Skills to Kill

by Brian Drake

  “The accordion player is making noise again,” she reported.

  “I’m expecting some action so I need you to—”

  “Did you hear me? I said the accordion player—”

  “I get it, darling. Your goodies are currently unavailable. But we have a girl to rescue,” he said. “Keep your gun handy. I’ll knock three times before I come in.”

  “”What if in my stupor I suspect you’re a bad guy and shoot you?”

  “Honey, in the condition you’re in, I bet you can’t see straight.”

  “You are so smart!”

  He ended the call with a curse as a pair of headlights grew bright in his rearview mirror. That was fast. Dane unbuttoned his jacket for easy access to his artillery. He sped up. The other car sped up, too. Dane executed a few turns for the benefit of the opposition, who turned with him. An office park lay ahead. Dane turned into the empty parking lot and raced across the blacktop until a curb blocked further progress. On the other side of the curb was a patch of grass and some trees and no lights. He bolted from the car and ran into the darkness with gun in hand. For a moment the other car spotlighted him; a burst of automatic fire said the ungodly did not want him running into the dark, but Dane kept running until he found a large tree beside which he could drop flat.

  One man climbed out of the car and advanced into the dark. The driver backed up and went around the other side of the property. Blocking escape. Fine with Dane. Easier to deal with one thug than two. The silhouette coming his way soon blended with the darkness. Dane breathed slowly and lay still. One hand covered his stainless automatic so no hint of light would reflect and give away his position. The grass was wet from a fresh watering and the water soaked through Dane’s clothes, but in spite of that he began to fall in love with his hiding spot. There he was comfortable and concealed, and the tree’s trunk was thick enough to stop the projectile from a howitzer. Or so he told himself as his pulse raced. To survive combat, one had to believe he was invincible; perhaps the other chap believed it, too.

  The other man stopped and dropped into a squat, then stretched out. He started moving forward a few inches at a time.

  Dane lost sight of the man’s profile for a moment. He looked off to one side, letting his peripheral vision take over. There. Something moved. Dane turned back and saw a bit of light wink off the other man’s wristwatch. Only a few feet separated Dane from the gunman, but the gunman’s course was taking him away from Dane in a diagonal direction.

  The wristwatch flashed again.

  The ghosts of battles past were telling Dane to take the option. Now.

  Dane fired twice. The orange flash from the muzzle ruined his night vision and he could no longer see much of anything, but that didn’t stop him from rising and rushing toward the gunman’s position.

  Dane almost tripped on the man’s legs.

  The man lay still, his side torn open from the pair of fat .45 hollow points. Dane rolled the man onto his back. He was quite dead. A nice bit of shooting, that was. Dane put away the .45 and rolled the man back onto his stomach. He wore a long black coat. Dane removed the coat and put it on. The sleeves hung past his wrists. No matter. He tied it around his waist, picked up the dead man’s submachine gun, and hoofed it back to his car.

  He called Nina and quickly told her where to find the car and to get her booty over to the business park to pick it up. She responded carefully but still slurred some of the words.

  “I can’t see remember, darling? So my booty will remain in this tub for as long as it wants and since it is attached to the rest of me that means I am not going anywhere but thank you for the call and please don’t get killed because I look absolutely horrible in black.”

  Dane threw the phone into the car. She was no good to him. He’d have to call Russo to collect the car. It had to be out of there before the cops showed up.

  He scanned the car for the gunman’s vehicle. And there it was, rolling back this way. Time to take advantage of the blood spatter on the coat.

  Dane lurched toward the other car, pressing his left arm against his middle and covering part of his face with his other hand. The gunman’s car stopped. The driver hollered something in another language; Dane responded with a loud groan. He pulled at the back door but it was locked. The driver hit the lock and Dane crawled onto the backseat. He moaned again. The driver said something that sounded reassuring and twisted the car around in a tight U-turn and sped off into the street.

  Presently the car stopped and the driver shut off the engine. Dane peeked long enough to see that they were parked outside. He could not see the area around them. The driver climbed out of the car, opened the back door, and Dane shot him in the face.

  Dane hopped out of the car. His move had not been tactically sound but it had been the only thing to do. As soon as the driver had a look at him, all bets were off. Dane advanced on the small bungalow. They were in the countryside just beyond Mestre city limits, with a highway a few hundred yards away. A few cars traveled along it, and Dane knew from studying a map of the region earlier that the road would take him back to town. But first things first.

  The bungalow’s front door had not opened. Why had nobody responded to the pistol shot? Dane tried the knob. Locked. A blast from the .45 broke the lock and he went inside. He kept close to the entryway wall, listening. Lights burned in the room beyond but there were no voices, not even a television. Dane stepped into the kitchen/living room, but not a soul met him there. Down a hallway, there were three bedrooms. The first two each had twin bunks. Male clothing items in each room. Dane opened the third door. A lone mattress sat in a corner, an unconscious man lay on the floor, and a woman’s pink sweater lay on the carpet.

  Dane examined the man. A big lump was growing out of the top of the man’s head.

  He picked up the sweater. It bore the scent of some brand of perfume, something a young woman might choose. He’d seen the sweater before.

