by Chris Pike
Although Chandler’s first instinct was to help Dillon, common sense dictated otherwise. He could only helplessly witness the cruel tactics of the Russian Colonel. Dillon fell close to Chandler, who willed him with his eyes to stay down and to keep quiet.
Dillon blinked long and slowly to indicate he understood.
When Chandler got the chance, he’d tell Dillon to keep his cool and to let the Russians think they were in charge. While the Russians may have beat them this time, Chandler had other ideas. With growing hatred, he watched Burkov inspect each person. The Russian Colonel nodded at each man pinned on the ground, and when he got to the elderly woman who was still standing, Burkov asked, “Which of these fine gentlemen is your husband?”
The woman hesitated, then feebly pointed to her husband.
“Him?”
She nodded.
“You,” Burkov said. “Come here.”
An elderly man stood and joined his wife. He put his arm around her in an attempt to show solidarity. He gently squeezed her in a loving gesture to tell her it would be alright, and that he would protect her to the end.
“Let this be a lesson to all of you,” Burkov said. “If you defy or question me, this will be the result.” Burkov handed the AK 74 to a nearby soldier then withdrew a semi-automatic Makarov pistol from his waist holster, and without hesitation or indecision, fired two shots: one into the man’s temple, the other into his wife. They were dead before they hit the ground.
One of the wedding guests gasped. Others kept their eyes closed in horror, their faces mashed into the hard ground. Dillon and Chandler kept their eyes on Burkov.
“Let me be perfectly clear,” Burkov said. Using his foot, he nudged the elderly man, confirming he was dead. In a show of superiority Burkov put one foot on the man’s shoulder as if this was his trophy. “The decision to live or die is yours. Follow my orders, and you will live. Fight back or disobey, and there will be no second chances. As you will find out, I can also exhibit acts of selfless altruism. Though Dillon Stockdale questioned me, and while I should have executed him, I instead showed mercy upon him. Once we are finished here, we will return to Russia, and you may return to your peasant lifestyle for which I have no desire. Are there any questions?” After a few beats of silence, he said, “Good. A truck will be here to take you to your destination. There is one thing, though I am curious about.”
Burkov strolled to where Dillon was, and told him to stand on his feet. “Obviously, from the decorations, a wedding was about to begin, and since you are owner of this place, I am assuming your daughter was to be married. Am I correct?”
Dillon sent Burkov a good old fashioned eye-piercing glare. If eyes could talk, he’d be telling the Russian he’d be a dead man soon.
“Silence indicates guilt, which is good enough for me. May I ask where the bride and her mother are?”
The ease with which Burkov spoke, and the underlying meanings infuriated Dillon. “My wife is dead,” Dillon said indignantly. “She died over two years ago from a brain aneurism.”
Burkov dipped his chin. “Please accept my sincerest apologies.”
While there was nothing sincere about Burkov, regardless, Dillon played along with his pretend cordialness. “Accepted,” Dillon said through a clenched jaw.
“Is the bride not in the house? I would like to meet her.”
Thinking quickly on his feet and needing to divert attention away from the women in the house, Dillon casually explained. “There was a delay in the wedding. Something about last minute items were needed. My daughter and her attendants made a run into town. They should have come back by now.”
“What did they need?” Burkov asked, suspicious of Dillon’s answer.
Dillon shrugged, and tried to be as casual as possible. “You know how it is when the ladies talk. I put them on a filter. I vaguely recall them talking about flowers and ribbons.”
Burkov tapped the air. “A filter? Ah, I understand. They talk, you nod, but don’t hear anything.”
“Right.”
Burkov laughed. “Well, Mr. Stockdale, I think you and I could have gotten along or had a beer if we had known each other during a different time. It is obvious you are a man of your word and of standing. What was your profession, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Dillon did mind the question, and if he got the chance to be alone with Burkov, a beer would be the last thing on his mind. What he’d like to do was send a Spyderco knife deep into Burkov’s spine. “I was an Assistant District Attorney.”
“I am familiar with the American judicial system. Upholding the law and prosecuting criminals suits you. Am I right to observe you are a man of honor and truth?”
“Yes.” The line of questioning and observations was becoming worrisome to Dillon. Burkov obviously wasn’t making small talk, so what his intentions were was anybody’s guess.
“Let me understand. The house is empty? Yes?” Burkov paced among the men, studying them for their reactions.
“That is correct.”
“Forgive me since I need to be certain.” Burkov turned to the big Russian in civilian clothes. Petya Ruslan took a step forward from where he had been standing in the shadows. “Petya, take Andrey Koshkin with you and search the house. If you find anyone, shoot them. Man, woman, or child.”
A breath caught in Dillon’s chest, which he prayed to the Almighty had not been noticed. He concentrated on keeping his breathing calm and even, and to keep his rising and falling chest from betraying him. He considered rushing Burkov, then thought better of it when his eyes caught several rifles pointed at him. There was nothing to be done except to live. If he died, there was nothing more to be done. Live, and he could fight another day. He dipped his chin and closed his eyes, silently praying the Almighty would keep Cassie, Holly, and Amanda safe, and to give them the strength they would need in the face of hostility. Let them be calm, let them hide if necessary, or give them the fortitude to fight if that was the only choice they had. He prayed for strength and absolute cunning to outwit his enemies; he prayed for his own calmness, and for those around him.
