The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

  “He’s moving again,” Tom said into his radio. “He’s heading downhill away from me in a southwesterly direction. He’s going faster now. If he keeps that direction, he’ll run into Team Four, but there is still some distance between them. He might not have heard them yet.”

  “Keep him in sight,” Rafael said. “We’re coming your way. We’ll stay above and behind you.”

  Silence descended again, broken only by occasional rolling rocks, broken branches, or the rush of the river. Tom felt his pulse revving, adrenaline coursing through his body. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Behind him, his men moved closer together on a gently curving line extending ahead of him down the slope.

  He spoke into his radio again. “He’s stopped.”

  Klaus slid to the downhill side of a scrub-oak where he could not be seen by anyone on his back-trail. He scanned through his goggles down the slope from his left to his right. He thought he saw movement downhill and shifted his view slightly, away from the spot and saw it again, and then another rush of motion from nearby to his left. They appeared to move toward him.

  His heart drummed. Perspiration poured from his brow. His breathing came in short, involuntary gasps.

  Thrusting his pistol in its holster, he stooped and crawled under the scrub-oak. In a shallow depression below a flat rock overhang lay the suitcase, wrapped in heavy plastic. He pulled it out, tore off the plastic and grasped the handle.

  He sat in the dark, weighing his options, cursing himself for not positioning a boat at the river’s edge. He took a moment to think. If I can make it to crowds of people, I’ll be safe. No one will recognize me. Two miles south along the river was a shopping area. It was a tourist attraction with a very popular seafood restaurant.

  Getting there would not be easy. He would have to cross a nature preserve where he could be the only human there—until the police arrived. Then he would have to decide whether to cross or go around an inlet from the river. But if he could get that far… He headed out.

  “This is Team Six. I think we spotted him. It looked like a guy leaning behind a tree or a bush. Then he crouched and disappeared.”

  “This is Five. We saw him too. He must be about thirty meters above us.”

  “OK, Five and Six,” Rafael said over the radio, “close in on that location. Tighten your teams. Increase the pace. Weapons hot. The guy is armed. He has killed. Teams One, Two, Three, and Four, maintain your current distance from the house but tighten up between each other. Be advised, Teams Five and Six are weapons hot. Five and Six, keep your shots twenty meters below the house.” He listened for confirmations.

  “This is Team One. He’s moving again, but he’s changed directions, and he’s carrying something. Looks like it could be the suitcase. He’s headed uphill now, on a line that would take him past the southwest corner of the house. He’s moving fast.”

  “Team Two,” Rafael radioed, “press him from your side, but keep a distance. Now that we know where he is and where he isn’t, we’ll get the cops to meet him topside. Be advised again that Teams Five and Six have weapons hot. Stay well away from the southwest corner of the house.”

  “Wilco. Out.”

  Rafael turned around to Atcho. “He’s headed uphill. It looks like he’s carrying the bomb. If he stays on course, he’ll come up between your house and your neighbor’s.” He faced Ivan. “Call the cops and get them moving in. I’ll manage things down here.” He turned to speak to Atcho again. “Where’s Atcho? He was standing right there.”

  “I can guess,” Ivan called over his shoulder. “No use going after him. Keep pressing.”

  Atcho bolted as soon as Rafael turned to Ivan. Without saying a word, he left the other two men and rushed up the slope to a small path leading along the backside of his house. As he reached the far end, he slowed to a walk, all his senses alert, listening for the smallest sounds, watching for movement. He pulled out his pistol, holding it to his front as he crept past the end of his house into the wide space separating it from the neighbor’s.

  He reached the middle of the clearing where he expected that Klaus would crest the bluff. Ducking behind some bushes, he peered down the path through his goggles. Nothing. And then, breaking the stillness, he heard the soft pad of running footsteps coming his way.

  He keyed his mike. “Atcho here. I’ve got him. He’s coming straight toward me.”

  Klaus ran uphill, on a path he had scouted. It came out at the top of the slope on the road between Atcho’s house and his neighbor’s, about eighty feet away. If I can get there, I can make it to the woods on the other side of the street and loop back to the river.

