Blaze

by Andrew Thorp King

  The ass clown supervisor-looking-guy turned and smirked at Blaze and said, “You will die in here, I hope you know.”

  Asshole speaks English, good to know. “Is that right? I wouldn’t be too sure about that, ya meatsnake.”

  Supervisor guy walked towards Blaze and kneeled down to whisper in his ear. “Allah has given you to me and me alone. You understand? None of my superiors even knows you’re here yet. You are all mine to kill how and when I see fit.”

  No sooner did he finish annunciating his last carefully intimated word in Blaze’s ear, when Blaze snapped his neck around and went full blow Mike Tyson on this poor chap. He bit the ass clown’s ear clean off and spit it on the floor in fury.

  The supervisor screamed for his bloody life as he curdled in shock. The other guard began to charge. Blaze quickly lifted his arms up surrender style, leapt as high as could, and landed the free rope in between his bound arms directly onto the coat hanger above him, suspending him. Now hanging firmly from the coat hanger, back against the wall, feet securely free and elevated, he crunched his legs upward and kicked the incoming guard squarely in the face before the ass clown knew what hit him. He then issued one final brutal punch in the face to the crouching, bloodied, earless supervisor, just to button things up with closure.

  With both ass clowns out of commission, Blaze ran like hell towards the truck. On the way out, he busted a window and used the edged broken glass that lay in tact to cut loose the rope that bound his hands.

  He managed to get to the truck without being stopped. He hopped in and fired it up without hesitation or mistake and slammed his boot on the gas pedal. Steering with his left hand, he reached under the seat and grabbed the C-4 detonator with his right. These bastards are going to have their noses deep into my payload right as it reaches out to bite them.

  As Blaze’s vehicle sped toward the gate, he just missed plowing over some guards heading towards him—all while being inundated with a hail of undisciplined gunfire by guards late to the party. Several bullets hit the windshield, leaving it just short of shattered. Only one whizzed passed his head. Other bullets pounded the side of the truck. His truck was still fairing well, thanks to it being bulletproof. His boot stomped heavily on the gas pedal and floored it just as a slew of even more guards began heading towards the truck with automatic weapons fully engaged.

  In his rearview, facility vehicles were now heading after him with vigor. Two trailed him neck to neck and were closing in behind his truck within fifteen yards. Shouting and chaos blossomed all around him. He shot two guards while his truck swerved all the while. He was fast approaching the gate. Smoke, fire, and now blood coalesced throughout the facility as Blaze’s gunfire connected with his enemies via his Glock 18. His arm extended out the passenger side window as he pulled the trigger on his G18, a few yards away from the gate. Another guard met his fate with Blaze’s bullet. Straight through the heart.

  As if on queue, the C-4 finally exploded at the precise moment that the front grill of Blaze’s truck met the locked gate at the exit point. Although he could not afford to look back, he heard the explosion of the raw materials warehouse as he crashed through the gate fleeing the now-chaotic Esfahan plant.

  Alarms rose above the sounds of the chaos. Blaze smiled. It’s safe to say there ain’t gonna be any uranium fluoride gas comin’ out of Esfahan for a while.

  Blaze waited until he was heading southwest on Rt. 51 near Garmase to call Gallagher and give him the 411 on the happenings.

  “What the hell happened Blaze?” Gallagher knew that some hiccup was bound to occur on Blaze’s first comeback op.

  “Language issue. They speak Farsi, and I failed to. Red flags went up and bullets flew. And they had me caught and bound for a minute. But I out played them and broke free. They still have me in hot pursuit though. I’m on my way to secure the getaway vehicle now. Gotta get my ass to that safe house ASAP.” Blaze was out of breath and talking with a concise, fast cadence.

  “Everything’s all prepared. You know the plan.”

  “Gotta go. Talking is slowing me down.”

  “Roger that.”

