The plan seemed as safe and secure as it could be. Almost too secure. Dull, even. They would wait until the enemy team entered the facility, then Trigger and his men would enter from the fountain, while a second group followed their targets into the amphitheater entrance. Finally, Eagle and the rest would enter through the secret vehicle entrance in the woods northwest of the nearby American Cemetery. Trigger still found it crazy that a huge US military cemetery was smack dab in the middle of North Africa, but it made sense. Some 2800 white crosses lined the 27-acre field, all American casualties from World War II. There was a tunnel that ran underground from the cemetery to the loading dock in the bottom of the subterranean Manifold facility.
All three entrances covered. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Trigger and the rest of the mercenary forces working for Eagle would come in like the waves of the ocean in a fierce storm, smashing and crashing, devastating everything in their path. The Greek and the enemy group Beak had referred to as Chess Team would have no escape. It was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel—with a howitzer.
SEVENTEEN
Omega Facility, Carthage, Tunisia
When King crashed into Alexander, it felt like hitting a brick wall. He’d let the AK go flying to the floor, and he lost the Sig on impact with Alexander’s bulky chest. But the collision was still satisfying, as both he and Alexander slammed into the wall of machinery.
“King, wai—” Alexander started, but King had scrambled up to his knees and rammed his fist into Alexander’s nose. King felt cartilage crunch under his fist, and Alexander howled, as a burst of bright red blood arced away from his face.
King was pulling his fist back for a second pistoning shot at the same spot, when Alexander let out a roar like a lion and flung his arm out wildly. The strength in the sweep of Alexander’s arm took King by surprise. The man was flailing, but King still found himself airborne, sailing across the room.
King’s body hit the polished stone floor of the room and slid, as if he were on the bright yellow Slip n’ Slide he had as a kid. He came to rest with his arm outstretched and his Sig in view across the floor. He lunged for the gun. Alexander would be much too tough an opponent for him. Thoughts of what might happen to his head if Alexander landed a clean punch helped to speed him across the slippery floor.
“Jack, you don’t under—oh no you don’t,” Alexander’s booming voice grew louder as the man rushed King like a freight train. King dove to the slick floor, counting on his slide to take him the rest of the way to the weapon.
His fingers reached out and grasped the grip of the Sig, just as Alexander slammed into him. They both slid toward the open doors King had rushed through. Asya was nowhere in sight. King had just a split second to wonder where his backup went, before his arm was coming up with the gun as his body continued to slide. Alexander’s meaty hand was on his wrist, forcing his arm back.
King bent his wrist as far as it would go and started pulling the trigger, hoping he would either hit some part of Alexander’s flesh or at least make the man back down.
Instead, the sound of the shots booming in the echoing rock cavern filled the large man with fury, and suddenly, through Alexander’s roar of anger, King found himself lifted and shoved hard against the wall of the cavern. The collision with the unyielding stone took his breath away, but his anger at this man for endangering his parents was making King see red. He pulled the trigger of the Sig as he swung his dangling leg up and connected with Alexander’s crotch. The big man flinched, but then pulled King’s body, which he was completely suspending in the air now, away from the wall a few inches, before slamming King backward yet again.
King felt ribs break and his whole body started tingling, as his ears roared with adrenaline. The Sig was lost and Alexander’s eyes were filled with fury as he smashed King against the wall a third time, then moved his grip, so he was holding King aloft by his neck.
Alexander began to speak again, but King could only hear the man as if he were a long way away.
“…what I’m trying to explain to you…”
King’s arm was down by his side and brushed the pocket of his jeans. He felt the small hard lump on his hip, and his fingers dipped into the pocket. The jeans felt tight with the object in his pocket, and his fingers had a hard time reaching around the thing. Finally, the tip of his middle finger hooked on something and he tugged.
“We can end this right now!” Alexander was shouting.
