by Seeley James
“Get out! Get out! Get out!”
They filed out, hunched over, heads down.
She slammed the door. “Leave me alone.”
CHAPTER 40
Ms. Sabel’s voice rang in my head like the reverberations from a grenade in a small room. The door nearly smacked my heel as it banged against the jamb. I grabbed the wheelchair’s handles and pushed the Major behind Miguel.
We trod in silence to the Major’s room. I pushed her inside. She crawled from the chair to the bed and lay face-down on the pillow. She began to sob.
Few people had known about her decade-long affair with Alan Sabel. Fewer still knew of her many refusals to marry him. She’d once told me she had no intention of having ultra-rich women talk about her behind her back in the social circles of the elite. I couldn’t argue with her. Race, age, and socioeconomic contrasts were fertile talking points for gossips. Especially for the insecure second and third wives in that circle.
She was in as much pain as any bereaved widow. More so because she could’ve taken out Strangelove in the beginning. A decision she’ll turn over in her mind for the rest of her life.
Just as I would regret not shooting the shaky kid who’d killed Alan Sabel.
I withdrew quietly and closed the door.
Miguel followed me to my stateroom. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared out of the portal.
He leaned against the wall and gazed at the floor. “We’ve lost a lot of good friends over the years. Why does this one feel worse?”
I shook my head at his rhetorical question. He knew. I knew. Soldiers sign up to die. It’s our gamble: come home a hero or a ghost. Alan Sabel never signed up. He was an executive. He told people what to do, and they did it. He told Strangelove to let his daughter go. He expected that would be it. What an idiot. Why didn’t he see the danger? Why did he burst in? I told him to stay out. Dumbshit.
I should’ve shot the nervous kid. Alan Sabel was my responsibility. My boss. It was my job to protect him. That kid was the weakest link in the room—and I knew it. Now Alan’s dead. My failure to act deprived Ms. Sabel of the only parent she had left. She’ll never forgive me. She shouldn’t. I don’t deserve it.
Where was my god in all this? What good is it to know when Dhanpal will arrive? What I need from a god is practical intel: when to put the nervous kid down.
I looked around the room. No gods in sight.
Figures.
Outside, gray waves sloshed under gray clouds. None of the usual dawn-colors were present. The horizon was invisible to my untrained eye. I thought about Ms. Sabel alone, bereft, and desolate. A great way to destroy a human being is to cast her adrift in a cold and lonely world. Nothing can make up for even one lost family member. Losing them all was too much to contemplate.
Miguel pulled his phone out and dialed. Without looking at me, he turned and headed for the door. As he stepped into the hall, I heard his side of the conversation. “Dad? Did I wake you? Sorry, I forgot about all the time zones. I just wanted to say…”
Then he was gone.
The phone in my hand may as well have been a rock. Why couldn’t I call my mom? Because Ms. Sabel didn’t have a mom to call. Why should I have that luxury?
Not a single new thought crossed my mind. I lost track of time.
Emily came in and sat in the only chair. She sighed loudly.
Her presence made me realize what I should’ve done. I should’ve given Alan a pistol and a mission. That’s what Ms. Sabel did on Cyprus. Something to keep his mind occupied, so he didn’t have to wring his hands and invent bad ideas. I could’ve had him sit on Watson’s sleeping butt to make sure the traitor didn’t wake up early. I could’ve had him help Larsson with the recon. I could’ve put him in charge of the boats. Anything to keep him from dreaming up a rescue plan that would never work. To his untrained mind, his plan sounded like a grand and heroic adventure.
Damn it.
“I’m trying to get eyeballs on our story.” Emily sighed again. “The politicians are saying Pia’s gone crazy. My story has been drowned out.”
She put her elbow on her knee and plopped her chin on her palm. “Makes you think, you know?”
A few responses wandered into my mind, but I didn’t say anything. I glanced her way before turning back to the gray waves.
“Who matters to you. Who you care about. What’s important.” She sat back and sighed again. “The girl I dated in high school committed suicide. She came out to her parents, but they were fundamentalist somethings. She couldn’t live without their love. For the longest time, I didn’t think I could live without hers.”
A question crawled in my brain. I didn’t speak for two minutes, but I longed for a distraction. “High school? I thought you weren’t gay.”
“You were the only guy I ever dated. I was trying to …” She sighed. “I didn’t want to be gay. It’s not all pride parades and porn-sex, you know.”
