by E. S. Carter
The men in my vehicle are all on edge, each one of the five ready, willing and able to cause mass carnage.
Grim’s team is to take the front gate. His car is packed with explosives and will blow through the security cordon while he and his men pick off any of Federov’s that survive.
Sixty seconds later, the rest of us will scale the defences and attack from each side.
Grim’s fireworks should draw most of the focus to the front of the compound, allowing the rest of us to pick them off from the other three sides.
This time the fucker would not get the drop on us. There was no way for him to know we were coming, and with Cole bringing his plans forward twelve hours, even if we had a mole, their information would be wrong.
“The Eagle has landed and is ready for blast off,” Grim’s voice rumbles through my earpiece.
“Do you have to make every mission sound like a Die Hard trailer?” Cole asks, sounding less than amused.
“We’re in position.” The ever-professional Chisholm.
And because my fury with James has yet to abate, my monster is too close to the surface to allow me to give more than a brusque, “Here.”
“Give us the countdown, Eagle,” Cole commands.
Ten seconds later, “Blast off in five-four-three-two—”
A massive explosion sounds from the front of the compound, Grim’s aim right on target.
I give the signal to my men and count them down from sixty. Just over a minute after the explosion, all my team are over the ten foot, barb-wire topped wall and have spread out to clear the outside of the main buildings.
Only, we don’t encounter a single person, and by the time we make it to the other teams who have also cleared their areas, the look on Cole and Grim’s faces tell me they never came up against any resistance either.
“Something’s wrong,” Cole states, his frown deepening as his eyes scan the surrounding area like a big cat seeking out prey.
“Maybe the little scaredy-cunts are all hiding out inside?” Grim sneers. “Let’s burn the fuckers out.”
My monster roars in agreement, loving when Grim’s beast is in control.
“No,” Cole barks. “No fire, not when there are likely innocents inside.”
Grim mimics him, moving his mouth like a puppet to Cole’s words and a few of the men snigger.
Cole glares at our scarred brother, not an ounce of humour on his face or in his voice when he warns him and everyone else, “For every innocent you injure or kill carelessly, I’ll take a piece of your flesh. Do we understand?”
No one doubts his words and everyone except me and Grim nod in ascent. Grim just smiles, while I watch, a bored expression on my face.
“Plan B,” I announce, needing to get this shit done. “Each team takes their original compass positions and enters the main building as one.”
Sounds of agreement rumble through the assembled men and we all make to move out, but stop dead at the static crack and hiss that hums like an amp.
“Welcome to The Dominion, friends,” the heavily accented Russian voice begins, and every single man stands to attention, covering each other’s backs with their weapons raised. “We’d like to thank you for coming out to see us today, and to do this, we’ve sent you a welcome committee of sixty men who currently have you surrounded.”
“Bull-fucking-shit,” Grim spits. “There’s no way there are sixty men outside these walls and we missed them all.”
All eyes turn to scan the perimeter walls.
“You can try to fight us, but I’ll let you in on a secret, we are heavily armed and outnumber you three-to-one. Or…” The voice coming over the speakers leaves a dramatic pause before continuing. “You can allow us to welcome you into our home. The door is open, please step right in.”
I share looks with Cole and Grim, even Chisholm turns from us to stare at the front doors with a frown before his eyes once more find the perimeter.
“What do you think?” I ask the three men before me, their teams at their backs. “Believe they have sixty men out there?” I tip my chin to indicate the edge of the compound.
“We can take sixty,” Grim declares with his favourite knife in one hand and a gun in the other. “We’ve taken down more with less.”
Chisholm looks at Cole, then me, and offers, “I’d like to check the perimeter before believing some Russki butcher.”
Cole nods at his right-hand man. “I agree. Take your team to scope the north end. Report back over the secure line.”
Chisholm doesn’t need telling twice, and he and his men soon disappear from our sight.
“I sense disbelief,” the voice that must be Sasha’s continues. “Would you like a show of our power?”
A mighty explosion comes from the north end, where Chisholm and his men went seconds ago. Rapid gunfire comes from all sides, and our teams scatter to find cover.
“Chisolm, come in,” Cole’s voice demands over our earpieces. “Chisholm, report back.”
Nothing but dead air in response.
I can see Cole and his men crouched nearest the entrance of the main building, but where Grim and his team have gone is anybody’s guess. I can’t spot them from my limited view of the area, but the position me and my men have found ourselves in is the most precarious of all. When the gunfire began, we’d rushed to cover behind the still burning car that Grim had sent through the gates during our initial attack.
It only gives us enough coverage to the front, leaving our backs exposed to anyone who may come over those walls or is hiding out in the dozens of small buildings that look like storage sheds.
The raging gunfire stops, the echo of silence stinging my ears. I stare around the inner walls of the compound and understanding dawns. Not a single bullet was aimed at us. Those shots went into the air in warning.
“Impressive, yes?” The tinny voice over the speakers taunts. “You’ll soon see I am not a man of idle threats. This will be your last chance to doubt me. Enter the building, or my men will not only kill all of you, but they will also slaughter those you’ve come here to save.”
