by Jack Mars
The man in the cap waved them through.
Only a few miles down N5, the SUV pulled off of the highway and onto a narrow road that cut parallel to the main thoroughfare. There was no exit sign and the road itself was barely paved; it was an access road, likely one that was created for logging vehicles. The car jostled over the deep ruts in the dirt. The two goons bumped against one another opposite Reid, but still they continued to stare straight forward at him.
He checked the cheap watch he had bought at the pharmacy. Two hours and forty-six minutes they had been traveling. Last night he had been in the US, and then woken up in Paris, and now he was in Belgium. Relax, his subconscious coaxed. Nowhere you haven’t been before. Just pay attention and keep your mouth shut.
Both sides of the road appeared to be nothing but thick trees. The SUV continued on, climbing up the side of a curving mountain and down again. All the while Reid peered out the window, pretending to be idle but looking for any sort of landmark or sign that would tell him where they were—ideally something he could recount later to the authorities, if need be.
There were lights ahead, though at his angle he could not see the source. The SUV slowed again and rolled to a gentle stop. Reid saw a black wrought-iron fence, each post topped in a dangerous spike, stretching to either side and vanishing into the darkness. Alongside their vehicle was a small guard house made of glass and dark brick, a fluorescent light illuminating the inside. A man emerged. He wore slacks and a pea coat, the collar flipped up around his neck and a gray scarf knotted at his throat. He made no attempt to hide the silenced MP7 hanging from a strap over his right shoulder. In fact, as he stepped toward the car, he gripped the automatic pistol, though he did not raise it.
Heckler & Koch, production variant MP7A1, said the voice in Reid’s head. Seven-point-one-inch suppressor. Elcan reflex sight. Thirty-round magazine.
The driver rolled down his window and spoke with the man for just a few seconds. Then the guard rounded the SUV and pulled open the door on Yuri’s side. He bent and peered into the cab. Reid caught the scent of rye whiskey and felt the sting of the frigid rush of air that came with it. The man glanced at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering on Reid.
“Kommunikator,” said Yuri. “Chtoby uvidet’ nachal’nika.” Russian. Messenger, to see the boss.
The guard said nothing. He closed the door again and returned to his post, pressing a button on a small console. The black-iron gate hummed as it rolled aside, and the SUV pulled through.
Reid’s throat tightened as the full gravity of his situation pressed in on him. He had gone to the meeting with the intention of getting information about whatever was happening—not just to him, but with all the talk of plans and sheikhs and foreign cities. He had gotten into the car with Yuri and the two goons in the heat of finding a source. He had let them take him out of the country and into the middle of a dense forested region, and now they were behind a tall, guarded, spiked gate. He had no idea how he might get out of this if something went awry.
Relax. You’ve done this before.
No I haven’t! he thought desperately. I’m a college professor from New York. I don’t know what I’m doing. Why did I do this? My girls…
Just give in to it. You’ll know what to do.
Reid took a deep breath, but it did little to calm his nerves. He peered out the window. In the darkness, he could just barely make out their surroundings. There were no trees behind the gate, but rather rows upon rows of stout vines, climbing and weaving through waist-high latticework… It was a vineyard. Whether it was actually a vineyard or merely a front, he wasn’t sure, but it was at least something recognizable, something that could be seen by helicopter or a drone flyover.
Good. That’ll come in handy later.
If there is a later.
The SUV drove slowly over the gravel road for another mile or so before the vineyard ended. Before them was a palatial estate, practically a castle, built in gray stone with arching windows and ivy climbing up the southern façade. For the briefest of moments, Reid appreciated the beautiful architecture; it was likely two hundred years old, maybe more. But they did not stop there; instead, the car circled around the grand home and behind it. After another half mile, they pulled into a small lot and the driver cut the engine.
They had arrived. But where they had arrived to, he had no idea.
The goons exited first, and then Reid climbed out, followed by Yuri. The bitter cold took his breath away. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. Their two large escorts seemed to not be bothered by it at all.
