Smyles lit up another cigar and took in a long drag, “Kicks. You destroyed my life. You and the Mountie bitch. We spent a long time establishing that pipeline. A lot of time and money placing people in the RCMP and CSIS. Not to mention dealing with the Triads and slanties.”
“Point being?” John said flatly.
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Smyles’ eyes flared for a moment, but he had waited for a long time for this moment and was not going to let his anger get the best of him. “You destroyed my dreams. So now I’m going to destroy your life. I started with having the bitch killed,” he lied. Why not. I planned to do it anyway. Fate just intervened before I could.
A madness erupted and controlled him. John sprang at the rogue agent,
“No!”
Smyles cracked him across the temple with the side of his Magnum. John crumpled to the floor. Smyles then kicked him in the ribs until he turned over and pressed the heel of his boot into John’s throat.
“There was no crash,” Smyles said, “It was just little’o me. I wiped that sweet candy ass of her’s right off the face of the earth, Johnny-boy. Of course I did have to sample the treats first.”
John’s knuckles turned white as he dug his fingers into Smyles’ boot.
“What are you going to do about that?” Smyles taunted.
“I’m going to asked you to turn around,” John said through clenched teeth.
“What?”
John smiled. “I’ll repeat it slower and with smaller words if you didn’t understand.”
Smyles applied more pressure. “What the fuck do you take me for? A perfect idiot?”
John wrestled futilely with his boot. “Nobody’s perfect.”
Lydia placed her hand on Smyles’ shoulder. “Ray,” she said. Smyles turned slightly and stared down the barrel of a .38 Smith & Wesson.
“Hello idiot,” Nikita snarled from the other end.
Smyles choked.
Nikita’s ice-fire eyes said two words—No argument—and Smyles dropped his gun to the floor.
John pushed the foot away from his throat and twisted it. Smyles stumbled and fell to his knees. In a blur of motion, John was on his feet. He grabbed Smyles by the lapels and threw him head first into the wall, then slammed into the ugly American with fists flailing, “You fucker!” he screamed.
“Nyet! Nyet! John!” Nikita cried out. Her eyes did not leave Lydia’s face,
“Now is not the time.”
John realized Nikita was right. He delivered one more blow into his kidneys then yanked Smyles around and shoved him into the wall. He held him there with his forearm pressed into the ex-CIA man’s throat.
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John looked sharply at Lydia and pointed to the wall next to Smyles.
“You too!” he snapped.
She complied without hesitation.
“Weapons,” Nikita said as John turned them around so they were facing the wall, “Hands on heads.”
John scooped up Smyles’ .357 and found a Semmerling LM-4 freshly strapped to Lydia’s thigh. John surmised it was originally in her purse and meant for him later.
Nikita held out her hand. “Give me that one,” she said. John handed her the ML-4. “Careful it’s loaded.”
Nikita dropped the .38 to the floor and aimed the small, light weight fourshot Semmerling with both hands. Smyles’ jaw dropped.
Nikita lips curled into a smile, “I kept the gun. DeTully kept the bullets.”
“You remind me of someone,” John whispered.
Nikita almost said something, then changed her mind. “You better help your friend.”
John crossed to Madhuri and eased her to the couch. There he removed her gag.
“Oh God,” she sobbed, “Oh God John, what’s happening?”
John loosened the bindings from her hands and held her tight, “It’s okay. Everything’s fine now.”
“How sweet,” Lydia remarked.
“Shut up,” Nikita snapped.
“What are you going to do with us?” Smyles fumed.
“Over there,” Nikita gestured them away from John and Madhuri. Smyles seized his moment. He propelled Lydia into Nikita. Both women fell to the floor. He then whirled and smacked John in the back of the head with his fist. Madhuri crumpled to the floor as John lost his balance. Smyles bolted from the room.
“Damnit! No you’re not!” John cried and blindly raced after Smyles. On the floor Nikita and Lydia wrestled for the Semmerling. Lydia maneuvered herself on top of Nikita and chopped her across the throat. Nikita’s head struck the floor, dazing her. Lydia snagged the weapon and pressed the barrel to the Russian’s temple while grabbing her throat with her other hand, “Say goodnight Gracie,” she quipped.