Cole’s furious gaze catches mine, the message in his blue eyes clear—that cocky bastard needs to die. His stare moves to the front door, then back to me, his intent evident.
For Federov to be making these announcements while watching our every move, he must be inside, so no matter where we take cover, we will not be safe.
Hand raised, three fingers in the air, Cole slowly uses them to count us down. On go, both mine and Cole’s teams charge towards the large, roller doors. One of my brother’s men slides to the floor and grabs the bottom lip of the metal shutters and with an almighty push—likely because he expected resistance—he heaves up the door which continues to roll almost the entire way to the top.
Unlocked, just as the voice in the speakers told us it would be.
Once the cavernous space revealed inside is given the once over, our men slip into the darkness within. I stop Cole with a hand on his shoulder.
“We’re walking into a trap.”
“It’s not a trap if we’re aware it’s one,” my brother responds. “Any sound from Chisholm?” I ask, unconvinced.
Cole shakes his head.
“Grim?”
Another negative.
With one last look behind us, we follow our men into the gloom. The light from outside barely reaches a few metres into the vast space before us.
Dried oil patches mottle the floor. A few metal ramps for cars lie off to one side.
“If this is the garage, where are all the vehicles?” One of the men voices to no one in particular.
“This place looks abandoned,” says another.
I reach down to a dark patch on the floor, and my fingertips come back slippery.
“This is fresh,” I say rubbing used oil between my fingertips. “It hasn’t been empty long.”
Three steel doors like the ones found in prisons line the back wall at almost equal intervals. Cole gives anothe
r signal, and the same man that opened the main door tries the handle of the first—locked. Another nod from Cole and the man moves onto door two—locked.
“What’s behind the third?” my brother’s voice murmurs.
“Well, it’s not a trip to The Seychelles or a cuddly toy,” I mutter dryly.
He ignores my words and announces, “If this one doesn’t open, we’ll blow the locks off all three.” His plan makes sense. Getting inside was always our priority.
“Don’t you think it’s funny he’s not giving us more advice via the audio system?” I question. “He was enjoying the sound of his own voice, yet now we’re left to follow our agenda?”
“He’s herding us,” Cole answers before giving his guy the nod. “We’ll only go where he wants us to.” His eyes find mine, and the look he gives me tells me we’ll go where we damned well please.
The tall, dark-haired man jiggles the handle of the third door but doesn’t open it. From my view, he doesn’t even try to open it but makes a production of his attempt.
“Locked, sir,” he calls to Cole who gives him a nod.
My guess is it’s not.
“Okay, boys,” Cole shouts, raising his voice unnecessarily high. “Blow all three.”
I bite back a smile and take in the show.
Because that’s what this is. Federov the film-maker is getting a scene set just for him.
With the small explosive devices attached to each door, we all retreat to the edges of the room. Mere seconds later, the satisfying bang and pop of the door locks bounces loudly around the near-empty space, echoing off the concrete floor and creating a ringing in my ears.
Cole splits us into three groups, his team taking door number three—the one we were all meant to herd through—then gives the signal to cut contact and meet back here in fifteen.
He holds his hand up, fist clenched in a wait signal, but before he’s uncoiled his fingers to tell us to go as one, the man at door one pulls it open.
It all happens so fast, yet in slow motion. Something clicks loudly, and as he takes his first step over the threshold—his three teammates behind him in formation—a startled roar rends the air and the guy at the front is thrown back into the ones behind him. All four get knocked back a foot or so, the blonde skinhead at the end of the row falling onto his back with the force of the three others hitting him.
Only the other three don’t fall. They don’t fall because a six-foot metal post, tipped at the end like a spear, and about four inches thick, skewers them together like a human kebab.
The man at the front who took the brunt of the impact slouches like a broken ragdoll. The second one sandwiched in the middle, howls and gurgles, blood spilling from his lips like a fountain, and the third looks down at the post spearing his guts—the tip visibly poking out around kidney height in his back—in frozen shock.
“Fuck,” Cole thunders, sprinting towards the men and dragging the uninjured one up out of the way. “Get away from the other two fucking doors.”
The man in the middle continues to splutter, his face a deathly shade of white in harsh contrast to the crimson bubbling from his lips. He soon flops forward, his forehead coming to rest on the dead man in front of him. Cole’s attention is on the third man as he tries his best to get his morbid attention away from the thing in his guts.
“Help me pull him off,” he shouts, and Johnson from my original team rushes to stand at the man’s other side, gripping his arm and waiting for Cole to give the word to move him.
The pain of their attempt rips through the third man’s catatonic fog, and the only one of the three left alive howls in unrestrained agony.
“Fuck, it’s wedged in at an angle,” Johnson says in frustration. “We’ll have to cut it to get him off.”
“With what?” Cole all but screams in the man’s face. “It’s four inches thick. We’d need a fucking disc cutter.”
“Then we’ll have to leave him there. You rip him off this, and he’s dead.”
“He’s dead anyway,” I say taking a step forward and raising my gun. A second later I shoot the guy through the back of the head.
His body slumps to the side at an awkward angle, and the hole in his belly gets bigger.
