Hell To Pay

by Andrik Rovson

  “Janice, Angela, Maryanne and oooh, Candy, she's hot,” he flipped through the images associated with the cell lines in the labs they'd raided. The technicians were singing like a flock of chickadees, saying they were following orders, threatened with death if they talked or stopped working. They'd made a few hundred copies of each girl's DNA, produced implantable embryos, growing the cloned cells, functionally similar to a fertilized human egg, to the point they flash froze them so they'd be ready to take back to Russia. Once there, they'd implant the copies in willing or not so willing surrogate mothers, growing them to term, a literal motherland.” Only Jabo laughed, assuming they'd made a joke, showing his sense of humor hadn't improved after being shot since the man who'd been explaining gave him a sour look.

  “What, to fuck? Is that it? Hot ladies? What that all they were interested in? Sex?”

  It seemed absurd, all this secrecy and death to make an endless supply of identical party girls to sell at a huge price, fashioning attractive slave girls they'd own completely. Then he realized they didn't have to implant and birth all the frozen girls at one time. It was a lifetime supply, so the rich Oligarchs would never need to say goodbye to their favorite lovers. The frozen fetuses would provide them with the same smiling face – a forever young, luscious body – recurring until the men died of old age, cared for by their well trained squad of aging, identical lovers who never grew old, at least the latest crop. So much for Jabo's ideas about Super Soldiers, like him, produced in the thousands, or millions. It was a bit of an ego hit, being second best, or worse, as he recalled they also had a super pig.

  “Yeah, I guess, the ultimate sex slave, all knockouts too, and plenty of the same model, if one perfect blond is your desire, and you're a billionaire, then why not ten or twenty, one a year, the perfect, age, whatever that is. And nobody would know where you got them, since you grew them yourself – humans as property.”

  It made his stomach turn, all this death, so a few rich assholes in Russian could screw a fantasy object, one that would take years to mature, kept docile and trained to please from birth, a sexual lap dog, not a human at that point, they'd probably dull their minds, permanently as well.

  “Oh, what? Serves him right, is he dead?” the agent smiled at Jabo after hearing an update on his phone, “The guy running the lab, the big guy I guess, the one who called the shots, he blew his brains out, so you got him.” He raised his hand for a high five, but Jabo was too disgusted at the final answer to the puzzle he'd been chasing for the last few days. His belief in humanity had taken a huge hit.

  It was complete vengeance but it turned his stomach. It was small comfort knowing the rest would soon wish they'd taken the same route. Their bosses back in Russia would eventually kill the rest, the peripheral players who'd escape the dragnet tonight and hurry back to Russia, imported scientists and managers who could claim they didn't know what was going on. For a scheme like this failure meant they'd be erased, to protect the really big bosses who always got away. Somewhere, soon, he was sure they'd try to do it again, using what information they'd transferred from their now useless server farm.

  The American technicians, the worker bees working in the labs, doing secondary research they thought was legitimate would probably escape charges. Their punishment was loss of a very lucrative job and the shame some hopefully felt, when they learned the real reason for their cloning research on higher primates and human cell lines.

  They'd had to hire local talent, fresh American Phds who were far more advanced in the biotechnology of cloning than their peers in Russia. The all Russian management team had volunteered, taking on the job as a challenge, along with huge bonuses they'd earned at they hit their milestones, creeping closer to the final product line. They'd already spent much of it, assuming the frozen fetuses, nearly a thousand when they'd found them in a dewars flask in one of the cars at the airport, would make it out. If they'd made it, they were going to be flown to Russia, floating in liquid Nitrogen, labeled as cows, pigs and other farm animals.

  They'd almost made it too, their intercontinental jet had been fueled, cleared and warming up, ready to take off from a nearby airport after the big wigs had hurried on board. It had been stopped from leaving off by a FBI helicopter that landed in front of it on the taxiway. The blackhawk had been filled with heavily armed agents, followed by a swarm of black Suburbans that showed up alongside the large Aeroflot aircraft, seconds from take off.

  “If we'd waited ten more minutes they would have made it out with their frozen 'products' – the ten guys who were running the entire operation stateside and the two project managers who ran the labs. It was that close...”

  Jabo wasn't hearing their happy chatter, talking to Cathy on his phone. She was riding in an ambulance with Albert on the gurney nearby. They'd played their parts, civilians caught in a fire fight that wasn't their making. The electricians had bugged out, taking their gun and ammo, leaving the truck that had been parked in nearly car lot, to use as their exit vehicle.

  With all roads out of the valley closed off, the truck was useless so it stayed with hundreds of other vehicles that would be auctioned in a few weeks, along with all the other towed and seized cars. They did what soldiers do – they'd humped over the low hills to the West, easily escaping the police roadblocks. Surrounding all possible exits from the mile wide valley was impossible, exactly what Jabo had guessed. After fifteen minutes they made a call that produced their Uber driver, an ex-pat Russian, happy to take his money off the books, telling them that's how everybody operated back in his country, but they already knew that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Let life be like music And death a note unsaid

  Langston Hughes

  “He insisted, a million dollars each, a trust or something, so there's no taxes, not until it's taken out then the lowest rate possible.” Cathy had explained what her father had done for the two dead soldier's families, as well as the two border patrolmen, but it was noise to Jabo. All that mattered was all four men's families were taken care of, the carnage and disruption Vladimir had spread eased in some small way.

