Heart Strike

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  The door to the container creaked.

  The women reared back, away from the door.

  It swung open, drawing in a wash of fresh, cold air. More commands were issued from the door, although Fabian couldn’t see who was doing the ordering through the press of bodies.

  The women didn’t move.

  A single shot sounded, muffled by a sound suppressor.

  The women screamed and kept screaming. They moved forward, stepping out of the container in a thick stream.

  There was nothing to do but follow them. Disobeying would get her shot, while moving out of the container might provide an opportunity.

  Keep your eyes peeled, honey. You never know when the break will come. It was her father’s voice. He had been talking about soccer at the time, yet the advice still held, even now. Breaks, when they happened, came without warning and if you were awake and alert, you could take the chance and completely change the game.

  Fabian moved down the length of the container. Her leg ached, for lying on the floor with her knee beneath her other leg had not been kind to it.

  Then she saw why the women had screamed. One poor girl huddled on the wooden floor of the container, her eyes open. Blood ran from her mouth and from a single bullet hole in her throat. Not a lot of it, for she had died too quickly and her heart had stopped pumping.

  Seven hard-eyed men stood before the container, all of them carrying guns with silencers, most of them also with machine guns hanging from straps over their shoulders. They watched the women with wary alertness.

  Twenty yards beyond the open end of the container was the metal wall of a ship, with an open bulkhead door. The women were being herded through the door.

  As Fabian emerged from the container, stepping down carefully onto the steel, a soft chuffing sounded.

  One of the men sagged and curled up on the deck.

  Another chuff.

  Another man dropped down by the first.

  With a jolt, Fabian realized the wall of men on either side of them was now cracked open. A space had formed between them.

  She didn’t stop to consider any further. Fabian broke into the fastest run she could manage, sprinting with a lopping gait past the women ahead of her, heading for the opening.

  A third man dropped, opening the gap up even farther—almost as if someone was opening the door for her.

  Fabian bolted through the opening as if she was still capable of playing soccer. There were spotlights illuminating the deck—they had been turned away from the mouth of the container so anyone looking at the ship would see nothing but shadows there. Three paces beyond the edge of the lights, white deck flecked with rust showed…and beyond that, the ship’s railing.

  She didn’t hesitate. She knew she couldn’t afford to. There were shouts behind her. More chuffing sounds. Then the horrible ratchet of a submachine gun being cocked. She jagged to her right, just as bullets chattered and zinged off the plate steel. Her knee screamed. So did she.

  Fabian threw herself at the railing like a gymnast reaching for the pommel horse. Her hands slapped against cold, rusty steel. She gripped it and threw herself over the side.

  It was a very long way down. She had time to be scared about the impact at the bottom. She also had time to remember to suck in a breath.

  Then her feet smacked against the surface of the water and she was sinking, with bubbles rising around her and bullets slapping the water.

  She let herself sink farther. Moonlight on the surface told her where it was. The water was very cold and the weight of it on her coat tugged her downward.

  The tide tugged her hair sideways, pulling her away from the bubbles rising around her. Fabian held her breath and let herself be tugged along. It wasn’t a very strong tide, yet it moved her farther from the ship with each second.

  When she thought her lungs would burst, she shrugged out of the peacoat, kicked with her good leg and pulled herself to the surface.

  She made herself break surface slowly, without splashing. She looked around quickly, three hundred and sixty degrees.

  The ship she must have jumped from floated three hundred yards away and was moving farther with each passing second. Bright lights played over the sides of it from helicopters hovering overhead.

  On the dock beside it, she glimpsed what appeared to be hundreds of cars and trucks and vans, all with official-looking lights flashing. Then the space between the ship and the next one vanished. She floated alongside another giant container ship.

  She had to get onto dry land, somewhere. She couldn’t climb up the side of the pier. For now, though, she was moving, even if she was freezing. Her teeth chattered.

  Ahead, she saw the row of container ships ended. The river curved around a bend with no built-up pier. This was her chance.

  She had always been a strong swimmer. Ten months in rehab had made her even stronger and given her endurance. She struck out for the nob of land fringed with reeds and low bushes, ahead. More buildings and piers laid beyond it, which meant she had to land there.

  Fabian started with a steady, low-energy breast stroke, until she realized she would overshoot the little spit of land if she didn’t swim harder right now. She broke into a frantic overarm stroke, splashing way too loudly.

  Her braced knee was the first to drive into the slimy riverbed, then her hands. She drew back with a gasping moan of disgust and tried to get to her feet. She needed to push her hands against the riverbed and just couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  “Gutless! Just do it,” she muttered and shuddered heavily—and not from the cold.

  A soft sound to her right. A splash. Then hands thrust under her arms and lifted her with the power of a hydraulic and put her on her feet on the drier soil at the edge of the lapping river.

  Fabian spun on her good leg, her heart pushing against the inside of her throat.

  A hand slapped over her mouth, holding in anything she might say.

  Mischa’s eyes were black in the dark of the night, although his features were unmistakable. His hair shone in the moonlight.

  She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

  Or more confused.

  He put a finger to his lips.

