The Siberian Incident

by Greig Beck

  “Yes and no. I know their first names, and I know their faces. But I don’t know them personally. I met with the local boss named Tushino to try and make a deal. It didn’t go well. They all work for a man named Gennardy Zyuganov in Moscow, who is connected to all arms of government, business, law enforcement, and politics. He is a powerful man and his tentacles reach everywhere.”

  “All the way to Lake Baikal,” Sara said and turned to Carter. “Can we find Marcus? Get him back? Maybe they’ve taken him hostage and want some sort of payment.”

  Carter laid his hand over hers and squeezed momentarily before turning his gaze back on Yuri—the glance between them told Yuri that Carter knew that his brother was probably dead already. It also told him that the man wasn’t really here for criminal justice. He was here to clean the stables.

  “Do you know where we can find these men?” Sara’s brow creased. “We can pay them off.”

  “They don’t want anything… now.” Yuri sighed.

  “Why?” Carter leaned forward.

  Carter made him feel nervous and Yuri sat back a little “I, ah, attended the meeting that they requested, after Marcus had gone missing to try and find out where he was. They wanted to know when you were arriving.” He shook his head. “They told me that Marcus had signed over 51% of the business to them.”

  “What!” Carter’s teeth were bared.

  Yuri rocked back in his chair, and the other bar patrons turned. The Russian could have sworn in that instant Carter’s eyes actually burned red as if all the pure hate of hell itself was inside the man. Yuri held up his hands, waving the big American down.

  “They can’t do that,” Sara added.

  “I didn’t see it, the contract. But the urgency of their demands had abated, and they told me they would wait on the wife of Marcus Stenson to countersign and make it formal.” Yuri’s mouth turned down. “They said they had no idea where Marcus was, and don’t care. But, their smirks told me that they knew what had happened to him.”

  Yuri turned to Sara. “They need you to sign as well. This ugliness hasn’t gone away, it has just been transferred over to you.”

  “Those bastards.” Sara bared her teeth for a moment. “If I find out they were involved in anything happening to Marcus, I’ll…” her lips moved as if she was trying to form words, but then her face crumpled. “Oh Marcus.”

  Carter stood and took her hand. He helped her to her feet. “This is tough, and it’s all so raw right now. Why don’t you go upstairs while I finish up with Yuri here? Then we can catch up after for some dinner. Deal?”

  “Sorry. I’m stronger than this.” She wiped her nose. “I just want him back.”

  “I know, me too,” Carter said softly.

  *****

  Carter walked her to the door of the bar and let her go. He watched her for a moment more, and then turned back to Yuri. The big Russian looked nervous, and Carter bet he knew more than he was letting on.

  He sat back down. “We need to talk to these men you mentioned. They’ll never leave Sara alone, and never leave any of you alone unless they’ve got what they want, or you’re out of business, or you’re dead. I’ve dealt with crime gangs before; they have a head, hands, and a body. Sometimes, you only need to sever the head. But other times, just cutting off one or both of the hands sends enough of a signal to back off.”

  Yuri looked down at the table and blew air between his lips. “Mr. Stenson, this is not something that…”

  “Hey.” He banged a huge fist down on the table, and Yuri’s head jerked up.

  Carter glared for a full 15 seconds. “Marcus believed in you, trusted you, and took a chance on you. If it’s true that Marcus signed over 51% of the mill to them, then they don’t need him anymore. That means he’s probably dead.” He leaned forward another inch. “He died trying to protect his and his family’s livelihood, but also you and your jobs. He was the sort of guy that would lay down anything to protect those he loved. Don’t you fucking dare throw that sacrifice away.”

  Yuri threw his hands up, cursing Carter’s pigheadedness and stupidity in Russian.

  Carter craned forward and now laid both huge fists down on the table. “Bud'te ostorozhny s vashimi slovami!”

  Yuri’s head snapped up. “I, uh, sorry. I’m just angry.” He shrugged. “I didn’t know you spoke Russian.”

