by Chris Pike
Burkov’s gaze went to Ruslan’s mud-caked boots. A brief sneer escaped his lips, but he knew better than to correct Ruslan’s abominable and offensive manners. From what little Burkov knew of Ruslan’s background, manners and niceties weren’t taught where he came from.
Burkov took a whiskbroom he had stashed near his desk, and using exaggerated strokes, he brushed away the dirt on the desk left by Ruslan’s boots.
The big Russian wasn’t amused. “Busy drinking? Give me what you have.”
Burkov glared at Ruslan for a long moment. He hated the big man as much as he admired him. “Small talk was never in your repertoire of skills.”
“My line of work doesn’t require talking.”
Or high level thinking Burkov wanted to say. He thought better of it since he needed Ruslan’s help. Instead of exchanging barbs, he retrieved the whiskey bottle, and tossed it to Ruslan, who caught it deftly in one hand.
Ruslan removed the top and took one drink straight from the bottle, much to Burkov’s annoyance.
“It’s good,” Ruslan said, savoring the aftertaste. He put the top back on.
“You might as well finish it.” Burkov’s icy tone indicated contempt.
Ruslan held the bottle at arm’s length in front of his face. He studied it. Long and smooth, the color of the whiskey shone through the clear glass. While Ruslan enjoyed a good whiskey, he certainly didn’t plan on getting drunk tonight, or any other night. In his line of work, a delayed action or muddled thinking resulted in dire consequences, namely death.
In the past he had formidable foes, worthy to be killed, and he’d also had pathetic foes, those who whimpered or begged for mercy like the computer geek whose car happened to break down on a deserted road. The so-called vacation the man had planned had been carefully crafted in advance in preparation for the hit. A convenient entry into a local contest had required Ruslan to bribe the sponsor of the contest. The result couldn’t have been any better.
The only requirement was for the rube to travel along a rarely traveled road, one where he would have to drive a car. A taxi driver called to the man’s residence had been persuaded to leave after Ruslan stuck a knife to his throat. Leave or die. The choice was quite simple, and the driver didn’t need to be told twice. Ruslan admired the guy for his wise choice. Unnecessary killing was not to his liking.
Planning a killing was.
On the night it happened, Ruslan set out spike strips, causing the tires to go flat. After that, plunging the knife into the man’s liver had been much too easy, and Ruslan longed for a worthy opponent, one who could test his skills, requiring Ruslan to keep his skills sharpened, which made him think of the Americans, and a few particularly worthy opponents.
“There are troublemakers in the group,” Ruslan said. He leaned back in his chair.
“Who?”
Ruslan reached into his shirt pocket, retrieved three driver’s licenses, and tossed them in front of Burkov.
Picking up the licenses, Burkov read the names slowly. “Dillon Stockdale, Chris Chandler, Ryan Manning.” He cast a glance at Ruslan. “Where did you get these?”
“We confiscated the wallets of the prisoners.”
“Interesting.” Burkov stacked them neatly, as if he was handling a stack of cards, then placed them on the desk. “Get me the wallets of these three men.” Burkov tapped the licenses. “Quickly.”
Ruslan left without questioning why Burkov needed the wallets. Money had already been removed, not that the US currency was any good anymore, but some of the soldiers had never seen American dollars before, and asked to take them home as souvenirs. Ruslan had no need for the green bills, so as the soldiers rifled through the wallets, he didn’t interfere.
Five minutes later Ruslan returned with three worn wallets, faded brown and curved, indicating the men had kept them in their back pockets for a long while.
“Which one belongs to Dillon Stockdale?”
Ruslan pointed to the wallet on the left.
Burkov opened the wallet and carefully thumbed the contents. There were various credit cards, notes scribbled on folded Post-it notes, a paperclip–which Burkov scolded Ruslan for overlooking–and most importantly, pictures.
Burkov removed a faded picture from Dillon’s wallet. It appeared to be a high school graduation photograph, a rite of passage for American students. The girl had long hair, a wide smile worthy of a toothpaste commercial, clear skin, with similar eyes and bone structure of her father. Written on the back was the name “Cassie.” His daughter. Burkov searched the rest of the wallet, opening compartments and taking out the rest of the contents, checking for anything of personal value. Zero. His only connection appeared to be with his daughter, the one he said had been running an errand before the wedding.
“Bring Stockdale in here.”
While Ruslan was gone, Burkov carefully replaced all items back in the wallet except for the picture. That would be his trump card. He thought about his good fortune of finding the picture. As he was folding the wallet and placing it on the desk, Ruslan shoved his prisoner in the room.
“Sit there,” he said gruffly.
Dillon shot a death stare at Ruslan. He pulled the chair back and sat in it. Ruslan stood to the side and leaned against a wall.
“Pardon his manners,” Burkov said to Dillon, bobbing his head at Ruslan. “I’m afraid he didn’t have suitable schooling.”
Dillon’s hardened expression didn’t change. “I’m going to kill him first.” He nodded to Ruslan. “You’ll be next.”
At first Burkov was surprised at the audacity of such a statement, then he let out a long and hearty laugh. Ruslan didn’t move or show any type of emotion.
