by James Hunt
“The chancellor is right,” the American president said, “and all our intelligence suggests that those responsible for the attacks acted independently of any nation.”
“And whose intelligence is that, Mr. President?” the French leader asked. “You have yet to share anything with the rest of us. How do we know that you don’t have a hidden agenda yourself?”
“Our investigations are still ongoing,” the American president replied. “Once we have a better understanding and we’re no longer postulating, we’ll be sure to share anything that is pertinent.”
“How convenient,” the French president answered.
“Enough,” Andrea said, shaking her head in exasperation. “Now is not the time to bicker about such petty things. We are at war, gentlemen. Both the Russians and Chinese have sent very clear messages. We must band together.” The room went silent. The solemn lines on their faces flashed embarrassment.
“My apologies, Mr. President,” the French leader said. “The stress of the past week seems to have caught up with me.”
“I think it’s caught up to all of us,” the American president replied. “We’ll be sending reinforcement troops to Eastern Europe and a carrier to the south of Japan for support. I would request that the Japanese make whatever plans necessary to help support the American troops.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” the Japanese leader said, bowing his head slightly. “I’ll have a unit ready whenever you give the word.”
“And you can count on Germany’s continued support on the Eastern Europe front,” Andrea said. “I’ll be damned if I let those bastards past my country’s lines.”
“Thank you, everyone,” the American president said.
The conference call ended, and Andrea walked out of the secure room and back into the flurry that was the capitol building, meeting Alexander in stride as she made her way back to the main conference room to check the status of her country.
“Water and food supply routes just opened back up in the north,” Alexander said, “and we’re receiving word from the Dutch that they’ll be contributing one thousand soldiers to the efforts in the east.”
“Where are we at with the evacuation of the Polish?” Andrea asked, looking over the stacks of papers and notes that required her attention.
“We’re working on getting them out as fast as we can, but some of them are reluctant to move.”
“Well, tell them that they’re about to be put in the middle of war, and if they don’t want to be turned to rubble, they need to get the hell out of there now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He started to turn to leave as she made her way back into the main conference room, but abruptly stopped. “Oh, and I ran that query you asked.” He leaned in close so he could whisper, and looked around nervously. “On the woman.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
Andrea looked puzzled. “You conferred with the Americans?”
“Yes, they had nothing. I even had our unit of underground Internet sleuths take a crack at it, and they came up empty-handed as well. The person you’re searching for doesn’t seem to exist.” He finished his sentence, but after Andrea looked at him, he quickly added, “From the resources we’ve used, Chancellor.”
“Thank you.”
Andrea walked back into the conference room, her head still spinning from both the conference call with her allies and the fact that they’d been able to find nothing on the woman. She knew she hadn’t imagined her. It wasn’t some dream or hallucination. But the fact that none of their resources had found anything, nothing, seemed cause for concern.
The woman she met didn’t strike her as someone who had a hidden agenda. Her years in politics had left her with a nose that could sniff out the scaly underbelly of anyone she met. But still, there was always the possibility that she had been played.
Andrea sat down and allowed her mind to wind down that path until she realized it was ludicrous. She wasn’t wrong. The woman existed. And she was going to do everything in her power to find her.
Heath had placed a towel down on the crate before he sat down. It seemed that all of Russia was covered in a layer of filth. He picked at his fingernails with a file, rounding out any jagged edges to create a smooth, leveled surface. He stood out from the soldiers around him, dressed in their fatigues and Kevlar, helmets, gloves, and boots. He looked at them as much as they looked at him, while he wore his tailored suit, with a clean-shaven face, combed hair, and polished black shoes. Neither could understand why the other’s attire was necessary.
But Heath simply finished the pinky nail on his left hand and tucked the file back into the inside of his jacket, flashing his holster to the soldiers still looking at him. One of the soldiers nudged his friend, pointing to Heath, muttering something in Russian, and the two laughed.
“Care to share?” Heath asked.
“You wear such fancy clothes,” the Russian said. “I was asking my friend here whether the man we’re going to pick up is your date.” The two soldiers chuckled again, and laughter rippled through the rest of the group.
Heath answered with a half grin and reached back inside his jacket. He watched the soldiers tense up, and the laughter disappeared. But when Heath revealed the nail file he had used earlier, the soldiers relaxed, smiles returning to their faces. He gently pressed his finger into the sharp tip of the file that was used for cleaning underneath the nail.
“You’re funny.” Heath rose from the crate, the Russian soldiers suddenly shrinking beneath him as his full height was on display. He kept his eye on the file in his hand as he took a few steps toward the soldier who had spoken, and before the Russian could react, Heath had the tip of the file against the artery on the side of his neck. “Tell me another joke.”
The Russian’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down from the large gulp he took with Heath standing in front of him. The tip of the file slowly dug deeper into the side of his neck. “W-what?” the Russian asked.
“I want to hear another joke,” Heath answered. “Go on. Make me laugh.” The Russian looked to his comrades for assistance, but they all took a step back from the towering behemoth. Heath watched the man’s mouth go dry, and his lips formed soundless words. Heath frowned. “No more jokes?” He shook his head. “Pity.”
