by Cap Daniels
The words had barely left my lips when an electric Taser struck the flesh above my left kidney. The shock tore through my body, and I convulsed in a tumultuous wave of spasmodic lunges. Every muscle in my body tensed and my bladder let go. The fifty-thousand volts of electricity coursing through my body left me exhausted and breathless when it finally stopped. I’d been tased before, but never like that. Desperately clinging to consciousness, I was sweating, gasping for breath, and drooling like an infant.
Cigarette man said, “Please do not make me do that again. It is unpleasant for me to watch, and I find it less than dignified. Now, I believe we have your attention.”
I finally drew enough air into my lungs to growl, “You have my attention now, but before the night is over, you’ll have my foot up your communist ass.”
The man eyed the Taser in his minion’s hand and he nodded. He hit me again, but this time, the shock came behind my left ear. My head shuddered violently, and my body thrashed as if I were having the most intense seizure imaginable. My eyes started to close, but I forced myself to endure the pain and remain conscious. The shock stopped, and I moaned in exhausted agony. I could still hear the popping of the Taser echoing in my head as my body throbbed, trying to recover from the torment.
“I admire your courage, Mr. Fulton, but it is the courage of a fool, I am afraid. I will not stop until you tell me what I want to know,” the man said in his cold, gravelly tone.
I managed to whimper, “I . . . don’t . . . know . . . what . . . you . . . want.”
The man pulled a pack of Belomorkanal cigarettes from his pocket and extracted one. He lit the fresh cigarette from the still-burning butt of the one in his mouth. He asked again, “Do you know who I am, Chase Fulton?”
Too exhausted to endure another shock, I moaned, “No, I don’t know who you are.”
“Very good,” the man said. “Now we can get down to the reason you are here, but I have a suspicion that you already know.”
He removed the cigarette from his lips and blew a long plume of smoke into my face.
I didn’t flinch.
“My name is Colonel Victor Vladimirovich Tornovich, and you have a couple things that belong to me. I want both of them back.”
I swallowed hard. My harebrained plan to draw Tornovich out had worked.
“Where is my submarine?”
I drew in as much air as my lungs would accept and breathed, “If it were up your ass, you’d know where it was.”
In one swift practiced motion, he drew his Makarov from its holster with his left hand, pressed it to my forehead, and grabbed the back of my head with his right. “Gde moya podvodnaya lodka?” he hissed.
I was regaining my senses, and he was losing his as his rage billowed.
I whispered, “Let’s use English, comrade. It’s not your submarine anymore. It’s mine now. And if you pull that trigger, you’ll blow your right hand off when the bullet exits my skull, so I know you’re not going to kill me.”
“Where is my submarine?” he demanded again.
“Why don’t you dismiss your two stooges over there, put down your gun, and let’s you and me settle this like men . . . unless, of course, you’re afraid of me, man-to-man.”
“Where is Captain Ekaterina Norikova?”
It was working. I hadn’t expected to be able to get under his Russian skin so easily.
“Langley,” I said with a forced smile.
“What is she doing in Langley?”
“Talking.”
“Yeshche raz,” he ordered.
I braced for the next shock, uncertain if I could maintain consciousness through another tasing. I was pretty sure he’d said “again,” but in my condition, I wasn’t the best interpreter.
The Taser hit me directly over my heart, and for the first time that night, I truly believed I was going to die. I wasn’t sure my heart could keep beating under the torture. My back arched, and every muscle in my body rippled in excruciating contractions. That’s when the tape started to tear at my right forearm. I’d never have the strength to tear through the tape under normal circumstances, but under the convulsion of the Taser, the tape was starting to give way.
I begged God to keep me conscious as my lungs burned and my eyes felt like they were melting in my head. If I could get them to hit me one more time with the Taser, as long as I didn’t pass out, I might be able to get one hand free. I didn’t have a plan beyond that, but it was a start.
