by Dave Buschi
Tear gas.
84
YOU will have vengeance.
As Monster counted down, those words were with him.
“…three…Mark!”
All four men from his team hit the house with their rifle launchers again. The projectiles blew through the glass. Monster shrugged off the backpack for the leaf blower and dropped it at his feet. Underneath the backpack was his weapon, strapped to his back in its vinyl sheath. He reached for it.
One more count. This time in his head.
One…
You will have vengeance.
Two…
Monster was channeling the energy those words had given him. He was a product of the best of the FSB. Patience was not foreign to him.
Three...
He knew by now the stun grenades and tear gas should have done their work. Made them disoriented. Now the hand closes into a fist.
He signaled to Pyzik and Dolinski. They were both tough hardened men. Each had already put on their gas masks and eye protective gear. The two of them advanced. They moved seamlessly. They were like military in that respect, revealing their Spetsnaz roots. He knew without seeing that the other two from his team were completing the fist. Like five fingers closing.
Each on his team was reliable. All were hungry. They had reason to be. The two Americans inside had killed their brethren. They had not been there when it happened, but they’d heard it all from the boss. Vor v zakone had relayed everything. He’d given details regarding these men. They were dangerous and not to be underestimated.
There was little chance of that—Monster had a grudging respect already. So many men killed by these two? He wouldn’t have thought it possible.
“We will grieve, but not yet,” Vor v zakone had said. This would not be a straight kill. Vor v zakone had given specific instructions. “I want them alive.”
Monster had no problems with that directive. Snatch and grab, for now. Later, something else. Something much more fulfilling. Vor v zakone had promised Monster. “Do not worry, you will have vengeance.”
Monster was already there to that special place in his head. He was visualizing. Seeing this through. He had his own special techniques and they were unique. Those techniques long ago had earned him his name. A name that evoked fear and uvazhenie. Both excellent things to have in his line of business.
Monster had had special training when he’d been with the FSB. Specifically in interrogation techniques. His training was not unlike a surgeon’s, in some respects. The only difference was that he’d learned everything on the job. Not from a University. And not from books or messing with cadavers. No, his skills were learned the only way. “The Russian way”, as they jokingly said. Using live subjects.
Of course, he didn’t reflect on any of that now, or how ironic life was. How some things come full circle. He just knew he’d have use of his skills in the coming hours. He was going to enjoy taking these two apart, slowly.
One of his innate gifts was knowing how to cut and slice so that his subjects lived. He had a special talent in that arena. His record so far was twenty-seven days. With these two he was going to attempt to beat that record. One thing he was—was goal oriented.
All these thoughts were behind him, tucked behind the curtain for now.
Mark!
Monster blew the door down with two pumps from his Benelli shotgun. One obliterated the lock; the other punched the door right in. It almost blew off its hinges.
Four and he made five. All acting as one. The fist!
Monster’s eyes behind his own protective gear picked up Pyzik and Dolinski moving ahead of him. They leapfrogged one another. Silently, deadly, weapons at the ready. Monster followed them into the smoke.
85
LIP’S ears were ringing—his head throbbing. What the hell just happened?
He was too disoriented to remember that when he’d heard Marks yell, he’d reacted instantly, hitting the deck. A split second afterwards, he’d heard the distant crash of breaking glass. Whatever it was hadn’t sounded like gunshots, and before he could wonder what it might be, he’d heard a series of concussive blasts. Two—three—four in a sequence. They sounded like grenades going off.
Those explosions were titanic. Completely and utterly overwhelming. Moments later—time irrelevant, sucked up into the black void of disarray and confusion—he opened his eyes to discover he was still alive. He was on the floor. Dimly he realized there was something in his hand, gripped in his sweaty glove. It took him a second to comprehend what it was.
It was an envelope.
Where did this come from? He looked at it like it was something alien: the white envelope with the address on it and postage stamp in the corner. It hadn’t been mailed, yet.