  He could hear the helicopters, although they trailed. He wasn’t far enough ahead of the ground vehicles pursuing him to create the cushion he needed for the next vital step in his escape. He stepped on the gas heavily as he made his way to the getaway vehicle’s location. Blaze bobbed and weaved through the unsuspecting traffic that clogged Rt. 51. He could see quite a few angry faces screaming at him as he put all vehicles around him in complete peril. Horns were honking all around him. Exhaust smoke filled the air. Tension, sweat, and anger was palpable.

  Miles later, Blaze had managed to put the traffic behind him while those who followed him were apparently entangled in it. He banged a hard left into the tight alleyway that harbored the garage holding his getaway vehicle.

  He parked the truck, double-checked the second batch of C-4 packed in-between the passenger seat cushions, and punched in the security code to gain entrance to the garage hidden behind the atrocious smelling industrial garbage dumpster. He stifled a gag as his nose filled with the smell of rotten butcher trimmings.

  Wow. Blaze had heard about this bike, but seeing it and sitting on it gave him an entirely different sense of awe than merely hearing its description. The bike was a modified version of the Dodge Tomahawk. The military engineers had enhanced it for the CIA with a host of button-ready weapons and distraction functions. With 500 BHP, a Viper Engine V 10, and a slick, futuristic design slapped with sharp chrome and black accents, Blaze felt as if he was unworthy to sit on this thing without a cape. It was the closest thing on earth to Batman’s bike in Dark Knight. With all its functionality and power, it still maintained a relatively sleek design, which Blaze suspected would come in handy as he proceeded to the safe house. The bike was documented to have reached speeds as high as 300 mph in its testing. As enticing as that stat was, Blaze vowed to keep it under 120 mph as he didn’t trust his own judgment at any speeds, in any vehicle, above 120.

  Blaze’s slack-jawed, fan-boy reaction to the bike did not last long. As he began rolling the bike out of the garage, a black Cadillac Escalade was doing its best to enter the alleyway and it did not give him a good feeling. He backed the bike out from behind the dumpster and re-positioned it towards an open forward path with one quick movement—a turn of the handlebars and a re-positioning of his feet.

  Just as he pushed the start button, he heard quickening footsteps and the sound of an AK-47 assault rifle, which was apparently the preferred weapon of his enemy. In the bike’s left rearview mirror, he saw the three men charging from the black Escalade .

  Blaze had planned for this. The bike rocketed forward like a metallic cheetah made in the factory of the War Gods. As the Tomahawk screamed with triumph, Blaze’s second round of C4 decimated his truck and rocked the Escalade while hurling the mangled bodies of two of the assaulters into the side of the vehicle. The other was launched onto the hood. Their pursuit of the imposter at Esfahan ended in a spiral of smoke, fire, auto parts, and debris. All three died instantly upon impact.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE KREMLIN, RUSSIA

  His hamstrings were extraordinarily sore from the brutal and intense kickboxing sessions of the past week. A deep relaxation fell over him, along with a profound sense of therapeutic satiation, as the massage therapist continued to perform deep work on his hamstrings.

  The massage therapist had managed to work out all the troublesome knots that accumulated within the taut tendons and muscles of Maksim Koslov’s hamstrings, and from the rest of his warrior’s body.

  Maksim found his weekly massages to not only be pleasurable but a necessary alignment of both body and soul. The massages centered his highly fertile mind and ultimately enabled him to more effectively tackle the simultaneity that encompassed his very busy schedule.

  Maksim closed his
eyes and felt himself floating on air as he allowed his body to reach new heights of relaxation—the therapist’s hands briskly working his muscles all the while. It was in this state that he often found clarity on issues he was wrestling with—or that his mind would finally crystallize on an approach for an upcoming meeting.

  This particular day, it was his approaching call with Hadi Samani, the president of Iran, that occupied his now loose and limber mind. He knew what Samani wanted to talk about. The attack at Esfahan. They had not had a formal conversation about the implications of the attack yet and Samani was eager to do so.