No one was coming for me. There was no way anyone could know where I was or the danger I was in. I was alone and desperate. If I was going to survive, I was going to do it alone. I needed to keep Tornovich pissed off enough to shock me one more time. He obviously didn’t know Anya was dead. He thought she was still alive, and it was my plan to keep him believing that, and to convince him she was spilling her guts to the CIA.
I howled as if the pain were excruciating. It was agonizing, but I overplayed it and let Tornovich and his goons believe I couldn’t survive another attack.
“Enough!” I begged in a hoarse, desperate voice. “Enough. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
Tornovich leaned into me and placed his face inches from mine. I could smell the foul tobacco smoke on his breath. I was staring into the eyes of the man who had orchestrated one of the most diabolical infiltration schemes in the history of espionage. I was staring into the eyes of the man who had trained Anya to deceive me and gain my trust and my love. I was looking into the eyes of the man I was going to kill before the night was over . . . no matter what it took.
“What is Captain Norikova doing in Langley?”
I gasped, trying to fill my lungs with air. “She’s defected for real, and she’s telling us everything. We know all about your plan. We’ve known all along. Your little scheme was never going to work. I knew she was a plant the second I saw her. You played right into my hands every step of the way.”
“You are lying,” he growled. “Yeshche raz!”
Yep, that was definitely the Russian word for again. I prayed the shock would be enough to finish tearing the tape. I also prayed it wouldn’t be enough to stop my heart this time.
I felt the Taser press against my right shoulder and heard the arc of electricity popping and cracking in my ear. The pain raced through my body, and I arched my back and gritted my teeth, concentrating on my right arm. My whole body was rigid and throbbing. That’s when I felt the tape surrender to the force. I roared in agony and determination as my right arm came flying from the chair.
7
Not Bad for a Coastie
As if driven by God Himself, my hand flew straight for the pistol Tornovich was firmly holding. I felt the familiar cold plastic grip of the Makarov as I yanked it from his sweaty hand. I’d fired hundreds of thousands of rounds from pistols identical to his. I knew how the recoil would feel. I knew how many rounds should be in the weapon. And I knew precisely how many targets I had.
Tornovich was the most immediate threat, so I pulled the trigger twice as fast as I could, drawing the weapon across his abdomen. I propelled my body forward with strength I didn’t know I had and landed on my right side on the floor in front of Tornovich. The two goons who’d taped me to the chair stood in disbelief of the scene unfolding in front of them. I put two nine-millimeter rounds in each of their chests and watched them fall to the floor of the cabin. Tornovich was gutshot, but still alive and bleeding badly.
I laid the smoking weapon on the floor and went to work, tearing away the remaining tape holding me to what was left of the chair.
Finally free, I knelt in front of the bleeding, dying colonel. “Do you remember what I said when you asked me if I knew who you were?”
He spat blood in my face, but I didn’t flinch.
I leaned even closer. “I told you that you were the man I was going to kill before the sun came up, and you laughed at me. You’re not laughing anymore, are you, comrade Colonel Tornovich?”
“Fuck you and your CIA,” he groa
ned.
“No, Victor. I think we just did that to you.”
Blood was pooling on the floor around him. Two bullets in the abdomen is an agonizingly slow and painful way to die. I could’ve put a round between his eyes and ended his suffering, but I thought I’d let him feel a few hours of the agony I felt when I learned the truth about the woman I loved . . . about the woman he’d sent to destroy me.
I found the roll of duct tape the thugs had used to bind me to the chair, and I used it to secure Tornovich to another. I taped a tablecloth tightly across his abdomen to slow the blood loss. I wanted him alive until just before the sun peeked over the pines. I wanted him to die knowing I’d kept my word—knowing that he’d never see another sunrise.
I took a step back, inspecting my work. Tornovich was trembling from the blood loss and unimaginable pain of the wounds. I pulled his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, placing it between his lips.