  “I speak lots of languages. And I’ve dealt with the Russian bratva before,” Carter replied evenly.

  “Yes, as you say, I should watch my words.” Yuri nodded. “The thing is, Mr. Carter, you are American, and when things get too hot for you, you can simply go home. But myself and the others at the mill have to live here. Anything you do might end up being inflicted on our families and us for years to come. Some of these hard hitters are in town right now. They watch and see everything.”

  “In town right now?” Carter grunted and sat back. “Look, all I want from you is information, and a little logistical help. I do not expect you to fight or be involved in anything that puts you at risk.” He lifted his chin. “But when I find the people responsible for this, then…” He sat back. “… then, perhaps you’ll never need to worry about them again.”

  Yuri nodded. “That would be good, thank you.” He half-smiled. “So what do you want to do?”

  “Tomorrow morning as planned, you take us out to the mill to meet the team there, and we can assess what needs to be done.”

  “Okay.” Yuri brightened.

  “I also want you to show me these hard hitters.” Carter smiled cruelly. “Once I speak to one of them, I can work my way up the chain from there.”

  “When?” The Russian frowned.

  “Tonight.” Carter smiled grimly. “Straight after dinner.”

  CHAPTER 14

  After dinner, Carter said goodnight to Sara and watched as she headed for her room down the corridor. He then entered his own room and changed from his shirt into a black pullover, plus a black, woolen beanie. He took with him his camera with the telephoto lens, plus a small pair of binoculars. He put them in a dark, slim backpack, as well as a long Ka-Bar blade, laser sharpened, with a dark, non-reflective finish.

  In another few minutes, he was down the stairs and waiting out front for Yuri to show up. Carter wasn’t yet sure if he could really trust the guy; he certainly agreed when he said that the bratva had their tentacles everywhere, and for all he knew, it was Yuri that set Marcus up.

  But then again, Sara had said that Marcus trusted him and had a good working relationship with him, so, for now, he’d give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Yuri was going to take him to a small village on the outskirts of Listvyanka; it was here that Yuri had his meetings with the local bratva. The Russian had told him that a few of the local men still hung out here, but the lieutenants like this man named Tushino only came on certain occasions—to conclude business or to inflict pain and suffering on their targets, he guessed.

  Yuri soon showed up in a dark roll-neck pullover that looked thick enough to stop a shotgun blast. Carter bet his last dollar that his mother probably knitted it for him 20 years ago.

  “Hello.” Yuri smiled but looked nervous.

  “You okay?” Carter asked.

  “Fine, fine.” Yuri’s head bobbed.

  “You said there was a bar that they hung out at. So that’s where we’ll go first,” Carter said.

  “The bar? We go in?” Yuri looked panicked.

  “No, don’t want to show my hand just yet. But I do want to get a look at these guys. We’ll just wait outside, and see who goes in and out. Your job is just to point them out to me.”

  “Oh, good.” Yuri looked relieved, but then looked up briefly. “Will be cold.”

  “Not a problem,” Carter replied. “Let’s go.”

  As they walked, Carter chatted to the Russian, trying to find out a little more about him. He was a big man, probably the same height as Carter. But where Yuri was like a slightly overweight bear, Carter was assembled from blocks of iron
.

  Carter turned to him. “I’ll need you to get some things for me. Things I couldn’t bring with me.”

  Yuri grunted. “I’m guessing a weapon.”

  “Yes, is that a problem?” Carter asked.

  “Not if you have money,” Yuri said. “What do you need?”

  “Glock 17, single stack, or even better a Glock 19c gen4,” Carter replied smoothly. “Can you do it?”

  “Yes, yes. But if you want quickly will cost extra,” Yuri said. “New or second-hand?”

  “Get the gun; price is not an issue. But make sure it’s new, no history.”

  “Okay.” They trudged through the freezing night in silence for another 15 minutes, before they came upon the first of the scattered dwellings. Yuri motioned with his head.

  “Here we are, town central.”