  His lungs heaved with the exertion of climbing uphill rapidly and running when the ground permitted. Although not heavy, the bomb was cumbersome, and as he climbed higher, it seemed to weigh more and more. He wished he had thought to put it in a bag like the one he had used in Afghanistan. A next-generation improvement.

  He saw the crest now, twenty meters ahead. Almost home.

  He slowed to a walk, alert to any movement. A full moon rose, silhouetting every object along the ridge. He thought of skirting below the neighbor’s house, but he had not scouted there, and I could run right into the team over there. He continued his climb, breathing heavily.

  He saw movement ahead to his left. A bush. It swayed with no wind. He stopped and studied it against the bright moon. A dark, indefinable shape at its base seemed too large, too thick to be the trunk of the scrub-oak. He searched the ground for an alternative route behind the neighbor’s house.

  Atcho held his breath. The footsteps stopped. He peered through the brush. Below him about twenty feet away, he thought he saw two dark boots. They did not move. Then he saw something with straight lines and a rectangular shape, and it dangled, as if being held. The bomb.

  The boots turned away from him, and he heard the crack of a twig as one boot lifted and set down in another direction. The second boot followed, and then came the sound of branches sweeping against each other as Klaus plunged into all-out flight, crashing through the foliage.

  Atcho leaped upright and tore through the slapping vegetation, small branches scraping his face and ripping his clothes. He reached the point where he had seen the boots and suitcase and stopped to listen. To his left, he heard crashing through rocks and shrubs. It stopped, and then started again, heading directly uphill.

  Atcho whirled and ran up the path. He reached the top just as Klaus broke into the clearing twenty feet to his right. Atcho aimed his pistol, but Klaus shot first, from a dead run.

  A bullet whizzed by. Atcho felt a sting on his earlobe. Blood spattered. He ignored the pain and the trickle that ran down his neck.

  The moon, now higher in the sky, shone radiantly. The light was too bright for the goggles. Atcho tore them off.

  Klaus had widened the distance, making straight for the woods across the road. He held the suitcase tightly under his left arm, his right hand gripping his gun.

  Atcho darted after him, stopping to fire off a round, but Klaus was beyond effective range. Atcho took off after him again, his breath coming in gasps, but he closed the distance.

  Klaus neared the wood line and threw all his reserves into a last sprint.

  Atcho thought fleetingly of firing off another shot, but if he missed, Klaus would be in the trees. He burned his last energy in a sprint to catch up and dove at Klaus’ feet. His arms wrapped around the ankles, and he held tight.

  Klaus went down. He rolled awkwardly and tried to sit up, his arms extended to aim the pistol. He fired, but the angle was too shallow. The bullet hit the ground a foot away from Atcho’s torso.

  Atcho’s arms remained pinned under Klaus’ legs, his pistol still in his hand. He could not turn far enough for an effective shot. He pulled the trigger anyway.

  Klaus screamed, jerked a leg free, and jammed his foot into Atcho’s face. The force slammed Atcho’s neck and shoulders backward. He let go of his pistol. It flew yards away.

  Kl
aus kicked again and pulled his other leg free. He struggled to his feet and stood over Atcho panting, the suitcase in one hand, his pistol in the other. He brought the pistol forward to shoot at point-blank range.

  Atcho anticipated the move. He swung his right foot around and caught Klaus’ ankle from the rear, knocking him off balance.

  Klaus’ pistol flew into the woods. The suitcase sailed through the air and landed yards away. Klaus recovered his balance. He glanced around quickly, his view landing on Atcho’s pistol glinting in the moonlight. Too late. Atcho had already covered half the distance.

  From down the street, the wail of sirens rose in volume. Blue and red strobe lights reflected from the ground and trees. Across the street, men shouted as they ran toward the two combatants.

  Klaus took in the gathering threat and focused on Atcho who, as if in surreal slow motion, scrambled on his stomach toward the pistol. “Atcho,” he called.