Madhuri yanked on Lydia’s arm and the ML-4 discharged.
“Nyet!” Nikita cried out.
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Madhuri’s eyes were wide as she slowly crumpled to the floor, leaving a crimson streak on the wall behind her.
Lydia hissed, “You’re next bitch!”
The Russian woman slammed her forehead into Lydia’s face, splitting her lip and bloodying her nose. Lydia cried out and dropped the Semmerling. Nikita pushed the woman off, scooped up the gun and shoved the barrel into Lydia’s mouth. Her eyes widened.
“Good,” Nikita said slowly, her accent thick, “this is something you are not accustom to having in your mouth.”
Lydia tried to struggle but Nikita pushed the weapon deeper into her throat.
“Now you shall stand up very slowly,” Nikita said. “Do you understand me?”
The fear in Lydia’s eyes said she did as she gagged on the acidic burn of the small weapon’s residue gunpowder.
Nikita removed the Semmerling from Lydia’s mouth and pushed herself across the floor. Slowly the American stood up.
“Hands on the top of your head and face the wall,” Nikita ordered. Lydia complied.
Nikita slid herself over to Madhuri. She had not moved since the gun fired. Nikita touched her neck and felt for a pulse.
“I wouldn’t waste my time,” Lydia said. “She’s dead.”
Nikita strained and gripped the corner of the coffee table. With great effort she pulled herself to her feet, “Your reign of terror and control has just ended,” her eyes burned as she started at Lydia and raised the weapon.
“Hold it!” Paul Forrester said suddenly, appearing behind Nikita. “Drop the weapon.”
“I am Major Nikita Triska,” she said without taking her eyes off Lydia. “I am with Operation Arctic Snow.”
“I said drop the weapon!” Forrester repeated and pressed the barrel of his Detonics .45 to the back of her head.
“Da,” Nikita said and slowly placed the ML-4 on the table away from Lydia, “My credentials are—”
“Shut up,” Forrester said. “You okay?” he asked.
Nikita was flabbergasted, “Nyet.”
Lydia turned and faced Nikita. “Bitch,” she said and slapped her. 189
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Smyles yanked his blazer over his head and dove through the glass doors at the end of the dining car. He struck the back porch amidst a shower of glass shards and slid into a stack of garbage bags, “Christ,” he muttered, amazed he did it and rose unsteadily to his feet.
Suddenly there was movement in the corner of his eye. Smyles spun around as John slammed into him. Both men crashed through the railing and dropped to the yard a meter and a half below.
“Bastard!” John cried.
Smyles twisted and brought his fist up. He nabbed John in the side of the face. As he rolled away dazed, Smyles leapt to his feet and began kicking.
“You fucker!” Smyles cried out and kicked John in the kidneys, lower back, and ribs, “No one! I mean no one does that to me! You’re dead shit!”
John managed to grab Smyles’ foot. He twisted it, then sprung to his feet as the rogue agent went down. Before Smyles could rea
ct to the sudden offensive action, John grabbed him by the tie, hoisted him over his hip, and slammed the ugly man face first into the side of the sleeping car’s metal wheels, where he pinned him with his shoulder and fired blow after blow into Smyles’ midsection.
Smyles exploded and shot his elbows up. He clipped John in the chin. It was enough to break his rhythm. Taking advantage, Smyles yanked John down and smashed his face into his knee. John’s nose gave way with a brilliant spray of blood.
He pushed John away. “Asshole,” Smyles said, “I’m the fuckin’ CIA!”
John staggered but remained standing.
Smyles’ right fist shot out and caught John square on the bridge of the 190
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nose. The burst of pain helped John regain his focus and he blocked Smyles’
next swing.
John lashed out and kicked Smyles in the nuts.
Smyles doubled over, then suddenly charged. He hooked John across the midsection and flipped him up and over his back.