  She swallowed and nodded.

  He let her go and swiftly stripped his coat away. He was wearing a gun rig on his belt. The gun was a silvered chrome Glock.

  Her father had one just like it.

  Fabian couldn’t tear her gaze away from the thing, until Mischa picked up her arm and shoved it into the sleeve of his coat.

  “No, I’m—” wet, she began.

  He shook his head and pressed his finger against her lips.

  She nodded.

  He pushed her other arm into the other sleeve and pulled the coat in around her.

  Heat, dryness. And the scent she would recognize anywhere—Mischa himself.

  He buttoned the coat swiftly, fumbling a little, for it would be in reverse for him., Fabian shivered, her teeth clicking together. It seemed that now she had something warm around her, she felt colder than ever.

  Then Mischa picked up her hand and tugged her forward, into the low bushes and the slightly higher trees beyond them. As soon as the fir trees surrounded them, the air grew warmer. There had been a breeze on the river, so mild she didn’t notice it, yet enough to chill her to the bone while she stood in it with soaking clothes.

  Mischa knew where he was going. She let him lead and concentrated on keeping her knee straight and her footing firm. Just moving was helping her warm up.

  The little spit of wild land ended. Manicured grass, then a path and a park bench. A garbage pail. Swings.

  Farther ahead, streetlights. And farther away, sirens, many of them.

  Fabian scanned the row of cars parked alongside the little park. None of them was a red Mercedes.

  The car he led her to was blue and small. “This isn’t the Mercedes,” she said softly.

  “Very good. It’s a Toyota Rav4. Eight cylinder
with a manual transmission.” He spoke in a normal voice. “Only two hundred and three horsepower. There are so many of these in Ukraine, no one will look twice, and if they do, the plates don’t match the car.”

  “You stole it?” she breathed, her hand on the handle of the passenger door.

  He opened the door and got in without answering.

  Fabian got in, too. The interior of the car was still warm, as if it had been running only a few moments ago. She glanced at the side of the steering column. It was whole and untouched.

  Mischa leaned back and reached for something on the rear seat. She heard a rattle and peered back to see what it was.

  He was shoving a long rifle back. He plucked a blanket off the seat beneath.

  Fabian stared at the rifle, which glinted blackly in the light from the streetlamps shining through the windows.

  Mischa pulled the blanket through and tucked it around her knees and feet, tearing her attention away from the gun on the back seat. “Until the heater kicks in,” he told her.

  She twisted to look back at the rifle once more to confirm it really was there. “It was you shooting at the men on the boat.”

  “Ship,” he corrected her. “And they weren’t men. They’d have to be human to be called men.”

  “You cleared a path for me.”

  “Not just for you,” Mischa said, reaching into his trouser pocket. “For anyone with the brains to use it. As it happened, that was only you.”

  “And the others?”

  “The Ukrainian authorities will process them and send them home.” He pulled a long tool from his pocket which looked like a screwdriver, only the end of it was wrong.

  “You called the authorities in,” she guessed. “How did you even know I was there?”

  “Do you know how many ships load containers in the middle of the night?”

  “I guess…not a lot.”

  “None, especially on a Saturday night of a public holiday weekend.”

  “How did you know I was in that container?”

  He turned to her. It was dark enough she couldn’t see his expression. She could see the iron line of his jaw, for the streetlight fell through the windscreen and illuminated it. “Why did you come to Ukraine, Fabian. Tell me now. Just you and me. Tell me the truth.”

  She didn’t hesitate. There was no point in hesitating. She had nothing more to hide and nothing to gain even by telling the truth. She shrugged. “You know who my father is. Because of him and his work, a Russian with the code name Kobra set a bomb to kill me and the man I was standing beside. And, well, I am now what I am because of it. Only my father wasn’t doing anything about it. I came here to find out more about the one man we know has met the Kobra.”

  “Aslan,” he breathed. “And what would you have done if you had found the Kobra while you were here?”

  “I didn’t think I would. He’s long gone. Aslan was here a long time ago. My father’s people know the Kobra is operating out of Russia now. Only they can’t seem to find him. I thought, if I nosed around, someone unofficial and helpless and with a pitiful story about a lost uncle, I might learn more than they would.” She sighed. “And I couldn’t stand it, just waiting for something to happen.”

  He tapped the tool against the steering wheel, thinking.

  “Were you on that train to meet me, Mischa?”

  He grew still. “What makes you ask that?”

  “You’re a company man. I mean…you’re a spook. It’s such a huge coincidence that I should bump into you the way we did.” The question had been gnawing at the back of her mind since she had left his apartment.

  “Sometimes, coincidences happen,” he said. “I’m still not sure if this one is a happy coincidence or the complete opposite.”

  Her heart sank.

  He turned to face the steering wheel. “It’s getting colder. We need to get you dry.” He shoved the implement in his hand into the key slot and twisted.

  The engine started without protest.

  Mischa looked over his shoulder and pulled out onto the street, turned a sharp one-eighty and raced back along the street, away from the sirens and the lights on the dock by the ship she had dived from.

  “Shouldn’t we find the police? The US Embassy? Even your people?” she asked.