  Koslov thought about the situation. Samani’s terribly impatient. His religious insanity is beginning to become more than just a tolerable annoyance. He’ll be frantic over this set back and try to push for unrealistic recoveries on the timeline. Koslov’s mind drifted away from his thoughts on Samani. He had already resolved to manage Samani’s expectations with reserved caution and vague answers. His mind now wandered to thoughts of his over-arching goals.

  If he could accomplish his goal of neutralizing—or liquidating as Samani would describe it—the Jews, and get Israel out of the picture, Russia would have a strategic role in the control of the Mediterranean and all the resources and advantages it boasts. Russia had already made great strides in controlling the flow of gas throughout Europe. Koslov knew that similar resources, and the ambition to acquire and control them, would be the key to Russia’s continued reemergence.

  If the Americans keep electing naïve Presidents like Fitz, maybe we can even talk them into giving us Alaska back so we don’t have to take it from them. Either way, we will get those resources. Alaska should never have left our control. Just like Ukraine. The thought almost made him chuckle. For years now, we’ve had the Americans in the palm of our hands—sucking up and giving it up. Weak and apologetic, just the way we need them. They are their own worst enemy. They are a skeleton of their former strength. For a nanosecond he almost felt bad for the Americans.

  Koslov did not take his time to get up off of the massage bed as was often suggested to him by his therapist. He was sufficiently fixed up and was eager to make his call to Samani and move on with his day.

  After he dressed, he strode to his office and promptly dialed Samani to get on with the inevitable.

  “Good afternoon Hadi.” Maksim loudly said—an extra bit of strength in his voice after his rejuvenating massage.

  “And good afternoon to you Maksim. I trust all is well at the Kremlin. I am happy to hear from you and eager to discuss the important matters at hand.” Hadi had not been the same since his mystical encounter with the Mahdi. His ambition was more feverish than ever. He could almost taste Israel’s destruction, and he could smell the downfall of America and the West like an aroma rising from his tea cup.

  “I understand. I know you must have some serious concerns regarding the unfortunate attack at Esfahan.”

  “Yes, I do. We’re taking as many precautions as we can think of to ferret out gaps in our security there and at Natanz and Bushehr, but those Jews are tricky. We should never underestimate their deceitfulness, particularly when matched with the ingenuity and technology of the Americans.”

  “There’s no doubt that the Jews will never give up on their attempts to thwart our plans, but they’ll never stop us. You know that.” Koslov was attempting to reassure Hadi, knowing it would likely do nothing to soften Hadi’s impatience.

  “Of course they’ll never stop us. The Madhi is returning imminently and there’s no force that can stop his implementation of Allah’s plans. The Jews can try all they want, but their time is running short. I’m not concerned about them stopping us, but I’m frustrated with them slowing us down and making things difficult. We need to accelerate all plans to overcome this setback, and we need to do that immediately.”

  “Hadi, please, you don’t need to speak to me with such firmness. We have the same interests. I’m doing what can be done to overcome as much of the setbacks as possible, but it’s challenging. Realistically, I think we can expect to overcome a third of the setbacks. We’ll likely still experience a net setback of six to nine months if we’re fortunate.” Koslov knew this would not sit well and he did not care. Yes, they had the same interests in terms of antipathy towards Israel, but they had vastly different motivations. Koslov’s timetable didn’t have to keep pace with the religious-driven urgency that Samani possessed.

  “Maksim, I appreciate your analysis, but I think you’re being wildly conservative in estimating your abilities to affect the situation. Please rethink this scenario and find a way to hasten the process. A six to nine month delay is simply unacceptable.” Samani, caught up with religious fervor, felt no sense of having over-stepped his boundaries.

  “Let me remind you of your limited options for completing the development without Russia. If we can’t reasonably work together, maybe we shouldn’t be working together after all.” Koslov was clearing bluffing, but felt compelled to drive home the point.