John struck the ground hard and a loud wheeze escaped from his lungs. Smyles spun around and hurled his foot down onto John’s chest and something cracked. Smyles’ foot shot out again, but John managed to roll out of the way and scramble to his feet.
“Had enough?” Smyles asked and formed a boxer’s stance. John fought to control his breathing as each breath racked his chest with agony. For a moment there were two ugly men before him. “S’funny,” John said. He spat blood from his mouth, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Smyles’ left fist shot out. John surprised himself as he dodged it.
“Three years Green Beret, and the best training the ‘Company’ had to offer,” Smyles taunted. “Where did you learn how to fight Johnny-boy?”
John swung his fist. Smyles blocked it and retaliated with a smack to shoulder. John gasped as pain exploded through his chest.
“Well?” Smyles snorted, “Where did you learn that wonderful fighting skill?”
John suddenly dropped his stance and gawked over the ugly man’s shoulder, “Holy shit!” he exclaimed.
Smyles looked around, “What?”
John hammered the ex-CIA man square in the temple with a solid right hook. Smyles stumbled and tripped over his feet. He fell face first next to the stack of firewood.
“Saturday morning cartoons!” John cried and charged.
Smyles rolled onto his back and caught John in the chest with his feet. He kicked out and John struck the side of the train car. His chest screamed in agony and blackness spotted his vision.
Smyles scrambled to his feet, then paused as he spotted a 2x4 on the stack of wood with a long nail through one end. Grinning madly, Smyles picked up the piece of wood and stroked it lovingly.
John’s eyes snapped open as Smyles swung. The nail carved up the grass millimeters from his neck.
“Ye-ha!” Smyles whooped and yanked the newly found weapon into the air again. “Havin’ some fun now!”
John scrambled to his knees as Smyles swung again. He blocked it with 191
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his left arm. Smyles swung again and broke John’s wrist. Like bolts of electricity, pain rippled through his arm. John bit his lip but held his ground.
Smyles swung again and John blocked it.
Smyles swung again.
John screamed out as the nail skewered his left wrist.
Smyles giggled and twisted the plank, “Nailed ya’!” he laughed and dropped the 2x4. He turned away to find something blunt to finish the job with.
John crumpled onto his side as exacting eruptions of fire coursed through his battered and tired body. He closed his eyes. I can’t... go on... not anymore... no...
Fight!
John was not sure if he heard a voice or not, but knew what he must do. There were people counting on him. Madhuri, Nikita, Catherine. Catherine?
He was not sure how the realization came to him but he knew. Blood and sweat mixed and soaked his skin. John ignored all. He grasped the slippery wood and pulled.
Smyles heard the sickening wet pop and turned around. The piece of wood rested in a patch of blood stained grass, but John was nowhere to be seen.
“What the fuck?” Smyles said. He thought he was done. Riel was down for the count. It would be simple now.
A blood curling scream suddenly ripped through the air. Smyles spun around and a chill raced up his spine. For the rest of his life he would never forget the image he saw.
Springing from the roof of the sleeping car, John flew like a deranged bird of revenge and walloped the rogue agent, “Die you bastard!” he screamed as he slammed Smyles into the ground.
Nerves danced beneath his skin. John rode purely on adrenalin now. He fired his fists repeatedly into the ugly man’s face.
“You killed her! You bastard! You killed Catherine! You killed Kristina!
You killed the women I love! I’ll fucking annihilate you!” Never before had John felt such rage and hate for one man. The torment and helplessness from his trial in South America, the anger that built up over the death of Kristina, the frustration of his treatment by St. James and her little fraternity of Feds, how his best friend was drawn into this quagmire, and the senseless loss of Catherine, all directed at the man he was pounding into the topsoil. 192
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Through the pounding Smyles managed to grab and twist John’s damaged wrist. Briefly the barrage ended and Smyles kicked his attacker off. John rolled into the base of the sleeping car. The door of the storage unit popped open and his left hand limply fell across the handle of the axe. Smyles scampered to his feet. His face was misshaped bloody pulp. Blood flowed freely from his mouth, nose, and ears, “That’s it you fucker!” he shrieked and flicked his wrist. A small throwing knife slid into the palm of his hand, “Now you die!” he brought the knife to bear.