“Enjoy your last smoke, Victor. I’ll be back soon with some friends, and if you’re still alive—God, I hope you’re still alive—we’ll see what we can do to hasten your trip to Hell. Oh, and one more thing . . . welcome to the Sunshine State.”
I searched the pockets of the two dead goons and found a set of car keys. Pocketing the Makarov, I peeked out the door to make sure the van and grab men weren’t waiting for me out front. The yard appeared empty, so I hurried down the steps and found a Jeep Cherokee that happened to match the keys in my hand. I drove out the dirt road until I reached County Road 214, West King Street, and turned left, heading back toward my boat and my Green Beret brother-in-arms.
I drove barely over the speed limit. I didn’t want to get stopped in a car that wasn’t mine and may have been stolen by the Russians. I made it back to the city marina and ran down the dock toward my boat. I leapt aboard and charged into the cabin to wake Clark, but he wasn’t aboard. No one was aboard.
I grabbed my cell phone and pressed Clark’s speed dial button.
He answered on the first ring. “Yeah!”
“Clark, it’s Chase. Listen. The Russians grabbed me tonight—”
“I know, Chase. Where are you? We’re out looking for you now.”
“What do you mean you’re out looking for me? How did you know I’d been taken?”
“Kirsten showed up at the boat in hysterics, screaming about how you’d been kidnapped. I finally got her calmed down enough to tell us the whole story, and we’ve been looking for you for over an hour.”
“Okay,” I said. “There’s a park at the corner of West King and Holmes. Meet me there in fifteen minutes. I’ll be in a white Jeep Cherokee. Oh, and Clark, please tell me you didn’t call the police.”
“Give me a little credit. Do you really think I wanted the cops screwing around in this?”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”
I grabbed my pistol and a pair of night vision goggles and stuck Tornovich’s Makarov in my safe. I considered it a trophy. After screwing a suppressor onto the muzzle of my Walther, I shoved it into my waistband beneath my shirt.
The streets of the Old City were still bustling with nightlife, but outside the Old City, it was quiet. I pulled into the park at the same time Clark, Tony, and Kirsten pulled in beside me in a blue Toyota 4Runner.
“Where’d you get the car?” I asked.
“It’s my car,” said Kirsten.
“Tony, Clark, come with me. Kirsten, listen. I need you to go back to the inn and stay with Chloe. Are you hurt?”
“No,” she said. “I’m fine. Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay, but I need you to be as far away from this as possible. Go back to the inn. I promise to come talk to you when this is over, okay?”
“Elizabeth is with Chloe, but I couldn’t let Clark go looking for you without me. I knew what the guys who took you looked like, and I knew I could spot the van.”
“Thank you, but we’ve got this now. I need you safe at the inn. Tony, Clark, and I can handle it from here.”
“You’re not really a writer, are you?”
I didn’t answer her. There was no time for that conversation. We jumped into the Jeep, me at the wheel, Clark in the passenger seat, and Tony in the back with a long sniper rifle and night vision scope. I was glad to see him thinking tactically.
Not bad for a Coastie.
I briefed them. “I was talking with Kirsten on the sidewalk a block from her B and B, when a black van pulled up and two average-sized Eastern European guys jumped out. They shoved Kirsten down and tossed me in the van. They had me cuffed and shackled before I could fight them off. They took me out into the pines west of town to a cabin where Victor Tornovich was waiting for me. I managed to get free and kill two of the goons who were holding me, but the two grab men had already vanished.”
“What about Tornovich?” Clark asked.
“I put two in his gut and taped him to a chair. If he’s not dead when we get back there, maybe we can squeeze some intel out of him before he bleeds out. But listen to me. He’s mine. Do you understand?”
Clark grinned and covered his mouth in an obvious attempt to stifle a laugh.
“Why are you laughing?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “There’s nothing funny about any of this.”
“It’s just that people like me tickle me. Of course he’s yours. I’d feel the same if I were you.”
As we drove west on 214, we saw firetrucks and police cars everywhere. When we came to the dirt road where I’d been held, orange flames were leaping into the air from a half mile into the pines. The cabin was ablaze.
