Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 4 and 5)

by Jay J. Falconer

  Grace had done a masterful job of patching the wounds. The extra gauze would keep the last remnants of blood from leaking into her clothes.

  Bunker paused for a second, studying Valentina’s body. He realized a tortured prisoner never receives medical treatment. Thus, the presence of bandages would give away his scam. They had to be removed before he showed the world who he was.

  Once the bandages were removed, Bunker took off his shoes, but only long enough to remove his socks and put them aside. Next, he slipped off his shirt to expose the artwork across his chest, back, and arms.

  If he had a choice, he would have preferred to keep his tattoos hidden from the throng of civilians below. However, the artwork he hated also made him unique and identifiable—something the Russians would remember when the next phase of the plan began.

  Bunker shook his head, remembering the day when he tried to burn off some of his tats with a blowtorch. He’d now come full circle, thankful the rest of them were still a part of his skin.

  Time to make contact and deliver a little shock and awe. It would start with the radio he’d brought from Tuttle’s place. The power switch was on top of the unit, next to the volume and frequency dials. He lowered the volume and double-checked the channel before turning on the device.

  After a momentary crackle of static, a background hiss came out of the speaker. He pressed the transmit button. “Base, this is Bulldog, do you read me? Come in, Base. This is Bulldog. Over.”

  Twenty seconds went by without a response. He transmitted the same message again. Nobody answered.

  “Come on, girl, be there,” he mumbled before pressing the transmit button again. “Base, this is Bulldog, do you read me? Come in, Base. This is Bulldog. Over.”

  A crackling squelch replaced the hiss. Then a male’s voice called out. “Ah. Hello. This is Tin Man. I read you loud and clear.”

  “Tin Man? What are you doing on this frequency?” Bunker asked, dropping the formality of radio procedure once he knew an untrained civilian was on the air. A lazy one at that.

  “Well . . . Miss you-know-who had to pee. She asked me to walk up here and wait for your call.”

  “She asked you?”

  “Sure, why not? You know me; I’m always willing to lend a hand.”

  Bunker knew Albert would never do anything that didn’t help him in some fashion. But there wasn’t time to worry about it. “All right, fine. But keep the conversation general. No names or specifics. This could be a party line.”

  “Of course it is, dude. Only a moron would think it wasn’t.”

  Bunker held back the curse words lining up on his tongue. “What’s the status of those items on the list?”

  “Working on the last one now. Why? What’s the rush? I said I’d have them ready by the time you got back.”

  “I’ve had to accelerate the timetable. I need everyone to be ready. Now.”

  “Almost there. Would’ve been done sooner, but some of this shit is rather potent and my helpers bailed on me. Even with the masks. At least the kids helped with those damn frogs, so that saved some time.”

  “I understand. Just get it done and packed so you and the others can meet me.”

  “All of it? How?”

  “Use the vehicles out back. You’ll need to get creative for it all to fit.”

  “Hey, there’s something you should probably know. Junior asshole is back from his little bike ride and he brought a few more Tangos with him, if you know what I mean. Seven more, to be exact.”

  Bunker couldn’t believe it. Victor actually contributed to the cause. Good for him. Maybe the Sheriff’s talk did some good. “Excellent. Use them, too. Just don’t overload.”

  “You got it.”

  “Did your former boss and Goliath make it back in one piece?”

  “Yeah, they found little asshole wandering around in the dark. Kid got lucky. Where do you wanna meet?”

  “Wrench will know. Just tell him it’s the same spot where the man with all the newspapers was planning to build a hunting cabin.”

  “Cool. I remember.”

  “The girls can stay behind with the little ones, but I need you to bring the rest. Be there in three hours.”

  “Okay, but is it safe to travel?”

  “Just stick to the same route I used. Wrench can show you. Should be able to four-wheel it without resistance. I’ll also need you to bring stuff for cutting, digging, and rigging, in addition to the items on the list. Talk to Goliath. He’ll know what I need.”

