Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul

by T. J. Brearton

  In Turkey, she’d found them each a hand gun after they’d been in the country for a day. In Thailand, efforts to obtain weapons had fallen through. In Russia, same thing.

  It was something of a relief, he thought. He didn’t want a gun. He was afraid of what he would do.

  He walked along the rear of the building where the lawn sloped upward to a line of trees; the beginning of the park. As he made his way along in the dark, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

  They’d been switching cell phones frequently, opting for the pay-per-use kind. But he’d already committed Hanna’s new number to memory. She was checking up on him. Or, she’d just had trouble sleeping, too, and wanted to talk. Either way, he wasn’t taking the call.

  He moved toward a smaller, single-story unit behind the main building and then froze. A puff of smoke drifted around the corner of the building, lit by an overhead lamp. Someone was standing just on the other side, having a cigarette — he could smell it.

  For a moment, he remained motionless, his heart beating faster. There was no telling if it was Alkaev. But his body was already responding as if it were the man he’d seen hitting a girl in the face in front of a class full of blindfolded boys.

  William broke the spell and ran up the slope to the opposite side of the building, moving as quickly and quietly as he possibly could. No gun, but there was something else he’d managed to get across the border, the type of thing a few of the older cops in Hawthorne used to carry. He jammed a hand into his pocket and stuck his fingers through the loops of the brass knuckles.

  William went round the back of the smaller building until he was only one corner away from the smoker. Flattening himself against the cool concrete wall, he risked a look.

  A younger man was standing there, dragging on the cigarette and staring down at his phone. He wore sweat pants and a zip-up hooded sweatshirt. He was clean-shaven, his hair close-cropped, in his late teens or early twenties.

  William ducked back out of sight, breathing shallowly as he thought it through. Maybe students of the Academy of Self-knowledge stayed on the grounds. It was more than just a day school, it was like a college. Or a commune.

  He wondered why the PJP hadn’t known this. Their details on the school had been sketchy; they’d only been able to offer the location and a little bit about Alkaev’s background, but had few details on how the school operated.

  William considered his options. He took a few more calming breaths, put away the brass knuckles, and stepped around the corner with his hands out.

  “Hello, please don’t be worried; I’m a friend.”

  The young man, likely a student, dropped the phone into his pocket and pitched away the cigarette. He shouted at William in Russian.

  William stopped walking, keeping his hands up, shaking his head. “It’s okay. Please, don’t be alarmed. Do you speak English?”

  The student looked more angry than afraid. He put a hand on the door, but didn’t open it. He seemed to be listening.

  “I’m a writer,” William said. “Understand? I’m doing a book on the mazyki.”

  The young man continued to hold the door knob. His feet were planted wide, though, in a ready stance. He looked strong, muscular. William pantomimed writing, scribbling with an invisible pen over a piece of paper. “Writer, yes? On the mazyki. I write a book.”

  Still hesitant, the student took his hand off the door. His eyes were intense, his mistrust running high.

  William branded his face with a smile. “I know how this looks. I’m sorry it’s so late.” He pointed at the dark sky, then touched his wrist to indicate a watch. He shrugged. “I don’t sleep. I wanted to come look at the school. Take some notes. I’m sorry.”

  Keeping his hands up, he made a kind of half-bow and then started back in the direction he’d come from.

  “Wait,” said the young man.

  William stopped, and eased his hands down.

  “You are writer?” The student’s accent was thick, but the words were clear enough.

  William nodded. “I’m writing a book on Russian folklore and modernization. How your school — Academia Samopoznania — is caught in the middle, fighting for traditions, psychological practices, magic, martial arts. Yes? You study martial arts?”

  It was working. The student seemed won over. He even nodded. “Yes, martial arts.” He then pointed at the door. William cautiously approached and looked through the glass.

  It was a dojo of sorts, one spacious room for sparring and practicing. There was a maroon stain on the mat, maybe dried blood. There were a few chairs folded up and stacked to the side. “Very nice,” he said.

  Doubt crossed the student’s features. “Is late . . .”

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  William was tall, but this young man had him by a couple of inches. Plus he outweighed him, was built out of solid muscle, and was over twenty years his junior.

  “Yeah,” William said, putting a little distance between him and the student, “I can’t sleep. I’m too excited about the book. You live on the campus here?”

  The student tilted his head. “Cam-poos?”

  “The grounds.” William spread his arms. “This place. You live here?”

  “Yes. Is home.”

  William nodded. “Other students, too? More students?”

  As if to answer his question, a light came on in the main building nearby. William saw a shape appear in the window. Someone looking out.

  “You need go,” the young man said.

  “Okay. Can you tell me your name? Could I talk to you more sometime? For the book?”

  He glanced at the shape in the window again, then looked at William uncertainly. “My name Demyan.”

  “Okay, Demyan. Thank you. And could I come back? Talk to you?”

  “No, I don’t think best. You need go, now.”

  William nodded like he had every intention of leaving. He felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. Hanna again. “Maybe I could call the school? That would be more appropriate. I’ll talk to Alkaev?”