“Mr. Fuller.”
The voiced boomed and echoed from behind Heath, the thick Russian accent curling over each “e” and “r.” Heath removed the tip of the file from the soldier’s neck and walked over to the colonel to greet him as the Russian soldier behind him almost collapsed out of his seat.
“Your men need more discipline, Colonel,” Heath said, ignoring the man’s extended hand meant for a greeting. “Are the rest of your units in place?”
The colonel gave a disgusted grin and nodded. “Per your instructions.”
“Tell your men they need to be on high alert. The man we’re after is highly dangerous. I would imagine that most of your soldiers will die before they even see him coming.”
“It’s just one man, and we have his building surrounded,” the colonel exclaimed. “He has nowhere else to go.”
“There is always somewhere else to go, Colonel.”
Heath rode in the front of the truck while the rest of the Russian soldiers, one of them gingerly rubbing the red mark on the side of his neck, piled into the back. The snows pushed to the sidewalks were soiled, and the people walking on them looked no different.
Heath hated this country. He hated being here, but the fact that they had a location on one of the GSF agents holed up in their safe house with no communication to their peers overrode his disgust for his current predicament. He would have preferred going after Sarah, but they were unable to locate her safe house off the hard drives they recovered.
The truck came to a stop at the end of a narrow street in the middle of a poor neighborhood at the Moscow city limits. “This is where he is?” Heath asked.
The driver nodded. His broken English was not completely u
nderstandable but decipherable. “House. Middle Street.”
Heath’s polished shoe hit the brown-stained cobble street, and the driver banged on the back of the truck, sending the soldiers spilling out the back. The colonel walked to Heath, who was adjusting the cuffs on his shirt, surrounded by a cluster of rifles.
“Are you ready?” the colonel asked.
“The schematics of the house show that the only two entrances are the front and the back,” Heath answered. “But your men should know that there will most likely be exits that they don’t know about. And remember, I want him alive.”
The colonel nodded.
“Then let’s move,” Heath said. He pulled the pistol from the inside of his jacket and took the first steps down the unevenly cobbled street. His eyes focused on the structure in the distance. He examined the doors, the windows, and the people scattering to their houses from the street corners at the sight of the advancing soldiers. No doubt that the GSF operative inside would be alerted to his presence. Heath picked up his pace, his long strides separating him from the soldiers behind him.
In a full sprint, Heath fired and shot the door handle off, splintering both the door and the frame it was attached to. He drove his foot into the broken pieces, dismantling what was left.
The room was dark and empty, and the only light came from the sunlight through the broken door, which was quickly dispersed by the shadows of the soldiers behind him. Heath kept his pistol aimed, his finger on the trigger, while he scanned the room for anything.
But as the sound of the other soldiers coming from the back entrance met with those in the front, Heath frowned. “I want a thermal scan of this building now.” The colonel relayed his command in Russian, and two soldiers scurried out of the front door.
Heath took a few steps forward, the old wooden boards underneath his feet creaking with age. The room was bare, with the exception of an old rug, a wooden table with only one chair, and a fireplace that had no warmth coming from it at all. An odd fact given the chilling cold outside. He quickly turned to the colonel. “When did you start surveillance?”
“Yesterday,” the colonel said. “At your employer’s request.”
“And no one has come in or out of this building since?”
“No.” The colonel’s tone was cold, defiant. Just like his country.
“He’s still here,” Heath said, stepping around the barren living room. With all of the soldiers inside, the old floor had become a symphony of scuffles and steps, creaks and strains, and Heath stopped. He holstered his pistol and snatched one of the AK-47 rifles from the soldier, cocked it, and aimed it at the floor.
Without explaining his action, he squeezed the trigger, emptying the magazine, sending up splinters and piercing the old wood with dozens of holes until the boards were chipped away and the bullet-sized holes grew into larger, more noticeable potholes. With the gun emptied of its lead, Heath tossed it back to the soldier he’d stolen it from and then walked to the edge of the pothole he’d created.
A breezy draft wafted up from the space, and he kicked the edge with his heel, sending down another huge chunk of wood and exposing a large, cavernous space underneath. “Hand me a light.” A few Russians walked to the edge of the hole, and when the light hit the bottom, Heath could see the edge of a desk.
Heath jumped down the makeshift manhole, and one of the soldiers lowered the light into the pit with him. He scanned the hidden compartment underneath and saw the large, open end of a pipe in the back. “He ran!” Heath pulled his pistol and entered the dark tunnel in a sprint, having to hunch over beneath the low ceiling.
The flashlight highlighted red smears against the tunnel’s wall. A light trickle of water streamed under his feet. It took him three minutes to get to the end, which opened into a drainage creek.
