by P A Duncan
Terrell drank some Scotch and contemplated his next move. He had sources everywhere, but he was judicious with whom he shared information. “Rumor has it,” he said, “ATF has someone in Patriot City.”
“I’m aware.”
“It’s a chick.”
“I know that, too. Mai doesn’t.”
Terrell now studied the man he’d known for close to thirty years. Nelson had always been the man with the most hidden agendas. “What’s up with the sudden concern for Mai? The truth, this time.”
The yacht began a slow turn. Lunch was coming to a close.
“Did she tell you about Yugoslavia two years ago?” Nelson asked.
“Yeah. One day I hope to have the opportunity to crush Arkan’s head like a grape.”
“She’s never told anyone the full story of her time with Arkan. Oh, the strategic aspects she debriefed. The personal? Not a word.”
Terrell couldn’t help but smirk. “She told me. She moved on.”
“You’re not objective where she’s concerned. The shrink isn’t certain if she’s moved on.”
“Why have her out in the field?”
“Because the shrink isn’t certain, and I need an operative of her experience. So, I’m asking you to keep your dick out of it and give me a professional assessment.”
“No problem. If she spots me, what do I tell her?”
“The truth. I’m not intimidated by her fits of pique.”
“I’ll do what I can. We haven’t discussed payment.”
There came the charming smile. “Your payment is my undying gratitude and the cost of your plane ticket. By the way, when the time comes, I’ll head off what your employers have planned for the President.”
No problem, Terrell thought, I’ll have been paid by then. “Fair’s fair,” he said.
32
Tests
Patriot City
Alexei ran the water in the shower as hot as he could stand it and stood in the spray, flexing sore muscles in the therapeutic effect of the heat. He considered himself in good shape and worked to stay that way. Of course, having a wife fifteen years his junior was a good incentive. While in Patriot City, he’d pushed himself. Some of his trainees were less than half his age. His performance, and that of his trainees, had gained the respect of Radd. What Lewis and Elijah thought of him he didn’t know and didn’t care.
He turned and let the hot water beat on his sore back.
Almost six weeks without reporting in. Mai would likely not speak to him for a year when he returned, but Lewis controlled the means to communicate. All Alexei had was the patience imbued in him by the KGB, but every night around midnight he took a walk. Each night he came closer to the main house, with the computer in Lewis’ office. When challenged by the sentries, he cited insomnia and drew them into conversation, exchanging war stories, building trust.
He’d tried not to think of Mai. Missing his wife was a luxury he couldn’t afford here, as was missing his granddaughter. He’d missed her fourteenth birthday. Not the first time, but he’d wanted to do better for her than he had his own son.
Stop thinking, he told himself and cranked up the hot water on his back. The tension there eased.
The other thing controlled here were the women. The instructors each had a woman or two, as did Elijah, Alexei assumed. The women were off-limits to the trainees, unless one had performed exceptionally well. Alexei’s probationary status made him available to the unassigned women, and several had made their interest obvious. He’d gravitated to Charlene because she was a known entity, but the friendship he’d cultivated in the scant spare time was calculated. She had regular access to the main house, and he hoped to coax her into letting him inside.
When it came time for him to leave, she’d be a liability.
Muscles loose, he shut off the water and stepped from the shower. Radd had told him Lewis wanted to see him today, but that wasn’t for a while yet. He dried himself and redressed, taking his time and relaxing.
The daily regimen had become a routine: prayer and mess at 0500; weapons training; strategy and tactics classes; prayer and lunch; an afternoon sermon, which had a certain repetitiveness; a discussion session with Elijah; a paintball challenge; a five-mile run chanting cadence; the obstacle course; dinner and evening prayer; back to quarters for reading and study by 2000; lights out by 2100. The routine was probably why he hadn’t realized how many weeks had passed and his probation period had ended a couple of weeks ago.
However, he drew some satisfaction from meeting the physical challenges and the mild competition among the instructors. That reminded him of his early days in the Red Army, when he had a young wife and a baby and the automatic respect of a nation who saw him as its defender. Reality, in the form of Elijah’s sermons, would shatter that bubble, and he’d long for the shower in his bungalow to wash the scum from his body, if not his mind.
On one level he understood Lewis’ beliefs; he’d been bred to them. How had Elijah come to this? The confession about heroin use rang authentic, but what had brought him to extremism?
Alexei strapped on his watch and realized he’d wool-gathered too much. He didn’t want to be late for this meeting with Lewis. He’d learn if he’d passed his probation or not. He wasn’t worried about that, but if he’d failed his priority was to stay alive. That would be the opportunity he needed: kill Lewis and get whatever he could from the computer.
When he emerged from the bungalow, he saw a Wrangler with Charlene behind the wheel. He hesitated for a moment but climbed inside.
“Why, don’t you look handsome?” she said, her smile forced.
“Thank you.”
She put the Jeep in gear and headed for the main house. “Nervous?” she asked.
“A little. I like job. I want to stay.”
“You’ve done fine. Trust me.”
She gave him a broad smile, still a little too forced. Would she be the one assigned to kill him if he didn’t pass? He’d seen her and some of the women practicing on the firing range. No, Lewis wouldn’t trust a “mere woman” with the task.
