Cardinal Rule: A James Kendrick Thriller

by James Kendrick

  JAMES ALLEN KENDRICK

  In

  ‘CARDINAL RULE’

  Copyright © 2015 Mikel Emmanuel De Crus

  All rights reserved

  Do not reproduce the material in this book by any means whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  MIKEL EMMANUEL DE CRUS

  1308, Wolcott Ave, St Joseph, MI

  E-mail: emmanuelde.cruz@gmail.com

  PROLOGUE

  Thursday 9.00 a.m., Moscow Time.

  Tverskoy District

  DIMITRI YUMASHEV BROUGHT the steaming hot cup hovering close to the edge of his lips. The smell of the freshly brewed liquid slowly assailed his nostrils and he savored the aroma with gusto. He ventured in to take a sip but was dismayed to discover that the dark inky fluid was stewed. It tasted funny and strange. Like burnt tobacco leaves soaked in a bowl of acidic vinegar and it left a deep bitter aftertaste that lingered uneasily in his mouth. He placed the cup down. Then grabbed the salt shaker and added a pinch of salt into the cup. The sodium ions should block the bitter molecules from reaching his tongue, he thought. He waited a while, then tasted it again. But it did nothing to reduce the bitterness.

  ‘Tastes like shit,’ he thought.

  Then again, when did it ever taste different?

  To Dimitri, coffee, especially Russian made coffee, was like nothing more than cheap cigarettes to him. They produced living smells of nicotine that when inhaled through the lungs, went straight across the blood-brain barrier. Bypassed the blood stream and went straight right up to the brain receptors where it caused a momentary sense of heightened awareness. Ingested though, it took a longer time to feel its effect. It’d to be absorbed through the digestive tracks and then travel upstream towards the cerebrum. That’s why he preferred to savor the fragrance of his coffee before he swigged it down every time.

  But, that was only partially the reason why Dimitri Yumashev did it.

  The truth was, he craved for some form of nicotine stimulant. Ever since he’d quit smoking, coffee, had been his only tolerable substitute for his daily dose of alkaloid intake. And it worked too. But for different reasons. Unlike most people, the dark inky liquid calmed him down. Made him less aggressive. Made him less agitated. Made him less, edgy.

  And Dimitri didn’t like being on the edge.

  “It’s hard to track you down…you know?”

  Dimitri looked up and gazed at the face that was sitting opposite him. Then languidly took another sip of the stewed coffee and fell back against the backrest of the rustic wooden chair like he didn't hear a thing.

  The man was impeccably dressed. In a Giorgio Armani suit. Gray and brand new. Wore a look of genuine concern on his face. He smiled amicably at Dimitri but it did little to conceal the apprehensive demeanor beneath that artificial grin.

  “I had to go through some pretty unconventional channels to get to you…you know…like the Spetsnaz.”

  Dimitri remained silent. He quietly observed the man sitting across the table. Made some quick surmises about him. Tall. Good looking. Broad shouldered. Athletic body. But that slight slouch in his posture told him that he’d an old injury of some sort. Perhaps from the military. Perhaps from the CIA. Perhaps not. Either way, it was telling. He wore a pallid worn look on his face and spoke softly. And there was a slight lilt of American accent in his voice.

  “It costed me a lot…you know…just to pull out your name.”

  Dimitri looked down at his coffee. A concentric circle formed around its edges. Then propagated across the surface of the dark liquid before converging in the center. It formed a tiny ripple and then disappeared into oblivion.

  “So?” Dimitri said, without shifting his gaze from the cup.

  * * *

  Thomas Callahan bit his lips. The man in front him, known only as Myasnik – or The Butcher - sent shivers down his spine. He sensed something abnormal about the way he carried himself. A cold aura surrounded him. It felt primeval and vicious. Like a bird of prey stalking its unsuspecting victim. His eyes were an icy-cold blue. His gait, steady and chilling. He possessed a sense of calmness that was rather disquieting than comforting.