  For the military families, one woman had nearly fainted when she was told her husband of two years had died on a military mission he'd never told her about, the other a woman with a young child holding her hand who'd taken it in stride, too calm – making them think their relationship had been rocky, perhaps ready to dissolve. It was just as well, better actually and all the same to her. Both were thankful for extra insurance money – what they were told by the men who'd explained their husbands had left them a special legacy they'd never heard about, a one time offer they'd opted for without telling them, a special death by combat rider to the regular government policy.

  “They're taken care of, more than most families get when their loved one dies fighting for this country. I think it's a hundred grand these days, up from the ten thousand they got during the last big one, and Korea.” Like it mattered, money for a loved one, cash for a life sacrificed for freedom. But it would ease the pain that would never go away.

  Jabo's pain hadn't eased after he'd taken his revenge and never would. What mattered more was sensing his grandfather, who'd come to him, along with old Jim, both a shimmering presence in the smoke up on the roof of the data center, then later when he'd stalked Vladimir. That was how he intended to remember it. The ghostly images and the sense they were with him was intensely personal, nothing he could tell anyone at the moment, even Cathy – maybe some day and definitely his three sons.

  They'd made sure he survived, his grandfather and old Jim, to avenge them so he could plant the seed of future generations, their last blessing to insure they were the start of a flourishing branch of the Bowie family. Neither of the happy couple knew it but a new Bowie was already growing in Cathy's body, ready to fight its way out soon and join them. The clan that wouldn't say no, could never be completely wiped out, by a huge Mexican army or a deadly sniper.

  A few weeks later....


  “You ready for this?” he asked her, riding in the limousine that felt ostentatious but her father had insisted, and he didn't mind, since it made his wife smile. None of it was coming out of his pocket. She was wearing a wedding dress a bit more ornate and lacy white than the one she'd worn for their 'shotgun' marriage in El Paso, the one that he had been just fine with, assuming it would be their only one. Surrendering to tradition, her family demanded this extravaganza, all he could call it, given the almost million dollars spent, her father, happily, Cathy assured him. But as a man, he'd just as soon take a check and call it good.

  “Sir,” he saluted the officer in charge of his color guard, men from Fort Hood who'd fought to be part of his wedding ceremony, holding their gleaming swords out to make a martial arch for them to walk through, going in, to stand at attention in the back of the chapel, then later, coming out to do it as he exited under the gleaming blades held by the proud men in immaculate dress uniform.

  Needless to say Jabo hadn't lost his commission, rank or his mysterious new job with the elusive Mr. Brooks and his wounded assistant, Albert who'd helped him with the government bureaucrats and Army brass, keeping them at bay with his wondrous tongue and hard stare. In fact the elimination of the secret Russian operation was the sort of thing Mr. Brooks' working group had been formed to handle, a lucky accident his boss had used to clear things up, sweeping the soldiers' deaths under the carpet. Soldiers die every day, so it wasn't that hard to do, sadly.

  Jabo was limping slightly which made the women gasp at the romance of it all, a wounded warrior, a living example of the famous Texas family line that stretched back to the Alamo and beyond. Here he was, getting married to a descendant of another of Texas's most famous or infamous families as some people still hated anything having to do with the Confederacy and the slavery it fought to preserve. That was over a hundred and sixty years ago, so neither of them cared in the slightest. They were focused on their future together. Besides, he'd just fought the latest round of modern slave holders and wiped them out, not that anyone could be told.

  His loving wife Cathy was a direct and very proud great, great, great, granddaughter of a Confederate General, and the first President of a little college that had grown into a major University, Texas A& M. She could care less if anyone didn't like her or her family's genealogy. If they didn't like her progenitors they could all go to hell, as far as they were both concerned, especially if they made a fuss about it to her face. It didn't matter to him, the moronic stew the reporters and news people on TV and Radio were making – running their mouths spewing hate or adoration. It was all the same to him – bullshit. They didn't know him or her, how would they know what kind of people they were? Wasn't that prejudice of the purest kind, treating people based on slim assumptions and purely physical appearance the most unimportant of all human qualities – what they looked like or who their ancestors were. How did that define who they were?

  What did matter was this precious woman he liked to recall sitting on her pretty bottom, crouched behind her car's hood and engine, a deadly fire in her eyes with a fully automatic AR15 in her lap, ready to kill to protect him. Before the ceremony began, as they got out in front of the church, he was seized with the idea of grabbing her ass before they ascended the thirty steps in front of them, then he did, hearing her gasp followed by a highly aroused whine of complaint, before they closed the door on the Limo, using the big door to give him a little cover. He had a hot little filly, that was for sure.