  Something in Klaus’ tone arrested Atcho’s progress. He turned.

  Klaus stood back a few yards, grinning. He reached into his pocket. When he withdrew it, he held up the remote control. “This close, I don’t think those jammers will stop this transmission.” He leaned his head back and let loose deep, guttural laughter. “Let’s find out.” He punched the button.

  From a few yards away, a high-pitched electronic tone sounded, emanating from the suitcase. “The bomb is set,” Klaus called. “You made me a martyr.” He laughed again, evil peals that resonated across the ground. “While you burn in Hell, I’ll wave from Paradise.” Then he sprinted to the tree line and disappeared into its dark interior.

  Atcho stared after him, absorbing the implications. Behind him, he heard running feet and turned to see many men, weapons drawn, heading toward the woods in pursuit.

  “Go back,” he yelled, leaping to his feet. He waved his arms furiously over his head. “Get out of here. Go!”

  Ivan was the first to reach him. He panted heavily.

  “Klaus activated the bomb,” Atcho roared. “Get everyone as far away as they can go. Tell them to get under something, anything.”

  He ran to the suitcase, looking for the timer that Veniamin had mentioned protruding through its surface. He saw none. He picked up the bomb and turned it over. There on the right corner nearest the spine, a small electronic display glowed. Atcho stared at it.

  Rafael came to his side. “Get out of here,” Atcho yelled. “Tell everyone they’ve got less than four minutes.”

  Rafael bounded away, running toward the men and the police cars coming his way. He waved his arms and yelled, turning them back to seek shelter over the edge of the bluff.

  Atcho set the suitcase down and studied it while watching the seconds click down. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed the small cloth bag containing the NUKEX with its workaround electronics. Too late, he remembered the technician’s admonition to wear heavy gloves.

  Ivan came to his side. “What else can I do?”

  “Get me gloves. There’s some on the work bench in the safe-room.”

  Ivan started at a fast run.

  “Ivan,” Atcho called after him. Ivan halted. “You’ve been a true friend. Thanks for everything.”

  Ivan nodded and took off again.

  Atcho looked at the object in his hand. The NUKEX’s silvery surface glittered in the moonlight. It fit smoothly in his palm, rounded on the top side to fit the contours of his hand, and flat on the bottom, to be pressed against the bomb. Under his fingers, three buttons protruded. He recalled that the technician said that neither the test-button nor the off-button worked, and he would have only one chance with the button that activated the device. He also remembered that without the extra protection on his hand, the heat from the device improvised from a prototype might be too much to hold before melting the trigger.

  He knelt over the suitcase. His ears throbbed from his heartbeat. He drew from memory to recall the orientation of the bomb. “Trigger device at bottom left,” he muttered to himself, imagining the metallic tube lying diagonally from corner to corner under the lid. “Nuclear reaction takes place in the lead sphere at top right.”

  He placed the NUKEX over the bottom left corner of the lid and held it firmly in place. Then he glanced at the timer. It glowed as it continued to count down, passing the three-minute mark.

  He pressed the black button. Nothing. He pressed it again. Nothing.

  His chest tightened. His heart beat furiously. He took another deep breath. Ten more seconds passed.

  Atcho leaned on the NUKEX and pressed the button again. Did we rewire to the wrong button? He tried the off-button. Nothing. Desperately, he mashed it again. He felt no reaction. The digital display counted past the two-minute mark.

  He tried the remaining button. The lower edge of the device seemed to warm up, but not at a speed to melt anything, and the seconds counted down inexorably.

  Atcho leaned back on his haunches and roared his frustration at the night sky. In his mind’s eye, he saw a bright flash, then a narrow funnel cloud growing, spreading out into a mushroom while everything about him burned in runaway flames.

  He leaned over the suitcase again and mashed all three buttons. Immediately, he heard the NUKEX hum and felt intense heat along the lower edge. He pressed harder while he watched the timer count down past a minute.

