DARK HEARTED (The COIL Series)

by Telbat, D. I.

  Across the club floor, Corban spotted Johnny Wycke. The bear of a man was nearly a head taller than everyone else was. The floor was crowded and jiving to techno music. The strobe light was disabled and several spotlights illuminated a circular fighting ring in the middle of the floor a few feet in front of the bar.

  Noticing Bernard, Corban pushed through the crowd with June in tow. Seeming to be high on drugs, Bernard gave Corban a hearty embrace. They couldn't talk over the music, so they communicated through gestures. Bernard pointed down the bar at his prizefighter, Vulgar, as she climbed onto the bar. She raised her needle-marked thin arms, and the crowd cheered.

  Before June could protest, a heavy-set goon picked her up and hefted her onto the bar not far from Vulgar. June kicked aside a number of glasses as the throng whistled and cheered. Maintaining her scowl, she took off her plaid shirt and tossed it at a press of men trying to place their bets.

  But Corban wasn't paying attention to her at that moment. Moving to the side of the bar, he put his back to the wall. He didn't do well in crowded rooms. It had something to do with his years undercover. There were too many unknowns here.

  Brauch was twenty paces away, then Rupert. Bruno was near Johnny, and Memphis was there, as well. Scooter was ringside. They were all armed with NL-1s or NL-2s. Rupert's agents were mixed into the crowd, but Corban didn't know many of them by sight, especially in this atmosphere. No one looked like himself. Everyone was wearing his worst face and best disguise.

  Corban even swept the crowd for Luigi Putelli. He liked to think that Luigi had truly changed and was now an ally, but Luigi was still an unknown. It would not have been out of character for Luigi to be there also, watching Corban. Luigi would be popping gum into his mouth and glaring at him from the darkened corners, Corban imagined, and then Corban checked the corners for that very reason, but found no olive-skinned, bubble-gum-chewing, potential assassin.

  The betting continued, tallied intermittently on a florescent chalkboard raised above the bar between the two fighters. Watching for a sign of anything out of place, Corban knew that meant he was looking for anything that appeared normal. Nathan would have loved this little exercise, he thought to himself. The club was a circus of man's depravity, but the op itself was borderline out-of-control, and Nathan thrived in that unpredictable zone.

  "Hang on, Nathan. We're coming," Corban mumbled.

  The betting finished, and Vulgar and June were lifted off the bar. Without touching the floor, they rode a sea of hands over the crowd to be deposited into the circular ring. Corban climbed onto a barstool to see better. Shaking out her limbs, June was trying to loosen up. The lights suddenly went out. The club was engulfed in complete darkness and silence as the music ceased. The spotlights were switched on, adjusted, and focused. June and her opponent glared at one another. Tension felt like electricity in the air. The crowd elbowed for the best view.

  Vulgar wore her hair in a tight ponytail. Corban hoped that June would think to use it as a handhold at some point. And he also hoped the guys had reminded her that there were no rules in this ring. Anything goes.

  Suddenly, high-pitched techno music started up. The crowd cheered, screamed, and jumped up and down. The strobe lights flashed on. That was the cue. Vulgar's lanky figure rushed forward to make short work of June.

  A look of steady determination replaced June's scowl, as if she was preparing to scoop a rival reporter. She could forget about pretending to be someone else now, Corban thought, and concentrate on fighting for her life and the team. As he prayed, he wished he'd reminded her that the team was behind and supporting her.

  Throwing a quick jab at June's head, Vulgar followed by a second. Dodging left and ducking right, June then uppercut into Vulgar's left ribcage. Retreating in a circle with a boxer's bounce and stance, June's elbows were tucked, and she brought her fists up to protect her jaw and nose.

  In a sudden flurry of fists, Vulgar attacked. June covered up and backed away, the knuckles of her foe bruising her arms, but June didn't seem to notice; she was surely too energized to feel any pain yet. A blow landed hard on her right ear. She staggered sideways. The crowd screamed in anticipation. Gaining her balance, June then dropped to the floor. As she dropped, she swept her leg around in an arc. Vulgar had expected a boxing match, but June was suddenly delving into martial arts. Corban nodded his approval to no one in particular.