  “Will do.”

  “One last thing. Make sure you bring the extra handset with you, but leave it off. I repeat, leave it off. We go radio silent from here on out.”

  “What if you don’t show?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I know, but there’s always a chance, right?”

  “If I’m not there by sunrise, then return to camp and dig in. Just stay the hell off the radio. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Copy that.”

  “Bulldog out.”

  “Wait. There’s one more thing,” Albert said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Since we’re coming to you, what about that thing we dug up behind the house? It’s starting to stink, big time.”

  “Toss it back in the hole. We’ll deal with it later, assuming there is a later.”

  “Wow, dude. You’re not exactly giving me a warm fuzzy right about now.”

  Bunker needed the conversation to end. “Is there anything else, Tin Man?”

  “Nah, that’s it.”

  “Bulldog out.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Colonel Sergei Orlov timed his steps to remain precisely three paces behind his commanding officer, General Yuri Zhukov, as his boots found the cement sidewalk outside of the Town Hall’s main entrance.

  The crowd gathered in the square had an air of desperation about it. He could feel it washing over his skin, crawling like a centipede on the hunt, looking for a soft target to burrow into for shelter.

  Some of locals’ collective anxiety was due to his battalion’s presence, taking armed positions in and around the area to maintain control. However, the rest of it was a result of the proceedings about to start. All of it had been orchestrated to perfection by his boss—a seasoned General who planned to handle the execution personally.

  Orlov had served under Zhukov long enough to know when his commander was simply bending protocols to maintain order or walking the path of revenge. Today was the latter.

  Vengeance is a powerful instigator. It can transform even the most honorable soldier into something less than human—someone who’s willing to commit deeds that would make a bloodthirsty drug lord cringe.

  Orlov’s heart ached for the residents of this American city. They had no idea who they were dealing with, nor did they understand what Valentina Zakharova meant to the General. He’d handpicked her from scores of candidates, bringing her along slowly under his tutelage the past seven years.

  Orlov had witnessed it firsthand, watching the General dedicate significant time and energy to groom her career on a personal, one-on-one basis.

  Yet it didn’t end there.

  The General had also protected her more times than Orlov could count. Not just from bullets on the battlefield, but from the Kremlin and the jealousy swirling inside its chain of command.

  The military is full of type-A personalities, all of them competing for accolades and for the limited resources available. Resources come in all shapes and sizes, not just in terms of equipment, but staff as well.

  Thus far, the General had been victorious, keeping Valentina assigned to his command after others of similar rank had tried to poach her away. It had cost the General plenty, cashing in a slew of markers to keep her at his side.

  Valentina was more than just the General’s star recruit. Orlov was sure of it. This young beauty had fostered feelings inside the prideful man. Whether those feelings were romantic in nature, Orlov couldn’t be sure. But it d
idn’t matter now that she was missing and presumed dead.

  Sure, a certain level of casualties is expected any time you engage in active combat. Yet, of all the troops under the General’s command, Valentina was the one officer that Stan Fielding never should have touched. Whether she was still alive mattered not. The General’s retaliation was just getting started.

  Orlov scanned the residents for additional threats as he followed the General and his protective detail around the security perimeter. Orlov had no idea if Valentina’s disappearance was due to the lone actor kneeling on stage, or if a group was responsible. There could be more of the guilty hiding in the crowd, just waiting to strike.

  A minute later, they arrived on stage. Orlov held back as the General continued his trek to the prisoner. The guilty American was on his knees with his hands bound behind his back.

  The General had ordered the man’s daughters to witness the execution. He wanted them close, with eyes wide, to serve as a reminder for everyone in town. When the rules are broken, no one will be spared, not even the children.

  The General put his hand on the prisoner’s hood and yanked it off with the flare of a magician beginning his show.

  The twin girls screamed as the crowd gasped.