“Kill him, then me?” Burkov repeated. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day. You certainly are a comedian, Dillon. Do you mind if I call you Dillon? Perhaps when all this is over, you might consider a career on television. You’d have the audience rolling with laughter. I just know it.”
Dillon wasn’t amused by Burkov. “What do you want with me?”
Burkov’s expression changed from jovial to serious in the time it took him to blink. He pushed the picture in front of Dillon, and kept his eyes trained on him.
Dillon glanced once at the picture, immediately recognizing Cassie’s senior picture. She had fussed and fretted over what to wear, which earrings to choose, and she’d even had her make-up professionally done at a make-up counter at the mall. He had driven her to the photographer’s studio and looked in amazement upon his only child as the camera clicked and whirled. Where had all the years gone? His little girl had grown up. It was a happier time when the world was sane, when he was at the pinnacle of his professional life. Cassie was heading to college, and it should have been a time to celebrate a new phase in their life, until Amy died. He shook off the remembrance.
“You took that from my wallet.”
“That implies stealing. I don’t steal.”
“I suppose invading a country, confiscating land, killing, and taking prisoners is better than stealing?”
“Stealing is for the common thief. I am no thief. I remind you I am a Colonel in the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation. I am highly trained and educated, and—”
“So am I.”
Burkov’s jaw clenched when Dillon interrupted him, and he felt the beginning of an eye twitch. He despised how his body betrayed him when he was being challenged. That little nerdy kid never quite left his psyche regardless of how he tried to bury that part of his life. He rubbed his eye to hide the twitch which had materialized at an alarming pace. The boldness of the American showed no bounds.
Burkov envisioned his beloved homeland, a place of deep rivers and country pride, of beautiful women, military pageantry, warm food, music. The vast tundra, the forests, the sea. At last, a calmness washed over him. He held up the picture. “This is your daughter, Cassie, no? The one who was to be married?”
Dillon remained silent.
“I’ve alway
s found silence indicates agreement, so I’ll take that as a yes.” Burkov studied Dillon’s facial expressions.
The guy was good, Burkov would give him that, and if Ruslan wasn’t around, Burkov would definitely be worried. While they were equally matched in strength, Burkov knew from past military mistakes never to underestimate the people who were being invaded.
“Your daughter is very beautiful. A woman of class and integrity, who I’m sure has been taught about the finer things in life. She’s a woman I’d like to know.” Burkov sensed he was getting under Dillon’s skin. Good. When people lose their cool, they say things they regret, things Burkov needed to know. “Where is she?”
“How would I know?” Dillon retorted. “I’ve already told you, she and the other wedding attendants were on an errand when you attacked us.”
“You say that with such vehemence.”
“I don’t know where she is. How could I? You burned down our home. If she came home, she and the others would have left to seek shelter somewhere else.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot. What a shame to have destroyed such a quaint country home.” Burkov lowered his chin. “Forgive me. It is getting late. Now if you’ll excuse me, the guard outside the door will escort you back to your quarters.”
After Dillon left, Ruslan, who had been observing the interaction, took a seat in the chair in front of the desk. “That was useless. You should have let me have a turn at interrogating him. I would have made him talk.”
“He didn’t know where his daughter is. That was plain to see.”
“What do you want his daughter for?”
“To control him.”
“She’s dead. You burned the house down and they were probably in it.”
“Did you see a body?”
“No. I didn’t need to. The fire would have been too intense.”
“They could have escaped.”
“From that fire?” Ruslan scoffed at the suggestion.
“I need to find Dillon’s daughter. If his daughter’s life is in danger, Dillon will be putty in my hands. He’s a natural leader, and I need him to convince the others to work.”
Tired of Burkov’s musings, Ruslan changed the subject. “What’s the latest on the oil rig?”
“Not rig. Rigs. We need many rigs to drill as quickly as possible. The equipment is being shipped here as we speak.” Burkov picked up a pencil and twirled it between his fingers. “We still don’t have enough men to man all the rigs. Our extra troops are securing the area.”
“What are you suggesting?” Ruslan asked.
“Isn’t it about time you visited our informant? Find out what is known about Dillon’s daughter, and where the next congregation of able-bodied men will be.”
Chapter 19
For the past thirty minutes or so, Petya Ruslan had stood outside in the dark, hidden in the shadows of a massive pine tree in the dense East Texas woods near the town of Hemphill. His pupils became large and black as his eyes became accustomed to the low light. Though he had a working flashlight in his pocket, flicking it on would have alerted someone to his presence.
Darkened clouds floated across the moon, casting an eerie midnight blue light upon the land. Something scurried in the brush and Ruslan’s eyes flicked to the movement. A raccoon waddled along a path, stopped, and lifted its nose at the odd odor of the man. The nocturnal animal couldn’t see the statue of a man, but sensed his presence and the danger. The animal hastily chose another path.
Ruslan slunk away from the cover of the night, following the path he had carefully chosen the day before. Satisfied he hadn’t been seen, he sprinted to the building. Ruslan removed a lock picking case from his inside pocket, and using the specialty tools he knew so well, he clicked open the locked door. The room was dark and smelled of several days of uninhabited human use. His eyes swept over the room and took in its contents. Nothing had been moved since the first time he had made a visit. The room was furnished with a table, a few chairs, a filing cabinet. Pictures hung askew on the walls. An LED lantern sat dark on the table.