“Hey, I know that guy!” said Tony. “Pull over there, and I’ll ask him what’s going on.”
We pulled over beside a fire engine parked on the side of the highway, with six firemen standing around it.
Tony rolled down his window. “Hey, Tim! What’s going on?”
A fireman walked toward us. “Hey, Tony. What’s up, man?”
Tony asked again, “What’s going on out there?”
The fireman peered through the trees and at the blaze. “Oh, somebody torched an old cabin out there in the woods. It’s going pretty good, too. It’s too hot to fight, so we’re keeping the woods around it as wet as we can. It’ll burn out sooner or later. Those old cabins don’t usually burn that hot. They’re mostly built out of pine. We’re thinking there must’ve been a meth lab or something in that one. We’ve never seen one burn that hot. What are you doing out here so late?”
“Ah, we was just headed out to pick up a Coast Guard buddy of mine. He got in a little trouble up in Jacksonville, and some folks are droppin’ him off.”
That was a pretty good improv job by Tony, but I wondered what we’d do if his friend the fireman saw us coming back without a fourth guy in the car.
We pulled away, and Clark said, “So, you said Tornovich was still alive when you left, right?”
“Yeah. I put two in his gut and then taped him to a chair.”
“And you’re sure the other guys were dead?”
“I’m real sure they were dead. I put two Makarov rounds in each of their chests. They weren’t getting up.”
We drove in silence for a couple of minutes, each of us contemplating what could’ve happened at the cabin after I left.
Clark spoke up. “Kirsten said you ran off after some chick you thought looked like Anya tonight. Tell me about that.”
“Oh, man,” I said. “Was that a dumbass move. We came out of the Columbia, and I saw a woman who, from behind, looked exactly like Anya. She was wearing clothes I’ve seen Anya wear, and she had a barely noticeable limp . . . just like Anya’s.”
“So, was it her?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I yelled for her and she took off running. I chased her down an alley and then realized if it was her, I’d be running straight into an ambush. I decided to break off my chase and head back to hook up with Tony, Skipper, and Kirsten.”
Clark seemed anxious for me to continue.
&
nbsp; “When I found them, Kirsten was pissed, so she headed back to her B and B. Skipper convinced me I should go after her. When I caught up with her, that’s when I got nabbed.”
“It’s too much of a coincidence. Even if the girl wasn’t Anya, she has to be involved somehow. She was bait,” said Clark.
I considered what he’d said and couldn’t believe I hadn’t already come to the same conclusion.
“So, whoever torched the cabin has Tornovich,” said Clark. “The fire is obviously to cover their tracks. Who do you think it was?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but we’re going to find out.”
“We have to report this, you know.”
Clark was right, of course, but I wasn’t looking forward to that phone call.
“To whom?” I asked.
“Who’s your handler?”
“I guess your dad is my handler, but I don’t know for sure.”
Tony and Clark’s father was Dominic Fontana, a long-time clandestine operative turned yacht broker in Miami. He’d never called himself my handler, but I got most of my information—and help—from him. He was the logical next call.
I didn’t know what to say to Dominic, but I had to let someone know what was going on. Reluctantly, I dialed his number.
He answered on the third ring, in a very sleepy voice. “Yeah, this is Dominic.”
“Dominic, it’s Chase. We’ve got a problem.”
I heard the shuffling of blankets.
“Okay, Chase. What’s going on?”
He stopped me several times and had me repeat parts of the story for clarity, but I finally got it all out.
“Are you telling me Tornovich is in Florida?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s what I’m telling you. Or he was in Florida an hour ago.”
“Are you sure it was Tornovich?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Have you ever seen Tornovich before tonight?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Just because the guy told you he was Tornovich, doesn’t mean he was.”
I hadn’t considered that someone might try to make me believe he was Tornovich, but Dominic had a great point. The only reason I knew the man was Tornovich was because he told me he was.