by Eric Meyer
He couldn't shake his white-hot anger at Elena's betrayal. It was hard to believe someone he'd trusted so much, someone even he'd felt himself falling for, could deliver the stab in the back. Could send them knowingly to their deaths.
And for what? Some crappy little life in a Russian backwater town, no less! I remember Dragan promised her everything she wanted if she stayed loyal, the deeds to her property, money, everything.
Except Dragan wasn't around, not any more. They'd captured him, too; so maybe that was the deciding factor for her. Even so, she was definitely on his shit list, no question. As for Waite, if he got hold of her, he'd tear her apart. He wondered where Dragan was imprisoned, as he wasn't in this prison. He assumed it would be somewhere in Moscow. Then again, with his vast resources, the chances were he'd find a way to bribe himself out. Now the Putin file had been recovered, there was little reason to hold him, especially if he offered a million dollar bribe.
Raider wasn't afraid of dying, although he felt responsibility for his men and would have done anything to free them. What caused him to suffer most was the knowledge Abigail was still a hostage. Held in some secret place, terrified, not knowing if she would ever get home to her Mommy. All thanks to Malenkov, the bastard. He renewed his vow that if he ever got out of this place, he'd go after him and kill him. It was the very least he deserved. In the late afternoon, after so long without food or sleep, exhausted from continual shivering, he lapsed into a doze that was virtually a comatose state.
"What's that?"
He'd been in a nightmare, picturing his daughter held in conditions as terrible as those in the cell. As a result, he hadn't heard the sound of footsteps on the stone staircase, but he jerked awake.
"Someone's coming," Al murmured, "Could be they're bringing food."
"I could murder a hamburger and fries," Waite said. The tough, former SEAL didn't sound so optimistic. The cold and starvation had taken its toll.
They heard the rattle of a bolt, and the slot at the bottom of the door opened. A metal bucket appeared, with steam coming from the contents. A face appeared in the slot, as the jailer knelt down to stare at them.
"Eat your food, Americans. It'll be a long time before you get anything else. I'll be back in an hour, and you can pass out your shit bucket." He screwed up his nose, "It stinks in here, like an open sewer. I wouldn't want you to embarrass any visitors who call around."
He laughed uproariously and closed the slot. They looked down at the unappetizing mess in the bucket. It stank of stale cabbage and rancid fat.
"It's hot, and we need calories," he pointed out, staring down at the rank, congealing food.
"Yeah, I know," Joe muttered, "Wonderful, no spoons, we'll have to use our hands."
"Did you wash them first," Waite grinned. He'd already formed his hands into a scoop and taken out the first portion of the food. He pulled a face as he tasted the mess but managed to swallow. They took it in turns, and when it was gone, they did feel a little better.
"We have to get out of here before we die," Al said abruptly, "Those are the options. Escape or die."
They all nodded. "We won't last long in here, not like this," Joe pointed out, "How about we jump the guard. They have to open the door sometime. We could try the old illness trick. It may work, if they think one of us is dying."
"We don't have anything better to do," he agreed, "What do you reckon, food poisoning?"
"After that slop we just ate, it's pretty credible," Waite nodded, "Boss, you're the best actor we have. You can do it."
"Okay, we'll work this through. The second that door opens, we have to jump him."
"We need blood," Joe said, "If you're bleeding internally, it'll look better."
They looked for a cutting blade, but there was nothing. Raider had to chew into the flesh of his forearm. It worked; his mouth dripped so much blood he looked like a cross between a vampire and a terminal gutshot victim. He lay on the floor and waited for the guard. The other three men sat on the floor, trying to look unthreatening. There was nothing more to do. Not until they opened the door.
One hour stretched into two, and then three. Four hours elapsed before they heard footsteps on the stairs. They estimated it must be almost midnight. Raider went into his act, rolling on the floor, clutching his belly, groaning in simulated agony.
"Hey," Waite shouted, his voice laced with concern, "We need help. That food you gave us must have been bad. He needs a doctor."