He eased the door shut without making a sound. Hugging the wall, he slid to the window and glanced outside. It was dark and there was no movement. Not even a dog barked.
Good.
He hadn’t been followed.
Taking the tilt wand of the blinds between his thumb and index finger, he twisted the flimsy plastic slats shut. The clacking of plastic on the window echoed in the sparsely furnished room. He stilled, listening for any movement or indication he had been heard.
Spying a chair, he picked it up and set it in a corner where the shadows were thick and heavy. His black clothes melted into the shadows.
The only fresh air the room had seen was when Ruslan opened the door and slid in without making a sound. A cat couldn’t have made less noise. Once, when he had been in Mexico, the locals had nicknamed him el gato–the cat–for his ability to watch and wait unseen.
He waited.
Ruslan was good at waiting. The thrill of knowing his prey would be scared witless once he made his presence known excited him. Even more exciting was the knife he carried. His hand went to it and he felt the outline of it in the scabbard. Satisfied he was alone, he practiced withdrawing it and making mock plunges into soft flesh.
He estimated he had been waiting for over an hour. His ears searched the nighttime sounds for a clue his contact had appeared. Footsteps, a cough, or crickets suddenly quieting.
All normal.
Crickets chirped their nightly calls, a dog barked, then others joined in. A tree branch scraped the roof and Ruslan listened for any indication of movement. The turn of a doorknob, a door latch opening, breathing, or the automatic adrenaline rush flooding his body at the presence of his prey. Even his arm hair prickling. He hadn’t yet experienced those; he only heard the vague night sounds he had become accustomed to.
Growing impatient, he pressed a button on the side of his watch. Glowing green numbers illuminated the hardened features of his face, the scar more ragged and ugly. His contact was an hour and a half late.
Ruslan quieted his thoughts.
In the darkness, he listened.
The hushed padding of approaching footsteps came closer, steadier, then halted.
He listened to a key being inserted into the lock, clicking it open. A rush of air followed and the person hurriedly shut the door. A big sigh followed as the person leaned against the door.
Whatever it was, perhaps the floor creaking, a sixth sense, or just dumb luck, the person asked in a shaky voice, “Who’s there?”
“You’re late,” Ruslan said. Rising from the chair, he approached his contact. “Don’t touch the lantern.”
“I need some light. I can’t see.”
“You don’t need to.” Ruslan took the LED lantern and moved it out of reach.
“What do you want?”
“I need to ask you a few questions.” Ruslan stepped closer and loomed threateningly over his contact, peering down into the eyes wide with fear; armpits perspiring heavily. He got a scent of sweat laced with primal terror. Fight or flight. Ruslan enjoyed making people sweat. Enjoyed making them uncomfortable. Fear made them easier to control and interrogate once the brain was engaged with surviving instead of evading questions.
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“I need to know about Cassie Stockdale.”
“What do you want to know about her?” The voice was meek and quiet.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
With lightning fast speed, Ruslan grabbed his contact, exposing the neck in a vulnerable position. “I could slice you from ear to ear. Nobody would hear you scream because I would have cut your vocal cords.”
Ruslan’s contact didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, except for the hammering heartbeat racing at breakneck speed. His eyes were inches away from his contact’s.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
�
��You know what happened. People talk. Is she still alive? Did she escape the fire? Her father must know, but he isn’t talking.”
Thinking quickly, and taking advantage of the lack of knowledge on Ruslan’s part, the contact replied, “The last I heard was that Cassie and the other women were in the house. I swear to God I don’t know what happened to her.”
Ruslan grunted and threw the contact to the floor, who then curled into a protective ball. “You’re useless. I should have never agreed to Burkov’s wishes. He’s a fool. If I find out you’re lying to me, I’ll come back and finish you off.”
The contact didn’t reply. Hands were wrapped tightly around knees, face buried, and chin tucked for protection from a rib-breaking kick sure to come at any moment.
“We need more men. When’s the next gathering?”
“Two days from now at the courthouse.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know. Maybe ten or twenty.”
“You’d better be right. What time?”
“I heard they are supposed to meet an hour after sunrise. It’ll give people time to get there.”
“Have you told anybody about our arrangement? Does anybody suspect?”
“What? No! I haven’t told anybody. Nobody knows.”
“They better not, or else I’ll take this knife and slit your throat. Then I’ll slit—”
“You bastard. I’ll—”
“Do what? I could snap your arm if I wanted to.”
“Go to Hell and stay there!”
Ruslan laughed deep and throaty at the American’s impotent threats. He left as quietly as he appeared. He’d had enough of this American’s uselessness, and when the time came, he’d come back to finish what he started. While the Russians needed the intel the American provided, Ruslan’s utter contempt was obvious.
Chapter 20
At Holly’s ranch, once niceties and cursory introductions were completed, Holly invited everyone to the house, including Reload. With Buster nowhere in sight, the house felt empty without a dog.