War of Shadows

by Leo J. Maloney

  Even halfway through his gun-drawing motion, Dan knew that the odds of cleanly hitting the assassin were thousands to one—especially when the shooter was crouching behind the panicking woman and child who had been at his table.

  The assassin’s wife and daughter? Dan didn’t care—there was no way he was going to shoot through or past them to get to the killer. Instead, he plowed into the alarmed throng like a bull in a china shop. He discovered within just a few steps, however, that the china won, unless he planned to break every dish, stem, handle, and spout.

  Dobrynin had thrown himself onto the restaurant floor as soon as the shot went off, and from there, under the table, he saw Dan struggling against the human tide to get his clawing hands on the man. But the man who had shot Kirby had jumped up onto the padded bench behind the table, and was running atop it to get either to the stairs, the kitchen, or any emergency exit.

  Tarakan acted like his nickname and started crawling under the tables and behind the banquettes to get to the place he had seen Kirby fall. Meanwhile, Dan had also seen what the shooter was doing and, as he tried to wade against the tide of humanity, grabbed a metal dessert plate, hurling it at the man’s neck.

  He silently thanked all those games of Frisbee with his own wife and daughter many years ago as the steel disk whanged into the killer’s throat. The shooter went from running to slipping in an instant, and slammed onto his side atop the padded bench before toppling over backwards behind it.

  Dan, still trying to run, stepped up onto a chair, then onto a table, and then leaped over a bunch of fleeing people, one shoe sole just grazing the top of an old man’s head. Dan landed on another table, and as his weight started toppling it, he slid across the surface and jumped to the bench the killer had been running across. As Dan looked down, he saw the shooter slithering, sliding, and trying to crawl along the bench base toward his previous objectives.

  Dan went for his gun, then stopped again as the killer wrenched himself between the legs of another woman trying to escape. So, instead of shooting at the killer, Dan stepped up onto the top of the bench and ran across it, keeping watch on the killer like a harpooner gauging a swimming whale off the port bow. The second the way cleared, Dan jumped with all his weight, aiming his feet at the shooter’s torso.

  The shooter rolled on his side and scissored his legs, bringing another man and his two sons down over and around him, as Dan just barely managed to avoid crushing one boy’s hand and the other’s knee. Growling like a frustrated bear, Dan grabbed at any limb of the shooter he could reach, but by then, the assassin had put three more people between them as he scrambled to his feet. Dan, seeing no way to catch up, threw himself back over the bench, landed on his feet on the seat, and ran the way the shooter had before getting hit by the dessert plate.

  By then, Dobrynin had managed to come out the back side of the banquette, parallel to the one Dan and the shooter had been using. That put Valery at a ninety degree angle from where he had seen Kirby fall, but Kirby had fallen near the middle of the floor and Dobrynin was against the far wall. Looking for any way through the hysterical mob, Dobrynin glanced up. He vaulted onto a chair, jumped onto a table, and leaped at the strongest Zeppelin in range.

  It was a steel one, and to the Russian’s relief, it carried his weight until Dobrynin could scramble to a larger wooden one next to it. From there, with his hands gripping the wood and his feet resting on the steel, he looked down to where he remembered Kirby falling. All he could see were the bobbing heads of terrified diners, waiters, busboys, and even chefs. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw other heads bobbing, but in a different direction.

  Idiot, he thought, the epithet needing no translation into English. It was mall security, choosing to try swimming against the tide. They weren’t spawning salmon, Dobrynin thought. They would fail. But they did give him an idea. He hung from the furthest zeppelin he could reach and waited until there was enough space below him. Then he let go, landed amid the agitated bystanders, and let them move him in the right direction.

  By then Dan had managed to catch up to the shooter, who was still trying to push through everyone else to get to the stairs. Dan slammed into him like he was back to being a college footballer, sending them both just beyond the stairway entrance. Not surprisingly, there was a little space there, since none of the panicked populace wanted to wander anywhere that wasn’t close to an exit.