The hatch opened, and a face looked inside. He looked at Raider, and then chuckled.
"Him! He's already under sentence of death. Let him die. Now or later, what difference does it make? Give me the bucket. I need to get rid of this stink. By the way, you have a visitor. They'll be here in a few minutes."
"Who is this visitor?" Waite asked.
The guard didn't answer. He took the buckets, and the hatch clanged shut. Raider prayed it would be Malenkov. He'd rip his heart out. He stayed on the floor, blood oozing from his mouth, keeping up the charade. Already, he could feel his hands around the Malenkov's throat.
The lock rattled again, and the hatch opened. A man was staring at him, huge, well muscled, the thuggish expression showing arrogant satisfaction. Malenkov.
"What's wrong with him?"
"Food poisoning," Joe replied promptly, "The meal you gave us stank. It must have been crawling with bacteria. We're lucky he's the only one to have shown the symptoms, so far. He needs a doctor."
"No." One word, and it dashed all their hopes, "He can die in here. It makes little difference. Sit him up. I want him to look at me through the hatch."
They dragged him to the wall opposite the door and put him in a sitting position. He knew he looked like a corpse in his last few minutes of life.
"So, Mr. Raider, you will soon pay the price for the crimes you committed against the Russian Federation. I told you, you should never have come here."
"I had no choice," he spat back through the blood and phlegm that filled his mouth, "You took my daughter."
He smiled. "So I did. There is a chance she may make it back to America. My people are negotiating a ransom with her mother. As you know, she's from a wealthy family, the Vanns. Ten million dollars will come in useful when I retire from my current employment." He chuckled, but there was no enjoyment in the throaty rasp that came from his mouth.
At least she'll get home safe, provided Malenkov doesn't stage a double cross. He’s more than capable of it. What if Abigail has seen the faces of her kidnappers? Malenkov would never let her go, not for anything. Christ, I hope that hasn't happened.
"What do you want from me, Malenkov?"
"I came to deliver a message. Your wait will be short. The sentence is to be carried out at 09.00 tomorrow. My friend Viktor, the man guarding your cell, has offered to do the job. A single bullet in the back of the head, and it's all over. We won't meet again; so enjoy the hours you have left, although by the look of you, that's not very likely. I wonder what'll take you first, food poisoning or the bullet."
His laughter was loud and uproarious. "By the way, there is another visitor to see you. I promised them a last look at you before you die. They're on their way up now. Enjoy the execution."
The hatch clanged shut, and they waited. The plan had failed. He worked out it had to be Elena, come to gloat one last time. She must be laughing like crazy, promising them everything, and all the time selling out to the highest bidder, Yuri Malenkov. From her point of view, it was a good plan. Whoever brought in the Putin file, she'd come out smelling of roses. Not bad for a vet from Vyborg. The hatch clanged open again.
"Hello, Raider."
She was as beautiful as ever. Paler than before, but still, so were most women this close to the Arctic Circle.
"Fuck off, Elena."
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
"The man said to fuck off," Waite spat at her, "Haven't you done enough?"
She looked back at him. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know this would happen."
"No?" he snarled, "You're a piece of work, lady. You put us here. Now why don't you leave us alone and go enjoy your thirty pieces of silver."
She nodded. "I will, but not yet." She withdrew her head and looked along the passage outside the cell.
"The guard, he's waiting at the end of the corridor."
"Yeah, so what?"
"The gun you gave me, the PSS. It is silent, yes?"
"Yeah, sure it is. Why?"
"Because they never took it from me. I had it hidden inside my blouse."
"You have a gun for us?"
"Yes. Make sure you are ready. When I leave here, I'll shoot the guard and take his keys to open the door."
There was silence for a few moments. Al said quietly, "Lady, we'll be ready. We ain't got anything else to do."
She nodded and disappeared. They waited.
"It could be a ploy by Malenkov," Joe warned, "You know the way the Russians like to torture people by playing games. Give 'em hope, then take it away."
