by Greig Beck
Vasily continued to study the pile of steaming red guts just as there came the snap of a dry twig behind them.
From behind, Vasily Kurbat screamed. Vasily spun. The monstrous bear that loomed over him was around seven and a half feet tall and it froze him to the marrow. However, even though its huge mouth hung open, displaying finger-long teeth, no sound escaped that deadly maw. Its face was slack and the eyes milky as though sightless.
Vasily backed away with his spear. “Heyaa!” He waved his torch in its face, but the thing took another step, and Vasily yelled a war cry and jabbed his spear into it. He pierced its chest, and it still made no sound, but where he had stuck the massive creature, light emanated from the wound like there was some sort of fire inside it.
Vasily slashed downward over the gut, enlarging the wound and finally, there came a noise, a scream, unearthly, but not from its mouth, but confusingly, from inside the belly of the beast. He pulled the spear free and held it up in front of himself.
He felt his sanity slipping away, because as he watched, gore-coated spiky legs and lashing fibers whipped out to grip each side of the wound and pull it closed like an old man drawing a cloak around himself in the cold.
There was something in there—something alive—and something that wasn’t bear.
“Demon,” he yelled.
The massive creature’s sagging face never changed, and he jammed his spear in again and again. The bear thing finally turned from the attack and lumbered away, barging small trees from its path.
There came a human scream from the forest.
“Kurbat.” Vasily ran toward the voice, looking for his friend’s lantern. He could just make out the light heading toward the shoreline. He sprinted after it to find it abandoned there.
“Kurbat?” he yelled again. “No, no, no.” Vasily began to panic.
He followed the tracks all the way to the black water where the ice was broken open. His friend was gone, leaving nothing but mad tracking and splashes of blood. Far out on the ice, he thought he could make out a receding glow of something below the ice—like a greenish fire.
Vasily lowered his torch as the silence closed in on him. His friend was gone, and he was alone.
CHAPTER 11
USA, Florida, Madeira Beach
“Hello? Marcus, hello?” Sara gripped the phone so hard her knuckles went white. She immediately called his number back, but it rang out unanswered.
Something had just happened, and she tried to replay what she heard in her mind—Marcus on a train to Moscow talking normally one minute, and then some people had come into his carriage. The voices, sneering, and then he had pretended she was someone else. Why would he do that? she agonized.
She called him over and over, without him picking up, and then she had called Yuri Revkin, his site manager. This just produced a lot of ear-splitting static.
“Fuck,” she hissed out, feeling her stomach roil with nausea.
Sara Stenson walked to the window and stared out over their garden. Her favorite hibiscus was in bloom, and its crimson, dinner-plate-sized flowers had shared their blooms to be tucked behind ears at many a party. As she watched, small colorful birds flitted from tree to tree, and a few landed on the emerald green grass to argue with each other momentarily, before flitting away.
It was all so calm and normal. Sara stood for a moment more, indecision and panic beginning to short-circuit her thinking.
She began to pace, but then stopped at the mantlepiece to look at their picture frames. From one of them, she and Marcus grinned at the camera from a tropical Fijian island. In the background was a sandy beach, water the color of crushed sapphires, and two spread beach towels. They both looked tanned, fit, and high on life. She continued to look at his face—large blue eyes with long lashes, straight nose and strong jawline.
She damn well wasn’t going to let anything happen to him. She called the police, and then the FBI, and after an hour of rising agitation and impatience, she was politely but firmly told that neither of them had the jurisdiction to do a damned thing. The most they could do was give her the number for the local police in Moscow and a suggestion to call the State Department.
She’d called the State Department first, who were cordial, but did little more than record her details and gave her a promise to pass it on to the embassy. Then she tried the Russian police, and after 30 minutes of laboring through an excruciating call, she had been told they would look into it in a few days, as no one was classed as missing in Russia for the first 48 hours. She had the feeling that the policeman didn’t even bother to write any of her details down.
“That’s too late, that’s too late,” she muttered as she paced some more. Her eyes traveled again to the mantlepiece where there stood a photo of Marcus as a boy. With him were his dad and his brother, Carter.
She walked toward it as if in a trance. She’d dated Carter before Marcus, and where Marcus was the heartthrob, Carter was the brutally handsome one. Where Marcus was smooth and cool, Carter was fire and dynamite—her choice had been danger or security—and in the end, she had chosen security.
But the thing about Carter was, he didn’t play by the rules. She hadn’t talked to him in years, and she knew he owed her nothing for the way she had treated him. But right now, following the rules was getting her nowhere. She still had his number.
Fuck it, she thought and dialed.
CHAPTER 12
USA, Iowa, Hawkeye—The Sanctuary Bar
Saturday night was always crowded down at the Sanctuary Bar. The place was full of bikers, truckers, and men and women in checked shirts rolled up at the sleeves and sweat-stained cowboy hats. The music was loud and the place smelled of beer, whiskey, and good times.
The regulars knew how to look after themselves, and even though the bar was tough and rough, it was generally safe. The patrons all operated by the oldest code going around —don’t start shit, won’t be shit.