King feebly moved his left fist up as if to punch at Alexander’s face. He kept his speed slow and his accuracy way off. It was the perfect feint. Alexander turned toward the arm and brought his own up to block the strike.
Then King moved like a striking cobra, swinging his other arm up and inside the outstretched arm that held him in the air. The pineapple grenade in his fist, King launched the metal upward and bent his wrist back at the last second, so the grenade crunched into Alexander’s already broken nose, and King’s fingers were spared from being mashed.
Alexander stumbled back and dropped King. King landed in a crouch on his feet, then sprang back up, catching a sharp breath from the broken glass feeling in his side as he did so. His arm swung out like a baseball pitcher’s and the fist clutching the grenade came down on top of Alexander’s head at the apex of King’s jump, once again, the metal connecting with bone.
Alexander staggered back, unsteady on his feet, his arms swinging around like a wild brawler in a bar-room fight, punching at invisible enemies. Then his eyes cleared. They were dark and full of rage.
Oh shit, King just had time to think.
Then the legendary Hercules—healed of all his injuries—was running for him.
King backed up to the wall, and waited for a blink, then dove to the side. Alexander—barreling at King at full speed like the fabled minotaur—mashed into the wall of the cavern. He brought his arms in front of him at the last second, his forearms crossed at the wrists to help cushion the blow. But his speed and strength were no match for centuries old stone. When Alexander hit the wall, the stone exploded outward, spewing large hunks of rubble and the powerhouse of a man out into the carpeted corridor. He tumbled and sprawled into the wall on the opposite side of the hallway before he hit the floor.
King was stunned. He knew he needed his weapon and he needed it fast. He quickly scanned the floor of the room. Where is the damn AK? But then he spotted his Sig Sauer, tucked under the front of a desk with a computer monitor, and a stack of papers on it. He raced across the room and leapt onto the floor, the polished surface gliding him right to the weapon. The jolt to his ribs when his hip hit the floor made him wince, but this fight would soon be over.
King reached out to grasp the gun, but it was struck and knocked out of reach. A cloud of red dust shot out from under the table and small chunks of stone scattered everywhere, several pieces pinging into King. He turned and stood, to see Alexander was standing in the giant hole he had torn in the wall. He held a slab of rubble twice the size of a human skull in his right hand, and the intention was clear.
The man had deadly aim. He had thrown a stone across the room that had smashed into the Sig and probably launched it far under the computer desk. The next shot would be to King’s skull.
Still holding the grenade in his left hand, King sneered at Alexander and reached the fingers of his right hand for the safety pin. Alexander pulled his arm back with the stone and let it fly.
EIGHTEEN
Omega Facility, Carthage, Tunisia
A scream rang out through the room as Alexander threw the large stone and started to charge toward King.
“Ostanovit!” Asya’s Russian shout was punctuated with a rapid burst of 7.92 mm bullets blasting into the stone ceiling, one of which made a wild ricochet noise, when it bounced off. “Stop! Both of you!” The sharp tang of gunpowder filled the space.
King flinched at the sound of gunfire in the confined space. The thrown stone whistled harmlessly overhead and shattered against the wall behind the compute
r desk. Rocky debris sprayed to the floor in a clatter that echoed in the abject silence after the gunshots. Alexander halted his most recent charge and turned to look at Asya. She stood in another doorway that led from the cavern into what appeared to be a small sitting room.
Asya had the AK-47 trained on Alexander. No one spoke for a minute.
“I’ll ask you kindly, dear lady, not to fire that in here again. This room is full of very delicate scientific equipment.” Alexander stood up straight and began swatting dust and dirt off his torn suit jacket. A flap of fabric that should have been on his chest hung down nearly to his knee. He picked up the flap and looked at it in disgust, then stripped out of the jacket and let it drop to the floor. The front of his white dress shirt had a spatter of blood down the neck and chest, from when King had broken his nose.