  The entire village consisted of two main streets with all the shops and businesses crowded along just one of them, and then with the houses spreading a little wider out like satellites. There was nothing over two stories high, and at this hour, all was quiet and calm.

  They headed in and Yuri led him along the back of houses with the smell of wood smoke and cooking fish hanging in the air. Finally, they turned down a lane where he took Carter up a hill that overlooked the bar.

  Carter knew they could have gotten in closer, but two guys standing in between houses was far too unusual and suspicious—especially in a village where everybody knew everybody else.

  Up on the hill, they were on a rise that overlooked a roof and directly down onto the bar’s front door—a little further out than Carter would have liked, but no problem with a telephoto lens.

  Carter handed Yuri the binoculars and the pair lay down on the cold, hard earth to wait.

  Carter slowed his breathing that also took his heart rate down. He’d been out on night patrols before, in the cold, and also with a burning anger in his soul. But he needed to be calm and cool and refuse the imps of impatience that tried to force things to happen. He’d either spot one or more of the men tonight or not.

  Beside him, Yuri kept the field glasses to his eyes and was continually shifting to try and get comfortable. He finally took the glasses away from his face.

  “How much longer?”

  “How late does the bar stay open?” Carter replied evenly.

  Yuri checked his watch. “Midnight; another hour.”

  “Then, another hour… and a half.” Carter smiled and turned. “I appreciate it.”

  Yuri sighed and went back to watching.

  Right on midnight, the front light went out, and then the door opened. An old guy staggered out and wobbled down the street twenty feet before coming to a doorway, stopping and opening his pants to take a piss.

  Then from the bar came two men, big and wide, with hands jammed into their jacket pockets. Yuri reached out and gripped Carter’s arm.

  “That’s them.” He squinted. “I remember these two came to the mill and were also at the meeting I had. Uh…” he seemed to think on it for a moment. “Yes, now I remember; the twins, Borya and Egor Orlov. I don’t know which is which.”

  Carter lowered the camera. “Very good.”

  Yuri looked to him, perplexed. “You not take pictures of them?”

  Carter shook his head. “Not yet, later maybe.” He watched as the pair of men turned to the pissing man to yell something at him and then laughed darkly. They then headed off down the street, probably to their lodgings.

  “How long do Tushino’s men usually stay in town?” Carter asked.

  “One, two days.” Yuri shrugged.

  “So, they could take off soon.” Carter half-turned. “Thank you, Yuri, you can go now.”

  “But…” He frowned.

  Carter nodded to him. “It’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow for the run out to the mill, but I’ll take it from here.” Carter turned away. “Goodnight.”

  Yuri sighed theatrically and got to his feet. “Be safe. But remember, this is not America.”

  He vanished in the darkness, and Carter turned back to spot the men ambling down the street and rose to follow them. What Yuri probably didn’t know was that bad things, very bad things, happened in America as well. Evil wasn’t the sole domain of any one country, and when you inflict hell on someone, sometimes you attracted the attention of the devil himself—and then he came to pay you a visit. Carter closed in on the men.

  He tracked the pair of beefy Russians to a small lodging at the end of the street; they entered and then slammed the door. He quickly followed and gave them a few minutes to get fully inside. He expertly picked the front lock and stood inside the dark entrance hallway for several moments, just listening.

  He could hear the men moving around upstairs, and he rolled his woolen beanie down over his face to become a balaclava, and kept his gloves on. There were probably other lodgers, and the building was old, primarily wood, and reeked of onions, cooked fish, and stale tobacco smoke.

  He crossed to the steps and began to climb, being careful to only tread on the extreme outside of the risers where there would be little give, and therefore, little squeaking of old wood.

  Once on the upper landing, finding the twins’ room was easy, as he could still hear the men laughing and talking loudly. They sounded good humored, boisterous, and still a little drunk.

  Carter got to the door and gently tried the handle—locked. He’d been lucky; he had no doubt they were the local muscle for the bratva and probably weren’t in town all that often. Here, in this small village, they would have been immune from police interest, from any pushback or retribution of any kind.

