A panhandler with no teeth shuffled up to my window, his filthy hand out. I ignored him. With a blackened finger, he drew a greasy bunny on my window and smiled through grey, fetid gums. I dug into my wallet for a few bucks, cracked the window and handed over the cash. He mumbled something in Spanish and continued on his way.
There was nothing for me to do but wait for Cuco’s call. I had seen him disappear past palm trees and through a crowd of Latino women and their laughing children. Sasha was safely at home. Once I was confident that Vlad would be reasonable regarding his sister, I would set up a meeting. I didn’t want to be recognized by the grey-suits, so I had already dressed in the grey jacket and baseball cap.
Bad idea.
Someone else approached the passenger side. I thought it was another panhandler. When I turned, a large, redheaded man was glaring at me. He was dressed in a black suit and purple silk shirt open halfway down his furry chest. I thought he looked like a bouncer at a gay rave.
He grabbed the door handle—it was locked. Then I heard a tap. When I turned I saw another man, equally large, wearing a similar black suit and a gold chain, surreptitiously showing me his gun.
Reluctantly I unlocked my door and climbed out. Saying nothing, the redhead grabbed my shoulders, pointed me to the west and pushed me forward towards a waiting black town car. From the reflection on the windshield, it was hard to see who was behind the wheel. He opened the rear door and “helped” me in. The other man had already gotten in on the other side and the redhead shoved me over, putting me between these two gorillas. Then the car zoomed into traffic.
“Empty your pockets,” the driver said in a heavy Russian accent.
“Vlad?”
The redhead smacked me on the ear with his wrist, his oversized gold watch sending a sharp pain up the side of my head and bringing tears to my eyes. I saw how this was going to go and did as the driver had asked, handing over my wallet, cell phone and Glock.
“This is nice,” the redhead said. He checked the safety and slipped the gun into his jacket pocket. Then he lowered the window and tossed my phone into the street where a passing car crushed it. Finally he went through my wallet and, ignoring the cash, gave it back to me.
“Where is Sasha?” the driver said.
“She’s safe.”
“You better not be lying, asshole.” These jokers had seen way too many Quentin Tarantino movies. “How do you know her?”
“She ran away from someone. I’ve been protecting her.”
“Why?”
Strange question—and one that I couldn’t easily answer. Why was I doing this? “Because she didn’t have anyone else.”
A long silence hung in the air like low-lying smoke. The driver said something in Russian to the other two and they responded.
“She has her brother,” the driver said to me.
Sure, the one who was responsible for her being kidnapped in the first place. That brother.
We spent the rest of the ride in silence. As we got onto the freeway going west, I noticed that we were headed towards Santa Monica. The afternoon traffic was heavy. We got off at Fairfax and headed south towards an industrial-looking section of town. We wove our way past an electrical substation through small side-streets till we arrived at a nondescript, low, red brick building with a faded blue-and-white sign that read Mockba Import Export.
We drove around the rear and parked. The two men in the backseat got out. I didn’t need to be prompted and climbed out after them. The alley was lined with faded blue dumpsters covered in graffiti. The ground was littered with broken glass. They led me to a heavy steel door. The driver unlocked it and we followed him inside.
The interior looked dirty and unused—one big room dotted with metal load-bearing poles. A faint light leaked in through grimy wire mesh glass windows. In the center stood a single grey, chipped metal chair. And next to that, a bulky-looking man with the same light brown hair as Sasha—except his was curly. He wore a black suit, white shirt and slender black tie.
Back in Tres Marias in the early days of the outbreak, I had been repeatedly tortured by the Red Militia, a paramilitary whack job of a group that sought to take over the town as the virus spread. My leg was permanently ruined from the repeated whipping of an iron rebar. I could feel the pain now as I recalled how they had hit me for days on end, hoping to break me. I wondered if Russian-style torture would be any worse.
“Vladimir Dragomirova?” I said. The others laughed. “What?”
“Dragomirov. The ‘A’ is for girls.”
The redhead nudged me towards the chair. Rather than resist, I strode there purposefully. Vlad’s face was neutral—almost unfinished—like the image of a president stamped on a coin. His hands were folded behind his back. His violet eyes studied me as I approached him. He glanced down at the chair wordlessly.
“I prefer to stand,” I said.
A blinding pain erupted at the back of my head and the next thing I knew I was on my knees. I could feel hands grabbing me from under my arms and dragging me towards the chair. They lifted me up and forced me down. My vision cloudy, I struggled to regain my wits as other hands quickly tied my ankles with a yellow nylon rope. Then my shoulders tightened as they secured my hands behind the chair.
Vlad stepped around to the front and, bending down, got up in my grill. He smelled like sour cream and aftershave. “Where is Sasha?” he said.
I had no intention of playing games with these guys. They were hard core. I remembered Sasha telling me that her brother had served in the military. I prayed that he wasn’t a monster. I had already instructed Cuco that, should something happen to me, he was to wait twenty-four hours, then contact Maritza and get her help in saving the Russian girl.
Vlad grabbed my face with a huge, paw-like hand and squeezed. I could feel the callouses on his fingers. “Where is my sister?”