  The General held the mask high, letting everyone get a look at the swollen, bloody mess on stage. The beatings had twisted Fielding’s appearance, making him look like a bloated clown who’d been run over by a Russian semi.

  The redheads turned away, crying into each other’s shoulders. So did a small portion of the crowd—women mainly—though there were a few men showing the same emotional distress.

  The General tossed the hood aside, then walked to the girls with his pistol drawn. He grabbed the girl on the left and dragged her to the center of the stage, her arms and legs kicking.

  The skinnier of the two girls remained behind, calling out to her sister in a wail of tears. The girl struggled to break free, but her rail-thin body was no match for the strength of the guard holding her captive.

  The General finished dragging the redhead by the wrist and stood her behind her father. He put his pistol in her hands and cocked the hammer.

  “Shoot him!” he commanded in English, his Russian accent thick.

  “No! Please! Don’t make me do it!” she screamed, shaking her head.

  “Shoot him! Now! Or I shoot sister.”

  The girl’s tears exploded with the force of a monsoon when she turned her eyes to her identical twin. “Beth! Help me! Please!”

  Just then, a female’s voice screamed from the crowd. “Look! Up there! That man! He’s got Valentina!”

  The General pulled the gun from the girl’s hand and spun on the stage.

  “He’s gonna kill her!” a male’s voice said, his tone high-pitched and tinny, as if his balls were stuck in a powerful vise.

  Orlov peered into the crowd and followed the voices. They belonged to a couple near the back, both of them pointing at the church’s bell tower.

  When Orlov looked up, he saw a hulk of a man standing behind the safety wall, directly in front of the church bell.

  Tattoos covered his powerful chest and arms, making him look like a member of the Chechen Mafia. His left arm was above his shoulder and it appeared he was holding something in his gloved hand. Possibly a field radio. Orlov couldn’t be sure.

  The man’s other hand was also gloved, but it held the wrist of another person—a naked female—dangling precariously beyond the safety wall. Oddly, the slender female wasn’t kicking or screaming.

  The troops on stage brought their rifles up and aimed them at the man in the tower.

  “Don’t shoot!” the General yelled in Russian.

  The soldiers lowered their weapons without hesitation.

  The skinny redhead broke free from her guard and ran to the center of the stage. She wrapped her arms around both her plump sister and her bleeding father.

  “General Zhukov,” the tattooed man bellowed from the church steeple, his voice booming across the square. “By order of General Apollo of the National Resistance Army, you and your interpreter are hereby found guilty of war crimes against the citizens of Clearwater.”

  The crowd roared, cheering in unison, their fists pumping in the air.

  The man with slicked back hair continued once the volume eased, emphasizing each word. “The sentence for both of you is death!” He let go of the woman a moment later, raising his arm in celebration as the blonde plummeted to the cement.

  “Open fire!” the General commanded, pointing at the man in the tower.

  Then the inconceivable happened—the General took off in a sprint, without an armed escort, heading toward the church after giving the order to shoot.

  Orlov flew across the stage to follow his commander downrange as the General plowed into the crowd.

  * * *

  When the troops on stage raised their weapons in Bunker’s direction, that was his cue to retreat. He spun around and put the radio on the ledge, then tossed the backpack down the shaft. He lunged at the rope with his sock-covered hands, feeling the twisted braids of nylon land in his palms. His legs swung in below, the weight shift taking him forward like a pendulum, making the heavy clapper inside the bell smash against the side.

  CLAAAANG!

  The incredible noise shook apart his eardrums. It took all his strength to hang on until his legs were able to wrap around the rope using a brake and squat technique.

  CLAAAANG!

  He released his grip to start the fast rope process, using the friction around his feet to control his descent speed. The bell continued to ring as bullets tore up the tower, some of them plinking against the side of the bell. Other rounds obliterated the building, sending chunks of wood down the shaft and on top of Bunker.