No one replied. A tiny thread of hope in this stinking, rat-infested dungeon was something to be treasured, not to be dismissed out of hand. They heard voices. She was talking to the guard. It sounded like she was asking him a question.
She's not going to do it. Joe's right. It's a sadistic trick.
There was a raised voice, like a protest from the guard. Then, 'phut, phut.' Two shots fired from a silenced Russian PSS pistol. The lock on the cell door rattled as the key was inserted, and then she was standing there. She wore Russian winter clothing, a long wool skirt, high leather boots, sheepskin coat, and fur hat. She also was the best thing they'd seen in a long time, the beautiful, if treacherous, Dr. Elena Filatov.
She gestured with the still smoking gun. "Quick, I don't think they heard anything, but we need to move fast." She stared at Raider. "Are you too ill to walk?"
He climbed to his feet. "No. But I want some answers." He wiped the blood from his face and held out a hand, "I'll take the pistol."
She shrugged and handed it over. "I told you, I'm sorry. You must understand. I had no choice. I called home to check my assistant was handling everything okay, and someone else answered. They were FSB, the security police, and they put the call through to Malenkov. He said they were about to torch my house, the office, and everything inside it. The animals, all of my possessions, and even..." she choked off a sob. "Even Olga and your friend, her patient. They said they'd burn them alive. What could I do?"
"We'll talk about it later," he cut her off, "How many guards did you see outside?"
She thought for a few moments. "There was the man I killed."
"Yeah, I meant live ones."
"Oh. There's Malenkov, but he will have left by now."
"He's gone?" At that moment, they heard the whine of powerful turboshaft engines, a helicopter landing on the roof of the prison.
"That would be the helicopter he called to take him back to Moscow."
"Shit."
He'd have run up to the roof to take a shot at him, but with just a tiny pistol, he put it out of his mind. They needed weapons, much heavier weapons, and heavy enough to take on the Russian Presidential bodyguard.
"Did the guard you killed have a rifle?"
"I think so."
Without replying, he gave the pistol to Waite, raced out into the corridor, and reached the body where it lay in a pool of blood on the stone floor. She'd shot the man twice, both shots in the head. The guy wouldn't have had time to shout a warning before he fell. His rifle was next to the body, a Russian AK-74, the Kalashnikov derivative, almost identical to the AK-47. Firing a smaller 5.45mm round from the familiar, banana shaped magazine, it wouldn't bring down a helo. Nevertheless, it could disable the pilot, and kill Malenkov, if he could reach them in time. It meant he had a chance. He swept up the weapon and raced for the stairs.
It was a long climb to the roof, five flights of rough, uneven stone steps. Normally, he'd have taken them on the run. In his weakened state, he had to pace himself if he wasn't to collapse with exhaustion before he reached the top. He made it, but too late. As he tumbled out onto the flat roof, the helo was already airborne. It climbed away, heading in the direction Moscow. He aimed the rifle at the Russian built Kazan Ansat-2RC, and then lowered it. The craft was moving too fast for him to have a hope of bringing it down. Besides, it would only serve to warn his prey.
Malenkov, I'll find you, and I'll kill you.
He breathed in the clean, pure air of St. Petersburg and cast his gaze around the area. It was impressive, the city which was the second biggest in Russia. The outlines of the taller buildings were silhouetted against the night sky. Saint Isaac's Cathedral, the Peter and Paul Fortress on Zayachy Island, the Alexander Column in Place Square, and the magnificent Winter Palace.
"It looks different from outside," Waite commented, walking out to join him, "Smells different, too."
"Everything looks different outside that cell. The bastard got away."
"I know. We have to get out of here, Boss. The girl reckons there are no more than six soldiers on duty. I guess that'd be five after she killed that guy outside the cell." He looked at the rifle, "Now we have a handgun and a rifle. We're armed, but it's not much. We'll need to surprise them."
"Yeah, we'll give those sadists a fucking surprise," he grinned.
"What about the girl? She came and helped us, but we still can't trust her."