His eyes took in the base cabinet of Johnny Two-cakes’s wooden desk; it was less than a foot from his face. He started to push himself up and bumped his head into something. Ummph! What the hell? He collapsed back on the floor and looked up. It was an open desk drawer. Son of a… that’s right, he’d taken the envelope from there. His memory was fuzzy. It started to come back to him in pieces. He’d been searching Johnny Two-cakes’s office, going through the drawers.
Marks had yelled: Lip! Weapon up, we’re getting company! There had been an explosion. Oh shit.
He shoved the envelope in his jacket’s inner pocket, and reached for his piece. Cheryl was in his shoulder holster. His hand encircled her grip. He pulled her out and crawled to get a view of the door.
He started coughing before he realized what he was seeing. Smoke—no, something else—was pouring into the room. His eyes, mouth, lips, immediately started to burn.
Oh fuck. He knew what it was. CS gas. O-chlorosomethingshit. Commonly referred to as tear gas. It irritated the mucous membranes in the eyes, nose, mouth, and lungs. He shut his eyes, but it was too late. His tear ducts were already swelling like rivers.
He crawled towards the door, completely blind. Have to shut the door! He bumped into something… hit the wall. Goddamn his eyes hurt!
His gloved hands fumbled and found the door. He pushed it shut, but he was too late. Too much of the nerve agent had already spilled into the room. He coughed. Hacked. His lungs felt like they were on fire!
Panic seized him. It was an automatic response and he couldn’t stop it. He had to get out of here and get air.
He tried opening his eyes, but the pain immediately clamped them shut again. His brain was trying hard to think. Trying to reel in the panic. But it was no use; primal needs were pushing everything else aside. He needed air!
He was coughing uncontrollably now. In the haze that was his brain, he knew he shouldn’t go out into the corridor. He needed to get outside. On his hands and knees he crawled towards where the curtains were. Behind those would be a window or a door.
He bumped into the boxes. Goddamnit! This place was like a maze with all these boxes. He tried to picture how the room was before he went blind. He crawled around the boxes, but bumped his head into something sharp.
ARRGGH! He used his arm like a bulldozer and pushed through… hearing boxes fall and crash. He knew he was making too much noise, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was like a fish thrashing on a line. Panicked. Needing to breathe.
Get out of here. Need air!
Gunfire erupted. Two shots. Shit! Was that Marks?
He coughed and forced himself through the boxes, hitting something else. Heard it crash. He moved forward and felt something give way. The curtains! His gloved hands touched them, knowing what they were. He pulled them up, and tried to see what was behind them, but his eyes refused to open.
His hands groped in front of him. Touched something which felt cold through the thin gloves. It was glass! He felt further, moving his free hand in an arc over the cold surface. His hand felt an edge, something hard. It was a sliding door!
He rose to a crouch, the curtain bunching on his neck and back. He tried to feel for the handle. He needed both hands. He shoved Cheryl back into
her holster. All the while he was coughing, hacking.
His hands fumbled and found the handle. He pulled, but it was locked. He fumbled some more and found the lever that unlocked it. His fingers pushed it the way it needed to go and he sensed that the hook mechanism had disengaged.
He pulled the door handle, but it hit something and only opened a crack. He pulled again, trying to force it. Goddamnit!
Something was blocking it. His hands fumbled again, this time lower; feeling the edges, the floor, trying to figure out what might be hanging up the door. It took him a moment to find the obstruction. It was in the track. He pushed the door shut again to get some slack, and pried out the obstruction. He managed to get it up and fumbled with it. It appeared to be a long rectangular piece of something; probably a 2x2 piece of lumber.
He dropped it at his feet and groped for the handle again. His fingers pulled and the door slid open with hardly any effort. Immediately he sensed colder air—fresher air—rushing in.
AIR!
He sucked it in, and coughed; the CS gas still in his lungs. Hacking and spitting, he crawled through the opening. His hands and knees felt what must have been a stone patio. He opened his eyes. They didn’t immediately clamp shut, but he still couldn’t see. There was only blurriness. Gray shapes within a grayer background.