  But what spooked Thomas most of all was this man’s ungodly physique. Towering nearly seven and a half feet in height, his unnatural stature was oppressively large and overbearing. His chest cavity was deep and thick. Spread three feet wide from arm to arm. And as if it that wasn’t intimidating enough, his enormous biceps nearly ripped his sleeves in two. It did little to hide the gigantic eye popping veins that ran beneath them. His callous thick palm that rested on the elfin table made Thomas feel that he could easily crush a man’s skull in two. Then there was the ape like features. Huge nostrils. Deep sunken eyes. Thick lips. Plus that ghastly scar that lined his enormous bald crown. Everything about him just augmented his barbarian-like features more and more. Made him look uglier by the minute.

  ‘This was no human,’ Thomas thought, ‘This was a…monster.’

  He swallowed his spit and then cleared his throat.

  “One million. Half now. And half when the job’s done.”

  The man sitting opposite him shot him a surprised gaze. Fixed him with straight eyes. Then curled his lips into a thin slight smile.

  Thomas had his undivided attention now.

  1

  ELENA SVECHNYKOV RESTED her chin on the polymer-framed tip of the Glock-17 semi-automatic pistol. She fingered the trigger of the elegant firearm poked into her chin and draped her left arm around her slender, willowy like, waistline.

  The striking Russian blond then shot a suggestive glance at the terrified, pathetic looking creature, standing right in front of her.

  “Victor…Victor,” she crooned flirtatiously.

  “What should I do with you?”

  She pondered the question for a moment and removed the Glock-17 from under her chin. Then pointed the barrel in the direction of the rat-faced man. He was trembling uncontrollably. Face as white as a ghost. Never took his eyes of the tip of the gun that was aimed directly at his head.

  “I’m…,”

  “I’m what…huh?” she said with real acid in her voice.

  “I’m sorry...is that it? Is that what you want to say?”

  The scrawny emaciated man looked at Elena and held his breath: too terrified to utter the words.

  “Oh Victor…Victor…my darling…don’t be afraid,” said Elena. The inflection in her voice changed abruptly. Sounding more maternal than aggressive. Less intimidating. Less threatening.

  “Let’s get you another vile but be careful this time. We don’t want another one of this to break…do we now, Victor darling?” she said. Then ran her sinewy fingers through the scant hair that lined his bare scalp.

  The pencil-liked man raised his head to face her. Tears welled in his eyes. Then hung his head low again. He nodded profusely and whimpered his appreciation silently to Elena for not pulling the trigger.

  “Spasibo madam…spasibo madam…spasibo madam.”

  Elena sauntered over to the mahogany desk that was made from fine rose wood. Placed the Glock-17 on it and clapped her hands in two rapid bursts. Loud and confident. Assertive. Authoritative. A stocky brute stepped into her office almost instantly.

  “Yes madam?”

  “Get this fool here another vile. Shoot him up yourself. Obviously, he can’t do it by himself anymore,” she ordered.

  “Yes madam,” he replied and grabbed the scrawny man by the nape of his neck and dragged him out of the office.

  “And get someone down here to clean the shitty mess he’s made on the floor,” she barked after him.

  When he left, she sighed heavily
. Then huffed and cursed under her breath. Tip-toed around the shards of broken glass that carpeted the floor and perambulated her way towards the red-leathered chair that was tucked behind the mahogany desk. Then plunked herself down heavily on the seat. She sighed again and propped her forehead into the heels of her palms.

  “Idiot,” she grumbled.

  Then looked up. Her desktop was perched solitarily on the elegant desk. Something blinked in the center of the screen. She reached for the mouse, jiggled it a bit and watched the screen spring to life. A dialogue box blinked intermittently. It was a message.

  A message from the ‘Myasnik’.