About forty yards from them was a large, squat structure, two stories tall and several times as wide; windowless and made of corrugated steel painted beige. Some sort of facility, Reid reasoned—perhaps for winemaking. But he doubted it.
Yuri groaned as he stretched his limbs. Then he grinned at Reid. “Ben, I understand we are now very good friends, but still…” He pulled from his jacket pocket a narrow length of black fabric. “I must insist.”
Reid nodded once, tightly. What choice did he have? He turned so that Yuri could tie the blindfold over his eyes. A strong, meaty hand gripped his upper arm—one of the goons, no doubt.
“Now then,” Yuri said. “Onwards to Otets.” The strong hand pulled him forward and guided him as they walked in the direction of the steel structure. He felt another shoulder brush against his own on the opposite side; the two large goons had him flanked.
Reid breathed evenly through his nose, trying his best to remain calm. Listen, his mind told him.
I am listening.
No, listen. Listen, and give in.
Someone banged three times on a door. The sound of it was dull and hollow as a bass drum. Though he couldn’t see, Reid imagined in his mind’s eye Yuri banging with the flat of his fist against the heavy steel door.
Ca-chunk. A deadbolt sliding aside. A whoosh, a rush of warm air as the door opened. Suddenly, a mélange of noises—glass clinking, liquid sloshing, belts whirring. Vintner’s equipment, by the sound of it. Strange; he hadn’t heard anything from outside. The building’s exterior walls are soundproofed.
The heavy hand guided him inside. The door closed again and the deadbolt was slid back into place. The floor beneath him felt like smooth concrete. His shoes slapped against a small puddle. The acetous odor of fermentation was strongest, and just under that, the sweeter familiar scent of grape juice. They really are making wine here.
Reid counted his paces across the floor of the facility. They passed through another set of doors, and with it came an assortment of new sounds. Machinery—hydraulic press. Pneumatic drill. The clinking chain of a conveyor. The fermentation scent gave way to grease, motor oil, and… Powder. They’re manufacturing something here; most likely munitions. There was something else, something familiar, past the oil and powder. It was somewhat sweet, like almonds… Dinitrotoluene. They’re making explosives.
“Stairs,” said Yuri’s voice, close to his ear, as Reid’s shin bumped against the bottommost step. The heavy hand continued to guide him as four sets of footfalls climbed the steel stairs. Thirteen steps. Whoever built this place must not be superstitious.
At the top was yet another steel door. Once it was closed behind them, the sounds of machinery were drowned out—another soundproofed room. Classical piano music played from nearby. Brahms. Variations on a Theme of Paganini. The melody was not rich enough to be coming from an actual piano; a stereo of some kind.
“Yuri.” The new voice was a stern baritone, slightly rasped from either shouting often or too many cigars. Judging by the scent of the room, it was the latter. Possibly both.
“Otets,” said Yuri obsequiously. He spoke rapidly in Russian. Reid did his best to follow along with Yuri’s accent. “I bring you good news from France…”
“Who is this man?” the baritone demanded. With the way he spoke, Russian seemed to be his native tongue. Reid couldn’t help but wonder what the connection might be between t
he Iranians and this Russian man—or the goons in the SUV, for that matter, and even the Serbian Yuri. An arms deal, maybe, said the voice in his head. Or something worse.
“This is the Iranians’ messenger,” Yuri replied. “He has the information we seek for—”
“You brought him here?” the man interjected. His deep voice rose to a roar. “You were supposed to go to France and meet with the Iranians, not drag men back to me! You would compromise everything with your stupidity!” There was a sharp crack—a solid backhand across a face—and a gasp from Yuri. “Must I write your job description on a bullet to get it through your thick skull?!”
“Otets, please…” Yuri stammered.
“Do not call me that!” the man shouted fiercely. A gun cocked—a heavy pistol, by the sound of it. “Do not call me by any name in the presence of this stranger!”
“He is no stranger!” Yuri yelped. “He is Agent Zero! I have brought you Kent Steele!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kent Steele.