  “That wouldn’t help us at all,” Mischa said grimly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because right now I am wanted by the Russian Embassy, the Russian military forces and your people—who are here in Ukraine, by the way. I suspect the Ukrainian mob might like a piece of me, too. By the morning, the entire Ukrainian police force will be on the look-out for me. It’s likely my face will be in the papers tomorrow morning, too.”

  “What the hell, Mischa? What happened? When I left, you were a good loyal Russian!”

  “I woke up,” he said grimly.

  [13]

  Darnytskyi District, Left Bank, Kiev.

  They used Sokolov’s apartment as ground zero and the eight of them radiated out from there, to canvas the neighborhood. All of them understood enough Russian to get by. Scott and Noah were both fluent. Dima was comfortable with Russian, but instead dredged up the little Ukrainian she had, to keep the locals comfortable. She also pulled her scarf up and wound it around her head as a makeshift hijab. Muslims weren’t numerous in Ukraine, although there were some and it helped Dima appear anything but westernized.

  She targeted the little deli on the corner closest to the apartment building. The aromas when she stepped into the store were divine. She stopped and sniffed appreciatively, then gave the shopkeeper a shy smile, letting her gaze cut away from him quickly.

  “Good morning,” he said. “What do you need today?”

  “I am a visitor here. I saw your store…” She trailed her voice off.

  “I didn’t think you were from here,” he said, his tone affable. “What can I get you?”

  “I have…” She pulled her hijab in closer. “I look for my daughter. I think she was here. With a man.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “Perhaps…you have seen her?” She held up her phone, with Fabian’s picture displayed. “She is a beautiful, but too young, you know? Her father is with Allah and I must protect her myself.”

  The shopkeeper was a middle-aged man with hair going gray and a rounded belly. His affable expression faded and his eyes narrowed. “She is very pretty,” he agreed. “I’d remember her, I’m sure. I don’t recall seeing her around here.” He gave Dima a smile. “Everyone ends up in here sooner or later. They go to the market, then forget things. And I have paska, borscht, deruni, holodets, even chicken and potato chips.” His nose wrinkled. “So, they don’t have time to cook, they come here.”

  That explained the scents rising from the steel cases behind him. “She was not here?” Dima let her shoulders slump. “Thank you for speaking to me.” She put her phone away and headed for the door.

  “Although…” the man said, behind her.

  She turned.

  He glanced from side to side, then gave a grimace as if what he was about to say made him uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t even mention it. It feels like a doctor thing. Discretion, yes?”

  “My daughter might be ruining her life right now,” Dima said. “Please tell me.”

  “No offense, but maybe the ruining has already happened.” The shopkeeper shook his head. “There’s a man, lives in the apartments at the end of the street. The tall ones.”

  “I think I saw them,” Dima said vaguely, her heart thudding. That was Sokolov’s building.

  “He’s a loner. Work, home. Takes food from here all the time. And wine. Bachelor—you know the type. They never cook, but they eat. My lord, they do!”

  Dima came closer to the counter. “This man, he was here?”

  “Mischa is here all the time,” the shopkeeper said. He leaned forward. “Last few days, though, everything he bought…he bought two of them.”

  Dima put both hands over her face, the epitome of a distressed mother.
She nodded. “Thank you. Thank you. I will find this man.” And she hurried from the store, as if she intended to run straight to the apartment block.

  Mischa. The Russian pet name for Mikhail.

  Dima slowed to a fast walk once she was out of sight of the store windows.

  Agata came up beside her. She wore a fur hat and had her braid tucked under her coat. “Sokolov is well known. No one knew anything about Fabian, that I learned.”

  “She was here,” Dima said. “I think she stayed in his apartment, out of sight.”

  “Or too busy to leave?” Agata asked, with a wise expression. “She’s not there now, boss. I rang the doorbell. No one answered.”

  “Find Scott. You and he quarter the apartment. See what you can see.”

  “Confirm she was there?”

  “And give me a read on this Sokolov. Take Leander with you. I’ll wait back at the cars.”

  “Scott’s gonna be pissed,” Agata said, with a sudden grin. “He swore poking around the guy’s private life would net you nothing.”

  “Scott’s thinking in terms of what a professional would do, and a professional doesn’t take his subject home for a tryst. That’s why I want to know more about this guy. What makes him tick.”

  “On it, boss.” Agata peeled off and crossed the road, then turned down a narrow alley.

  Dima headed back to the rented sedans. She would dig into the digital traces this Sokolov had left while she waited, because Scott was right. The guy wasn’t following best practices at all.

  It made him unpredictable, alas. The sooner she understood him, the better.

  Mischa had driven out of the city at a sedate pace, obeying all the road rules and keeping just above the speed limit. He left the heater blasting over Fabian’s feet the entire hour-long journey. He appeared to know exactly where he was going.

  The city had given way to modern suburbs, then to occasional houses. They came to another town, with city streets, although the cafes and shops were closed and the streetlights off.

  The clock on the dash of the Toyota blinked 3:46.

  “Are you warm?” Mischa asked, as he turned the car into a side street.