Every man in the room stares at me. Some with fingers twitching on their guns, others in agreement.
“I did him a favour,” I say to the group. “Feel free to return the goodwill if I end up a human pincushion.”
Cole opens his mouth about to rip me a new one, but the tell-tale hiss of electricity bursting to life comes a split second before Federov’s voice returns, the sound coming from concealed speakers within this empty garage.
“Oh, dear. Did you open the wrong door?”
A metallic rattle rumbles through the air, seeming to come from above our heads. I turn to the exit in time to see a portcullis style steel gate as it slams shut behind the still raised roller doors, blocking our only way to the outside.
“Tut, tut, tut. You should’ve stuck with door three. But I must say, the shit that happened at door one looks fucking amazing in high definition.”
Bang.
Cole raises his weapon and fires at the source of the sound. The bullet takes chunks out of the ceiling, raining down pieces of plaster, brick and dust.
Silence for a few moments. Then, “Save your ammo, Mr Hunter, or can I call you Cole? You’re looking very well for a dead man.”
“What do you want, Federov. Or can I call you Sasha? I’d say you were looking well for a dead man’s son, but you’re too much of a whiny cunt to show your face. At least your daddy had some balls and faced death like a man, not a mouse.”
The laughter over the sound system is mocking, and the following words are filled with arrogance.
“Take door three, Mr Hunter. Or, I’m afraid Mr Chisholm will lose his other arm.”
The tortured sound of someone in the background screaming tears through a noise that starts as a deep, vibrating buzz.
An electric saw.
It’s enough to make Cole move.
“Open the third fucking door,” he commands the man nearest to it.
I don’t know this guy’s name, but he doesn’t look too happy about the task he’s been given. One can hardly blame him considering the fate of those who opened door one.
Gun in hand, he walks to the third door, his grip hesitating on the handle.
On Cole’s nod, the man presses down and opens the door wide, ducking and rolling at the last moment, in case another spear decides to soar from the ceiling like a battering ram.
Nothing happens. Nothing at all.
The door opens, and no bogeyman jumps out of the shadows to attack.
It’s almost anticlimactic.
When Federov offers us no further instructions, I look over to my brother with destruction in my eyes. My monster is so close to the surface from of all the bloodshed, that I struggle to form words, but I force out a gravelled, “Follow me. Cover my back.”
Cole nods with a steely determination in his eyes and a thick layer of fury emanates from his skin.
As my foot passes over the threshold of door three, the crying begins. It’s a newborn’s wail. Shrill and vibrato. It pierces the air and forces me to still.
Music comes over the speakers, a corny Mission impossible-esque tune. Grim would think it genius.
“Your mission, should you choose to accept it. Save the squealing runt. His mother didn’t make it when I sliced open her belly, but this kid has some mighty big balls. He wants to live. I estimate he has less than ten minutes of air in his box, less if he keeps wailing. Don’t, as your countrymen are fond of saying, dilly dally.”
Federov’s words are laced with dark humour and drag forgotten memories of a recently viewed image to the front of my mind. Alec Craven’s mistress and Lily’s mother had her belly ripped open and her baby torn out and discarded. Federov obviously has a calling card.
The fucker needs to die. If only he’d show his cowardly face.
With the second door an unviable option, and our exit blocked, Federov once more has us in the palm of his hand as we take our first steps into the hall beyond doorway three.
Cole has pushed past me to lead, the sound of the baby bringing forth his need to save and protect. A guy with shaggy dark hair follows behind him, then me in position three. I watch as Cole pauses for a second to tap at his watch.
Morse Code. Does he want me to see the message he’s tapping or is he using the new devices we’ve been trialling that—like the watch I used to alert Cole to my distress call—allow the wearer to send and receive messages by good old-fashioned Morse code. But if the message isn’t for me, who could he be communicating with?
Faye. It would be exactly Cole’s style to make his wife learn the covert communication technique—probably with his hand choking her throat and his dick up her arse. I can see him tapping dots and dashes into her round rump, rewarding her with a deep thrust if she got it right, and the smacking sting of his hand if she was wrong.
I would expect she learned very quickly… or not. Faye Craven, sorry, Faye Hunter, likely enjoys her husband’s brand of tutelage.
When his eyes eventually land on mine, I see the message he wants to convey. He has some intelligence, but he can’t share it with us because Federov is listening. Whatever it is has Cole’s usually bright blue eyes darkening to almost pitch black, as rage tightens his features and ripples across his rigid stance.
“Let’s end this,” is all he says, more to me than the remaining members of our team.
I nod once, my monster baying for blood, but also, somewhere inside us both there’s a seed of need—a desperation to get back to what we’ve claimed as ours.
James.
We turn in unison, the narrow hallway dark and unlit, only the beam from Cole’s small flashlight as he flicks it across the space in front of us, giving us any indication of what Federov might throw at us next.
Because there will be a something next.
This is his game. He’s the puppet master. We are merely his game pieces to move about as he deems fit.
Slowly, we work our way deeper into the maze-like building, the silence between us even seeping into our breaths. We move carefully but efficiently, unknowing if Federov’s threat about the child is a truth or a hoax.