Silence reigned for several seconds that felt like minutes. A hundred visions flashed quickly through Reid’s mind as if they were being machine-fed. The CIA. National Clandestine Service, Special Activities Division, Special Operations Group. Psych ops.
Agent Zero.
If you’re exposed, you’re dead.
We don’t talk. Ever.
Impossible.
His fingers were trembling again.
It was simply impossible. Things like memory wipes or implants or suppressors were the stuff of conspiracy theories and Hollywood films.
It didn’t matter now anyway. They knew who he was the whole time—from the bar to the car ride and all the way to Belgium, Yuri had known that Reid was not who he said he was. Now he was blindfolded and trapped behind a steel door with at least four armed men. No one else knew where he was or who he was. A heavy knot of dread formed deep in his stomach and threatened to make him nauseous.
“No,” said the baritone voice slowly. “No, you are mistaken. Stupid Yuri. This is not the CIA man. If it was, you would not be standing here!”
“Unless he came here to find you!” Yuri countered.
Fingers grabbed at the blindfold and yanked it off. Reid squinted in the sudden harshness of the overhead fluorescent lights. He blinked in the face of a man in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, a full beard shorn close to the cheek, and sharp, discerning eyes. The man, presumably Otets, wore a charcoal gray suit, the top two buttons of his shirt undone and curling gray chest hairs peeking out from beneath it. They stood in an office, the walls painted dark red and adorned with gaudy paintings.
“You,” the man said in accented English. “Who are you?”
Reid took a jagged breath and fought the urge to tell the man that he simply didn’t know anymore. Instead, in a tremulous voice, he said, “My name is Ben. I’m a messenger. I work with the Iranians.”
Yuri, who was on his knees behind Otets, leapt to his feet. “He lies!” the Serbian screeched. “I know he lies! He says that the Iranians sent him, but they would never trust an American!” Yuri leered. A thin rivulet of blood eked from the corner of his mouth where Otets had struck him. “But I know more. See, I asked you about Amad.” He shook his head as he bared his teeth. “There is no Amad among them.”
It seemed odd to Reid that these men seemed to know the Iranians, but not who they worked with or who they might send. They were certainly connected somehow, but what that connection might be, he had no idea.
Otets muttered curses under his breath in Russian. Then in English he said, “You tell Yuri you are messenger. Yuri tells me you are the CIA man. What am I to believe? You certainly do not look like I imagined Zero to be. Yet my idiot errand boy speaks one truth: the Iranians despise Americans. This does not look good for you. You tell me the truth, or I will shoot you in your kneecap.” He hefted the heavy pistol—a TIG Series Desert Eagle.
Reid lost his breath for a moment. It was a very large gun.
Give in, his mind prodded.
He wasn’t sure how to do that. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he did. The last time these new instincts took over, four men ended up dead, and he, quite literally, had blood on his hands. But there was no way out of this for him—that is, for Professor Reid Lawson. But Kent Steele, whoever that might be, might find a way. Maybe he didn’t know who he was, but it wouldn’t matter much if he didn’t survive long enough to find out.
Reid closed his eyes. He nodded once, a silent acquiescence to the voice in his head. His shoulders went slack and his fingers stopped trembling.
“I am waiting,” said Otets flatly.
“You wouldn’t want to shoot me,” Reid said. He was surprised to hear his own voice so calm and even. “A point-blank shot from that gun wouldn’t blow out my knee. It would sever my leg, and I’d bleed out on the floor of this office in seconds.”
Otets shrugged one shoulder. “What is it you Americans like to say? You cannot make omelet without—”
“I have the information you need,” Reid cut him off. “The sheikh’s location. What he gave me. Who I gave it to. I know all about your plot, and I’m not the only one.”
The corners of Otets’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Agent Zero.”
“I told you!” said Yuri. “I did well, yes?”
“Shut up,” Otets barked. Yuri shrank like a beaten dog. “Take him downstairs and get all of what he knows. Start by removing fingers. I don’t want to waste time.”