The other reason a crowd of the big and bad behaved themselves was that the one thing they respected and feared more than each other was the guy who ran the place.
Carter Stenson was six-three, ex-military, and looked like he had been carved from solid granite. If you pissed him off and you just got thrown out on your ass, you should go buy yourself a lottery ticket. On a bad night, if you decided to make trouble or take the guy on, then you just might just go home without your front teeth and your nose under your ear.
Carter was behind the bar, stacking dirty glasses into the rack ready for the machine as he let his bar staff do their thing. He looked up, seeing the pictures of his mom and pop, both now long gone, and also one of his little brother, Marcus and his wife Sara. There were several more of them, of he and Marcus, from when they were on pushbikes, to then being at school, and then next thing he was at his brother’s wedding. He was proud of the kid.
When the fork in the road came about, Marcus was smart enough to take the high road. Unlike Carter who took the low road, and kept going, down. Thank God one of them made it up and out, he thought.
He couldn’t help his eyes going back to the image of Sara, and he felt the familiar pang in his chest. She was so beautiful.
Let it go, he demanded for the hundredth time.
Behind him, there was the sound of glass smashing and voices raised. He glanced to the side and into the reflection of the mirror over the bar and saw the small group of out-of-towners trying to bump chests with a few of the local boys. The regular guys backed up, not because they were scared of the out-of-towners, but because they knew the rules.
Carter sighed, undid the apron from his waist, and lifted it over his head. He rounded the bar, with many watching him. They already knew how this was going to go down.
The rules were simple: the locals stayed cool, and in return, he’d take out the trash. He looked at the new group—three of them—big, young, and looked like they’d stopped a few punches in their time. Maybe they were hard-heads, a street gang, or maybe even budding MMA fighters. T
hey looked hard, but the thing was, these guys might know how to fight for money or drinks, but Carter had done it for a living and had needed to fight to the death in his past. There was a huge difference.
As he came round, he rolled his shoulders and many of the locals gave him space, grinning in anticipation. A few even began to slap money down on the bar as they took bets.
Time to go to work, Carter thought, as he closed in on the trio.
“Carter.”
Carter paused at his bar manager’s voice.
Maxine held up the wall phone. “Call for you; says it’s important.”
“Argh.” He grimaced and looked from the three troublemakers who glared back at him to Maxine. “Coming.”
He rounded the bar and grabbed the phone where she had left it. “Stenson.”
“Carter.” It was Sara’s voice, and in that single word, she sounded broken up—bad. He was immediately on edge, and the delight in hearing her voice was tempered by apprehension.
“Sara, are you and Marcus okay? What’s happened? Are you hurt?”
“No, I mean, I’m fine, but…” The words tumbled out fast then. “Marcus, in Russia, sturgeon farming, phone call, something happened, I don’t know…”
“Slow down, slow down.” Carter concentrated. “Tell me slowly, firstly, where is he?”
“Okay, okay.” He heard her suck in a breath and let it out. “He went to Russia, Lake Baikal in Siberia, to open a fish farm. To farm the sturgeon’s caviar.” Her voice was becoming a squeak as if her throat was closing up and she seemed to be only just stifling tears.
“And you said he’s missing?” Carter waited. If it was him, it’d be so what. He went missing all the time—a booze bender, a woman, just gone fishing or hunting and not made it back on time, or a hundred other reasons. But his brother was as reliable as the sun coming up.
“Yes, no, not really. He was on a train headed to Moscow for some reason. I heard some people get on, with Russian accents, and everything changed. He sounded worried.” She took a few deep breaths. “He said one word: bratva.”
“Bratva,” Carter whispered, straightening. Shit, he thought. He’d had to deal with criminal gangs before. Then, he’d won, because he had nothing to lose, and he also didn’t bother playing by the rules. But a guy like Marcus would have been a soft target.
“The local police said I’m supposed to wait for two days before worrying. But I think something bad has happened to him.” Her voice was barely audible. “He pretended I was his accountant. He didn’t want them to know it was me on the phone.”
Carter closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wall. He knew of the Russian mafia; they were as brutal as they were cunning. If they had taken an interest in his brother, it was no good thing.
Carter drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Where are you?”
“Home, Florida. But I’m going over to Russia as soon as I can.”
“No,” he shot back. “Just, wait, until I come over so we can make a plan.”
He heard her make a noise in her throat. “That plan better include travel to Russia.” And then. “I’m scared, Carter.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow morning. And Sara, don’t worry, we’ll find him.”
Carter said his goodbyes and stood frozen for a moment, just staring at the tiles on the wall, but his mind was already a thousand miles away. He’d find his brother, and bring him back safe. And if anything had happened to him, by anyone’s hand, he’d fucking kill ‘em all.
The phone was still in his hand and the plastic case started to crackle as his fingers compressed. Carter’s teeth ground so hard his jaw began to ache, and he felt the muscles bunch in his neck and shoulders. He suddenly began to smash the phone receiver onto the hook, once, twice, three times, before holding it up and glaring at it as though he wanted to strangle it.
Behind him, a glass smashed on the ground, and he spun to see the three guys still acting like assholes.
