking out the cowboy. It didn’t take him long to decide even if the man was slow on the draw, Kornev would be slower and probably less accurate. After all, he was right handed, and currently that hand was out of commission and wrapped in a towel. He could still fire with his left hand, but he was a righty. He knew his chances shooting with his left would handicap him. There was yet another unknown. Even if he killed this man, it was apparent that this operation was being carried out by a group, not jus
t this man. So, killing him, even though it would bring him great joy, would not change his situation.

  Instead of going for the weapon, Kornev said, “That was you in North Korea, wasn’t it?”

  “Yep,” Hail said smugly.

  Kornev asked, “How did you even know I was in North Korea, let alone at the warehouse?”

  Hail smiled and said nothing.

  “Who are you? I know I’ve seen you before,” Kornev said.

  “You can leave now,” Hail told him. Between the tips of his index and middle fingers, Hail held out a card with handwriting on it.

  He told Kornev, “Text this number when you get any sales—any sales at all. We’ve already set up a method of communicating with you, and we will text back that information when we hear from you. Now, get up slowly. Go back to your car and drive away. And, remember, I am always watching you.”

  Hail then issued the order: GUARD MEDIUM, and the guns jumped to life, fixing their aim on Kornev.

  Kornev did not have to be told twice. He placed his legs on either side of his chair, and using just the strength in his knees, he stood up very slowly. The Russian backed away from the table, disturbed to see the drones spin up and lift off the ground. A dust cloud formed under the drones as they fanned the desert soil into the still dry air. When Kornev was about ten feet from the table, he turned and began walking slowly toward his car. The drones escorted the Russian, hovering waist-high on either side of him. As Kornev came within fifteen feet of the Hummer, Tonya called out, “What are those things?”

  Kornev yelled back, “Don’t make any sudden movements. Slowly get back into the car and stay quiet.”

  Kornev was relieved to make it to the Hummer without being shot again. He cautiously opened the door and took a seat inside.

  “What happened to your hand?” Tonya asked.

  “Just another gunshot,” Kornev said with almost no expression in his voice.

  Reaching awkwardly with his left hand, Kornev started the SUV. He put the Hummer into gear and turned the wheel as far it would go to the left. The vehicle made a wide arc out into the desert before getting back on the road that headed into town. Kornev watched the drones trail along behind them in his rear-view mirror.

  Kara stuck her head out the window to watch as the mechanical flying machines slowed and then came to a stop. The drones were now hovering in place on the road, still kicking up dust.

  “What are those things, and who was that man?”

  “Work related,” Kornev said.

  “Your job sucks,” Tonya stated adamantly.

  “Who knows? I might get a new job soon,” Kornev said, placing his bleeding hand between his legs, applying pressure with his knees.

  *-*-*

  Hail stood up from the table and walked over to the soft edge of the dirt road. In the distance, he saw Lt. Commander Nolan reveal himself. The jet pilot was holding a long sniper rifle and dressed head-to-toe in desert camouflage fatigues. He began walking toward Hail, trudging through the deep sand, allowing the gun to sag in his arms. From 200 yards out, it took Nolan several minutes to close the distance.

  When Nolan finally arrived, Hail said, “I think that went pretty well.”

  “You are in one piece, and I didn’t have to put a hole through your friend, so I guess it went OK,” Nolan said, using the rifle’s thick strap to shoulder the weapon.

  “He’s no friend of mine,” Hail commented, looking back at the drones that were now flying towards them.

  “Those are some badass drones you got there,” Nolan said, admiring Hail’s engineers’ handiwork.

  Hail nodded, “Badass programmers that wrote the code for them, too. But I must agree with you. The mechanical part is killer as well—pun intended.”

  The drones arrived with a buzz and whirl, trailing a dust cloud that billowed out behind them before being dispersed by a gentle breeze.

  Their carbon fiber legs began to telescope out from under their bases, extending from one to three feet in length; the drones gently touched down. The electric motors switched off, and the desert became very quiet. Somewhere in the distance, they could still hear Kornev’s Hummer driving back to civilization.

  Hail turned toward the drones and said, “You guys did a good job. Good flying.”

  Alex Knox’s voice emanated from one of the drone’s speakers. For this mission, he was stationed safely back in the Hail Nucleus’ mission center.

  “Thanks, Marshall, but it was really nothing. These small drones are easy to fly. I bet you could do it.”

  Hail absorbed the good-natured jab from his young crew member and laughed. “No, I think I’m too old to bend a joystick from one side to the other.”

  Alex laughed through the drone’s speaker at Hail’s joke.

  He told the drone, “Alex, go ahead and contact the helicopter to have them pick us up.