  The heat spread through the upper surface of the device. At first only noticeable, very quickly it became uncomfortable. Meanwhile, the suitcase began to smolder under the NUKEX, the smell rising, the fumes drying Atcho’s nostrils and throat and stinging his eyes. He pressed harder, not daring to ease pressure on the buttons.

  He felt a presence at his shoulder, and then another, but he paid them no heed. The counter was nothing more than a blur now, and the burning pain in his hand beyond agony. Still he pressed.

  “Atcho, the gloves,” Ivan called to him.

  “I can’t take my hand off,” Atcho gasped. “How many more seconds?”

  “Thirty,” Ivan replied. “If we go, we go together, my friend.” He waited beside Atcho, watching, and then started to count down. “Seven, six, five…”

  Atcho cried out again and bore down on the NUKEX, tossing his head from side to side in anguish. Mixed with the stench of the burning suitcase and molten metal, he smelled his own burning flesh.

  Ivan continued the countdown, “Four, three, two, one.”

  A pair of hands grasped Atcho’s shoulders. “I’m here,” Rafael said.

  “Zero,” Ivan called.

  Atcho looked wildly about. Still, he dared not let go of the pressure on the three buttons, pushing with even greater force. He squeezed his eyes shut and roared his torment at the moon.

  Ivan jerked Atcho’s hand from the NUKEX. “It’s okay, Atcho. It’s over. You did it. You fried the bomb.”

  Atcho turned his head, not comprehending what Ivan said. He tried to push back down on the device.

  Rafael pulled him back into a sitting position while Ivan slid the bomb and the NUKEX away. Atcho breathed heavily. He looked at his hand, red, swollen, and blistered. “Is this Hell?” He laughed deliriously through the pain as cognizance returned.

  “Let’s get you to the hospital,” Rafael said. “All clear,” he announced over the radio. He and Ivan stood Atcho up and held him between them as they headed back toward the house. From down the street, police cars speeded their way, an ambulance behind them, sirens blaring. The men on the bluff ascended back up over its edge.

  Atcho watched through bleary eyes. He turned to Ivan. “Sofia?”

  “She’s fine. She’s waiting at the hospital.”

  Atcho spun drunkenly on Rafael. “What are you still doing here?” he slurred. “You were supposed to get everyone out.”

  “I did,” Rafael replied. He glanced across at Ivan and squeezed Atcho’s shoulders. “I should say something like, ‘Hey, we’re brothers,’ but that’s too mushy. You know I don’t like to be left out.”

  They guided Atcho past the p
olice cars to the ambulance. “What about Klaus?”

  Ivan and Rafael exchanged troubled glances. “The police are searching for him,” Ivan replied. He shook his head. “We might have to look for him another day.”

  Epilogue

  Klaus crashed through the bushes, searching for anything that would provide shelter from the expected epic blast that would seal his real name, Sahab Kadyrov, among the legion of martyred heroes in the annals of Islam. That was a thrilling thought, although he regretted leaving this life. There was something about breathing, the pulse of blood and his beating heart, and the strain of running through the forest that he found exhilarating. His life had been difficult, but much of the challenge he relished. And they’ll be writing songs about me in Mecca.

  He stumbled in his flight. He had lost his night-goggles during the melee with Atcho, so all he saw were silhouettes when shafts of the bright moon filtered through the canopy of trees. He tripped over a log. On recovering, he sensed that it might be large enough to provide at least a modicum of protection from the flash flame and searing heat of thousands of degrees that would be the least of what he could expect upon detonation.

  He had heard Atcho calling to the search party and the police to go back and seek shelter, and as he lay down alongside the log, he grinned. There will be many dead infidels tonight. He guessed that Atcho might have tossed the suitcase over the cliffs. If that happened, then Austin would be smothered in radioactive dirt from the mother of all shape charges. In that case, the notion of surviving behind the log was not farfetched, although the aftereffects of burns and exposure to radiation were not pleasant to imagine. Either way, I’ll be a martyr.

  He looked at his watch. Should be any second. He buried his face between his arms. A minute went by. Then another. In the distance, he heard the wail of sirens, and realized that there would be no martyrdom for him this night.