“Safe,” I said, my head pounding.
“Tell me where she is.”
“Not till you promise you won’t harm her.”
“I said, tell me where she is, Mr. . . .” He turned to the redhead.
“Wales.”
“Really? The Outlaw Josey Wales? This is a very good movie. Not so good in Russian, though. Clint Eastwood sounds like a drunk Putin.”
The men shared a laugh. Then his expression becoming serious, Vlad moved in close and, whispering savagely, spoke the last words I would hear before losing consciousness.
“Josey Wales was hero,” he said. “And you, my friend, are no Clint Eastwood.”
CHAPTER TEN
Infected
The sting of cold tap water brought me back to consciousness and, like a swimmer heading to the surface for air, I came to, expecting to find myself bleeding out with broken limbs and missing fingers. But other than the pain in my head and the throbbing from my gunshot wound, I was still in one piece, though feverish from the infection.
It was dark. Banks of fluorescent ceiling lights shone down harshly, giving the room an eerie, horror-movie glow. Hearing faint voices, I gazed around the room and saw the Russian men far off in a circle, speaking softly. Occasionally, one of them would look over at me. Something was different. Were there more now? I counted six. Vlad said something and strode towards me. Standing directly in front of me, he studied my face.
“What?” I said.
“In the army, I learn you can see what a man is most afraid of by looking into his eyes.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
“When I look at you, Mr. Wales, I don’t see fear of Death. This creates a problem for me.”
“Sorry.”
“Why aren’t you afraid to die? What did you see?”
“Everything.”
“So you are ready?”
I looked away for a time. Then I stared back at him. “I died a long time ago.”
Instead of being impressed, Vlad turned to the others who were approaching and said something to them in Russian. One of them answered. Grinning, he faced me again.
“This line was from Innocent Blood.”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“Directed by John Landis? Anne Parillaud is naked a lot?”
I looked away. “So what are we doing here?”
“I want to kill you,” he said, picking at a hangnail. “But I need to find my sister.”
“So you can kill her?” The Russian took a step back. He seemed genuinely hurt. I went on. “Sasha is afraid of you. Why do you think I didn’t bring her to the park?”
“She is not afraid of her own brother.”
“Ever since you broke that young boy’s arms in Moscow.”
I braced myself for a beating. But he merely stood there, looking at the others, then turning back to me. “I have always protected her.”
“Then why did you throw her out on the street?”
“Because she . . .”
“What? She’s nineteen! Men imprisoned her—they did things to her. She escaped and found me. Look, I didn’t want any part of this. I have other business. But I helped her anyway. I kept her alive. And those men are coming for her. So you and your gangsta friends better figure this out.”
Vlad’s shoulders slumped. He turned to the others and they spoke in Russian. It looked to me like they were debating. The redhead was probably telling Vlad that I was a liar and needed to be killed.
I was done talking. It was up to Sasha’s brother now. A moment later, the redhead approached and, pulling a black pocket knife from a sheath strapped to his leg, he cut the ropes. Stiff, I got up and stretched. Then pivoting, I sucker-punched the son of a bitch firecrotch, knocking the wind out of him and sending him on his ass. Calmly I turned back to Vlad.
“I need my gun,” I said.
Getting up off the ground, the redhead shook his head violently. Vlad nodded. Then the other man reached into his pocket and carefully handed me my Glock butt first. I checked the clip and slipped it into my jacket pocket. Vlad said something to the others and they left us alone.
“Is she . . . all right?” he said, chastened and nonthreatening.
“She’s fine. Staying with a friend.”
“I want to see her.”
“You won’t harm her?”
“No, I— I promise. She is my sister. She’s all I have in the world.”
“So why did you kick her out?”
He thought for a long time. Then he looked at me, his eyes intense in the dim light. “I thought she was making a fool of me—my family.”
“So it is an honor thing.”
“I suppose.”
“I can take you to her now,” I said. “I’ll need a phone—your buddy destroyed mine.”
As he reached into his pocket, gunfire erupted outside, shattering the windows. Tear gas from riot guns shot through the windows, filling the room with a dense fog. In the distance, the other Russians returned fire. I didn’t know who was shooting or why.
Vlad pulled a semiautomatic from his pocket. “Quickly, follow me,” he said.
Choking, we ran back towards the wall where we discovered an exit. Bursting through, we came upon stairs leading to the roof. Though he was a large man, Vlad moved nimbly up the rusting metal steps to another steel door. He peered through a small window to see if anyone was on the roof.
“What do you see?” I said.
“Three men.”
“Are they wearing grey suits?”
“Yes.”
“These are the men who took your sister.”
He looked at me, his face like stone and, after a beat, pushed the door open, his weapon raised. As they spun around, he shot the closest one in the face, dropping him. The other two took cover and began firing at us. Crouching, I moved away from Vlad and fired back, striking one of the grey-suits in the legs. Screaming, he went down shooting.
“They’re up here!” the third man said, continuing to fire.
I crept behind the air conditioning unit and got off several rounds, hitting the grey-suit in the throat and face. Gagging, he tottered back and fell backwards off the roof to his death. Vlad ran towards the ledge, stopping only to shoot the other wounded grey-suit in the head. I followed and, looking down, saw that the building was surrounded by police vehicles, their lights flashing.
