by Haris Orkin
Chapter Thirty-Six
Fergus was a patient man. Marine scout snipers have to be. In Iraq, his scout-sniper platoon was part of the First Reconnaissance Battalion supporting Operation Enduring Freedom. He was credited with ninety-seven confirmed kills and 211 probable kills. He was trained to be disciplined, still, focused, and watchful for hours and sometimes days at a time. So, he knew he could wait out almost anyone. But he also knew that Belenki and Flynn and the rest of them had enough food and water in that shelter to last them for years if not the rest of their natural lives.
The only way to end this was to end Belenki and Flynn. Max too if he was still alive. He could blame their murders on the Russians. Claim he arrived just a little too late. His team was still behind him, but that was only because they had no clue he sold Belenki out. They were the best of the best. Ten highly trained operators. Half his team were former Marine scout snipers.
Flynn wouldn’t stand a chance against them. But first they had to reach him. Besides the entrance from the basement of the house, there was another much larger solid steel and concrete blast door at the end of an underground tunnel designed to accommodate a supply truck. Fergus initially considered stationing men at both entrances before opening the doors.
If he did that, it didn’t matter where Flynn emerged. They would take him out instantly. But what if Belenki was the first one out? The billionaire could expose him. Tell his men that he was a turncoat. And if Max was still alive, he would corroborate every word of it.
So, Fergus found himself in a quandary and didn’t station anyone anywhere and didn’t say a word to his men. He knew that eventually people would notice Belenki missing. Blinki’s board of directors would demand to see him. They would bring in the FBI to search the premises. They would likely breach the apocalypse bunker and when Belenki emerged, Fergus would be done.
He had to take Flynn out without any help. Having underestimated him before, Fergus wouldn’t make that mistake again. He decided to enter the bunker from an entrance Flynn wasn’t familiar with; the truck entrance on the service road. Then he would hunt him down along with Belenki and the rest.
Fergus outfitted himself from head to toe with body armor and a ballistic helmet specifically designed to stop armor-piercing rounds. Low-weight, high-strength, and porous, it consisted of tiny hollow steel spheres in a steel matrix combined with a ceramic plate and could absorb massive amounts of energy. Even a .50 caliber bullet couldn’t penetrate it. He carried flashbang grenades, smoke grenades, tear gas grenades, and a Colt M4A1 assault rifle.
He had to remove his helmet to use the retinal scanner. He put his face against it and let the laser scan his eyes. Nothing. It didn’t seem to recognize him. He tried again. Nothing. And again. Nothing. He took off one of his tactical gloves and tried the fingerprint scanner. Nothing.
Was he not authorized to enter this door? Or did Flynn make it inside the server room? Could Belenki have somehow hacked the system? He’d have to try the other door; the one from the basement corridor. He sighed and turned around and nearly jumped out of his skin. Flynn aimed a Russian VAL assault weapon right him.
“Where the fuck did you come from?”
“Drop the weapon or I’ll drop you,” Flynn ordered. “I can’t miss at this—”
Fergus raised his weapon and Flynn shot him square in the chest. The force slammed Fergus into the vault door. He dropped his weapon as he fell. Flynn kicked it away. Dazed, he reached for his sidearm and Flynn shot the holster right off his belt. Fergus, on his hands and knees, glowered up at Flynn with fury.
“This ain’t happening,” Fergus insisted.
“It already has,” Flynn said.
“Drop your weapon!” The voice belonged to Stemson, a former Marine Scout Sniper, and one of Fergus’s best men. He and Schmidt, a retired army ranger, stood fifteen feet behind Flynn and both aimed assault rifles at him.
“Weapon down! On the ground!” Schmidt shouted.
Flynn moved very slowly as he set his weapon on the ground.
“The side arm too!” Schmidt ordered.
Flynn complied and straightened up, raising his hands. Fergus pushed himself to his feet and punched Flynn in the face. Flynn staggered back, stumbled, and landed on his ass.
“Shoot him,” Fergus commanded. “Do it! Kill him!”
Schmidt and Stemson hesitated to kill an unarmed man.