  With feet swept off the floor, Vulgar fell hard, landing on an elbow. Pain swept across her face. Smiling, June moved away lightly on the balls of her feet. Recovering, Vulgar circled more cautiously. Now she would know that all four of June's limbs were a threat.

  They continued to circle, each waiting for the other to attack. June took the initiative, but Corban realized it was a fake, a classic baiting. She rolled her shoulder and cocked her arm to throw a wide punch. Vulgar shot a jab at June's nose. Swinging her punch tight, June caught Vulgar's wrist, then pulled the taller girl after her punch's momentum, forcing a knee into her solar plexus as she bounded past.

  June spun and bounced two light blows off Vulgar's head. Catching her wind quickly, barely phased, Vulgar rushed at June in a meth-crazed frenzy. Batting Vulgar's grasping hands aside, June unexpectedly stepped close enough to slash sideways with her elbow into Vulgar's cheekbone—splitting it into a crimson gash.

  Still, Vulgar didn't go down, though she was cut badly. She'd probably fought before, Corban guessed. Surely more than June had, but June was healthy, wiser, and in better condition physically. And June's arms had never seen the prick of a meth syringe.

  Closing up protectively, Vulgar put her longer reach to use. Jab, jab, hook. The hook caught June on the jaw. Corban prayed that she had her teeth clenched for protection. Jab, jab. June took one on the brow. Vulgar jabbed again, but her second jab was met with stern resistance as June lowered her head to catch the jab square on her shaved hairline. Again, Corban nodded his approval. Evidently, June also knew that the hairline was the hardest point on the human body. Recoiling in pain, Vulgar most likely broke a knuckle on that one.

  Dancing sideways, June kicked hard at the side of Vulgar's knee. Their prizefighter was going down. She dropped her hands to catch herself as her knee buckled sideways. June darted close and whipped her elbow at Vulgar's other cheekbone. Instead, the blow split the younger woman's ear, as if an earring had been torn out. Rolling across the floor, Vulgar gripped her knee with tears of fury and pain in her eyes. Relaxing a bit, June backed up to the ropes. Several bystanders patted her on the back and urged her to finish Vulgar off. But June didn't advance. She watched amazed as Vulgar stood on her good leg, then painfully snapped her knee back into joint.

  Limping now, Vulgar advanced. Warily, June circled away. Corban could see the crazed look on Vulgar's face. She charged and started to throw a punch. Instead, she wrapped her arms around June, encircling her shoulders and pinning her arms down. Then Vulgar head-butted June across the bridge of the nose. Blood spurted from both nostrils, making June cough and choke. Still, Vulgar hung on. The crowd screamed for more, and Vulgar gave her another blow to the nose before she released June with a rough shove into the ropes.

  Falling hard against the ropes, June bounced back into Vulgar. But Vulgar was ready. She used her uninjured hand to uppercut June on the chin, but she missed a solid contact. The blow slid up June's cheek as she twisted sideways. Landing on the floor, June rolled away from Vulgar as she tried to stomp June's head. Positioning her feet toward Vulgar, June kicked her away with both heels.

  Vulgar grabbed one of June's ankles and dragged her away from the ropes. Then she twisted June's leg sharply, making June cry out. With what seemed like a final burst of energy, June pushed herself upright onto one leg, her other still in Vulgar's clutches. Leaping into the air, June spun around, throwing her good leg as high as she could. The toe of her boot connected solidly on the side of Vulgar's jaw. June crashed back down onto the floor while Vulgar was till airborne, flying backwards. Somersaulting in the air, Vul
gar landed on her shoulder, then settled to lie still on her belly. She wasn't getting up.

  June wiped her nose and mouth with the back of her hand as she rose to her knees. Spitting blood, she found her feet and stood panting. Jumping off his stool, Corban moved through the throng as they continued to cheer. Someone picked up Vulgar and carried her to the bar where markers were already being settled by the bartender.

  Corban ducked into the ring before he realized Memphis was already there, smiling, with his arm around June's waist as others crowded around to congratulate her. If Bernard was going to try anything, it would be now, so Corban moved to June's other side to stand guard.

  "I did it!" June gasped, and fell against Memphis, getting blood on his jacket.

  "You did good, December," Memphis praised, as he held June up.

  Hearing her cover name, June's scowl returned to her face.

  "Her tattoo is smearing," Corban whispered in Memphis' ear over the techno music. "Get her out of here."