  Leila Russo had been wearing it.

  But where was she?

  Dane put away the gun and went back outside. Footsteps shuffled behind him. He whirled around, going for his gun, but the two men who climbed out of the bushes were on top of him before he could make another move. One of them jammed a stun gun into his neck. The stun gun went snap crackle and the lights went out before he heard the pop.

  When Leila Russo saw the man in the black car at the hotel, she thought it was her father. He had sent the note, after all, and while that type of communication was irregular, there was no reason to doubt the source. But as she bent to get into the car, she saw the man’s face. It was not her father. He held a gun. She screamed and started to run, but a second man leapt out the other side and shoved her in. Her head slammed into the doorframe. As the door was slammed shut behind her, she clawed at the first man’s face and batted his gun away as he tried to smack her with it. She shoved it away the first time, but not the second, and the man smacked her. She slumped against the seat and was conscious of the car’s speeding away after another moment, but that was all.

  She woke up and retched a little. She had been dropped onto a bare mattress in an otherwise empty room. Bars covered the window. She examined her clothes. They were rumpled but intact. She had not been molested. She stood up but had to balance against the wall for a moment. She loosened her heels and kicked them away. She tried the door but it was locked. She slammed her palms against the door and shouted, “Let me out of here!” She pounded some more and eventually the door opened. She stepped back.

  A dark-skinned young man held a small submachine gun, and he pointed it at her.

  “You will be quiet,” he said. “We will not hurt you.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Never mind who I am,” the man said. “You want to go home, you will behave.”

  “You’re a jerk.”

  The man lowered the gun. Leila watched his arms to see if his muscles tensed prior to striking her; her last boyfriend had hit her once, only once, an
d she’d known the blow was coming because he’d flexed his arm before he swung. This man did not do that. He pulled the door shut and left her there alone.

  Leila Russo put her hands on her hips and stared at the closed door.

  She looked at her leather belt, thinking it could be a weapon, but it was too thick. They’d left her stilettos, though. Those could be very nice weapons. She smiled as she hefted one of the pumps and felt the tip of the six-inch heel. These goons weren’t very smart. Her father had taught her long ago that fashion accessories such as heels and long, sharp earrings could be effective weapons if somebody attacked her. She pitied other girls who didn’t have a Papa like the one she had. She put the heel down and sat on the mattress. She didn’t know how many men were guarding her, but that wouldn’t be the case for long.

  The sky darkened through the barred window, and when her tummy growled she wondered when they’d bring dinner. Presently the door opened and another man, this one younger than the first, with a wiry frame and thick black hair, entered with a food tray. His weapon was slung over his shoulder. He made eye contact with her but said nothing.

  She stood up as he put the tray on the carpet.

  “You’re cute,” she said.

  He smiled.

  “Thanks for the grub.” She made a show of pulling off her sweater. The camisole underneath gave him the peek she wanted. She dropped the sweater on the mattress. “Anything else?”

  The man’s eyes were back on hers. He shook his head and pulled the door shut.

  Leila smiled and ate the food. They had provided a spork as the only utensil. They were idiots. No silverware but they left her shoes?

  Several hours ticked by. She heard men talking and pressed her ear to the crack between the door and the doorframe. Somebody was departing—two men? They asked another if he was sure he could take care of “the woman” alone. He assured them he could. The wiry kid? The front door shut. She paced back and forth while she formulated a plan. She couldn’t stay cooped up waiting for Papa when the goons might get impatient and send him one of her fingers. Or worse.

  She grabbed one of the pumps and pounded on the door. “Hey! Buttface! Open up!”

  A few minutes of pounding later, the door opened. She stepped back. Both hands were behind her back and the pump was gripped in her right. She squeezed her arms so her breasts peeked up a little, and when the wiry kid stuck his head in, that’s the first thing he saw.

  “What?”

  “I need to pee, dummy.”

  “Hold it till morning.”

  “Are you nuts?” Two steps forward. “Do you want me to make a mess on the floor?”

  “Hold it.”

  “Bring me a bucket at least.”

  “You will—”

  She swung as hard as she could and felt the tip of the heel dig into his temple. He let out a cry, stumbling forward; she followed up with another bash, and another, as he tumbled onto the carpet. He was breathing but he wasn’t moving. Leila stepped into the heel and hopped over to the other, stepping into that, and then she locked the door behind her and ran down the hall.

  Leila Russo walked along the shoulder of the road for just over an hour before she flagged down a car. An older couple. She gave them a story about having a fight with her boyfriend and him leaving her on the roadside, and the couple gave her a lift back into town. They dropped her off at the hotel, per her instructions, and she raced into the lobby and collected her key from the desk clerk.

  Up in her room she collapsed on the bed. Her body shook. Two mini bottles of vodka and a shower and a change of clothes calmed her down. She called Papa. Her father let out a shout of joy when he heard her voice, but as she told the story he shushed her. He said he would send somebody over right away to collect her and she could tell her story in person.

  4

  The Duchess

  Steve Dane awoke on a couch.

  A man stepped into view. “Hello, Steve.”

  Dane’s frown turned into a smile. “Good to see you, Len.”