“This way!” Vlad said.
We ran back towards the emergency exit where we found a trap door. Vlad tried opening it, but it was stuck. I moved in and, together, we pulled on it till it opened with a screech. He climbed in first, then me. I shut the door behind me.
A dark, narrow passage that reeked of rot led to what I assumed was another building. As we crawled through, I could hear voices screaming commands, drowned out by the beating of helicopter blades.
We’d gone maybe a hundred feet when Vlad looked up and saw another trap door. Carefully he opened it. I could hear the activity from the next building as we climbed onto the roof and, crouching, headed for the emergency stairs. Thankfully, the door was unlocked. We opened it and went inside. Then we climbed down into the building and found ourselves in another large room, filled with wooden crates covered in Cyrillic writing.
“This building also belong to us,” Vlad said.
Our plan was to make our way through to the alley exit and slip away. As we came towards it, I heard something. It sounded like shuffling. We kept walking and eventually reached a door that led to the alley. Opening it carefully, Vlad peeked out. All clear. We stepped out into the night.
The alley was dimly lit, making it hard to see as we moved slowly away from the police. The Russian was ahead of me by several feet. Hearing a noise, I turned and saw something moving slowly through the darkness. I raised my gun. Vlad must have heard it too. He turned and pointed his weapon as well. We waited for the figure to become visible. My chest hurt from the racing of my heart. Then the shape in front of us became solid in the weak glow of a rusting light fixture.
A stewbum staggered out of the shadows, cut cleanly from top to bottom. “Please,” he said, shivering.
Then a wet sound as his intestines spilled out in front of him. He dropped where he stood, dead. Somewhere in the blackness, I could hear a rhythmic clicking noise.
We turned and ran away from the body past numerous buildings. We hit a dead end and had go to left into another short alley. The clicking noise followed us. We turned right again through the maze and stopped short, holding our weapons in front of us. The clicking noise seemed to be coming from everywhere.
“Try one of the doors,” I said.
Vlad pulled at a door handle. Locked. We went on to the next and the next. Eventually we discovered a partly open door, orange light streaming through the crack. We went in. I wished we hadn’t.
The room was large and mostly empty with broken plaster and other debris scattered across the floor. The ceiling had been torn away, revealing crisscrossed iron rebar the length and breadth of the room. And from those metal bars hung human bodies on hooks—dozens of them—stripped clean of flesh with only the heads untouched—expressions of unspeakable horror on each of their faces.
“’Tchyo za ga’lima . . .” I assumed Vlad was swearing. His face was drained of color.
“We need to get out of here,” I said.
The clicking noise followed us as we backed towards the door we had entered. Then shirtless figures emerged from the shadows, their eyes gleaming an iridescent purple. We had wandered into a nest of cutters! I turned to find Vlad raising his weapon to fire. I grabbed his arm.
“The cops don’t know we’re here,” I said. “If they hear us shooting, they’ll come.”
“And they will find this!”
“They’ll arrest us. Trust me.”
We ran for the exit. I shoved Vlad through, then backed out and closed the door. When I turned around, Vlad was on the ground holding his hand, which was bleeding. Then the clicking noise again. I looked up and saw the blond cutter—Roy Batty—watching us curiously. In his left hand he held what looked like a deadly sharp balisong knife dripping with Vlad’s blood. He licked
the blade clean, then flicked it open and closed. The clicking noise!
Roy looked at the gun in my hand, smiled and came closer, his eyes never leaving mine. I felt myself going limp. He came up close and, tilting his head like a bird, spoke into my face. His breath smelled strongly of copper.
“Well,” he said. “Aren’t we just what the doctor ordered?” His voice sounded like a bad connection.
Ignoring my own rule, I raised my weapon to shoot him when the sound of an approaching motorcycle broke the silence. Probably a cop. Like lightning, Roy disappeared into the building and locked the door. I got Vlad to his feet and we ran. Eventually we made it to the street.
You don’t hail taxis in LA—you have to call them. In a few minutes, we were heading northeast towards Highland Park. I borrowed the Russian’s phone to let Cuco know that I was fine and that Sasha’s brother was with me. Then I called Maritza about the cutters’ victims. With luck, the story would make the eleven o’clock news.
When we arrived, Cuco and Sasha were waiting on the porch. I got out first while Vlad paid the driver. When the Russian girl saw me she ran towards me and held me tight.
“I’m okay,” I said.
She glared at her brother, then seeing his bloody hand she went to him, speaking rapidly in Russian. Cuco led us inside.
Ernie, the kid from next door, retrieved the first aid kit and handed it to Sasha. After she had treated her brother, we sat in the kitchen. Vlad and I told the others what had happened. He still didn’t know about Sasha’s pregnancy. When he began asking her questions in Russian, she shook her head.
“Speak English,” she said, as if talking to a rude child. “These are my friends.”
Smiling with embarrassment, he turned to me. “Sorry about before, Dave,” he said.
“Forget it.”
“I don’t know why they took my sister. What do they want?”
Even The Dead Will Bleed Page 9