  June saw Memphis' eyes, and panic crossed her face as she touched her neck.

  "Hey, old man!" someone yelled at Memphis in German. "Don't tell me this pretty thing is yours!"

  A young thug with blue hair loomed over Memphis. Before Corban could respond, the man was plucked away and thrown to the floor. Johnny took his place.

  "Get her outta here!" Corban shouted.

  Latching onto June and Memphis, Johnny guided them toward the front exit. Corban moved back to the bar where he found Bernard.

  "Never seen anything like her!" Bernard declared, and handed Corban a pile of Euros and a glass of cognac. "Where's the little wench?"

  "Getting cleaned up." Corban smiled. "She'll be out on the dance floor as soon as someone sets her nose."

  "Do you have any other vixens to show me, Cecil from Liverpool? I can set up the ring tomorrow night, as well. The winter months are cold. We need this entertainment."

  "Perhaps next time I'm in Berlin, Bernard Heisenberg."

  "Cecil from Liverpool—I won't forget you!"

  Pocketing the money, Corban dumped the drink on the floor, and then pretended to gulp it down. He squeezed through the crowd and out the front door. Scooter and Brauch waited for him outside, then walked him to his car. Joining Memphis and June, he drove away.

  When Corban arrived at the hotel, Memphis went to work on setting June's nose and cleaning up her other gashes and scrapes. With his physical education background, Memphis had seen enough high school injuries to do what he could, but June's nose would never be the same.

  "What was I thinking?" she whimpered and held a towel to her face. Fresh blood flowed down the front of her tank top. "How bad do I look?"

  Memphis glanced at Corban.

  "She did sign a waiver, right?"

  **~~~**

  Chapter Fifteen

  Itching at the snake tattoo on his left arm, Alfred still wasn't used to the serpent's presence on his skin. During the hours that the slinger had gunned it into his flesh, he had hoped the mission would be worth the life-long mark. As of yet, it hadn't failed him. Alfred no longer concerned himself with what he personally had to sacrifice—not after the tour that Xacsin had given him of the four levels under the castle's north wall.

  In his head, he counted—four levels. Fifty cells each. Most of the cells in the castle were full now. They'd brought in two more prisoners the day before, two Christian pastors from the coast. As much as Xacsin hated the Jews, he also hated Christians. The recent arrivals were the lucky ones, Alfred figured. They'd spend a hellish time in the dungeon, then get rescued relatively soon. Xacsin had shown him dozens of men that Dr. Stashinsky had infected with one virus or another. They were the unlucky ones. Even if they were rescued, they wouldn't live long. But the recent arrivals would be saved. There were about fifty that would make it, and some of the infected could be saved through intensive medical treatment, he figured. Yes, the nasty serpent on his arm was worth it.

  Puffing on a cigarette, Alfred watched the men on guard on the wall. They'd been shamed by the man in the forest a week earlier, and all had told Xacsin they'd been outnumbered by a whole force in the darkness that night. But the tracks in the snow didn't lie. Each of them knew they'd been bested by a single man, no doubt some sort of professional. And if that man had used live ammo, they'd all be dead. Secretly, however, Alfred was fascinated. That single man, he now understood, was part of the unit due to storm the castle at any moment. If a single man could take down six of Xacsin's men in the forest, what could a whole unit do?

  Xacsin's fear of COIL seemed justified, and Alfred couldn't wait to see the castle fall and the captives rescued. Even when the mission was over, he knew he wouldn't be able to tear himself from the work to which COIL so selflessly gave itself. Now he wanted to know more about the organization, to get involved, to know the man in the forest who had bested him physically and knew he was undercover.

  Alfred dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his boot. Though he hated smoking, it was already part of his facade. He wasn't so delusional to believe that he was stronger than such a vice, but he thought he might have an edge to quitting since he was doing it for a good cause in the first place. Hopefully, that would be enough.

  Walking casually across the castle keep, the courtyard was lit by a full moon this night, though a storm was in the forecast. His men on the ramparts stood out like gophers on a ridge, each of them an even finer target by the glow of their cigarettes. But it was of no concern to Alfred. He was doing the absolute minimum to make Xacsin happy—not disciplining the men much, only coordinating their repetitious watches on the wall, at the station house, or on patrol.