In the waning light, the dark corners and shadows of the house would provide camouflage. Dillon respected the dark. Yet he recognized these soldiers were also aware darkness was a friend and not foe.
* * *
Ruslan jerked his head and motioned for Andrey Koshkin to follow him. While Andrey carried the standard accoutrements of Russian military soldiers, Ruslan carried a large hunting knife in a scabbard attached to his belt. He preferred to kill in close quarters, without using the luxury of a rifle from a distance. He had been trained in knife fighting by the best, and didn’t hesitate to overpower his prey.
Killing was personal to Petya Ruslan, and he was good at it.
The rumbling of a truck along the dirt road leading to the house broke the silence, and it was not clear if it was a Russian military truck. Burkov swiveled to the direction of the road and motioned for several soldiers to stand ready in case the truck was not theirs.
The rumbling became louder, indicating a heavy truck was nearing, and during the lull in security, a wedding guest catapulted up and sprinted to the cover of the pine trees.
Ruslan, who was opening the front door of the house, swiveled around. He saw the American man disappear into the brushy forest.
Burkov thrust an angry arm in the direction of the escapee. “Ruslan, find him!” he yelled. “Kill him.”
The big Russian took off running.
Andrey Koshkin was standing on the porch awaiting instruction. Burkov nodded for Andrey to begin the search without waiting on Ruslan. Andrey pushed open the front door and stepped into the house and quietly shut the door.
The tidy house had the usual American furnishings, not that he was familiar with the style, yet he appreciated the homey atmosphere. Framed prints of American landscapes hung on the walls. A family picture of a man, woman, and older child sat on an end table, and Andrey ran a finger over the frame. Various magaz
ines lay open. He went to the fireplace mantle and inspected more pictures. For a moment, a tinge of homesickness washed over him, and he briefly recalled his long dead parents and sister.
In the quiet room, his thoughts took him to the car accident that had claimed the lives of his parents and sister on that cold winter day. He had only been a child when it happened and had been shuffled from relative to relative, feeling like a third wheel, and on his eighteenth birthday, he was given his walking papers. Without a home, he had joined the Russian military, hoping to find a substitute family. He had never found it, and though he had made friends and had gained the respect of his commanders, he was now early thirties, and longed for the home he never had.
The anti-American propaganda the Russian people were subjected to was quite different than what he had experienced once he set foot on American soil. These weren’t bad people, and a lot of them had similar characteristics like Andrey. Tall, brown-haired, skin tones the same as his, yet the mingling of different cultures was apparent.
The reverie was short lived when he heard a faint noise, like someone was shifting positions. Was it his imagination? The wind? The normal creaking an old house made? Whatever it was, he needed to investigate it.
He methodically searched each room on the first floor. The living area contained no obvious hiding places, yet he looked under the furniture and behind a large mahogany buffet, a piece he surmised was an antique. Studying the size of the buffet, and the fact it could hide a small adult, he opened a cabinet door and shined a flashlight in. Nothing of use except a few pieces of silverware. He pushed those around to find empty envelopes, pictures, and other various useless household items. Closing the door, he went to the kitchen and opened cabinet doors, then searched the pantry and refrigerator.
Andrey moved deeper into the house, checking closets and under beds, and when he came to the staircase, he glanced upward to the landing. If he were to get shot, the time would be when he was on the stairs. He could either quietly move to the second floor, carefully putting his weight on each wooden step, or he could surge forward, hoping to take anyone by surprise.
He decided a stealthy approach was best. He tested the first step and put his weight on it, waiting for it to creak. Satisfied the step was solid, he crept along the stairs, hugging the wall. He held his AK 74 in a ready position, and when he came to the second floor landing, he ducked his head around the corner to check each hallway.
It was empty, yet a shiver captured him. For a brief moment he thought he was being watched. The unfamiliar surroundings were his enemy, and if there was an escape route or outside stairs, he surmised the occupants had already escaped. From what he had heard the man who was being questioned by Burkov say, several women were probably in the house. Briefings on American culture had indicated the citizens living in the country were well armed. In his inspection of the house, he had found a rifle behind one of the doors and a handgun in a drawer along with ammo, not exactly what he would consider well-armed.
Whoever lived here was indeed armed, though no match for Russian military arms. If someone was in the house, they were well hidden and quiet.
Andrey needed to be careful. Women could shoot just as well as men.
He let his nose dictate where he needed to go next. He caught the unmistakable smell of blood so thick he tasted metal and swallowed down the sour bile rising in his throat. He inched down the hallway and came to a door that was ajar. He pushed it open with the end of his rifle to find a woman dead on the floor, surrounded by a pool of blood, no doubt a casualty of the first volley of fire.
She was middle aged, dressed for the occasion, but Andrey suspected she was not the mother of the bride or a close relative.
His attention shifted to the shattered window and to the glass shards blown into the room with a force tremendous enough to embed them in the wall.
