by Slaton Smith
In Russian, Sergei said, “You can either walk down the stairs or I will drag you.”
Waters did not acknowledge him. He didn’t understand Russian as well as he should have. Sergei delivered a hard blow to Waters’ mid-section which brought him to his knees.
“Dragging it is.” Sean watched as Sergei picked up Waters’ leg again and pulled him down the bare wooden stairs. Waters went down, taking the brunt of the stairs with his ribs. Sean followed right behind him. Reaching the bottom, Sergei let go of Waters and let him lay on the cold damp floor. Sean stepped over him and into the basement.
The basement had an old, musty smell. It was unfinished with cracks in the floor and walls. It was a small space. On one side was a dirty wash bin with a rusty, dripping faucet. Adjacent, a peg-board was nailed to the basement wall above an old workbench. A fluorescent light hung above the table. The wood on top of the bench was well worn. It was clear whoever had lived here spent a considerable amount of time in the basement building birdhouses, spice racks or something like that.
In the center of the room was an old wooden chair sitting on top of a large square piece of plastic. It faced the wall. The workbench was directly behind it.
Sergei picked Waters up by the back of the shirt and pulled him over to the chair, cut the zip tie cuffs with a knife and pushed him into it.
“Secure him!” he ordered, pointing at Sean and throwing the cuffs on the floor. On the table was a neat little pile of zip ties. Sean secured Waters arms and legs to the chair. Sergei pulled the hood off of his head. Waters blinked his eyes and tried to focus. He had a large cut above his eye. Sergei stood off to his left and Sean to his right. Sean watched Pavel came down the stairs. Pavel did not speak, but dropped a small, black bag on the workbench. He took a seat on the third stair from the bottom, where he could see the whole room.
Sergei stared at Waters. He did not speak. So Waters did.
“Very impressive.”
No one responded.
“Now, I am sure we can come to some sort of arrangement that doesn’t end with your death or imprisonment,” Waters said, trying to sound bolder than he felt.
Sergei had neither spoken nor averted his eyes from Waters. He nodded at Pavel and was tossed a large yellow lemon. Sergei caught it in his left hand and held it up for Waters to see, then held it between his thumb and middle finger. Waters stopped talking. He knew what was coming.
In Russian, he said to Sean, “Cut off his pants.” He pointed at the workbench. Sergei was now holding the lemon on his palm still staring at Waters. Sean picked up a pair of sheers and began cutting off Waters’ pants. He ran the sharp sheers up both sides of his legs. Then like he was pulling a cloth off a table full of plates, yanked them off. He threw them on the floor. Waters instantly felt more vulnerable. He still thought there was a chance he would get out of this. A small chance.
“My Russian is rusty, would you mind going back to English?” Waters asked. Sergei ignored him.
“Your knives. Bring them here,” Sergei said to Sean. Pavel handed them to Sean who took them and stood next to Sergei.
“Cut him. Not too deep,” Sergei commanded.
Sean stood in front of Waters and looked down at him. He held a knife in each hand. Waters stared up at him and decided to throw a Hail Mary.
“Ted Williams hit .406 in 1941,” Waters said, suddenly.
Simultaneously, Pavel jumped to his feet, pulled a gun and leveled it at Sean. Sergei and Pavel knew the trigger words and were prepared if Waters tried to turn Sean against them. However, Sean had already begun moving. He spun the knives in his hands, gripped them and drove both of them through Waters’ left and right inner thighs and all the way into the wooden chair. Waters let out a piecing scream. Sean left the knives in his legs and then put his hands on Waters’ arms that were secured to the chair and looked into the face of the screaming man.
In English, Sean whispered, “That was for my friend. I am going to skin you alive if they let me. You had better hope they don’t leave me alone with you.”
Sean looked at Sergei. “Let me know when it’s my turn!” Sean could feel the anger coursing through his veins. His face was hot. He felt the only release would be via the slaughter of Waters. He was now over the edge and needed to be reeled back in.
Sergei motioned for Pavel to put the gun away. Pavel sat back down.
“I think you have had your turn Sean, and that’s too deep.” Sergei said, sarcastically, referring to the knife wounds.
Sean walked over and sat on the steps next to Pavel. Sergei pulled both of the knives out of Waters’ legs. Waters screamed again. Blood was pooling on the chair. Not much, but some. Sean had purposely not hit any arteries, just the fatty portion of Waters’ legs. Sergei made small cuts on Waters left leg. A bit of blood appeared. Waters squirmed, but Sean had tied him securely. Sergei placed one of the knives back on the workbench.
“Sorry,” Pavel whispered in Russian to Sean. Sean didn’t respond.