  “Jabo, stop,” in her excited, very happy but annoyed voice. She turned to give him a tight, forced smile that said he'd get hell later then a lot of heaven, when they were sitting back in her father's private jet, flying to their first of what, ten hotels around the Med? He was looking forward to checking out nearby ruins and the battlefields, both ancient and recent, which would make the inevitable and interminable shopping trips bearable, as Cathy looked in small boutiques and stalls, tugging him along with an invisible leash, her lapdog who looked on, trying to hide his boredom as she bought things to remember this special time with him. When did women stop wanting stuff and where was it all going to go? Their future house kept growing bigger and bigger, at least four bedrooms, no five, so they'd have one for guests, another for his man cave, when he was home, a nursery...

  She was new to marriage, her second one in less than a month, like him, and a virgin as far as anyone knew. They'd drawn a huge crowd of strangers and curious people who'd wrangled their way onto the list to get inside the church, the social event of the year to some. People in Texas love their state and honor its history, a tradition begun long before it had become a part of this glorious country. Their previous, secret marriage ceremony was unknown to almost everyone outside her family and their closest friends, since he didn't have any family left, except her and his new baby.

  They'd been together long enough to put one in the oven, a secret she was saving to spring on him during their honeymoon, her greatest gift to him. Enjoying each other, they'd sure done it enough times to give her body a chance to do it's job as he'd done his. It had made him and his 'new' wife very happy. That was all that mattered, that smile, though pissed at his ass grab leaving the limo, but still happy enough it didn't matter – all that defined their bedrock commitment to each other. To his mind that was how a woman should be, never quite settled, strong, very alive and ready to put her man in his place, or ready to put one between the eyes of anyone who threatened him as they floated along in their mutual love. He'd really lucked out, getting this one – beautiful, dangerous and all his for the second time in less than a month.

  “What are you thinking?” assuming he was trying to remember their special vows she'd composed with his distracted help, focused on other things. Was he seeing them unfolding in his head? She'd tried to involve him in that creative process, but Jabo, being Jabo, wasn't that interested in stuff like that. Before things started she saw he was thinking about something so deeply he ignored her little signals to look at her, but she knew him now and didn't take offense, waiting for him to come back to her. It was time, the music cue meant they had ten seconds. There he was, back, with his eyes alive, giving her that look, strong, hungry for her, giving her a little twinge in all the right places.

  “You ready?”

  “For this? no. For you? yes, always.”

  Postscript

  Now that you've finished volume one be sure to tell me what you think. My author feedback is via AndrikRovson@gmail.com I do try to reply to emails but be patient, there are hundreds daily (at times). While suggestions for new volumes in this series are appreciated, like all rugged individuals in this country, I will go where my wandering interest takes me. Every person is important and I write what comes out of my life and thinking, without trying to please any particular social group or political view. What makes our country strong is diversity of opinion but sadly this often is confused with the loudest voice is correct. I encourage anyone who likes my works to write their own if they feel they have the creative spark and drive to complete and perfect their own works, fiction or non-fiction. Being heard is quite exhilarating, being relevant is encouraging but being helpful is rewarding, so I do hope something useful comes of reading what I've written. Thank you for taking the time to read what I wrote, that is, for any writer, the greatest gift and honor, something I do not take lightly.

  Preview of Volume Two 'Engage Without Mercy'

  …

  Their mission to the Red Sea Zone had started two years earlier, with a single pirate attack. A group of Somali pirates successfully captured a large private yacht sailed by a Danish couple who'd set out to circle the globe. Still beginning their journey, they were running down the Red Sea to the Indian Ocean a month after they'd set out from Denmark, the first leg of a long, leisurely sail around the world. The brazen attack and the suffering of the innocent couple had pissed off their Prime Minister, a mariner, like many Danes. Sealing the pirate's fate, the couple were dear friends and political c
ontributors.

  With minimal delay their ransom was paid. But it didn't avert a tragedy and the resultant thirst for revenge. That led to a larger amount – put up off the official budget but with widespread, bi-partisan support – to pay for this mission. Now they were here, ready to fight back. The volunteers from the Danish Navy had come aboard the biggest, non military Danish ship they could find that fit their needs, tactically and economically. It had to function as a staging area on the open ocean, able to linger, acting like an innocent freighter, until they were attacked, an inviting target that could not be ignored. Lucky for them, they'd been spotted, followed, and now were about to be attacked – after only a week at sea, thirty nautical miles off the Horn of Africa. Everyone on board hoped it was the same Pirates who'd hijacked the Danish couple.

  The impending battle was good luck for the very experienced crew aiming at the four approaching speed boats, bad luck for the Rustafa clan and its various relatives manning them – piracy was a family affair for them. Taking aim, choosing carefully, Karl's first, best guess had been a spot a few hundred meters to the South of the first boat, Bogie One, on the starboard end of the line. He'd snapped his fingers to alert his fellow gunner's mate, Bettina. Catching her high cry of 'Ready', he gripped the weapon's handles. Going from looking around the guns to precisely directing fire, he jammed his face against the rubber sealed rim of the night scope they'd cobbled on the top of the weapon – loosely aligned with it's point of fire. It wouldn't provide accurate spotting, but it was better than looking out into the darkness or using the original 'spider web' daylight aiming device. Where the night vision's built-in reticle placed the rounds would gradually change depending on the range. 'Gaette og Skyde', guess and shoot, just like they did in his grandfather's day.