A white wedding dress splattered with blood hung askew on a hanger.
Andrey stepped into the room and gave it a onceover. The sparsely furnished room had a bed, a dresser with a mirror, and a quick peek determined men’s and women’s shoes were under the bed. A stuffed animal surrounded by pillows was on the bed.
This was the bride’s room. The men’s shoes probably accounted for them moving in together after the wedding.
Carefully, Andrey stepped to the closet, stood to the side, and turned the brass doorknob. It squeaked open. His heart beat fast and he dreaded what he might find. The closet was a jumble of clothes and shoes, and a plethora of useless stuff. He breathed a sigh of relief. Satisfied the room was empty, he stepped into the hallway. Two other bedrooms needed to be searched, so he started there. Finding both empty, he decided the house was vacant.
Just as Andrey decided to leave, he heard the sound of shifting weight.
Someone was here.
The sound had come from behind him, yet he was sure he had searched all the rooms. He walked along the wooden floor, taking his time as he searched the wood-paneled walls. Every foot or so, he pressed his hand against the wall to test the strength, gauging if the panels felt like the others.
He came to the end of the hallway where there was a window. He took a peek of the front lawn where the wedding party was being held captive. A brief moment of regret hit him hard and fast, knowing the lives of the Americans meant absolutely nothing to Colonel Burkov.
Still, Andrey was a soldier and he had a mission to accomplish.
As he was about to leave, the warping of the paneled wall caught his attention. Squinting, he tried to understand what was different about it, and he let his eyes focus on the patterns of the wood.
There, he understood now.
It was the break in the pattern that clued him this wasn’t a wall.
It was a facade of a hidden room.
Chapter 9
“Holly, what are we going to do?” Cassie asked. Her features, glowing minutes earlier in the knowledge she was about to be married to the man she loved, were now contorted in anguish.
“Let me think,” Holly said.
They had been huddling in the hallway taking cover from the bullets that had blown through the walls. Dorothy and her daughter Anna waited for guidance.
“Do we take a stand?” Cassie asked. “I can get my dad’s rifle. There are pistols for everyone to use too.”
“I can also help,” Amanda chimed in.
“No,” Holly said firmly. “Our weapons are no match for theirs. “The best thing for us to do is to hide and stay quiet so we can live another day to fight. With any luck, Dillon has said something to throw them off.”
“Where should we hide?” Amanda asked. “Should we split up? Or make a run for it?”
“There’s no time. The house has probably been surrounded by now,” Holly said. Her mind raced, thinking of alternatives. She recalled the remodeling of the house and how the newer part of the house was built so the old house could be incorporated into it. Her father specifically had the wooden floor constructed so it could hide valuables under the wood. People walking over it had no idea weapons were stored there. There must be something else. What had her father said about the second story? She closed her eyes, her mind whirling, trying to recall the conversation. Holly’s eyes popped open. “I remember now. There’s a hidden closet in the hallway near the window.”
Crawling on her hands and knees, Holly ran the pads of her fingers over the wall as if she was playing a piano. She focused on the sound the wood made on each stroke. There it was–a break in the pattern. She pushed on a plank and a camouflaged paneled door swung inward. Tucked between the closet of two bedrooms was a space large enough to hold several grown men, or in their case four women and one child.
“Quickly,” Holly said, motioning with her hand. “Everybody in here.”
The women shuffled in single file into the dark space. Once everyone was in, Holly closed the door, throwing the space into pitch black darkness. “Shhh,” she whispered. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”
Ca
ssie was pressed against the back of the space, Amanda in front of her. Dorothy was standing straight against the wall, and in the haste to get in the hidden space, Anna was leaning against Holly. There was no time to switch places. Holly put a protective arm around Anna.
Holly listened with growing apprehension as the soldier moved through the house. Doors opened and closed, the creaking of footsteps grew closer. Whoever was searching for them had found something of interest. Holly’s heart beat fast and hard, and she held her breath, listening to a hand searching the wall.
Another creak of the floor, and this time it was nearer.
After a long silence, a flashlight clicked on, and the beam bounced from top to bottom.
Her eyes, now acclimated to the darkness, focused upon the sliver of light bending through the cracks in the panels.
The hidden door suddenly swung open.
Upon seeing the group of women, Andrey Koshkin relaxed his posture and lowered the barrel of the AK to the floor. He shined the flashlight beam on each of the four women, and when the beam fell to Anna, he let out a surprised huff.
He hadn’t signed up to kill children. A child thrust into the world of international politics, a child who hadn’t had time to grow up, a child whose fate he held, a child the same age as his sister was when she died.
If you find anyone, kill them.
Burkov’s command and his nonchalant attitude at killing sent shivers up Andrey’s spine.
Holly put a hand to her eyes to shield them from the blinding light. Peering through her splayed fingers, she caught a glimpse of a soldier dressed in full military garb. He had on a helmet, body armor, camo fatigues, and heavy boots. Holly expected to be executed at any moment so in a show of defiance she threw back her shoulders and dropped her hands from her face. She stared straight at the soldier. If she was to die, he’d have to look her in the eyes.