A Red Dotted Line (Mike Walton Book 2)

by Simon Gervais

  “Why?” Mike pushed on.

  The two officers looked at him as if he was stupid. “I see,” Mike said when he got no reply. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement. Why don’t you go back into the cockpit, Martin? I’ll take care of business with these two officers,” Mike said in English, before adding in French. “Start the engine and make sure we can leave as soon as I tell you so.”

  St-Onge nodded and headed back to the cockpit.

  “I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding.” Mike started shaking his head as if he was disappointed in his employees’ behavior. “These guys are new and they don’t understand the complexity of the Russian tax system.”

  Mike thought he detected a change of attitude in the officers. But it was short-lived. The next thing that came out of his mouth seemed to agitate them even more. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the necessary funds to properly settle the departure tax,” Mike said.

  “Then we have a problem,” the same officer said. “I’m afraid all of you will have to be detained.” He moved his left hand behind his back to retrieve a pair of handcuffs.

  Not good. “What about this?” Mike said, showing the keys to the F-Type.

  “What is it?”

  “My brand new Jaguar F-Type is parked right outside this terminal,” Mike said, pointing at the private aviation terminal. “What if I leave it in your care?”

  Mike’s attempt at defusing the situation was an epic failure. Instead of soothing the officers, his offer enraged them. The two officers looked at each other and Mike knew trouble was coming. One of the Russians stepped back and unholstered his pistol while the other ordered him to turn around and place his hands behind his back.

  Mike made sure to look terrified. He started shaking while obeying the officer’s order. Now facing the cockpit, he saw Martin St-Onge move to cover behind the bulkhead separating the cockpit from the cabin. The moment he felt the handcuff clicked around his left wrist, Mike jerked his hand back and pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees. In one swift movement, he elbowed the arresting officer right under the chin while pulling him closer with his right arm. In the tight space of the aircraft, he knew the other officer couldn’t fire at him without hitting his partner. The latter’s knees buckled beneath him and he fell forward. Mike let himself fall to the ground with the officer as he reached for the other man’s pistol, still in its holster. The other Russian agent tried to position himself so he could engage the man who had just put down his partner, but Martin St-Onge had the draw on him.

  “Don’t move,” he yelled.

  The expression on the Russian’s face was one of pure confusion. His eyes moved from his downed colleague to the pilot pointing a pistol at him. Before the Russian could regain control, Mike pulled the pistol out and aimed it at him. “Drop your weapon,” Mike said. “We can still work this out.”

  The agent on top of him stirred. He was going to regain his senses in a matter of seconds. They needed to end this before that happened. “Drop it,” Mike said, this time louder. He placed the pistol’s muzzle against the man’s head. “Your choice.”

  Mike could see the man was thinking about his next move, wondering how to get out of this jam. He finally put his gun on the floor. “Good choice,” Mike said. He crawled from under the Russian agent and got up.

  “Plastic cuffs,” he said to St-Onge.

  “Got them,” the pilot replied, placing them in Mike’s outstretched hand.

  Mike zip-tied the man’s wrists and ankles while St-Onge held the attention of the other Russian officer.

  “Your turn,” Mike said.

  The Russian didn’t move. He was scared shitless. “Do as you’re told and nothing will happen to you or your family,” Mike said, his last words paying dividends.

  Mike gave him the same treatment. The other officer was now fully awake. He cursed loudly in Russian. Mike helped him to his feet and forced him to sit in the armchair opposite the sofa where his colleague was now sitting. Once that was done, he frisked the officer and retrieved a handcuff key and the key for the car. “I’ll be back,” he said to St-Onge.

  Mike hurried down the stairs and unlocked the car. William Talbot didn’t seem surprised to see him. “Are the Russians dead?”

  “Do I really have such a bad rep?” Mike replied, smiling.

  “Nice to see you, brother,” Talbot said as Mike helped him out of his handcuffs.

  “Martin’s keeping an eye on our two Russian friends,” Mike said. “We need to get out of here ASAP.”