In a few moments, Charlene parked in front of the main house. “Good luck,” she said, her eyes straight ahead.
Without responding, he left the Jeep and jogged up the front steps. Radd was there and opened the door for him. So, he’d do the killing.
“Go on in, mate,” Radd said. “He’s waiting for you. Relax. You got this made.”
Alexei murmured his thanks and went inside. He knocked on the door to Lewis’ office. Lewis called out for him to enter, and with a deep breath, he opened the door. Lewis was at the computer desk, typing, and Alexei wished he could look over his shoulder. Lewis’ German Shepherd, sprawled at his master’s feet, raised his head and almost bared his teeth. Lewis shushed him, and Alexei got a tail wag before the dog lowered his head and napped again.
“How are you this afternoon, Sergei?” Lewis asked, eyes on the monitor.
“I am fine, sir.”
“Do you know why you are here?”
“No, sir.”
Lewis stopped typing and looked up. “I know we said a month of probation, but I wanted a little extra time for you to prove yourself. You have more than proved yourself. You have an innate ability to command and induce loyalty. Your trainees have scored high, and the other instructors gave you high praise.”
“I do only what I know how to do.”
“You know it well. I offer you full employment under the terms we discussed earlier, if you remain interested.”
Alexei managed a convincing smile. “Da, da. I was hoping.”
“I knew you were. Welcome aboard, Sergei. You’ve made a commitment to the restoration of your adopted country. I hope you understand what this means.”
“I am learning this. I will do my best for you.”
“Of that I’m certain. In six months we will have another review and raise your salary appropriately. However, there is a small formality, a final test.” Lewis stood, and
the dog moved to follow him. Lewis commanded him to stay. “Come with me,” he said to Alexei.
Outside, the Wrangler sat where Charlene had parked it, but she was nowhere in sight. He and Lewis climbed inside the Wrangler, and Lewis steered it toward a rutted road Alexei had not been down before.
“Are you familiar with the FBI’s training base in Quantico, Virginia?” Lewis asked.
Alexei was, but Sergei Nevansky likely wasn’t. “No, sir.”
“Before the FBI issues an agent his gun and badge, he undergoes a practical test. It’s a simulator of sorts, various scenarios where the agents have to make quick decisions to kill or not to kill. They built what looks like an average American street, and the agents must complete a trip down that street, in and out of buildings, without killing the wrong subject. They use silhouettes and mannikins and laser guns.”
“Ah, yes. We had similar exercise in Spetsnaz. The bullets were real.”
“The difference is you were being trained to protect your country. The place I’m talking about is where FBI agents learn how to kill innocent women and children and Yahweh-fearing patriots.”
“I am sorry, sir. I didn’t know.”
“No need to apologize, son. It is what it is. We felt it appropriate to train our warriors the same way. The FBI calls its test Yellow Brick Road. We call ours the Path to Redemption.”
Years before Alexei had been one of many employees of various organizations to test-run Yellow Brick Road. He’d found it a challenge but had done well. Only two friendlies killed. The FBI had been appalled. Given its recent behavior, it seemed the FBI saved its remorse for its simulator silhouettes over real people. Careful, he told himself, you’re starting to think too much like these bastards.
“Only instructors we wish to keep in the fold take this test,” Lewis continued. “I want only the best to train Yahweh’s Army. The test has fifty challenges, thirty enemies and twenty allies. How much ammunition do you have with you?”
“Forty rounds. One magazine in gun, three extra.”
“Good. You have forty rounds to eliminate thirty targets. Each enemy target is wired to confirm a kill. If you hit one but do not kill it, there will be return fire until you do. All enemies must die, or you fail. If you kill an ally, you fail. Any questions so far?”
“Nyet.”
“There is no time constraint for completion, but if you take cover for more than thirty seconds, you’ll be driven out by gunfire. There will also be random gunfire. If you are wounded, it is not a failure, unless you are incapacitated.”
The Wrangler rounded a curve and stopped at the mouth of a street lined with the facades of shops, restaurants, and offices. Alexei stared down the length of the street—at least three city blocks long. The “street” and its collection of facades rested not only beneath thatching and camouflage netting but was also sheltered under towering oaks and pines. He suspected this place was invisible to aerial surveillance.
“When you get out, I will drive around to the other end of the street,” Lewis said. “That should take me no more than five minutes. You may not start until you see me, and you must start within thirty seconds after I stop my vehicle. The entire assembly in Patriot City will be watching in the meeting hall. I tell you not to add pressure but to assure you I am not your only proctor. Vy ponimayete?”
“I understand.”
“You may not draw your gun until the first challenge, but once drawn you may keep it out. This is your last chance to ask questions.”
He looked Lewis in the eye. “What happens if I fail?”
The old man didn’t blink. “You use your return ticket.”
A death sentence for failure, then. Understandable. He’d been here long enough he knew too much.
He could deliberately fail and save a bullet for this Nazi bastard’s head, but others watched.
“Focus,” Lewis said. “Relax as much as you can.” His hand came to rest on Alexei’s shoulder, fingers squeezing. “I know you can do this, syin.”