  The name seemed to trigger something in Demyan — a kind of protectiveness. He seemed uncomfortable that Alkaev’s name was mentioned. “I don’t think is good.”

  One last push, William thought. “I just . . . you know. This self-cultivation you practice here. These concepts are unique. I think it’s going to make an incredible book. It’s good — these will give rise to new social activities in contemporary Russia . . .”

  Whatever had changed in Demyan, whether it was someone watching, or William had been too eager, Demyan took an aggressive step forward now. “Go.” His eyes were shining, his mouth pressed into a tight line. The phone kept buzzing in William’s pocket.

  Then the figure in the window started banging on the window.

  It was hard to be certain, but it looked like a woman up there. Both arms raised, pounding on the glass. Thump thump thump thump. Speeding up. William was edging further away from Demyan, but the man was closing the distance. If he gets a hold of me . . .

  William reached into his pocket and slipped on the brass knuckles. Demyan’s upper lip peeled back in a snarl and he caught William by the shoulder.

  But William’s other arm was free. He pulled out his fist, heart hammering now, and swung.

  There was a crack as Demyan took the blow to the jaw. In that instant, William’s heart sank — this is just a kid — but he was off and running after striking the blow.

  He glanced up at the third floor — the figure was still there, definitely a young woman — and then he stopped. His phone finally quit vibrating, and the young woman quit pounding. Problem was, he’d found all the doors locked so far.

  He held up his hand and jabbed a finger toward the ground, indicating down, come down.

  She disappeared from the window.

  Demyan had been knocked over by the blow but was getting back up, holding his chin. He looked at the blood on his fingers. His jaw muscles twitched. Then he charged.

  Will
iam ran. He took the east side of the building, found another door. Locked, too. If he waited here for the woman to come down, Demyan would be on top of him. William hoped she would make for the front entrance instead, and hurried in that direction. Demyan had a long stride, catching up, shouting in Russian.

  More lights turned on. William rounded the building and sprinted for the entrance. His car was just beyond it, on the other side of the street. He reached the entrance.

  The young woman was behind the double glass doors. Her eyes were wide, her color flushed — and there were bruises on her cheeks. It wasn’t the girl from the video, but it looked like similar things had happened to her. Why wasn’t she coming out?

  She grabbed the handle and shook the doors, locked from the inside. Demyan had rounded the corner and was trucking along the narrow sidewalk. He would be on top of William in seconds. William looked through the glass at the terrified young woman one more time — she was sixteen, maybe seventeen — and then bounded down the front steps to the street.

  He ran across the street with Demyan right on his heels. Demyan swiped for him, fingers grazed his shirt.

  There was a pickup truck parked dead ahead, the only other car on the road. William slammed into it and scrambled up into the bed, but he wasn’t fast enough. The younger, stronger, more athletic man caught him this time, and spun him around.

  William tried to punch again with the knuckleduster, but Demyan was too fast.

  Stars blasted across his vision as William was struck in the side of the head. Depth charges exploded in his stomach as the young man kicked him. William crumpled to the ground.

  He glanced up as more lights turned on in the building, more people came to the windows. The young woman at the entrance was still trying to open the doors. Another young man, shirtless, appeared behind her. He grabbed her just as Demyan lifted William off the ground in a choke hold.

  Demyan’s powerful arms cinched like a boa constrictor around William’s jaw and neck. William couldn’t breathe. In a few seconds he would be unconscious.

  I deserve this, he thought. His feet scraped the ground — Demyan had him almost completely up in the air and the young man’s inhuman grip kept tightening.

  William’s vision closed in on him, tunneling until all he could see was the young woman across the street, flailing in the grip of the shirtless man who held her. She broke free for a moment, and then he struck her. She slammed back against the vestibule wall and slumped to the ground.

  Lights flooded the street and Demyan’s grip slackened. William didn’t know what was happening, but it didn’t matter — the little bit of leeway was just enough. He was able to bite down on one of the thick forearms. Demyan yelled and let go.

  As William dropped, he twisted around in the air. Still wearing the knuckles, he rammed his fist into Demyan’s groin. The young man yelled again, a full throttle scream, and doubled over, hands bunched to his crotch.

  William gagged and struggled for breath, stumbling around.

  A car had arrived, high beams on, bathing everything in that dazzling light.

  The dark edges of his vision retreated. He lifted his head, ignoring the vehicle, staring across the street.

  The shirtless man who had struck the girl was opening the front doors. There was another young man behind him, dressed in a tracksuit like Demyan.

  The shirtless man descended the steps towards William and made fists like a fighter as he neared.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A shot was fired, and everybody froze. Then the other student in the tracksuit ran away down the street. But the shirtless man turned and walked towards the car.

  It could only be Hanna. Though she was silhouetted by the bright headlights, William knew it was her. She aimed the gun at the shirtless man as he came straight for her.

  “Stop!” she called, but he kept coming, and she repeated the command in Russian.

  It didn’t work. She fired a shot well over his head.

  He flinched and stopped a few yards away from her. He didn’t yell at her. He stood there, his chest heaving, his arms at his side. William saw a tattoo on his shoulder of a skull with a crown.