  “Roger that,” Talbot said, climbing the stairs two by two. “I need two minutes. We’ve already filed the flight plan.”

  Mike turned his attention to St-Onge and the two Russian federal agents. “I got this,” he said. “Go help William.”

  “Let us go,” one of the Russians said. “You’ll never get out of Russian airspace with us onboard.”

  “I doubt that,” Mike replied. “I don’t think anyone knows you’re here, but even if they do, do you really think they’d shoot us down?”

  I certainly hope not. But this is Simonich’s Russia after all . . . Everything’s possible.

  CHAPTER 55

  Koltsovo, Russia

  Lisa Walton was in agony. Her head was throbbing and she had no idea where she was. She remembered being taken away from the Galkin’s residence on a stretcher. She had drifted in and out of consciousness until someone all dressed in white had administered some kind of painkiller. Were her eyes even open? It was so dark, she couldn’t say. Her mouth was dry and she could feel how dirty her teeth were by their texture when she passed her tongue over them.

  She tried to move her right arm but it required too much effort. She thought she heard someone breathing next to her. Or is it me? She had the impression that an eighteen-wheeler had decided to stop on top of her stomach. Every breath she took was more painful than the last. Her left leg was on fire, and so was her forearm. But she didn’t mind. That meant she wasn’t paralyzed.

  “Welcome back, Dr. Harrison Powell,” someone murmured mere inches from her ears. She froze in horror. The voice sent a cold shiver down her spine. Was it really the voice that scared her? Or what it had said? Dr. Harrison Powell.

  As her eyes became accustomed to the obscurity, she saw a dark figure move past her.

  “At last we meet,” the voice said.

  Lisa tried to speak, but her mouth was too dry. “Oh, I’m sorry,” the voice said, “you must be thirsty. Let me help you.”

  The next thing she knew, a warm jet of putrid liquid hit her eyes and mouth and found its way into her nose. The taste was repulsive and it took her a moment to realize what it was. Urine. She held her breath and moved her head to the side but that only resulted in getting a good amount of urine in her ear. As the urine made its way into her throat, she started coughing. The cough shook her whole body and she feared she was going to lose consciousness from the jolts of pain reverberating throughout her body.

  Suddenly the lights were turned on and she angled her head to face the man who had just peed on her. She gasped in horror as she recognized him.

  The Sheik.

  ........

  The Sheik couldn’t have been happier with the reaction he got from Dr. Lisa Harrison Powell, or whatever name she now used. She tried to conceal her distress but he had seen it in her eyes. Terror. He could only imagine what was going through her mind with him standing next to her while she was tied to her hospital bed. He took a clean white towel and gently dried her face. “There you go. Better?”

  He cocked his head to one side, looking at her as if she was a sick puppy. “I’m really glad to finally meet you,” he said, “though, I’m not confident the feeling is mutual.”

  The Sheik had to give her credit, she didn’t reply and the fire in her eyes wasn’t from fear anymore. Determination? Resolve? It didn’t really matter. She’d
be dead within a week or so and there was nothing she could do about it.

  “My men told me you killed a lot of people, Lisa,” he said, his hand caressing her head and gently scratching her scalp. He sensed her body tense. She was a stunning woman, much more beautiful than Lidiya. And younger too.

  “You’ve been a naughty girl, Lisa.”

  The Sheik abruptly moved his hand from her head to the wound just above her left knee. He squeezed hard. He wanted to know how she screamed. Now he knew. It was the loveliest scream of all. He weakened the pressure on her leg. Tears were running down her cheeks.

  “You’ve taken so much from me, Lisa,” he said in her ear while holding her head tightly in his hands. “Did you know that?”

  He used his thumbs to dry her tears. “Don’t cry, Lisa, don’t cry,” he said, his voice toneless. “You have nothing to cry about, yet. But it will come, I promise you. Be patient.”

  With that, he took one last look at her and exited the room. “Prep her,” he ordered the doctor who’d been waiting outside. “We’re leaving in two hours.”

  ........