Once again, Sergei showed the lemon to Waters and began cutting it into small slices. He placed all but one slice on the workbench. He came around and showed it to Waters. Waters was still obvious in pain from the knife wounds. Sergei held the lemon slice over Waters’ leg and squeezed. The juice hit the raw, open skin and Waters began screaming once again.
Switching back to English, Sergei began his questions.
“Who authorized this?”
Waters paused. He saw no reason to protect anyone.
“George Price.”
Sergei knew who was responsible, but didn’t acknowledge Waters’ reply.
“Higher?” he asked.
“No. Price sees the director as a soft old fool. Price had me working the program in the dark. He hid the funding. No one at the agency knew about the program but Price and me.”
“The people who worked for you?”
“People I blackmailed and who were forced to join me.”
Like Ana, Sergei thought.
“The others were mercenaries,” Waters added.
“I want the details on everyone involved in this.”
“It’s all in my briefcase. The papers. You grabbed them at the hotel.”
“Where is Price? He will need to answer for this.”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you like another lemon?”
Waters shook his head.
“He has a place in Florida. Daytona. He will try to flee the country, but he will go there first.”
“Why?”
“He keeps all of his private records down there. He has the goods on everyone. Plus, he has stolen quite a bit of money. It is hidden there.”
“The doctor?” Sergei asked next.
“Seamus McFarland.”
“And where is he?”
“Argentina. He took off when he saw things going south.”
“Well that’s an appropriate place for him,” Sean said from the steps.
Waters kept talking. He always told himself that if he was ever captured, he could hold out. In reality, he lasted less than ten minutes.
“I have no loyalty to Price. He sent a team after me last night. I lost them.”
Sergei looked back at Waters.
“What team?”
“A bunch of nobodies,” Waters added, unaware that George Price had put a contract out on him.
In Russian, Sergei asked, “Pavel is that tracking device still active?”
“No,” Pavel said, without hesitation.
“Did you pat him down when we threw him in the van?”
“Yes. He was clean,” Pavel responded.
“Please check the van,” Sergei asked. Pavel ran up the stairs. He went into the garage and searched the van. He was satisfied until he caught a glimpse of something blinking from under the front seat. He scrambled up to the front and found the cell phone. He cursed in Russian as he removed the battery.
Several miles away, three men watched the signal disappear, but they already ha
d the address. They pulled over behind a Roy Rogers and began prepping their gear.
Sergei and Sean didn’t speak. Sergei kept staring at Waters. Waters tried to match his cold, icy glare, but couldn’t. He knew he would be dead in the next ten minutes.
Finally Waters spoke. He had to get in a dig.
“By the way, it was Price that ordered the killing of the Pittsburgh cop.”
Sean stood, took the second knife off of the workbench and stepped towards Waters. Sergei put his hand in the middle of Sean’s chest and stopped him. Sean looked down at Sergei’s hand and then back up into his eyes. For a split second, Sergei panicked. This was what Ana warned him about. He could feel the young man’s rage. Could he stop Sean? Sergei turned to Waters. Sean took a few steps back.
Pavel came back down the stairs.
In rapid Russian he said, “His phone was under the front seat. It must have fallen out. We need to wrap this up.”
Sergei took a breath and let it out slowly. He was disappointed. He wanted more time with Waters. Missing the phone was a major mistake; he knew the phone could be tracked via GPS. A group of commandos could be here any minute.
“How many like him?” Sergei asked, gesturing at Sean.
“Just two left. You met the other one at the hotel. His name is Oscar Pasco.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He is a sociopath, driven totally by personal gain. No sense of right or wrong. Plagued by addiction. Gambling, drugs. He was practically living in a Detroit casino when we found him.”
“Sounds a little like you. The sociopath bit at least,” Sean said.
“I did what I need to do to protect this country!” Waters shouted at Sean.
“What you did is trample on what this country stands for. You are no better than the people you killed,” Sean snapped back.
“You mean the people you killed,” Waters said, smirking.
Sergei delivered a hard, open-hand slap to the side of Waters’ head. The pop echoed off the walls of the room.
“That’s enough! Why was he there and why was he with the Arabs?”
Waters really didn’t want to answer the question.
“Did you not understand my question?”
“Happy hour?” Waters gritted his teeth, waiting for the response.
Sean was seething. He could not control himself now. He moved too fast to be stopped by Pavel or Sergei. In the blink on an eye, he took two steps towards Waters, inserted the end of the knife into Waters’ nostril and sliced through the nose and part of his face. Waters screamed again and fought his restraints in a bid to free himself. Blood ran down his face and neck, staining his shirt. Waters tried to spit out the blood that was seeping into his mouth. Sergei pulled Sean away, but not before Sean threw the knife. It embedded itself between Waters’ legs in the wooden chair. Sean stood near the steps, his face red, anger radiating from him.
“I think you will do better with me. Please answer the question, or I’ll let Sean take over,” Sergei said. He left the knife between Waters’ legs.