  “Get back.” Hanna took a confident step forward and jabbed with the gun.

  William wasn’t waiting any longer and strode over to the skull-tattooed kid, remembering how he’d knocked the girl inside to the ground. Skull-man turned, raising his arms again to fight.

  William swung the knuckles. He blocked the punch adroitly, as William had thought he might. But William struck with his left, catching him just under his bare ribs.

  Skull-man vented a surprised breath and William struck again, this time hitting him with the knuckles in the side of the head, dropping him to the ground.

  William got on top of him.

  I’m coming for you, Alkaev. I’m coming.

  “Will, stop it.” Hanna was right there, holstering her firearm. The young man’s eyes fluttered and he lifted his head. His eyes focused and he snarled up at William.

  William hit him again, knocking him out cold.

  Hanna grabbed William and tried to pull him away, jogging him back to his senses. He knew she was right — this was just a kid, too. Maybe a kid who’d been brainwashed by Alkaev, and based on his tat, had probably already been to prison, but he was still young, barely knew what he was doing.

  William yanked the gun from Hanna’s holster. He walked across the street towards the entrance.

  “William!” Her voice was an urgent whisper.

  But there was no need to be discreet now — the gunshot had surely alerted someone nearby, maybe over in the suburb.

  “William, this is not the way . . .”

  He ignored her and climbed the flight of steps. He tried the doors and found them locked again. Through the glass, he saw the young woman lying unconscious in the vestibule.

  Two more girls peered around the edge of the hallway and a teenage boy cautiously neared.

  William waved at them to get out the way. They disappeared and he aimed the gun at the doors and fired.

  The glass shattered spectacularly, spraying into the small lobby. He kicked some of the clinging shards aside and then took a moment to glance around inside.

  A horn blasted and William stepped back out into the night.

  Hanna had returned to the car and was warning him that Demyan was recovering, getting to his feet near the pickup truck. And the other young man in the tracksuit was slowly coming back down the road toward the school.

  William moved to the edge of the steps and fired the gun into the air. Demyan flinched, instinctively shielding himself with his arms and slipped behind the pickup. He stayed put. And the other one remained in the distance.

  William reentered the lobby. He was able to lift the young woman up and get her over his shoulder. His ribs flared with pain, his jaw ached from Demyan’s blows. For a moment he felt unsteady on his feet, but he gritted his teeth and stepped back through the broken glass.

  Hanna jumped out of her car. It was Maritje and Nel’s rental she was driving.

  “No,” she was saying. “No, no, no . . .”

  William descended the steps and passed Demyan in the street, who glowered at William but still didn’t make a move.

  “Open the back,” William said to Hanna at the car.

  She swore, then did as he said.

  The girl was waking up as William placed her in the backseat. “It’s going to be okay.” He shut the door.

  “You’re out of your mind,” Hanna said.

  “We need someone to press charges? Here’s someone to press charges.”

  “William, you know . . . This is . . .”

  He headed back to the building. The dormitory, he thought, that’s what it is: a dormitory. Where young women stay while they’re trained to take a punch. To take abuse. To learn “self-knowledge.”

  I’m coming for you, Alkaev.

  Sirens rose in the distance. Someone had called the police. He doubted it w
as anyone from the school, they probably knew better. It might have been someone over in the Sheksna neighborhood.

  He looked up at the dorms. No time to get anyone else out, not tonight. The police would throw him and Hanna into jail. They were foreigners, civilians, with few rights and no legal jurisdiction.

  He made the decision and turned back. Hanna was staring off toward the sound of the sirens.

  He handed her back the gun.

  They stood facing each other for a moment as she replaced the weapon in her holster.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “From Nel.”

  “I didn’t know they were carrying.”

  She looked him over. “You’re bleeding.”

  “You need to go,” he said. “Get her out of here.”

  Hanna’s gaze lingered, then she turned and marched back to her car, got in, hit the gas and reversed away from the scene.

  Then the car shot forward, racing off into the night. He knew she would take the girl back to the hotel. There was no other choice.

  Demyan muttered something in Russian which didn’t sound very nice. The kid from down the street skulked closer.

  Now William didn’t have a gun.

  “You make worst mistake,” Demyan said.

  William started towards his own rental car, parked a few yards away. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Demyan laughed and followed. “You are not writer. Who are you? Interpol?”

  “I’m nobody.” William neared the car.

  Demyan and the second young man were closing in. Even the kid with the skull tattoo was sitting up on the pavement.

  William stopped a few paces from the rental and turned. He stood no chance against these guys. He was outnumbered by younger, stronger men.

  The police sirens grew louder. He’d been to jail — that didn’t worry him. It was leaving Hanna behind that he couldn’t handle.

  At the last moment, he ripped open the door to the rental and dropped into the driver’s seat. He hit the locks as Demyan and the kid in the tracksuit pounced. They beat on the car. As William keyed the ignition, Demyan stepped back and kicked. The window cracked from the blow.

  William gunned the engine, the tires screeched, and the two Russians lurched off the car. The car hit something — he thought it was a mailbox — then William raced away.