  “Do what you can, but please stay on this with diligence. Of course we’ll continue to work together. We’re of one purpose on this.” Samani did not take the bait, and backing down and being apologetic was not feasible for a megalomaniacal theocrat.

  “I’ll keep that in mind as we continue to run political interference for you on the world stage. Which, I must remind you, isn’t always completely in our interest.”

  “I understand Maksim. The Islamic Republic of Iran is grateful for our relationship and we honor your loyalty. We’ll continue to reciprocate that respect.” Samani was done. He had made his point and was no longer interested in talking.

  “I’ll report to you next week the status of everything. Have a great rest of your afternoon Hadi.”

  “You as well Maksim”

  In Moscow, as Maksim hung up the phone he peered reverently at the skull-shaped mug in his office and hung his mind on the grand nature of all of his plans. His Scythian ancestors would be proud. A revived Soviet Empire was within his reach.

  In Tehran, as Hadi Samani hung up the phone he peered anxiously at the digital counter hanging in his office displaying the number of days that had passed since the beloved Twelfth Imam had gone into hiding. Samani knew that it would truly not be long at all until that counter was no longer needed. The Mahdi was in transit and the Caliphate was on the precipice of emerging, and Hadi Samani could not wait to assist in the bloodshed necessary for this phenomenon to reach completion.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  NATANZ, IRAN

  Arash Jafari was trying to settle into his work day. He decided to organize his office and clean up his desk before digging in. He was unsettled inside and thought that maybe if he got more organized he could calm down a bit. His new life continued to jostle him. It was nerve-racking enough to have been thrust into the role of a spy. It was downright horrifying to be a spy in one of the most brutal and risky countries in the world. Not just a spy, but a traitor. It was even more brazen to embark on such activities just weeks after Iran’s facilities at Esfahan had been attacked, by what President Samani insisted was a joint Israeli-American effort.

  Gallagher had coached Jafari endlessly on his approach, and attempted with his own brand of pseudo-interpersonal skills to instill in Arash the confidence he would need to cleanly complete the mission. Arash tried his hardest to assimilate the encouragement, but was ultimately still plagued by strong, persistent waves of insecurity and fear that tugged against his internal sense of purpose.

  “Treat it like any other day at Natanz. You’re going to work. You’re troubleshooting IT issues. Along the way, while taking a working lunch, you happen to casually hack into the system you know so well and plant the Stuxnet Worm in-between bites of your khoresht.”

  “I’m glad you think so simply of my mission. I’m afraid I feel a tad differently about the seriousness of being a traitor against my country—partic
ularly being a traitor by working hand in hand with the big Satan and the little Satan simultaneously,” Arash reminded.

  “All you need to be concerned with are the risks of your immediate surroundings when you go in to accomplish this mission. You needn’t worry about the larger risks at the time of application. It’ll interfere with what I’m telling you is the simplicity of the task. Focus. Simplify. Complete. You’ll succeed and you’ll clock out like any other day.”

  Arash nodded his head accepting the advice. Gallagher’s words were finally breaking through. “Okay. If you say so, then so it will be. I’ll get it done as described. No use talking it through any more. It’s go time, as they say.”

  Arash Jafari recalled his own words the one day he had clocked in for his normal 7 am to 3 pm shift at Natanz. It was like any other day at the plant, except for the fact that everything had changed since the attack on Esfahan. Production schedules were reduced, even suspended in some departments. Arash’s work had slowed down as a result of the decreased activity, all stemming from the attack on Esfahan and the resulting production disruptions. He had heard it said that the attack would set back Iran’s overall nuclear plans by a minimum of six months. Arash knew that if he was successful he’d add a much greater delay.

  Arash still couldn’t get used to carrying a pistol. He was never a gun enthusiast or a military guy, and he’d never gotten into so much as a schoolyard scrap. Confrontation was something he had avoided all of his life at all costs. Arash made no attempts at covering up the fact that he had pretty much lived the life of an out-of-shape computer nerd since his youth.