  The Sheik had freaked her out. He was more savage than she’d thought. Monster was too nice a word to describe him. You have nothing to cry about, yet, he had said. What did he mean?

  Lisa Walton tried to move her legs. An impossible task. Her left leg had undergone surgery to remove the bullet. As a trained medical doctor, she could see the signs that such an operation had taken place. But even if she had been able to move, both her legs and arms were tied to the bed with steel handcuffs. There was no way out, at least for now. Plus, she was sure it would be at least a couple of weeks before she could sit normally. The weight on her stomach was from the bullet she’d taken in the gut. The shot hadn’t been fatal, but the damage to her abdominal muscles would take a while to heal.

  The door opened and two people—probably doctors—entered. They didn’t say a word. One of them prepared a syringe while the other held her in place. She didn’t scream. She didn’t even try to fight them off as the needle pierced her skin. She was too weak to do anything. She let herself slipped back into darkness, her mind holding on to images of Melissa and Mike.

  CHAPTER 56

  IMSI’s Gulfstream, somewhere over Romania

  Mike Walton allowed himself to relax. The last couple of days had been intense, much more than everybody had thought they would be while planning the intelligence-gathering mission back at the IMSI headquarters only a few days ago.

  The two Russians had fallen asleep. Mike had forced them to take a couple of sleeping pills each. He had no idea what to do with them. He’d have to discuss their options with Mapother. They weren’t bad guys per se, just a couple of crooked customs officials who’d messed with the wrong guys at the worst time. The Gulfstream was a superb aircraft. With a top speed of just over five hundred knots, it cleared Russia’s airspace within ten minutes of taking off from the private aviation terminal. The first few minutes over Ukrainian airspace had been nerve racking, but once past Kiev they were pretty much home free to Bucharest, where they planned to refuel before continuing on to London.

  “Mike,” called St-Onge from the cockpit. “Charles Mapother’s on the line. You wanna take it?”

  He took one look at the Russians. They were both snoring loudly. They’d be out for at least another four hours. He headed to the cockpit where he accepted the satellite phone from St-Onge’s outstretched arm.

  “I’m here, Charles,” he said.

  “How are you feeling?” Mapother asked. “You’re okay?”

  Mike understood why Mapother was worried. If the roles were reversed, he’d be asking the same questions. Having an asset in the field was hard enough on a manager’s brain; having one prone to panic attacks must have been a nightmare.

  “I’m good, Charles,” Mike replied. “Thanks for asking.”

  “I want you to sit down, my friend,” Mapother said.

  “I will. I promise. But we need to find Lisa—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” interrupted Mapother. “That’s a discussion for another time. I really need you to take a seat.”

  Mapother had him worried. Did something happen to Lisa? Oh God, please no. His legs were getting wobbly again. I do need to sit down.

  He closed his eyes and took five deep breaths. “I’m listening, Charles,” he said.

  “We’ve found your father,” Mapother said. “Actually, the Israelis and Zima did.”

  News of his father’s whereabouts jolted Mike’s mind into overdrive. At last, some good news. He didn’t know if he was happier about the fact that his father had been found or because Mapother hadn’t communicated bad news regarding his wife.

  “Where is he?”

  “Mykonos, Greece.”

  Mykonos? Why would Dad be in Mykonos? Wasn’t he in Syria just yesterday?

  “What’s he doing in Greece?” he asked.

  For the next ten minutes, Mapother explained the details. Mike winced when Mapother told him that Zima had badly injured her right hand. Damn! On her first mission.

  “I want in,” Mike said when Mapother was done. He had come so close to reuniting with his dad before. He didn’t want to miss this opportunity. Plus, it would help keep his mind off Lisa while the IMSI figured out how to find her.

  “Of course, that goes without saying,” Mapother replied. “Let me talk to the pilots. I’ll tell them to head to Tel Aviv.”

  Mike was about to hand over the phone to St-Onge when the issue about what to do with the two Russians popped into his mind. “There’s one more thing, Charles,” he said. “We have two unwanted guests of the Russian Federal Customs Service aboard the Gulfstream.”