On any ordinary day, the threat of having his fingers cut off would have sent a shock of fear through Reid. His muscles tensed for a moment, the small hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end—but his new instinct fought against it and forced him to relax. Wait, it told him. Wait for an opportunity…
The bald goon nodded curtly and grabbed onto Reid’s arm again.
“Idiot!” Otets snapped. “Bind him first! Yuri, go to file cabinet. There should be something there.”
Yuri hurried to the three-drawer oak cabinet in the corner and rifled through it until he found a bundled length of coarse twine. “Here,” he said, and he tossed it to the bald brute.
All eyes instinctively moved skyward toward the bundle of twine spinning in the air—both goons, Yuri, and Otets.
But not Reid’s. He had a shot, and he took it.
He cupped his left hand and arced it upward at a sharp angle, striking the bald man’s windpipe with the meaty side of his palm. He felt the throat give beneath his hand.
As the first blow landed, he kicked out his left boot heel behind him and struck the bearded thug in the hip—the same hip the man had been favoring on the ride to Belgium.
A wet choking gasp escaped the bald man’s lips as his hands flew to his throat. The bearded brute grunted as his large body spun and collapsed.
Down!
The twine slapped the floor. So did Reid. In one motion he fell into a crouch and yanked the Glock from the bald man’s ankle holster. Without looking up, he leapt forward and tucked into a roll.
As soon as he jumped, a thunderous report tore across the small office, impossibly loud. The shot from the Desert Eagle left an impressive dent in the office’s steel door.
Reid came out of the roll only a few feet from Otets and propelled himself forward, toward him. Before Otets could pivot to aim, Reid grabbed his gun hand from underneath—never grab the top slide, that’s a good way to lose a finger—and pushed it up and away. The gun went off again, a piercing boom only a couple of feet from Reid’s head. His ears rang, but he ignored it. He twisted the gun down and to the side, keeping the barrel pointed away from him as he brought it to his hip—and Otets’s hand with it.
The older man threw back his head and screamed as his trigger finger snapped. The sound nauseated Reid as the Desert Eagle clattered to the floor.
He spun and wrapped one arm around Otets’s neck, using him as a shield as he aimed at the two goons. The bald man was out of commission, gasping for breath in vain agains
t a crushed windpipe, but the bearded man had loosened his TEC-9. Without hesitating, Reid fired three shots in quick succession, two in the chest and one in the forehead. A fourth shot put the bald man out of his misery.
Reid’s conscience screamed at him from the back of his mind. You just killed two men. Two more men. But this new consciousness was stronger, pushing his nausea and sense of preservation back.
You can panic later. You’re not finished here.
Reid spun fully around, with Otets in front of him as if they were dancing, and leveled the Glock at Yuri. The hapless messenger was struggling to free a Sig Sauer from his shoulder harness.
“Stop,” Reid commanded. Yuri froze. “Hands up.” The Serbian messenger slowly put his hands up, palms out. He grinned wide.
“Kent,” he said in English, “we are very good friends, are we not?”
“Take my Beretta out of your left jacket pocket and set it on the floor,” Reid instructed.
Yuri licked the blood from the corner of his mouth and wiggled the fingers of his left hand. Slowly, he reached into the pocket and pulled out the small black pistol. But he didn’t set it on the floor. Instead he held it, barrel pointed downward.
“You know,” he said, “it occurs to me that if you want information, you need at least one of us alive. Yes?”
“Yuri!” Otets growled. “Do as he asks!”
“On the floor,” Reid repeated. He didn’t take his gaze off of Yuri, but he was concerned that others in the facility might have heard the roar of the Desert Eagle. He had no idea how many people were downstairs, but the office was soundproofed and there was machinery running elsewhere. It was possible no one had heard it—or perhaps they were used to the sound and thought little of it.
“Maybe,” said Yuri, “I take this gun and I shoot Otets. Then you need me.”
“Yuri, nyet!” Otets cried, this time more stunned than angry.
“See, Kent,” said Yuri, “this is not La Cosa Nostra. This is more like, uh… disgruntled employee. You see how he treats me. So maybe I shoot him, and you and I, we work something out…”