  Without a word, the assassin went for his gun, obviously hoping to blast Dan in the chest or head. Growling, Dan grabbed the man’s wrist with one hand and his elbow with his other, then twisted until he heard a cracking snap.

  He heard a pained howl before realizing his mistake and feeling its result at the same time. With both his hands occupied, Dan had left the shooter’s other arm free to inflict damage, which it tried to do to Dan’s face. But, at the same time he was twisting the killer’s arm, he was twisting his own body, trying, and mostly succeeding, to move his head far enough away from the punch to minimize the damage to his face—and to the makeup.

  Even so, he did see a star or two, which he used as inspiration to lash out at the shooter’s nearest knee with the sole of his shoe. Because he was partially blinded, however, his heel only glanced off the man’s thigh. But it was enough to send them both stumbling back. Dan fell against the side of the mob, who, like fans at a crowded rock concert, sent him back onto his feet. The shooter, however, fell against another table and chair. With his remaining good arm, he grabbed the seat and swung it at Dan with all his might.

  Still wanting to protect the innocent bystanders, Dan grabbed it rather than ducking. As soon as he did, the shooter vaulted over the side of the stairway, and crashed, feet first, onto the crowd on the stairs. Dan heard the bystanders yell in pain and surprise, then shoved himself to the side of the stairway in time to see the people the shooter had fallen on collapsing like ten pins. The shooter took one look back up at Dan, sneered, then rolled, stamped, and stood on the fallen and falling innocents before racing out of sight.

  “Damn!” Dan seethed, looking everywhere to find a way to get after the killer. His eyes swept across, and then back, to Dobrynin, who was standing in the rapidly emptying area where Kirby had fallen. The Russian looked back at Dan, then looked down at the empty, blood-stained, floor, and raised his hands in the universal sign of “don’t know.” Then, seeing Dan’s desperate expression, Dobrynin’s face became equally intent, and he jabbed his forefinger repeatedly in the opposite direction, across the restaurant.

  “The mezzanines,” Dan saw the little man mouth. “The balconies!”

  Of course, Dan realized, running away from the rest of the panicked crowd. The mob thinned so rapidly in that direction that Dan was soon sprinting at full speed, coming out into an open hallway that he had seen upon first entering the expansive building. That gave him an almost total view of the entire store, as well as most of every stairway and escalator.

  Spotting the shooter was no problem. He was the one person who didn’t care who he hurt while trying to get away. Dan’s trigger finger twitched again, but the odds of hitting his target at this range with the short barreled, non-laser-sighted Walther, was ridiculous.

  If I ever get out of this, he thought as he started running toward that area, maybe I will let Alex choose a more modern sidearm for me. He only wished she were here now. She could have given the man a third eye without touching a hair on any innocent bystander’s head.

  But she wasn’t here, so Dan ran around the balcony corner until he came to a mezzanine opening. From that angle he could see that the shooter hadn’t spotted him yet. Dan was sure the killer was certain that Dan was still behind him, trying to catch up. Dan hunched down, approaching the bannister overlooking the atrium. From there he could see where the assassin was likely to run—right through the stuffed animal section of the store.

  Okay, Dan thought, running in that direction. Alex might’ve nailed hi
m from a hundred yards, but could Alex have done this…?” Dan leaped up onto the bannister and hurled himself through the air.

  It was a perfect arc. Dan left the seventh floor mezzanine, sailed down, and flew through the sixth floor mezzanine opening, onto a huge pile of stuffed animals—just as he remembered Alex had been a high school track star. Even so…

  The surprised shooter saw Dan go sailing past, then couldn’t stop himself from slowing and looking back as the stuffed animals flew in every direction. But then he spun back straight and started racing again as Dan came plowing out from an exploding pile of nearly life-sized baby elephants, big apes, and giant teddy bears.

  Dan had nearly caught up at the top of the next elevator, but he slid as two other men, of about the same age and temperament as the shooter, came at him from both sides. Dan didn’t see a knife or gun, so he didn’t care what their hands and feet did as he planted his elbow in the middle of one man’s face and his fist into the throat of the other man.