  He opened the barracks door and walked quietly past the sleeping men to his end bunk. From a hidden Velcro pocket in one end of his duffel bag, he pulled his secure sat-phone. What he really wanted was a Bible, but that had been too risky to consider hiding. The phone was risky enough since he had been ordered not to bring one.

  After tucking the phone into his coat pocket, Alfred went back outside to the north wall of the courtyard. Most of the guards avoided the north wall due to the two ventilation windows on the west end. The men were sure the diseases from below would infect them all if they spent any time there, but Xacsin had installed a sealed door in the corridor to protect them from the bad air in the levels below. The vents were merely for intake. Alfred knew there was no danger of infection, but he played on the men's paranoia just the same.

  With his back against the wall, Alfred pressed the dial button on his phone. He'd already programmed the number and made sure service was available from that position. It rang twice.

  "Zven's Laundry," a tired woman answered in German. "Who's calling at this hour?"

  "James and John," Alfred coded in a whisper.

  "Zebedee. Talk to me. I'm recording."

  Taking the phone from his ear, Alfred held the mouthpiece an inch from his mouth so he could speak directly and quietly into the mic in the darkness.

  "Twenty armed men, more expected within a week from England. Begin at gate going clockwise. Tower north of gate. Two men day and night. North wall. Inside are four levels of fifty cells each. Each houses Christians and Jews. More arrive daily. Three-quarters with deadly infections. We are near capacity. Next, inside the wall east of the north wall, is the exam room and operating room. Dr. Aleksandre Stashinsky is from Estonia, a biochemist in his sixties. His office and living quarters are next to his exam room. Then an equipment storage room is next. Door to courtyard here. Also, door to northeast tower overhead. Manned by pairs day and night. East wall: kitchen, then the mess hall. Door to courtyard, as well as to the southeast tower, also armed by a pair. The armory is next. Courtyard door. Barracks: door to courtyard and door to armory. Next, in southwest corner is the two-car garage. Xacsin's living quarters and office above. Then, the tower sits south of the gate, armed by a pair always.

  "On the wall in thirds are three pairs on the roam day and night. Stashinsky thinks he'
ll be ready to release infected captives within thirty days. I stress—every captive will be infected by then. Two COIL men are below, both infected to some extent. All will then be transported and released in neighborhoods to infect the greatest number of civilians. You must strike within two weeks or consider a nuclear strike more merciful for this lot. The prisoners are not well. Every single day matters. Bring biohazard masks, suits optional. Expect heavy resistance. I'll disable RPG weapons, but small arms will be bountiful. God bless. Don't worry about me. Please hurry for their sakes. This is Snake signing out."

  Alfred killed the power on his phone and shoved it into his pocket. As he had spoken on his phone, his eyes had played on the dark window above the garage: Xacsin and Hannah's quarters. The cold man with the green eyes had left earlier that day in something of a panic. He had a presence about him that gave Alfred a chill, so Alfred wasn't sorry when the man was absent, leaving Alfred in charge. His only order was to make sure the good doctor was safe as he continued his unthinkable acts in the northeast operating room where he was assigned an around-the-clock guard.

  Oddly, Xacsin had not returned to the castle, which concerned Alfred. He wanted the mad leader in the castle when COIL pounced.

  "Hey, Snake! Send Mrs. McLeery up here to keep me warm, huh?"

  Laughing with the others, Alfred groaned inside. Hannah had eyes that were as empty as Xacsin's. Her attitude toward COIL and the captives seemed personal, due to her sister's capture by COIL operatives in a past operation.

  "I'm cold, too, Pudgel," Alfred yelled back. "Keep your eyes on the forest."

  He crossed the courtyard and stood outside the barracks door as he smoked another cigarette, waiting for a split second to—

  It was clear. No one was looking. Opening the garage door, he closed it softly. The men on the wall would think he had gone into the adjacent barracks, but he had something else in mind. After passing the first of two SUVs, he climbed the stairs to the upstairs loft. He'd been up to Xacsin's office a number of times that week, but now Hannah McLeery was sleeping in the bedroom next door. Xacsin was gone, perhaps arranging any number of things for the release of his infected captives. His absence was one less thing Alfred had to worry about. He hoped the office might hold a clue to Xacsin's cloaked schedule.