  That was the reality for these men and others like them. He stood back two paces and sucked in a huge breath—their reality was about to be changed forever.

  Carter kicked out at the door right over the lock and it exploded inward. In one smooth motion he was inside, catching the two huge men sitting at a table, bottle of vodka in one of their hands and mouths gaping open.

  In two rapid steps, he crossed to the twin closest to him as they both began to rise, and struck out with a flat hand to the nose, crushing it back into his face to explode wetly in a spray of blood. The strike would be extremely painful, disorientate him, and send tears to his eyes, blinding him for several seconds. It was all the time he needed.

  The second twin was out of his seat and a Christmas ham-sized fist swung at Carter’s head, accompanied by several bellowed Russian curses. Carter easily ducked under the blow and sent a chopping strike to the man’s Adam’s apple with enough force to ensure the windpipe was compressed, but not crushed.

  The man grabbed at his neck, bending forward, hacking, and Carter followed it up with a brutal uppercut to the down-turned face, sending the man’s head rocking back on his thick neck. He fell back like a sack of bricks.

  Carter then quickly crossed to the door and pushed it closed, jamming a chair up against it. He listened for a while but heard nothing—maybe the other residents knew better to complain about anything they heard coming from the twins’ room.

  Carter then went to the groggy twin whose throat he’d smashed and lifted him back into his chair. The other twin still had his head down on the table, out cold and leaking blood.

  He searched the room and found several lengths of power cord and ripped them from the wall. He then tied both the unconscious brothers to their chairs. He went back to the throat-crushed guy and went through his pockets, extracting a wallet. He opened it and read the ID—Borya—then he looked at the other guy. “So that makes you Egor.”

  He then got in close to the guy and grabbed his already-bruised throat. He squeezed it and moved it sharply from side to side, feeling the damaged cartilage unkink. Borya screamed in pain, but his air pipe was now fully open again.

  “Hey, wake up,” he said in fluent Russian as he slapped the man’s face. “Hey!” He slapped him again harder.

  “Wha…?” The man winced and rubbed his eyes and then held his throat. “Who are you?” He blinke
d a few times and caught sight of his brother. He went to launch himself from his chair, but Carter was ready and punched down hard onto the bridge of his nose. More blood splashed onto the table and Borya howled and held his face.

  “You are a dead man,” the Russian said through red teeth, as blood and mucous dripped from his chin.

  Carter punched him again. Then again. The man held up a hand. “Fucking stop.”

  Carter smiled and rubbed his fist. The guy’s bonehead felt like hitting a bowling ball. “Borya, yes? I think you misunderstand your position.” He drew his long-bladed KaBar and slammed it down to stick in the center of the table. Carter placed a hand on either side of the blade and leaned forward.

  “I have some questions.”

  “Fuck you.” Borya looked dead ahead.

  “Oh, you like pain?” Carter straightened.

  “Fuck you. I give you nothing.” The man spat a bloody gob onto the table in front of Carter.

  In a single fluid motion, Carter whipped the knife from where it was pinned to the table and chopped the sharp blade down on the outstretched hand of the man’s unconscious brother. Egor’s two smallest fingers were cleanly severed and flew off the table.

  The unconscious Egor was smashed awake from his stupor, but as his arms were tied to the chair’s armrests, he could only howl and stare at the damage.

  Carter stood back. “Borya, those two fingers of your brother were for you. The next two will be for me. His fingers first, and then yours.” He held the bloody knife up. “I think it’s going to be very hard to collect cash for Gennardy Zyuganov when you both don’t have any fingers left, yes?”

  The glaring Russian’s eyes widened at the sound of his big boss’ name.

  Carter scowled at Egor still yelling from the pain of his finger amputations and lashed out with a fist across his jaw to shut him down. His head bounced from one side of his neck to the other before it fell forward.

  Carter then grabbed Egor’s bloody hand and laid it down flat again on the tabletop. He looked to Borya. “Now, two more fingers from Egor, or maybe the first two from you? You choose.”