  Although their fists glanced off Dan’s left ear and right shoulder, he was too pumped up to feel it. He did hear his subconscious snarl “hired help,” however, as he charged down the escalator after the assassin. But the assassin looked back and sneered again, just as two more men of the same age, build, and temperament appeared to flank the end of the conveyance.

  The shooter ran through and past them as they waited for Dan. But Dan didn’t wait for them. He vaulted over the side of the escalator, landed on his feet, and pulled out his PPK as they ran around to stop him.

  “Spasibo,” he said—thank you in Russian—as he shot one, then the other, in the chest. At least, he thought as he put the Walther away and continued after the shooter, the PPK’s reduced caliber won’t cause any collateral damage on innocent bystanders.

  Dan made it back to the mezzanine ledge just in time to see the shooter slowing from a run to a walk as a small army of mall security men poured around the corner in the opposite direction.

  Stop him, Dan yelled at them in his mind. Get him, get him, get him!

  But they didn’t. Obliviously, they let the shooter walk amongst them in the opposite direction, paying absolutely no attention. But the shooter wasn’t oblivious. He turned his head yet again to look back up at Dan, and gave him his widest, smuggest, most assured, and most evil grin.

  Okay, Dan thought. These bozos were obviously more hired help. So chalk this one up as FUBAR, find Valery, and get the hell out of town. But as much as he tried to accept the logic of his thoughts, the shooter’s grin kept sticking in the craw of his mind’s eye.

  Dan looked wildly around. He could see by the layout of the building, and by the shooter’s attitude, that he would get to the bottom floor, walk casually across the foyer, and step blithely out the front door—right under the gigantic, multi-story-high pendulum beneath the huge mall clock.

  Dobrynin saw Dan running toward the clock from his vantage point on the seventh floor. “No,” he said, then started repeating it a little louder each time as Dan got closer and closer and closer. “No, no, no, no, no!”

  Then Dan jumped again. He grabbed onto the very top of the pendulum, making it swing wildly. Somehow, miraculously, he held on as seemingly every single person in the toy mall—including the shooter—froze, gasped, or shouted. The pendulum swung back, and, rather than get thrown off, Dan slid downwards. He slid down four floors as the shooter started running for the front door.

  Dan saw the man speed beneath him, and then he let go. He dropped twenty feet, moving slightly to the side, which saved his legs, and especially his ankles. He hit the floor while on the move, somersaulted, and came up on his feet like they had taught him in the paratroops. Dan suffered more aches twisting around and changing his direction than he did hitting the ground. He slammed open the front door mere seconds after the shooter.

  What greeted them on the wide streets and walls of the Imperial Russian, Petrine Baroque, Muscovite, and Constructivist architecture was the Moscow version of a disaster protocol. Screaming sirens heralded the arrival of blue-striped white VAZ-2170 police cars, PAZ-3205 police buses, OMON SPM-1 riot vans, and red Russian State Fire Service trucks, as well as about a half-dozen officers on horses accompanied by another half dozen who were barely controlling German Shepherds, Giant Schnauzers, Dobermans, and Labradors on leashes.

  The R-comm in Dan’s ear just kept bellowing, “Down, down, down on the ground! Hands on your head! Now! Now!”

  Dan ignored them just long enough to tackle the shooter, taking special care to cup the back of the man’s head so he could smash the assassin’s face into the sidewalk.

  Then, apparently, the entire first operational regiment, the Zonal center for police dogs, the Directorate for Public Order, and the Riot Police Unit were all over him.

  As they wrenched his arms up his back, clubbed him, then cuffed his hands, fingers, and ankles, he spoke only for the R-comm’s benefit.

  “Well, that went great. I’ll let you know how the gulags are…in about fifty years.”

  Chapter 38

  “Gulag?” Valery Dobrynin snorted. “You shot two of their citizens and crushed the face of another. You’ll be lucky if they don’t shoot you, then hang you.”