Waters looked at Sean.
“I sent Garrison to kill a Saudi national, a prince. The son wants revenge. I gave Pasco the information on Garrison. The son put a contract out on him.”
“It looks like this Pasco betrayed you in the process. What else?”
Waters clammed up. The only sound in the room was the “hum” produced by the cheap florescent lights.
“What else?”
Waters did not answer.
“Do you want Sean to start asking the questions?”
Waters remained silent.
Sergei pulled the knife from the chair and finished what Sean had started by slitting the other nostril. Waters screamed and gave up the last piece.
“Your daughter! Your daughter! They are also coming for her!”
Sergei glared at Pavel and Sean. His face was red.
“Go upstairs,” Sergei said in a low, menacing voice. Pavel took Sean’s arm and pulled him up the stairs. Waters heard the door close and looked at Sergei.
“I know you know who I am.”
Waters nodded and tried to swallow.
“Do you know who sent me?”
Waters nodded again. He had a good guess. Sergei took the knife and sliced through the zip ties on Waters’ feet and arms. He was free. Sergei walked behind him and placed the knife on the bench and reached into the black bag, pulling out a pair of black leather gloves. He came back around to face Waters, who was trying to get to his feet. Sergei stood in front of him and slowly put on the gloves.
“In Spetsnaz there is a group called the Maroon Berets. They are the top 1/10th of one percent of everyone in the Red Army. I was one. To be one, we basically had to kick the shit out of everyone, but that was not enough. They made us endure hardships that you cannot begin to imagine. If you survived, you were the best. The toughest. The most ruthless. An apex predator.”
His eyes never left Waters as he made sure the gloves were tight. He squeezed the gloves, making a fist. His forearms were knotted with thick muscles. Not the type you get from the gym. The type you get from quick roping into a hostile country and strangling someone to death with your bare hands.
“You know what I did to relax?”
Waters still didn’t speak.
“Of course, I love SAMBO, but I was a boxer. Gloves. Bare knuckle. It didn’t matter. I fought. I fought everyone. In Spetsnaz, everyone wanted to be the one that beat a Maroon Beret. I got plenty of practice. They lined up to take a shot. A couple guys gave me a good fight. One broke my nose. I broke his arms.”
He paused.
“You might be surprised, but I have a perfect record.”
Waters knew he was about to die.
“I am going to give you a chance to ruin that perfect record.” Sergei offered, then began to rain down blows that killed Robert Waters in eighteen seconds.
XIV
Unexpected Visitors
Dale City, VA - Late Monday Night
Sean walked into the kitchen and stuck his head into the refrigerator. There was nothing in there but a case of bottled water. He took one and knocked it back. His mouth was bone dry from the exchange downstairs. The kitchen appliances were classic Harvest Gold. Stainless steel was probably not the rage when this house was built. The counters were laminate. It was basically a galley kitchen with a small nook for a breakfast table. Pavel was searching a bag on the table. Finding what he wanted, he looked up at Sean.
“Come here. Let me stitch you up,” he said. Sean sat down and Pavel began closing the wound on his shoulder. They could hear the sound of a fist hitting meat reverberating through the house.
“Whose house?” Sean asked.
“No idea. Glad to have it,” Pavel answered. This reply caused further consternation for Sean. Exactly where were these two getting the resources? He didn’t have long to think as Sergei walked up from the basement into the kitchen. He didn’t speak, went to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of water, took a drink and looked at his shirt. It was splattered with blood.
“Damn it.” He pulled off the shirt, tossed it in a bag on the counter and pulled out a fresh, red, golf shirt. He did not have an ounce of fat on him. No tattoos. No scars. For all of the action he had seen, he had come out without a scratch, at least, physically.
“You play a lot of golf?” Sean asked, pointing to the shirt.
“Shut your smart-ass mouth!” Sergei responded, pulling the shirt over his head.
Sean stood up.
“I’m not in the fucking Red Army! You don’t get to tell me to shut up!”
Sergei took two steps towards Sean before Pavel jumped between them.
“Stop! Stop!” he shouted, as he pushed Sergei back forcefully.
“Listen, we need to get that body and get out of here!” Pavel shouted at Sergei. Sergei continued to glare at Sean.
Just then the power went out. The house went dark. All three of them hit the floor. Pavel and Sergei pulled t
heir bags off the counter. Sergei handed Sean an H&K P2000. Pavel and Sergei each pulled out suppressed H&K MX8s.
“Sean, they are going to be in here any second. They will use flash bang grenades. Close your eyes tight when you hear the glass breaking. Hold your nose and blow out to release the pressure from the blast. They will be in right after the flash bang goes off. They are here to kill, not capture. Kill them first. You take the back room. Pavel and I will take the front and the kitchen door.”