“What are you waiting for?” Fergus shouted. “Put him down!”
Fergus picked up his own weapon just as the blast door opened, revealing Sergei Belenki with a handcuffed Andy Meisner. Wendy and Severina helped Max, his arms around their shoulders. He looked shaky and weak and was surprised to see his brothers-in-arms.
“I said shoot the son of a bitch!” Fergus shouted. “That’s an order!”
“Nobody’s shooting anybody!” Belenki barked. “Flynn isn’t the enemy! Fergus is! He sold me out to the Russians!”
Confusion radiated in Schmidt and Stemson’s eyes. Fergus took advantage of that split second of indecision to put a round in each of their heads. He felt the tiniest twinge of regret, but he knew it was either him or them, and he hadn’t stayed alive this long by letting his conscience override his instinct for survival.
Severina and Wendy screamed. Max shouted for Fergus to stand down, but Fergus was in the zone. Everything moved in slow motion as he set his front sight between Flynn’s eyes. He was so focused on Flynn, the burst to the chest took him completely by surprise. The impact knocked Fergus right off his feet as he squeezed the trigger.
The first bullet blazed by Flynn’s left ear. Fergus held the trigger as he fell and bullets ripped through the air over his head. Flynn dove for his Russian-made assault rifle, dramatically and unnecessarily somersaulting over the ground, before ending up on his feet with the barrel aimed at the ex-marine scout sniper’s head.
A livid Fergus reluctantly dropped his weapon. Wendy scooped it up. Flynn glanced back to see who fired the burst. Bettina. Dressed in Chef’s whites, she wielded Schmidt’s assault rifle.
Behind her, in the sky over Brigantine Bay, three Black Hawk helicopters came swooping towards them. Their down drafts churned the water and their rotors roared. They crossed over the rocky beach and landed in a clearing on either side of the access road, kicking up clouds of dust.
FBI tactical operators in camouflaged body armor sprang forth followed by agents in blue windbreakers. They took tactical positions as they surrounded Flynn and the others. Agents shouted for them to drop their weapons. Flynn and Bettina quickly complied.
A tall black woman took point and made a beeline for Belenki. “Mr. Belenki! I’m Miranda Jacks, Special Agent in Charge! Are you all right?”
That was when Flynn caught Sancho moving through the throng of special agents and tactical operators, blinking and squinting and spitting dust.
“Sancho!” Flynn shouted.
Sancho waved and made his way forward as Special Agent Jacks addressed Belenki in her loud, commanding, take-no-shit voice. “It was Mr. Perez who convinced us you might be in danger. We tried to contact your security team, but there was radio silence and that concerned me.”
Severina said in a voice no less commanding, “We have a wounded man here who needs immediate medical attention.”
“One of our choppers is a medivac, ma’am. Get that emergency medical team over here!” Jacks pointed at Max and the team rushed over.
Belenki pointed at Fergus. “My head of security just killed two of his men. He sold me out to the Russians.”
“If you look inside the shelter, you’ll find two tied up Russian hitmen,” Flynn said.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to bring everyone back to Seattle to sort this out. As of right now, this entire island is an active crime scene,” Jacks said.
Flynn nodded and smiled. “So, it worked.”
“What worked?” Jacks asked.
“Q’s revolutionary new homing suppository. I inserted it right before I began this m
ission.” Flynn smiled at Sancho. “That’s how you found me, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Sancho said.
“How else would you know I was here?”
“You told me you were heading to Wembly Island.”
“Right,” Flynn acknowledged with just the tiniest touch of sheepishness before turning back to Jacks. “I really should report back to headquarters and let them know what happened here.”
“The headquarters of what?”
“Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”
Jacks looked at Sancho. “I already let them know, James. N is up to speed. He wanted you to go with Agent Jacks so she can debrief you.”