King reached under the computer desk and retrieved his Sig. It was scratched and coated in red dust, but it appeared mostly undamaged. He slipped the grenade—its pin still intact—in his pocket again, then stood and trained the pistol on Alexander with his right hand, while clutching his broken rib with his left.
“Morons, come!” Asya turned her back and began walking into the adjoining room.
“Morons?” King asked, his voice rising and a fight still in him.
Asya wheeled back on the men. “Yes!” she shouted. “Morons!” She pointed at Alexander. “You are idiot for letting us think you had kidnapped our parents! How did you think it would end?”
Alexander was about to reply, but Asya whirled to face King. “And you! You had pistol and rifle. You had a grenade! But you chased after him and tried to stop him with your fists? Yeban ko maloletneye.” She turned and stalked off into the adjoining room.
King looked at Alexander. “What did she just say?”
Alexander shrugged. “My Russian is a little rusty, but I think she called you an ‘adolescent jerk.’ It might have been something about a donkey, though.”
King motioned for Alexander to follow Asya with his Sig. His rib hurt like a bastard, but he didn’t want Alexander to see. He followed the large man into a lounge, which was separated by a thick metal door.
The lounge was lushly appointed with overstuffed comfortable-looking sofas, and armchairs. Off to the side of the room was a wet bar where a man was pouring a drink of single malt scotch for himself. King recognized the man instantly.
“Dad?”
Peter Machtchenko was clean shaven in a pinstripe gray suit that complimented his salt and pepper hair. The wrinkles around his eyes revealed his age to be in the fifties, but his level of fitness and posture suggested a much younger man. King glanced to a chair on the opposite side of the room and saw his mother. Lynn Machtchenko wore a tan pair of slacks and a long-sleeved white cotton blouse with a culturally appropriate scarf around her neck that she would cover her head with, when she went out. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, accentuating her facial similarity to Asya. Her eyes were kind, with a hint of a smile in them. Neither seemed concerned about the battle that had been fought in the room next door. The thick door and walls must have dampened the sound.
“You’re both here... You’re okay?” King’s voice was quiet. Stunned.
“Why don’t you have a drink, son?” Peter said from across the room, dropping ice cubes into a crystal glass with a loud clink. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“Actually, if you’ll all excuse me, I’d like to go change my clothes first,” Alexander said.
King raised his Sig at the man. “I don’t think so. You’re the one with the most explaining to do. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Alexander turned to face King. “Look, Jack, the scientific equipment in the next room represents the last fifty years of my hard work, and several hundred years of planning. I’m not going anywhere. I just want to put on a clean shirt. Then I’ll answer all of your questions.” He looked King in the eye, and raised his eyebrows. “All of them. Okay?”
King squinted at the man, still not fully trusting him. “Fine.”
Asya walked over and handed the rifle to King, then patted him on the shoulder. “Compromise. Just like big boys. Very nice.” Then she moved over to a sofa and sat down.
Alexander chuckled, then walked to a set of doors leading from the lounge into the hallway. “I’ll be right back.”
King slipped the strap of the AK over his shoulder and slid the Sig into the waistband of his jeans, behind his back. Then, gingerly, he sat down in a wingback chair.
“Were you hurt?” Lynn asked, concern making the smile in her eyes vanish.
“I’ll be fine, Mom,” King grunted. “Just a broken rib. Why are you two here?”
Peter walked over with a glass of scotch and set it on a glass-topped coffee table for King, then he took his own glass and plopped in a chair next to Lynn. “Well, it’s kind of a long story.”
King raised an eyebrow at the man. “Asya and I have been looking for you two all over the globe. We’ve spent a small fortune, used government assets and put ourselves in harm’s way to find you.”
“Not to mention a totally unnecessary fist fight with a guy who heals faster than I can say ‘Hercules,’” Asya said. She was joking, but not smiling. They were both relieved that their parents were alive, but neither were happy to find they’d been duped.
“So you’re going to tell us everything.” King leaned back in his chair. “You take just as long as you need.”