  Len Lukavina had thick dark hair and dark eyes. One side of his face appeared warped, and the corner of one eye drooped and the lid didn’t move when he blinked. Lukavina was the man Dane had rescued from the burning helicopter, but not fast enough. Lukavina had taken the most punishing blast of the explosion, nearly burning to death. So extensive had been the damage that no amount of plastic surgery could fully erase the effects. Lukavina had never been an undercover man, and with such a distinctive appearance he never could be, but he still made it into the field, working with a team of agents who did the heavy lifting while he remained behind the scenes.

  Once they had served together in the Marines and then the CIA. Now Dane worked for himself, while Lukavina remained a faithful Company man.

  “What are you doing here?” Lukavina said.

  “Here? Somebody brought me here. I didn’t set out to visit this place.”

  “I mean what are you—you know what I mean.”

  “Do you expect me to talk?”

  “No, Steve, I expect you to stay out of our way.”

  Dane sat up. “We can help each other. Tell me what you’re doing.”

  “Ha.”

  “Then I’ll just sit and stare at you.”

  Lukavina pressed his lips together. “If you can behave,” he said, “we’ll talk.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Safe house.”

  “Did your people see the girl leave before I got there?”

  “What girl?”

  “I thought so. Day late and a dollar short.”

  In the kitchen Lukavina poured each of them a glass of Perrier. “Uncle Sam doesn’t allow us to drink in the field anymore,” Lukavina said.

  “Anymore? I don’t recall that he ever did. But when did that stop you?”

  “The day a couple of prissy knuckleheads were assigned to my team who tell the boss everything that’s not proper.”

  “Cheers,” Dane said, “to the new generation of self-appointed do-gooders. May they join all the dead lawyers at the bottom of the ocean.”

  They sat at the kitchen table.

  “Now,” the CIA man said, “talk.”

  “You first. Tell me the score. Why is the Agency interested in Milani?”

  “Why are you?”

  “Okay, fine.” Dane sipped the Perrier. The bubbles burned going down his throat. It wasn’t his favorite drink. Always gave him hiccups. He gave the other man a rundown of his adventures in Mestre so far. The CIA man didn’t drink any water but instead made circles with the cup until Dane finished.

  “So you don’t know?” Lukavina said.

  “Know what?”

  “Milani has a backpack nuke. He wants to sell it to al-Qaeda.”

  “And I may botch the sting.”

  “Yup.”

  This was not what Dane had expected to learn. He kept his cool and drank some more Perrier. “You gonna drink yours?”

  “No,” Lukavina said. “This crap makes me hiccup. But I don’t understand how Milani expects to deal with the terrorists and Russo and not somehow get burned.”

  “Revenge knows no patience,” Dane said. “Plus, he doesn’t want payment for the girl’s return. He has no intention of returning her. He wants to kill her and make her father suffer. He’s going to strike while he has the chance. He may not get another one.”

  “But you said she was gone when you raided the house.”

  “Uh-huh. Looks like she escaped. Smart girl. But she’s on the run somewhere, and I need to find her.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Tell me more about this nuke. There is only one type that I can think of that matches your description,” Dane said. “The SADM.”

  “Correct.”

  The Special Atomic Demolition Munitions unit had been a product of the Cold War. Cylindrical in shape, with no exterior markings, it weighed only 50 pounds. The plan, on paper, for the deployment of such a weapon had been for a pair of special operatio
ns personnel to parachute behind the Iron Curtain and plant the bomb in specified locations of strategic importance. In the event of war, the SADMs would be set off. They were never deployed, but had remained in the US inventory for decades until the signing of a classified disarmament treaty that eliminated such weapons on both sides.

  “How did an old Mafia man get his hands on a SADM? They’ve all been dismantled by now. Did somebody make him one?”

  “No. He found one buried in the ground.”

  “Explain that to me. What happened to the teams that work specifically to make sure no loose nukes end up on the market?”

  The Agency had not only teams looking for wayward nuclear weapons, but other units that ran sting operations against potential purchasers. These agents would advertise their desire to sell a nuke and attract clients, and those clients would be busted and interrogated for more information. The sting units operated on the theory that if terrorists had no idea whether or not a nuke sale was a trap, they would stop trying to buy them.

  At least until a rogue country built them one.

  “In 1989 there was a special ops general named Wolski,” Lukavina said. “He had a stellar career and was able to finagle an assignment to special ops and was in charge of the SADM inventory. Huge anti-communist. Members of his family had fought the commies all the way back before World War I, and many of those family members were killed, either in battle or executed after. When the Berlin Wall fell and the Soviets gave up, he wasn’t happy. He wanted one final battle to wipe them off the face of the earth.

  “So what he did was get two of his best guys to parachute into Russia with a pair of SADMs. Somebody close to him turned him in, and we rounded up the three of them. We agreed to reduce the charge against him if he told us where the nukes were buried, but he only gave up one until we put the offer in writing. We found that one without trouble, but then Wolski and his men tried to escape and were killed. We never located the second nuke. Since they were set to detonate by remote control, we had plenty of time, but somebody else got there first.”