Flynn nodded and gave Agent Jacks his most charming smile. “I’d love to join Agent Jacks where ever she wants to go. Lead the way, Miranda.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The richest robber baron of them all, John D. Rockefeller, made his fortune in oil, coal, and gas. Raised by a religious mother and con man father, he became the wealthiest person in modern history. In 1913, his net worth peaked at 409 billion in today’s dollars and he personally controlled two percent of the national GDP. That was the same year he instigated the Ludlow Massacre. Hired thugs under Rockefeller’s direction attacked twelve hundred striking coal miners living in a tent colony. Using machine guns, they mowed down miners and their families. Just twenty years later, in 1932, ground was broken on Rockefeller Plaza in New York City. John D. was ninety-two by then and lauded as a great philanthropist. Along with the Rockefeller family, one of the first tenants was The National Broadcasting Company. NBC has broadcast from thirty Rockefeller Plaza for eighty-seven years. Shows produced there include The Johnny Carson Show, Tic Tac Dough, Saturday Night Live, and the Today show.
Bettina wiped her sweaty palms on the green room couch as she waited to go on the Today Show. She originally didn’t want to wear a dress, especially not a cobalt blue one, but her new agent told her she needed to make an impression. Her agent hired a stylist who told Bettina that the dress brought out the blue in her eyes and that she shouldn’t be afraid to use what she had. “If you have it, flaunt it,” was the cliché she kept repeating. The stylist insisted on a new hair cut with bangs and even brought in a makeup artist to make Bettina more presentable for national TV. The Today Show would be her first appearance, but she was also scheduled for The View, Colbert, and Ellen.
Natasha Lyonne sat on the other side of the green room and texted someone on her phone. Peter Dinklage talked to his much taller female manager and ate grapes.
A pretty twenty-something page poked her head in the door. “Are you ready, Ms. O’Toole.
“Applebaum. O’Toole-Applebaum”
“Of course, but we should go. Your segment is next.”
The walk from the Green Room to Studio A was a blur of lights and smiling faces, frantic producers and bored-looking crew members. Before she knew it, Bettina sat across from Savannah Guthrie and stared into her dazzling smile.
“Welcome,” Savannah said.
“Thank you.”
The studio looked so much different on TV. In person, it seemed much smaller and phonier.
Savannah shifted her gaze away from Bettina and smiled into the camera. “Today our guest is a young journalist who has made quite a splash. Bettina O’Toole-Appelbaum won a Pulitzer Prize this year for her story in Rolling Stone on the Sergei Belenki scandal.” She turned her gaze back to Bettina. “I heard your piece was optioned by Angelina Jolie’s production company. Is she going to be playing you?”
“I don’t know. It’s still pretty early in the process.”
“I understand you model yourself after Nellie Bly.”
“She is an inspiration.”
“She was to me as well,” Savannah said. “She broke the rules and broke new ground. And just like Nellie Bly, you went undercover and discovered a plot by billionaire Sergei Belenki that threatened everyone on the planet.”
“Actually, the real mastermind was Belenki’s ex-partner, Andrew Meisner. He duped Belenki with an elaborate con. Of course, Belenki still bears some responsibility for his actions.”
“Are you at all upset that Belenki didn’t face any consequences for those actions?”
“It’s hard to charge let alone convict anyone as wealthy as Sergei Belenki. That’s part of what prompted me to write this story.”
“I understand he’s suing you.”
“And I have to thank him for all that free publicity.”
“Is that what helped you clinch the Hollywood deal?”
“It didn’t hurt.”
“Andrew Meisner’s facing life in prison, yet Sergei Belenki goes scot-free.”
“People are dead because of what Andrew Meisner did.”
“What about Sergei Belenki?”
“He truly believed that Daisy was sentient. He thought he was saving the world.”
“Some would say he was just as delusional as the hero of your story, Mr. Flynn.”
“That’s what his lawyers argued. Temporary insanity.”
“But the courts decided that Mr. Flynn’s insanity is not temporary.”
“No, he’s currently being treated at a psychiatric hospital.”
“Is it true that the prosecutor used your story as part of the evidence for his involuntary commitment?”
“Mr. Flynn sees the world differently than the rest of us do, but that doesn’t make him any less of a hero.”