He crawled some more, having no idea where he was going. A voice spoke with a heavy accent. There was the brief sensation of something hitting him. Pain lanced. Then blackness…
86
HE was hearing a whoosh like he had conch shells covering his ears. Drowning that noise out was something else. Move your fat asses you lily-livered pieces of cow dung! You goddamn pansy fuckers! What are you waiting for? Move it! Move it! Move it!
It was like a megaphone in his head.
While Lip was dealing with his own problems fumbling in the smoke, Marks was having a snapshot warm and fuzzy moment, courtesy of Parris Island. Nothing like friendly faces screaming at you, red incensed and bulbous. The explosion of the flashbang had shaken Marks up. For a brief instant, for some unexplained reason, he was hearing (and seeing?) his favorite Drill Instructor, Master Gunnery Sgt. Thompson. His former DI’s guttural monkey babble was the best of the best. Man could shout your eardrums out and give you an enema while he was at it.
Marks’s mind felt diluted, awash in fluid and confusion. He wasn’t thinking clearly. The good news, however, was it was thinking.
Thank you, sir! Thank you very much, sir! It was his own voice echoing now, shouting at the top of his lungs.
What the…?
He was barely conscious that he was moving. Survival mode in its most innate form had kicked in. His mind was sending directives to his legs and they were responding. Moving… taking him from the kitchen.
The whoosh sound followed him. He had a purpose, a mission. A part of him didn’t realize what it was, but the sharp part of his mind—the warrior, the gunslinger—had already appraised, analyzed and accorded a directive. First priority was to avoid the tear gas. His mind knew that it was imperative it not reach him. It knew what would happen if he stayed where he was. Once that tear gas smothered him he’d be a hacking, coughing, and blinded mess.
No sir, that won’t happen, sir!
Then take your position, you miserable piece of cow dung! Own the battlespace!
The whoosh sound was an annoyance. It made him feel like he was moving, running underwater.
What Marks didn’t know was that he was more fortunate than Lip. Lip had had a tear gas canister explode right outside the office. Not so for Marks. In his case the tear gas canister closest to him had exploded in the central room; the gargantuan room with the soaring A-frame ceiling. Lots of cubic volume in that space. The large volumetric expanse had slowed the progression of the smoke. It provided Marks three more precious seconds to work with than Lip had had. Marks knew none of this, of course, as he was oblivious to his partner’s fate.
Marks was in a limbo world. Hearing voices. Seeing his DI’s face.
He half stumbled, half ran down the short corridor off the kitchen and into the laundry room Lip had searched earlier. His head was throbbing. It felt like he’d taken a massive kick to the head. But he wasn’t KO’ed. He was still standing. A little wobbly, but not out.
No sir! I will not quit, I do not know the meaning of quit, sir!
I can’t hear you, soldier!
He shut the door and started opening the overhead cabinets. There was a stack of towels in one of them. He grabbed two and threw them in the utility sink. He turned the faucet on full bore and got them soaked. He grabbed them and threw the sopping pile on the floor at the base of the door. His foot shoved them in place.
He looked at the top and edges of the door. No smoke was coming in. He realized that was the best he could do.
Weapons’ fire—two rounds—loud, ripped to his ears. He computed and analyzed, understanding what it portended. Hostiles. Not friendlies.
They were coming in.
Marks turned off the faucet for the utility sink. He didn’t have much time. Probably just seconds. He tore off his plastic gloves and wiped the slickness from his hands. His eyes quickly scanned the galley space, taking it all in, seeing his options. Tight room, no windows, no way out. There were cabinets to his left that went from the floor to the ceiling. To his right was the utility sink, a small counter area and the washer and dryer. Above were overhead cabinets where he’d gotten the towels.
His eyes locked, heatseeker missile like, on the ski gear that was in the corner. His mind knew before he did. It had always known; one of the reasons it had directed him here. First close the door—use water and towels.