NINETEEN
Omega Facility, Carthage, Tunisia
“Alright, Dad. Let’s have it.” King leaned forward in the chair, then instantly regretted it, as a fresh shot of bone-jangling pain ripped through his side.
“Well, you already know that Lynn and I worked for the Russian government,” Peter began.
“That’s putting it mildly. You were spies. Sleeper agent spies, no less. You still are spies—” King spat.
“No, son. That’s where you’re wrong. We wanted out. What I told you about when we last met was true. But we got roped into one last job, which was supposed to be our way out. For good.”
King recalled the story he had been told about Peter and Lynn Machtchenko breaking all ties from the Soviets in 1988. Russia had sent assassins after them just the once. King didn’t know the particulars beyond the fact that his mother, who he’d always seen as a gentle woman, shot the man. The would-be assassin survived, but the implication was that the Russians would never try it again. But then, years later, Peter had been outed by the US Government, who promptly threw him in jail for a decade. Upon his release three years ago, the KGB came sniffing again, hoping to reactivate Peter and Lynn as resources on US soil. The couple had created an elaborate scam to fake Lynn’s death, but King had stumbled upon it.
“Your story would work just fine except for the fact that you bugged me. Oh yeah, and there were those dead bodies in your hotel room. And then you were gone. You better have something more meaningful than ‘Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.’” King was getting tired of the lies. He looked over to Asya and found her simply nodding in agreement.
“Do you remember my twenty-second birthday?” Asya asked, looking at Peter. “The hunting trip? You gave me a speech that day, about honesty.”
“I remember,” her father said.
“I think it’s time you took your own advice and—”
“Hold on,” King said, on the verge of imploding. “Your twenty-second birthday?”
Peter’s eyes turned toward the floor.
King groaned. “You were never in jail, were you?”
“Jail?” Asya said, baffled.
“You let me think you were in jail for ten years?” King shook his head, feeling a mixture of betrayal and sadness.
“The fewer people who knew about Asya, the better,” Lynn said. “We have a lot of enemies. You have more. Family can be a weakness, so we hid you from each other. I raised you in the States. Your father raised Asya in Russia.”
King understoo
d the reasoning. It was classic spy paranoia, which wasn’t necessarily unfounded. But the presence of his sister, of his still living sister, had become a source of stability for him over the past few months. “Family can also be a strength.”
Lynn nodded. “We’re together now. I hope it will be enough.”
“Things have changed in Russia,” Peter said, moving on. “Old elements are reclaiming power. They found me again. I had no choice but to make a deal. One last job. For your sister’s sake. It was just supposed to be surveillance. They wanted to know your activities and whereabouts. I was assured you were not a target. It was just intel. I figured what could it hurt? You were already wrapped up in your own problems with the attack on Fort Bragg. People were actively trying to kill you. Doing that one last job was supposed to ensure our immunity, and get them to leave you—both of you—alone for good.” Peter sighed loudly, then sipped his scotch.
Lynn leaned forward in her chair, her long scarf falling from her neck to her lap. “We were set up, but so were the Russians. It turned out they were being pressured from a business partner that wanted the information…”
“Let me guess,” King interrupted. “Richard Ridley.”
“Exactly,” Lynn continued. “And once things started to go haywire for him, his people picked us up. They were surprisingly good. We were really good once too, but we’re getting up there in years. Neither of us stood much of a chance.”
King winced at the thought of his parents being mistreated by Ridley’s thugs.
“So what happened next?” Asya asked.
“I did.” Alexander entered the room from the hallway, holding a large tray with a tea service. He wore a new pale blue shirt, and dark slacks. His face was clean and his hair was damp. His nose looked mended. “I suggest we have some tea. It’s my own brew. Very relaxing.”
When King raised an eyebrow, Alexander smiled. “It’s just tea, Jack. But if you want something for that rib you’re clutching, I still have some of the seeds from the Garden of Hesperides.”
Omega: A Jack Sigler Thriller Page 9