Carter hung up the phone and rounded the bar in a rush. The first guy saw him coming, widening his stance and shaping up. When Carter closed in, the guy threw a straight right, with all his shoulder behind it.
Carter dodged, grabbed the arm, and pulled it downward, throwing the guy over his shoulder. But he hung onto the arm. The elbow is a strong joint, but a heavy man’s bodyweight and bending the limb backward means something’s gotta give… and it’s always the elbow joint.
Carter left him howling from a now very-ugly broken arm and dove in among the next two. He allowed his fury to be vented with a flurry of punches, kicks, and a head butt that flattened one opponent’s nose to his face. The other he delivered a flat strike across his lips, caving in all his front teeth. He was out cold before he even hit the ground.
Looking down on one of the broken guys, he had the urge to stomp down on him, but only just held it in check. Instead, he quickly dragged all three out into the carpark and left them there.
He then wiped his hands on a bar towel and fished in his pocket for the bar keys.
“Max.”
“Yo.” The woman lifted her chin.
He held up the keys and then tossed them to her. “Take over until I get back.”
“Trouble?” she asked. “How long?”
“Family issue. Might be days, weeks, longer.” He headed toward the door. “Give yourself a pay rise; you’re the boss. I’ll be in touch.”
Maxine started to come around the bar. “But…”
Carter was already out the door and moving fast.
CHAPTER 13
Listvyanka, Lake Baikal—the Belka Hotel
Yuri Revkin had a sense of déjà vu as he sat in the same hotel bar waiting on Mr. Stenson. This time it wasn’t Marcus, but his older brother, Carter.
He still felt sick and guilty for allowing Marcus, his friend, to travel to Moscow. Thinking back now, of course the bratva must have anticipated the last option he had was to try and appeal to the only senior political or government people he knew in the capital. And how else was he going to get there? 90% chance it was going to be by train, and he would start from Listvyanka. All they had to do was stake out the station and wait.
Maybe he’s just a hostage, he thought as he then threw back the large vodka. He laughed cruelly and had to choke it off before he wept. The chance of that was next to zero. He knew in his belly his friend was probably dead.
And now, Marcus’ brother was arriving to most likely be thrown into the same meat grinder as well. He had debated whether he would just leave and go back to taking out fishing tours for a living. Pay was crap, but it was an uncomplicated life.
To the side of the bar, the doors opened and he heard the low talking of a man and a woman as they headed to the front desk. Yuri looked through the doorway, just as a figure came and stood in it, searching the bar room, he knew, for him.
Yuri felt a small shock of recognition—the resemblance was so strong it could have been Marcus. But Marcus if you added another two inches in height and 30 pounds of muscle. Also, if you made the face less pleasant and more brutally handsome, probably due to him having taken his lumps over the years. This man was no Hollywood American.
The final difference was where Marcus’ eyes contained the sparkle of boyish enthusiasm, this older Stenson, Carter, had eyes that were hard as flint and had probably seen things that normal men probably weren’t meant to see. Yuri knew eyes like those—there’d been violence in this man’s past, both received and inflicted.
Those eyes now fixed on Yuri, and the Russian lifted his hand to wave. Carter nodded in return, but it was less a greeting and more an “I see you” motion. He disappeared for a moment, and then in a few minutes he was back with a small blonde woman. He said something to her and she immediately picked Yuri out and came toward him.
“Yuri? Yuri Revkin?”
Yuri got to his feet so quickly he nearly knocked over his chair. “Yes, yes, and you must be Ms. Sara.” He shoved out one large paw.
�
�Sara, just Sara.” She took hold of his hand, and he felt how tiny it was and still cold from outside. The fingers were soft and delicate. She looked up into his face, smiling, but her brow was creased with concern and her eyes were filled with worry.
He motioned to two spare seats he had ready and sat. Just like when Marcus had arrived, he had small glasses of vodka and beers on order. Sara watched his face, and when Yuri offered Carter a drink, the big man just shook his head slowly.
It was obvious he wasn’t here to make friends, a long-term relationship, or anything other than getting answers. And to that end, Carter sat forward and placed two enormous hands on the table.
“You said in your messages that you believed Marcus may have fallen foul of the local mafia. What have the police said?”
Yuri shrugged. “They said they have no proof that foul play had occurred. They simply said that maybe he has run away, because he was under business pressure.”
Yuri saw the muscles in Carter’s jaws work and knew exactly what he was thinking. He went on. “You must remember that the local police have been touched by the bratva. Men working in remote places with little pay. They get offered money to look the other way sometimes.” He shrugged. “And if it is a foreigner, then looking the other way is easy.”
“So, we can forget about any help from the police.” Carter edged forward, now placing both forearms on the table. He clasped his hands together. Yuri noticed they were huge and had calluses over each of the knuckles, making them stand out like knobs of bone.
“And I’m guessing there’s no CCTV footage or witnesses,” Carter said.
Yuri just shook his head. “He got on the train, and then he disappeared.”
Carter stared for a moment, his eyes boring into Yuri’s. “But you know the men that turned up at the mill?”