  2

  THE SLEEK, THREE-hundred-and-fifty horse powered F Sport Lexus careened along the highway at a dizzying speed; the driver eager to exit the interstate as fast as possible. Alexei Petrov was sure he wasn’t being followed but he double and then triple checked his rear-view mirror just to be sure. Svechnykov had just activated him over forty-five minutes ago. And his target was three and half hours away. That meant he’d very little time to locate the asset. And it also meant that the target too, had plenty of time to widen the distance between them. But there was no room for excuses. No room for errors. Not with Svechnykov. And certainly not with ‘The Butcher’.

  The plan was simple. Extract the package at all costs. Kill everyone.

  3

  4.00 a.m. Eastern Time.

  Somewhere across the Gulf of St Lawrence, Unites States

  THE MAN EYEBALLED the cheery little boy skit past his seat. He gleefully licked his Chupa Chups: unaware of the fact that he was being watched by a total stranger. But the stranger, who was a drawn-out drifter, secretly prayed that the kid would be on his way and ignore him.

  He wasn’t very fond of kids. Or rather, he just felt uncomfortable around them. Luckily for him though, he knew, kids were normally taught not to talk to strangers. Especially one dressed like a hobo. He probably wouldn’t have gotten a seat on the plane if it was not for his clean shaven face and decent good looks. But he wasn’t a homeless man. And he wasn’t shit luck out-of-money. It was just that he didn’t care. He was a drifter. Preferred moving from one place to another. Or rather, he felt he’d too.

  Nearly six months ago, he’d survived a close-encounter with an ex-Russian terrorist who’d planned to blow-up the Vatican to kingdom come. He’d barely managed to stop him then. And in the process he’d lost a loved one. That had crippled him mentally. And he fell into a prolonged state of depression. It drove him to shy away from people. To live off the grid. Hitch hike from one place to another. Travel aimlessly in search for answers to questions that he didn’t even know he was asking. Then one day it stop. A sudden realization dawned onto him. That the world was filled with the corrupt and evil. And the innocent was always going to pay for their crimes.

  He couldn’t just stand on the sidelines and watch the show go on anymore. The world wasn’t perfect. The law wasn’t going to protect everyone. Not every criminal was going to get caught. Or be jailed. Or be put out of their filthy existence. And even if they did, did the punishment fit the crime?

  No. The world needed people like him. Vigilantes.

  People like him to restore the balance in a land where the vile and corrupt rule without any form of decent censorship. And where the weak were oppressed and victimized. Tortured and killed. The world needed men like him. Men who worked the gray areas between the thin line of justice and retribution. Men who wasn’t afraid to toss everything away at a moment’s notice because they’d nothing to lose. Men who were willing to go the distance when the law didn’t. And he knew he was one of them. The ones who restored the balance to the equation. To the system.

  He took a deep breath. Then closed his eyes.

  Saw himself running. Running away from all his failures. For far too long. Ten years. Ten exhausting and meaningless years filled with misery, loneliness and worst of all, guilt. Maybe it’s time to change that, he thought. Time to get it right. Maybe, for once, he can stop the innocent from getting killed. And if he succeeded, he knew, it would make a world of difference to him. Free him from the gut wrenching guilt that slowly consumed him from inside.

  What lay next? He asked himself.

  Then realized he hadn’t thought the whole thing through. He’d no plans. No place to go. So for now - he figured - just lay low. Go with the flow. Maybe he could get back into the program or something. They could make an exception for him. He was one of the best after all. An ex-combat rescue officer. Skilled in the art of extracting. Extracting people. People like hostages. Or like fallen comrades. Or like wanted criminals. And in the Air Force, he extracted them deep behind enemy lines. Under the threat of being discovered, tortured or killed. Only a few could do what he did.

  And he was good at it. An elite few matched him in skill, experience and talent. And of them only a few survived to the very end. But what made him unique was his record. He was the only one to get the job done every single time.

  All but for one.

  The one that made him feel he was unworthy to be one them anymore. One of the Guardian Angels.

  ‘So that others may live.’ That was the cardinal rule of the Angels.