  Hail turned toward the other drone and said, “Taylor, I want you to shadow Kornev. Make sure you keep the drone high enough in the sky so there is little chance he will see it. I want to know where he goes. I want to have eyes on that Russian dirtball 24/7 until we get Kara back. Is that clear?”

  “Roger that,” she said through the other drone’s speakers.

  Taylor’s drone spun up and took off in the direction of the Hummer.

  TWO YEARS AGO

  CARIBBEAN SEA—ON THE JETTY NEAR CARACAS, VENEZUELA

  I t had been hours since Afua had made his way to the spot where the Nigerian Princess should have been anchored. He had tried to stay awake to monitor the radio when Obano contacted him. The lack of blood caused the Nigerian terrorist to pass out once again.

  The short fall from the vinyl couch to the fiberglass deck awakened him. He looked up with the expectation of a bright sun glaring in his eyes, but he was taken aback when he realized it was nighttime. He sat up, experienced a massive head rush, and he almost passed out from the pain radiating from his swollen and bleeding ankle. He took a moment to assess his condition. Killer headache - check; monster thirst - check; feelings of fatigue and grogginess - double check; feeling in his right foot - checkmate. He couldn’t feel his foot, and that was a big problem.

  The Nigerian looked down at his phantom foot and tried to wiggle his toes. It was dark, but in the moonlight, he saw his big toe move a little. Taking a quick assessment of the lack of sensation in his foot, he knew he had to cut loose the tape to allow blood to circulate back into his extremity; otherwise, he could lose his foot for good. That was a no-win situation. Cutting loose the tape would cause more blood loss, and considering how much blood he had already lost, there was a very good chance that he would pass out, bleed out, and die. But for someone in his profession, losing his foot was paramount to death. The Boko Haram had no need or use for a cripple within its organization. He wouldn’t be able to traverse the thick Nigerian jungle by foot, which was their main mode of travel on those narrow trails. The loss of his foot would be the loss of his entire future—a life that had taken him a decade to build for himself and his family. Dying would be better than losing his foot.

  A large wave hit the boat and caused Afua to slam into the side of the elevated couch seat. The motion jostled his leg, and another spasm of pain ripped through him. He carefully pulled himself up on the couch. He looked around to see if he could spot the Nigerian Princess in the darkness. As his senses became sharper, a new and disturbing problem reared its ugly head. It was not nighttime at all. Massive thunderclouds had moved in, and day had become night. The wind had picked up, and the tranquil Caribbean waves had transformed into white caps.

  Trying to keep his leg as immobile as possible, Afua turned his head 180 degrees. He saw no other boats or ships. With the wind kicking up ocean spray, he

  could barely make out the shoreline. Realizing he had not bothered to drop an anchor, Afua was concerned that he may have drifted far from the coordinates where he was supposed to rendezvous with the Nigerian Princess.

  Afua looked down at his foot. For a
black man, he thought that his foot looked a lot lighter in color than it had in the past. White? Not hardly, but it sure the hell wasn’t black either. It certainly didn’t look healthy. Maybe charcoal gray? He reached into a cubby next to him, fumbled around in the fishing gear and withdrew the gutting knife.

  The waves were kicking the little boat around like a toy boat in a bathtub, and Afua had to be very careful with the razor-sharp blade. He set the back end of the steel on his skin, just above the duct tape. Very slowly, he eased the tip of the knife under the makeshift bandage. He expected to feel more pain, and he was not disappointed. The closer the knife neared the gash, the more pain was routed into every nerve of his body. Another four-foot wave hit the side of the boat, and the wet knife slipped from his hands. Afua grabbed for the side of the boat to steady himself. The wave crashed over the edge and soaked Afua. A dazzling bolt of lightning flashed across the sky and momentarily blinded him. A roar of thunder erupted. A second later, it was if the lightning had cut a hole in the sky which had previously held back the rain. But with that hole now opened, angry sheets of rain cascaded from the heavens like a tumultuous waterfall.

  Afua looked back down and discovered that the knife had stuck in the duct tape, wedged tightly in between the mess of blood, skin and bone. He did his best to put the pain aside. He grabbed the handle of the blade. Moving slowly, he slid the knife under the remnants of the duct tape. In one quick motion, Afua cut the tape free. Even as the wad of gray tape fell to the floor of the boat, he could feel a rush of blood course back into his dead foot. At first it felt great, but then it didn’t. A sensation of pins and needles stabbed his foot so intensely it was almost as bad as the initial pain itself. Afua laid back on the couch and let the rain pour down on him as he screamed. The screaming felt good. It was not only a wail of pain, but also his frustration. After all, how could things get any worse? He was stuck in an itty-bitty boat in the middle of the Caribbean Sea in the middle of a torrential downpour losing massive amounts of blood. Compounding those problems was his hope of being rescued waned by the minute; thus, Afua felt his screams were warranted.

 

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