  Bunker ignored the chaos, focusing only on the whine of the nylon as it zipped through his hands and past his shoes. It only took seconds to make a soft landing at the bottom of the shaft.

  He let go of the rope, grabbed his pack and tore down the rear hallway of the church. Thirty feet later, he made a high-speed corner to the left, retracing the same path he’d used on the way in.

  The troops continued to spray the church with lead as the back door came into view. Bunker increased his speed, pushing his legs even harder. Seven strides later, he bolted through the door and found the alley outside.

  * * *

  The firestorm stopped the moment Orlov arrived at the church. Bits and pieces of the wooden structure continued to rain down from the steeple, landing on the sidewalk in a clatter of plinks and thuds.

  His eyes confirmed what he already suspected—the body belonged to Valentina. She was lying face up on the sidewalk with her left arm bent at an impossible angle behind her back.

  For the briefest of moments, Orlov thought Valentina might have survived the fall. Then he saw it—the back of her head caved in, brain matter hanging loose in clumps. But that wasn’t the end of the damage. One of her legs had a pair of fractures, each showing a jagged bone penetrating the skin.

  The bruises were mostly on her face, centered on her swollen eyes. In addition, there were at least a dozen cuts across her body. Some of them were wide, with the skin gaping open. Probably attacked by a knife, he decided. Yet, there was no blood. Not a drop anywhere, despite the horrific fall.

  General Zhukov stood next to him, frozen, his face twisted into a snarl as he looked at the twisted body. His eyes burned with fury, showing an excess of white.

  “Orders, sir?” Orlov asked in Russian.

  The General huffed an angry breath, never taking his eyes from Valentina. “Find him, Colonel! I don’t care what you have to do, but I want that tattooed son of a bitch in my office on his knees before this day is over. Tear apart this town if you have to, but get it done!”

  “Yes, General,” Orlov said before a proper salute. He turned and marched back to the stage with far less resistance than before. The crowd was a tenth of the size it had been, no doubt disper
sing when the shooting started.

  When the platform came into view, he noticed the redheads were gone. So was their father, yet the contingent of troops remained the same.

  Orlov trotted to the men standing in the center of the platform. He spoke to them in Russian, the beat of his chest fueling his words. “Where’s the prisoner?”

  A solider to the right responded, his tone downbeat. “Escaped, sir. Slipped out during the firefight.”

  “And the two girls?”

  “Unknown, Colonel.”

  Orlov couldn’t believe it. They had one job to do and they’d failed. “Find them! Now!”

  “Yes sir,” the soldier replied, his team breaking into a sprint off the stage.

  CHAPTER 35

  Bunker kept to the shadows along the alley wall, mixing in a combination of short sprints as he advanced toward his destination. Visibility was poor, maybe twenty yards at best, with the storm’s vengeance smacking him in the face.

  The combination of rain and wind chilled his skin with a shivering sting. He considered pulling a shirt from his pack for warmth, but knew the solution wouldn’t last. Eventually, the garment would be soaked like the rest of his outfit. A wet shirt would lead to hypothermia five times faster than going without, especially around his core.

  Yet avoiding wet clothing wasn’t the only reason. He didn’t want to give his final ensemble away. Right now, the Russians were looking for a shirtless, tattooed man with slicked-back hair. He needed their attention focused on that description. Otherwise, they’d turn their retaliation against the town, and that was something he couldn’t let happen. He needed them to stay locked and loaded on him—the lone perpetrator.

  Despite the cold, he was thankful for the squall because it gave him cover against his eventual pursuers. It would also challenge the skills of the Aerostat operators, making the high-definition cameras difficult to use.

  When he made it to the end of the second alley and peered around the corner, he saw the first sign of resistance: two squads of troops, maybe fifty yards away, locked in a dead sprint—headed his way.

  He kept his profile thin, his mind crunching the facts in an instant. Not only was their direction of travel on an intercept course to his position, they were also following the shortest path to the center of town—the latter being the most likely destination, he decided.