"When Malenkov finds out what she's done, he'll find her and kill her. She has to stay with us. It's her only chance to live. We have to get out of here. We'll grab the others and move out."
They were waiting outside the cell, Elena sitting on the floor, hugging her knees. When she looked up, her eyes were red-rimmed. "I killed a man in cold blood."
"He threatened us all. He was also going to shoot me at 09.00. That's..." He looked automatically for his wristwatch, but of course, the Russians had taken it. She saw his glance.
"It's 03.30."
"Right. They scheduled the execution for five and a half hours from now, so I wouldn't shed any tears for him."
She nodded, not accepting his words of consolation.
"Time to leave. Waite, take the point. Remember, if we have to use the AK, it's all over for us. Do you know how many rounds you have left?"
"I checked, four. I looked at the guard, but he doesn't have any spare mags."
"Okay. I'll follow up with Elena. Al, you and Joe bring up the rear. Each guard we take down gives us another weapon."
"Do we have to kill these men?" she asked him in a low voice.
Waite grimaced at her naivety. "We can leave them alive, and they'll come at us from behind as soon as we leave. They'll also call for help, and we'll be trapped when their friends arrive. Any other questions?"
His voice was harsh. Although she'd come back, probably as some form of redemption, he hadn't forgiven her. Never would. Waite Sullivan came from a Southern family with an impeccable track record of always seeing a vendetta through to the bitter end. They wore chips on their shoulders as badges of honor, the way other men wore campaign medals.
They approached the front entrance and were nearing the guardroom when the door opened. Light flooded out, and a barrage of sound assaulted their ears, Russian rock music. The guards had been relaxing, listening to the radio, which meant they suspected nothing. One man came out into the passage, probably to relieve himself. He carried his rifle slung under his arm, a carbine length AKMS with the stock folded. They were in darkness, and he hadn't seen them as he turned to call something back to his companions inside. They had only seconds before they were up against five armed men, and all they had was a single assault rifle and a tiny pistol. Before he could react, Elena took over.
She skipped past Waite and embraced the soldier in her arms. Her mouth found his lips, and she maneuvered him around so his back was toward them. Raider crept forward, keeping his footsteps silent, but at the last second, his boot scraped on a piece of loose stone. The man turned
, saw the escaping prisoners coming toward him, and freed himself to jerk up the assault rifle. Raider saw the barrel pointed right at his belly, and he twisted aside to avoid the burst of lead about to spit out of the barrel.
He saw death, looked it in the face, but Elena's redemption was not complete. In a fraction of a second, she spun her body so it was between the muzzle of the gun and its target.
The man pulled the trigger, a long burst that shattered the stillness of the jail. He watched helplessly as the savage gunfire tore the girl almost in half. Waite was quick. He leapt forward, put the barrel of his PSS to the man's head, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet entered his brain and he died, but they no longer had the advantage of surprise. The men inside the guardroom were already shouting the alarm. They heard the metallic clack of rifle bolts cocking as the Russians readied their weapons.
He had to ignore the girl's death and concentrate on keeping them alive.
"Al, grab that man's rifle, and follow me. I'm going in there shooting before they recover."
"Copy that."
"I'm with you," Waite acknowledged.
"Joe, watch the corridor in case they've called for reinforcements."
"Roger that."
At that moment, the alarm siren began to wail. Their time had run out.
"Let's do it."
He charged through the door, knowing Al would be right behind, and dived to the right. They'd done it too many times before to need reminders. As he flung himself to the left side of the guardroom, he almost smiled as Al and Waite came in shooting.
The four guards were in shock. They'd started to recover, and two had their rifles readied to shoot. The other two were a second or two behind, but their eyes were wide with terror and confusion. The first shots hit the door; the Russians' brains would have told them that was where the threat would come from.
He shot a man who was lining up the barrel of his rifle to take the next shot. The Russian hesitated too long, lining up for a headshot. A fatal mistake.
You should have gone for the body shot, sucker.