Sancho stood in the City of Roses activity room and took in the Today Show with a handful of patients. Ty and Q watched from the couch and neither one seemed to have any understanding of what Bettina was talking about. Nurse Durkin scowled at Sancho from the doorway. “Are you on a break, Mr. Perez?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then get back to work. And let’s watch something a little more therapeutic.” She aimed the channel changer at the TV and turned to “Keeping up with the Kardashians.” Q and Ty both perked up at the sight of Kim Kardashian in a yellow bikini.
Mr. Papazian looked older, balder and thinner than the last time Flynn saw him. It was at the Glendale Galleria when he confronted Goolardo and Mendoza and took three bullets for his bravery. His bushy eyebrows and pencil thin mustache were grayer and so was Papazian’s complexion, but he seemed genuinely pleased to see Flynn. As did Mr. Rodriguez, who wore his brown maintenance uniform. Papazian, on the other hand, was dressed like a civilian in khaki trousers, a colorful sweater, and a tweed jacket. He clutched a cane and walked with some difficulty. They each took a seat in the City of Roses visiting area. Flynn tried to help Papazian into his chair, but the elderly Armenian waved him off.
“I’m fine,” Papazian grumbled.
“You look like you’re doing better,” Flynn said.
“I’m much improved. You’re looking good too, Jimmy. You lost a lot of weight. You been working out?”
“I have,” Flynn said with a smile. “By the way, it’s James now.”
Rodriguez repeated the name. “James. Okay. You doing all right in here?”
“Couldn’t be better. How are you doing?”
“Doing what I do,” Rodriguez said. “Got lots of mouths to feed. You know how that goes.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“We miss you back at the mall, man. It just ain’t the same without you. By the way, Mrs. McKinney at Hot Dog on a Stick says hi.”
“Say hi back to her for me, would you please? I’m glad to hear you’re both still doing what you do.”
Papazian shook his head. “Not me, Jimmy.”
“James,” Rodriguez corrected.
“James,” Papazian repeated with not a little irritation. “They retired me, but I’m on worker’s comp. I got a pension for life now. Add that to my social security and I’m doing okay for an old man.”
“He’s the hero of the Galleria. People buy him drinks everywhere he goes.”
Mr. Papazian grinned. “I don’t move as fast as I used to, but I’m not in any hurry to get
anywhere anyway.”
“Well, it was good of you to come see me,” Flynn said. “I’m sorry I deceived you as to my true purpose at the Galleria, but I truly appreciate the kindness you both showed me.”
Rodriguez and Papazian shared a look.
“So, when are you getting out of here?” Rodriguez asked.
“Not anytime soon. As long as I’m needed, this is where I’ll be. And please feel free to come by and see me anytime.”
Papazian smiled and nodded but Flynn detected a sadness in his eyes. Perhaps the old man regretted retirement more than he made out. He leaned on his cane and grunted to get himself to his feet. “We better get Rodriguez back to work before his lunch hour’s up. But we’ll be by again and next time I’ll bring you some of my wife’s homemade Popok.”
“That shit is tasty,” Rodriguez said. “It’s like tiny crispy balls of creamy deliciousness.”
“I look forward to tasting your wife’s popok,” Flynn said as he showed them both the door. “Good to see you, Mr. Rodriguez. Be well, Mr. Papazian.”
Severina sat on the edge of her bed and buttoned her blouse. “Sergei won’t be happy about this.”
“Happy about what?” Max asked as he came out of the bathroom wearing shorts and a tank top. Bandages covered his right shoulder.
“Bettina on the Today Show.”
“He’s lucky that’s all he has to deal with.”
“He’s never going to win that lawsuit,” Severina said.
“But that’s not the point, is it? He just wants her to shut up.”
“But that’s not going to happen. All he’s doing is giving her more attention.”
“Maybe you should tell him that,” Max said.
Severina stood up. “You think I made a mistake going back to work for him?”
“That’s not my call.”
“But you have an opinion.”
“My opinion is he owes you big time. So, get what you can out of him and start your own thing.”
Severina smiled and moved for Max, putting her arms around him. “That’s the plan.”
“Good plan.” Max smiled as Severina kissed him.