  Dan was not nervous for four reasons. One, the Russian Constitutional Court had banned capital punishment in 1999. Two, a makeup-less Valery had been waiting for him after the arresting officers had also removed Dan’s facial disguise, seemingly as evidence. Three, Valery was waiting for him in a pristine gray and tan interrogation room rather than a dungeon. And four, the only thing he had heard in his R-comm after his arrest had been Lily Randall’s voice saying three words.

  “We’re on it.”

  Dan Morgan leaned back in the simple black padded chair, and studied the black handcuffs and silver finger cuffs that still imprisoned both his thumbs and forefingers.

  “Then why aren’t we separated in the bowels of Stalin City,” Dan inquired mildly, “with FSB guns pressed to the back of our heads?”

  Dobrynin twitched at the mention of the Russian Secret Police, inspiring Dan to turn toward him with a raised eyebrow.

  “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you’d be well on your way to the Baltic by now.”

  Dobrynin shrugged. “I wanted to back you up, and give you information on Kirby’s body …or the lack of same.”

  “Then why didn’t you just say it?” Dan wondered, turning in the chair to face Dobrynin. “And why didn’t you just tell me about the balconies and mezzanines rather than mime everything? I would’ve heard it through the R-comm.”

  The little man sheepishly shifted in his own seat. “I forgot I had it,” he admitted. Dan almost laughed at him, despite the situation. “Really,” Dobrynin stressed, facing Dan. “I mean, I’m not used to it, and it’s so …so …nothing.”

  “I know, Val, I know. To tell you the truth, I sometimes forget it’s in there too.” Dan put his cuffed hands onto the plain table in front of them. “So, tell me now.”

  Dobrynin glanced nervously at the one-way glass taking up most of the wall in front of them. “But…but won’t they hear?”

  “Like they don’t know already,” Dan scoffed. “How many surveillance cameras do you think there were in the toy mall? I’d guess at least six hundred—six for each storefront.”

  “Seven-fifty minimum,” Dobrynin murmured. “You forgot the restaurant and staff areas.”

  “There,” Dan concluded. “So?”

  Dobrynin took a final furtive look at the glass, then slid his chair closer to Dan’s. “Kirby’s corpse was gone—completely gone—when I got there.”

  “Any blood trail? I mean, if he was dragged, or knocked away by panicking people.”

  Dobrynin straightened in his chair, blinking. “Come to think of it, no.”

  “What does that tell you?” Dan asked.

  Dobrynin’s face t
ook on a feral ferocity Dan had come to appreciate. “That tells me that there had to be at least two other conspirators present to take the body away.” He looked at Dan with dawning realization. “Just one wouldn’t do, unless he carried him in his arms like taking a bride across the threshold. And we would have seen that. There would be a blood trail in any case.”

  “Yeah,” Dan said. “How many executions in a public place you know of that have an exclusive clean-up crew waiting?”

  Dobrynin pondered on that. “What does it mean?”

  It was Dan’s turn to glance at the one-way mirror, while he raised one eyebrow. “That’s what we should find out any time now.”

  Dobrynin opened his mouth to raise a question, but Dan held up his cuffed hands, doing his best to make a wait-a-minute motion. Then he lowered his hands, re-shifted in his seat, and watched the door. Dobrynin looked at his associate, frowned, then turned to do the same—as the latch turned and the door opened.

  In walked a very unhappy police chief in a light blue shirt and dark gray uniform, flanked by two men in suits. The man to his left was shorter than Dobrynin, with a cannonball head, a partially burned-off left ear, and a body seemingly made of one solid, coiled, muscle.

  The man to his right was Smith.

  The man to his left moved his arm so it tapped the police chief. The police chief started in place, then bowed stiffly toward Dobrynin and spoke.

  “I want to thank you,” Dan heard in his ear, followed by Dobrynin’s translation, since it was obvious he’d forgotten he had the R-comm again. “For your help in bringing to justice two Chechen rebels, as well as several other terrorists, including a Serb and a Siberian.”

  Dan hoped that was true, but given that Moscow had long been a target for Islamic, separatist, and even neo-Nazi terrorists as well, the authorities had a list to choose from. In any case, the words were a verbal version of a “get out of jail free” card.