  And it was deeply rooted in the very grain of his spirit and being. The very motto that had caused him to feel so much pain and regret and guilt and remorse. The one rule that was meant to save others had become his destruction. It’d become his disgrace and dishonor. It’d pushed him over-the-edge when he failed his mission in Afghanistan.

  It made him furious. It made him depressed. It made him weak. And he’d blamed himself for what had happened there. He hadn’t given it his all, he thought. He hadn’t given it his best. Otherwise, they would have lived. Now, their sacred blood was on his hands. They died so that he could have lived. So that he could carry out the mission. But it was all in vain. He’d failed. He’d failed them all.

  “Hey mister,” a voice broke his train of thoughts.

  * * *

  A man’s voice growl from the seat behind him.

  “Tim…don’t disturb him.’

  The kid ignored the warning. Smiled at him while licking his Chupa Chups.

  “Your jeans, mister. It’s torn.”

  The man looked down at his leg. Glanced at the big patch of skin that bulged out of the ripped hole in it. Then looked up at the kid and flashed him an apocryphal smile.

  “I know.”

  “Are you like a homeless guy or something?” the kid interrogated him.

  “No.”

  The little boy’s face frowned. He squinted his left eye and his lips crumpled neatly to one side; revealing a cute dimple that lined his little cheeks. Then shot him an incredulous look.

  “What’s your name mister?”

  “Tim…I told you to leave the kind man alone.”

  “It’s alright…,” he said, “Its…James.”

  “Hi James. My name’s Tim,” the kid said and stretched out a palm to him.

  * * *

  James hesitated. Pondered for a second. Then reluctantly extended his arms towards the little kid.

  “Tim. As in Timothy,” the boy said.

  “Yeah,” James grunted.

  “I’m seven,” he replied.

  “Yeah. OK.”

  A hand reached over from behind his seat and grabbed the boy by his arm. Pulled him back rather forcibly. “Excuse me, sir. I’m sorry that he’s bothering you,” a deep baritone voice said.

  “Tim get over here…I swear to God…I tell you…I’m going to ground you for a week if you don’t come over here right now.” The man behind him bellowed a stern threat.

  Tim looked at James helplessly. Reluctant to be dragged away. He wave his hand at him and then disappeared behind James’ seat.

  But, another dainty little head poked out from behind his seat and perched over his arm rest. Flaxen haired. About a few years older than Tim was. With piercing blue eyes and flushed pink cheeks. She transfixed her eyes on him and then shot
him a cheerful smile.

  “I’m Nancy by the way…Tim’s sister…That’s a big hole in your pants, mister,” she said grinning. Then quickly disappeared as fast as she’d appeared.

  James sigh, shook his head and stared down at the hole in his left knee. The naked patch of skin jumped out shamelessly at him. Mocking him silently.

  “Jesus…,” he muttered, “Since when was wearing a torn pair of jeans a crime anyway.”

  4

  12.15 p.m., Moscow Time.

  Baryshevo, Novosibirsk Oblast.

  GARRI BASOV ROTATED the receptacle of the CX-22 LED microscope in small increments. The image under the lens fell into general focus but it was still hazy. Keeping his eyed glued on the image, he slipped his palm right past the stage of the microscope and down towards a small base plate located at the bottom. He felt around and found a large knob and spun it counter-clockwise. First swiftly and then gradually slowed the spin down to a snail’s pace. Then he rotated it in the opposite direction instead. He repeated this cycle numerous times until the image under the lens fell crystal clear.

  His lips curled into a thin smile. The cellular structure he was observing under the lens had been clearly infected. He pulled his face from the eyepiece. Then chuckled gleefully. He pick up the specimen that was sandwiched between the two rectangular glass panels, placed it on the table and pulled out its top panel. Then grabbed a pair of tweezers and slowly plucked out the delicate tissue on its surface. Keeping his eyes transfixed on the slice of specimen that dangled loosely in the air, he swiped his right palm across the table surface and reached for a petri dish nearby. Then pulled it closer to the scope and prepared to place the sample inside it when a female voice suddenly materialized behind him.