  “Are they still alive?” Mapother asked.

  What the hell? Why does everyone think I killed them?

  “Of course they’re still alive. What do you think?” he asked, a bit too loudly.

  “I won’t ask how that came to be, Mike,” Mapother replied a second later. “I’ll work it out with the Israelis. Now, let me talk with my pilots.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Private airfield. Koltsovo, Russia

  Lisa Walton was comfortable. They probably shot me up with morphine. With the severity of her injuries, there was no way she wouldn’t be in pain unless they’d used morphine. Lots of it.

  The ride from the hospital to the airport had been aboard a private ambulance. The medics had tried to bring the stretcher up the stairs and into the aircraft’s cabin but it was too big. They had struggled down the steps and after a minute of consultation had decided to put her in a wheelchair. Even then she hadn’t felt a thing, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. To bring the wheelchair up to the cabin level, they had to borrow a Mercedes-Benz Econic service vehicle, usually used to carry food in and out of airplanes.

  Finally inside, Lisa saw that this wasn’t any airplane. This was the private aircraft of someone beyond wealthy. The furniture matched what you’d find in the nicest hotels. Even the galley looked expensive, with high-end wood cabinets and a quartz countertop.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” asked the Sheik as he exited the lavatory.

  Sight of him made her heart skip a beat. His mere presence repulsed her. He made her sick. “Do you know where we’re going?” he asked with a smile. He shrugged when she didn’t reply. “I wouldn’t tell you anyway, Lisa. It’s a surprise,” he said, winking at her.

  He walked to one of the two sofas and buckled his seat belt. She looked around the aircraft. There were two other people with them, excluding the two pilots. They all looked like military-type men in their late twenties or early thirties. One of them looked at her and smiled, as if he knew something funny was about to happen.

  “I hope you . . . um . . . went to the bathroom, Lisa,” the Sheik said, trying not to laugh. “Because it’s a long flight, and um . . . well, your
wheelchair won’t fit in the lavatory, I’m afraid.”

  The two soldiers, or whatever they were, laughed out loud, mocking her. But she didn’t mind. She’d just learned something important. They all understood English, even if they didn’t speak it.

  The engines started and the towing vehicle pushed the aircraft away from the gate seconds after the two medics climbed aboard. They didn’t sit with the rest of the men and looked somewhat alarmed to be in the presence of the Sheik.

  The plane rolled on the taxiway, heading toward the end of the runway. Lisa searched for something to hold. “You’d better fasten your seat belt, Lisa,” the Sheik warned her in a sarcastic tone. As the plane turned on the runway, one of the medics changed place and sat next to Lisa. He buckled his seat belt and tried to hold Lisa’s wheelchair as the plane accelerated.

  The Sheik barked an order in Russian. She didn’t have to understand the language to know he had just chastised the medic for helping her out. The medic looked at her and mouthed, “Sorry,” in English. Realizing what was about to happen, she tried to hold on to him but he waved his arm away. The nose of the plane began to rise and Lisa’s wheelchair rolled backward, gaining speed. Then one of the wheels hit something and she was thrown off the chair, flying in the air until her head slammed into something hard.

  ........

  The Sheik loved it. It was his way of blowing off some steam. The good doctor was going to die anyway. Why not have some fun while at it? It was juvenile, but he hated her. He hated her whole family, and Charles Mapother. Once he had dealt with the current situation, he’d send his son Igor to New York. He’d take care of Mapother. If he had one regret over this whole ordeal, it was that he had trusted Zakhar with something that was out of his reach. Not only had he lost a son, he had lost someone he trusted. And there weren’t too many left of those in this world.

  Prior to boarding the aircraft, and while the doctors were preparing Dr. Harrison Powell for her trip, he had made a stop at the Biopreparat facilities in Koltsovo. News of the death of Dr. Lidiya Votyakov had not yet reached her office. The Sheik figured it would take a few more days to concoct a plausible story pointing towards an assassination conducted by some Ukrainian rebels.