This man, this monster had called him son. He let that anger fuel him and exited the Wrangler. Lewis backed up and drove out of sight.
Alexei faced the street and looked up, closing his eyes against the mid-afternoon sun. He let the anger build, welcomed the rush of adrenaline, and let the man he’d once been emerge, the man nicknamed Ice because of his emotional detachment.
He wasn’t surprised how easy it was.
33
Ice
Breathe deep. Exhale to a count of thirty. Calm the tension. Regulate the adrenaline.
Assess.
Where will the first target come from?
Anywhere.
Fifty targets. Two hundred sixty-four yards. A target every two paces.
Memorize what you can see. Identify potential cover.
Breathe.
There, the Wrangler. The man inside. Your ultimate target. Focus on him, the Nazi bastard who killed your father.
Breathe.
Walk.
A sound from the right. Gun in hand. Crouch. Turn.
A woman holding a baby.
Don’t shoot.
Breathe.
A sound from the left.
A black man in full body armor, ATF on his vest.
Head shot.
Breathe.
“Kill confirmed.”
The disembodied voice almost disrupts your focus.
A shot. The breeze of its passage near your right ear. Move.
Two black men in jogging suits, gold chains, guns. One kill. One miss. Gunfire.
You flatten yourself on the sidewalk, a car for cover. The gunfire doesn’t cease.
Breathe.
A sting on your left cheek from a shard of concrete.
Up. On your knees. Shoot. Another kill.
“Two kills confirmed. Three total.”
How many bullets used?
Breathe.
No. Don’t count. Focus. Instinct will guide. Get up. Move.
Back and forth across the street. Evade fire. “Kill confirmed” over and over.
Be a machine. No emotion. No regret.
Assess.
Judge.
Kill.
Be precise.
Breathe.
Save a bullet for Lewis.
Sweat stings your eyes, the cut on your face.
Focus. Move.
FBI agent. Kill confirmed.
Rappers. Kills confirmed.
Feminists, Jews, homosexuals. Kills confirmed.
Eject magazine.
Reload.
Breathe.
Squeeze the trigger.
Again. Again. Again.
Adrenaline makes your hands shake. A miss.
A bullet rips through your right bicep. The blood pulses out in time with your heart beat.
Breathe.
No. Pant like a woman in labor.
Focus. Let the pain push you. Let it increase your anger.
How much time? How many targets left?
No. Do not count.
React from reflex.
Breathe.
There. The end of the street.
Do not relax.
Five FBI HRT agents. Incoming. Cover. Where? Parked car. Run. Bullets snap at your heels. Up, over the hood, down. Pain in your ankle.
Control your breathing. Your ankle might be broken. Focus.
Steady your aim on the car’s hood. Bonnet. She would say bonnet because she’s English.
No. Focus.
Breathe.
From behind the car you limp and lay down cover fire.
A shout comes from you. A Cossack cry. You are a Steppe warrior. You are a Russian soldier.
You are a Soviet spy.
Your ankle gives out. On your knees in the middle of the street. Sweat in your eyes. Where is the next target?
Breathe.
“Five kills confirmed. Total thirty.”
Your breathing is ragged. The only sound.
You’ve finished
.
You’ve won.
Breathe.
34
Holy Cause
Sergei struggled to gain his feet, his breathing hard and harsh, sweat and blood running down his face.
Ah, but they were incredible soldiers, the Russians, Lewis thought. His superiors in the Waffen SS, even his beloved Führer thought them backwards and inept. Most Russians were racially inferior, of course, but even an animal will fight with the proper motivation.
He’d understood their tenacity at Stalingrad. They were defending their homeland. That was why none he captured could be left alive. In hindsight, perhaps not the best strategic move. For every ten he shot, twenty more came to fight.
Something in the murderous glare on Sergei’s face struck a chord, some old memory, but it wouldn’t come to mind.
Sergei ejected his magazine and counted his bullets. By Lewis’ estimation, he had two left, one in the magazine, one chambered. Sergei reloaded his gun and holstered it before he stood by the door to the Wrangler.
Lewis looked into Sergei’s eyes and saw hate. Good. Exactly what he’d wanted to see. “Get in,” Lewis said.
Sergei climbed in and sat, staring ahead. His nostrils flared as he breathed through his nose, his eyes far away. Mein Gott, Lewis thought, he is a magnificent specimen. Lewis handed him a bottle of cold water. Sergei drank greedily and poured the remainder over his head.
“How bad are you injured?” Lewis asked.
“Flesh wound.”
“Healer will attend to you, but there is first a ritual. Your blood will sanctify it.” And I have created another warrior for my cause, Lewis thought, his eyes filling with moisture. Lewis drove, his emotions threatening to overcome him. “Sergei, you are the son I never had. You will redeem me.”
His voice hoarse from adrenaline, Sergei said, “Elijah is your son.”
“A father can have many sons and pride in them all.” After he stopped the Wrangler at the doors to the meeting hall, Lewis hobbled around to the passenger door and opened it for Sergei. “Come inside, my son, and join our holy cause.”