“No!” John cried out and grabbed the axe. Sheer raw agony flared through his arm and shot across his chest as John threw the axe. The two weapons sparked in midair.
The knife burrowed into the ground between John’s legs. Smyles’ face opened up as the tip of the axe struck, and he dropped to the ground like a freed marionette.
John blew out a bloody breath and tried to stand, but the pain that tore into every corner of his body intensified and he collapsed into the blood drenched grass. Every last milligram of strength drained from his being and John surrendered to the blissfulness of darkness.
*****
Nikita’s slender fingers were laced together across the top of her head. Paul Forrester pressed the barrel of his .45 deep into the base of her skull. He was preparing himself for something he had wanted to do for a long time. A political assassination. Cool.
When Miezlaiskis approached him with an offer of an untraceable five million in a Swiss account to be the Group’s eyes and ears in CSIS, Forrester jumped at the chance.
When am I going to see that kind of cash again?
Then, out of nowhere, Vladimir Zadneprovsky called him. So Forrester set him up and arrange for Smyles to meet the Russian, but Zadneprovsky must have suspected something because he called Wildman. Zadneprovsky was eliminated but Wildman escaped, and disappeared.
Then, when she reentered the picture with Riel —what a pain in the ass—
Wildman could have been problem. It was tragic about her untimely demise because, according to Stein, she was a good lay, and now that she swung both ways he was looking to find out. Oh well, for a cool five mil, I can get all the nookie I want.
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Somewhere in the shuffle of events the data disk was lost, so his secret was safe again. That was the bottom line as far as he cared. Then he spotted the Russian woman talking with St. James. Now that was too good to pass up. He followed her here to Smyles’ operation. He watched her kill DeTully. So what, big deal, he thought as she iced the psycho. Now was the time. Triska may no longer be a threat, but she was still the enemy and that wa
s good enough.
“Any last words?” Forrester asked.
Nikita provided him with some in her native tongue.
“What?”
“She said, ‘Go fuck yourself,’” Lydia translated.
“Bitch,” Forrester hissed, “Say goodbye—”
“Drop it.”
The intensity behind the words chilled everyone in the room. They could feel the rage and anger that fueled it. They knew it was from a man who had been pushed to far, a man who was ready to cross the line. Bloodied and battered, Johnny Riel stood in the doorway. His left arm and hand hung like raw meat at his side, but firmly clenched in his right fist was Smyles’ .357 Magnum. It was pointed directly between Paul Forrester’s eyes.
“You!” Forrester exclaimed when he realized who had the drop on him. He glanced at Lydia. Her face showed the amazement he felt. He looks like the walking dead. His gaze returned to John, “What…?”
John spoke slowly and evenly, “Drop it or I drop you.”
Forrester looked into his eyes. They were cold, hard, and dangerous. This was not the same man he faced down back at the Special Operations building. John thumbed the .357’s hammer back.
His eyes widened and beads of sweat bubbled across Forrester’s brow.
“Your choice Forrester. One.” The streams of moisture thickened and dripped down his face. “Two...” A vein on Forrester’s forehead bulged as John’s face remained unreadable. “Three.”
“Don’t shoot!” Forrester cried and tossed the .45 away. For a long time the Magnum remained cocked and pointed at Forrester. Then slowly, John lowered the weapon.
Nikita blew out a breath she did not realize she was holding. She picked up the .45 and pushed Forrester toward the couch. He offered no resistance. Lydia remained standing. Her mind frozen by the transformation she just witnessed.
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“Smyles?” Nikita asked and aimed the Detonics at Forrester.
“Axed,” John replied and knelt next to Madhuri.
Her eyes flickered open, “John…” she whispered.
“It’s okay Babe. Don’t move.” John noticed that mixed with the burnt smell of gunpowder and the coppery sent of blood, Madhuri had a slight fruity smell. Her glucose levels were way too high. She needed insulin.
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