Second was ski gear. It was on the floor, between the wall and dryer. Lip had searched this room, but Marks had seen the skis when he’d glanced in to see the plastic baggies that caused Lip to giggle.
The ski gear. His survival mind had remembered it. That photographic memory of his registering and logging that random detail. Keeping it for later, before discarding it as unneeded, like he normally did. But in this case it wasn’t unneeded.
Marks started opening cabinets. Third cabinet on the left, there it was, on a shelf. The rest of Johnny Two-cakes’s ski gear. Gloves, ski hat… all of the miscellaneous gear a man needs to hit the slopes. Johnny Two-cakes, you lovely anal organized freak.
Marks retrieved the ski goggles from the second shelf. They were in a cloth sack that said Bollé. He pulled them out, fiddled with the band and put them on. It was a perfect fit. Man had a big-ass head just like him.
Fuck a duck. Tick tock. Seconds were flying by…
He needed to move it, get ready, but his eyes caught something else on the shelf. It was a neoprene ski mask; one of those things you put on your face for extreme snow conditions. He grabbed it and went back to the cabinet where he’d gotten the towel. He pulled out a washcloth and quickly got it wet in the sink. He shoved that in the mask and pulled the slopping combo around his face and fixed the Velcro.
Water squeegeed down his neck. Tick tock. No time. Thirty-five seconds had already flown by. Deep breath. He pulled in air through the wet fabric. He looked at the door through the polarized goggles, gripped his M1911 pistol, and pulled the door handle.
Smoke flooded in.
Move your ass, meat! What are you waiting for, a goddamn invitation!
In a crouch, holding his breath, Marks went out.
87
IT was eerie. In a way it was almost like he was back on Parris Island, and twenty-one years old again; in the smoke, after a twenty-four-hour hump session with an eighty-pound ruck, when the DIs thought they’d have some fun by hunting down the exhausted fresh meat and playing a game of tag.
Bagged and tagged. You’re done, boy. Better luck next time.
Happened once. Never again. Next time, he’d gotten them.
He adapted to environments quickly; learned to cope with the conditions on the ground, however extreme they were. Heat… cold… low vi
sibility… compromised body or mental state—whatever it was, he adjusted.
Marks had received every kind of Special Ops training there was—and there was a lot. His body and mind had been put through countless stress exercises. If it could be thought up, he’d been put through it. Each time he’d passed with flying colors. And that was just his training, to say nothing of his extensive field experience, which put all that to shame.
He was a unique breed. The best at what he did. He had an indefatigable spirit that could not be trained or taught. It was just part of him. The Marines—Force Recon—had tapped into it and released its potential. The SCS, the NSA’s covert branch, had further honed it.
Head docs would no doubt love to get in his head to see what made him tick. Probably scare the bejesus out of them. He scared himself at times. He knew he was not normal. He put on a good show keeping that fact under wraps. Didn’t want people to catch on. Particularly not Lip. He caught too much grief from that guy as it was.
Speaking of which, let’s hope his partner was staying low, or had figured a way out of here.
Marks moved down the corridor. The explosions had rattled him, but that’s all they’d done. He’d shaken it off like a bedraggled mutt shaking water from its coat. Compromised or not, he was combat ready. Hell, he was always that way. He was a Marine—was and always would be. There was a saying: no so such thing as an ex-Marine. Once a Marine, always a Marine.
And he was a machine.
You are an animal! You are a machine! Do you hear me, Marks?
Yes sir, loud and clear.
Then go get those sons of bitches!
Marks’s sensory perceptions, with the exception of his hearing, were A-go. He was seeing in the smoke. His goggles were doing their job. The wet mask was preventing the tear gas from going up his nostrils. It wouldn’t allow him to breathe; he couldn’t even risk taking in a tiny breath; one puff of the gas and his lungs would be aflame and he’d be coughing. No problem. He worked with what he had to work with.