Heath saw a red-stained leaf leading into a thicket of brush. He walked around the perimeter, scouring the area for any other entrance points or traps. His father used to take him hunting when he was a boy. They’d covered some big game—dangerous game. One of the hunts had pinned him against a three-hundred-pound boar. Heath had shot him but failed to kill him, and the animal had hidden himself in the tall grass, concealing him from view. Then, without warning, the animal charged him, tearing a gash into his arm, before his father brought the animal down with his rifle. The gash had required surgery, and he’d nearly lost his arm. But it taught him a valuable lesson: When you shoot, shoot to kill.
After making a half circle around the edge of the brush, Heath found another cut through. He stepped carefully, mindful of each step, silent. The soldiers finally barreled out of the tunnel, noisy and panting. Heath held up his hand, signaling them to stop. The sun shone through a gap in the trees overhead and shimmered on another spot of red.
Heath aimed his pistol into the thicket. He took two more steps, and the outline of a body came into view. The agent was passed out, his shirt stained red on the left side of his ribs.
Heath lowered his pistol and checked the man’s pulse. He was alive but barely. The Russian soldiers came out of the tunnel, and Heath waved them down. “I need a medic over here now!” The soldiers echoed his orders down the line. He looked back down at the man. “I need you alive.”
Ben sat on the edge of the bed and gripped the sides with both hands, his knuckles a pale sheet of white. The room around him was an improvement over his previous accommodations. A bed, sink, shower, and television that didn’t work were his gifts for betraying his sister, along with the agreement that for every answer he gave to the questions asked, he would receive one minute with his children.
When Ben finally saw them, he broke down, squeezing them until they wiggled away from him. He kissed his wife, who cried as hard as he did. The kids touched the bandages on his face, asking if he was okay, to which he told them he was fine. He couldn’t remember how much time he had with them, but it was over quickly. Two guards had to come in and escort him out, and that’s when his children started crying.
Today, he was told he would get to see them again. And he waited. Despite his fatigue, he hadn’t gotten an ounce of sleep the night before. He’d tossed and turned, rolling back and forth on the clean sheets, waiting for the morning to come. There was no clock in the room, and despite the bed and bathroom, he still didn’t have a window. The lack of the reference of time had caused the seconds to drag for eternity.
The door to his room cracked open, and Ben jumped to his feet. He made a few short steps forward, smiling, then stopped abruptly when he saw two stone-faced guards enter. They stood there, silently, until one of them extended a digital tablet.
“I was told I would see my children again. In person.” He stood there, defiantly clenching his fists, and he could feel his resolve shake a bit.
“Look,” the guard said.
Ben took the tablet, on which he saw a man clutching his side, an IV hooked up to his arm. From his condition, Ben couldn’t tell if they were trying to kill him or trying to save him.
“Do you know him?” the guard asked.
Ben shook his head, and the guards took an aggressive step forward. Ben retreated until his back was against the wall, his body tense.
“You’ve never seen him before?”
“No,” Ben answered.
The guard yanked the tablet out of Ben’s hands then turned to leave. “Wait. What about my kids?” The door was slammed in his face. Ben shook the doorknob, shaking the frame and the wall it was attached to. “I want to see my kids! You hear me? I want to see my children!”
Swells of rage grew within him, lapping up against the shores of his mind, eroding what control he had left. He squeezed his fists tight until his arms shook and his face reddened. He slammed his fist into the concrete wall, a dull thud sounding against the solid piece of rock. He continued to smack his fist until bits of blood left his flesh and stained the wall red.
Ben felt his hand go numb. He stomped over to the television, lifted it off its stand, and smashed it against the
wall. The screen shattered into pieces, and bits of black plastic flew off the edges. When it crashed to the floor, Ben collapsed, all his energy exhausted. The rage and the burst of adrenaline that had come with it were short lived.
Ben looked at the black, blue, and bloody stump that was his fist. The pain started to set in harder now. He tried squeezing his hand but winced, pulling it closer to his body to hold it. He massaged some of the bones and could feel that at least one of his knuckles was broken.
Suddenly, he could see Matt and Ella, laughing in the front yard, chasing after each other in a giggled fit of joy and terror, full of children’s joy of moving but without the understanding of why they were doing it. It was simply motion. Happy, blissful motion.
Ben wanted that back. He didn’t want his last memories of his children to be just that—old memories. He wanted new ones, fresh in his mind, to take with him into whatever afterlife came next. And he wasn’t going to let them take him anytime soon.
9
The flight back to Chicago consisted of Bryce transfixed on his laptop, doing everything in his power to hasten the uplink of the satellite, which involved typing loudly, throwing his hands up in the air, talking to himself, and staring with laser-like intensity with a scowl on his face. To Sarah, it looked like the computer was winning.
Mack didn’t look up from the notepad he scribbled on the entire trip, and when she tried to sneak a peek at what he was writing, he blocked her view. She’d given up after the third attempt, and the pilot kept giving her a stern glance whenever she got out of her seat.
The plane touched down at O’Hare, and Sarah drove back to the safe house, since the two pieces of luggage that she was stuck with seemed too busy with their own work. She could feel the stiffness in her bones and cracked her neck to the side, letting out a satisfied groan from the relieving pop. “I swear, sometimes I think my back has bubble wrap in it.”