She stared at the ceiling as if she were praying. Then she pulled her phone and dialed. As it rang, she gave me a glance and stood up to leave. When she stepped out, I heard another one-sided conversation. “Bianca, it’s me.” She started to cry. “Will you forgive me? I don’t know why I didn’t say yes…”
Then she too was gone.
The company attorney called me. I clicked on and found myself struggling to say hello.
“Jacob, you’ve got to own this.” He was breathing hard as if he’d been running. “I tried to talk to Pia, but she’s unable—well, understandably unable—to grasp the problem. The Major doesn’t answer her phone. I need you to step up and make everyone understand: NO ONE TALKS TO THE COPS UNTIL I GET THERE.”
His shout snapped my head back. “What? What cops?”
“Any cops. The FBI, Customs, Coast Guard, Maryland or Virginia. Don’t worry about Gdansk, I’ve got that covered. Wait, where do you guys land? Dulles Executive Terminal, right? Never mind. I’ll have a team of attorneys meet you. Yeah. So. Nobody says a word without consulting a lawyer first.”
I sat up straight. “Why?”
“You haven’t seen the news?” He waited a second. “No, of course not. You are the news. You guys are everywhere. The Russians are calling it an act of war. The UN is holding an emergency session. President Hunter has called on the Attorney General and the FBI to make arrests for breaking the laws of a foreign country. They’re talking about immediate extradition out of Gdansk. But don’t worry about that, I’m making arrangements.”
That’s what Emily had been talking about. I thought about this for a long time.
He broke the silence. “If you haven’t been watching the news, you haven’t heard about the election. Chuck Roche won. Hunter conceded half an hour ago.”
I made no reply.
The attorney, a stout guy who helped me beat some rush-to-judgment charges more than once, repeated my name several times. His voice came out of a cloud. “Jacob? Jacob?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m here. I’ll tell them.”
I clicked off.
When I was in high school, my father announced that our farm was not big enough to support two heirs. When he retired, only one child would get the farm. With his midwestern sense of fair play, he tossed a coin to determine who would inherit his estate. My sister and I watched the coin spinning as it rose. When it came down, I snatched it out of the air. She loved farming. I didn’t want to spend another hot summer day pulling weeds out of a combine. There was no need for fate to prevent her destiny from being fulfilled. My father was proud of me in that moment. I felt abandoned. We shoved our feelings into our back pockets and moved on with life. As avid pacifists, my family was shocked when I left Iowa State early in my sophomore year to join the Army. They never condemned my choice, but never embraced it either.
That wasn’t why I avoided going home year after year. They loved me, even though I had chosen a warrior’s life. It’s just that, after visiting Tokyo, London, Istanbul, returning to Donnellson, Iowa held little interest.
Why face the tired anecdotes, the perennial judgments, the endless familial rivalry? Mom’s questions feel like razor blades. Dad’s endless advice on how to marry Brianna Wagner so I can run her family farm. Uncle Marty’s small-town jokes never end. Cousin Daryl’s insecurities: “If I’d joined up with you I would’ve been a colonel by now.” That from a guy who still flinches when I look at him.
God how I miss them.
CHAPTER 41
Yuri stood on the Rue Sainte-Pierre in Montréal as evening sleet peppered him in early November. In his ears, Heather Nova sang the old Hungarian suicide song, Gloomy Sunday. He looked at his tracker app and looked back at the Hotel le Saint James. He gritted his teeth and waited under an awning. Luck got him across the border. Pure luck. Headlines scrolled across the bottom of every TV in every bar and restaurant from New York to Toronto. Every cop car that drove by put a lump in Yuri’s throat. All of North America searched for the hackers who brought down Flight 1028. It was no longer known as #HuntersFail; they were calling it a terrorist attack. Rumors flew about Russians orchestrating the disaster. The American president had stressed that there was no definitive intelligence. Pictures of Yuri and his men had yet to surface. It was only a matter of time.
Half an hour went by before the man who looked like Yuri trotted down the front steps in a black raincoat and whistled as he walked down the street. Yuri turned up his collar, crossed the street, and trotted up the steps into the hotel.
He strode to the front desk, doing his best to feign a good mood, and caught the clerk’s eye.
“Monsieur?” the clerk looked surprised to see him.
“I dropped my key in the storm drain,” Yuri smiled and pointed outside.
“Ah. Bien sûr.” The clerk grabbed a blank and ran a new key.
“Merci beaucoup.” Yuri tapped the key to his forehead and turned around. He walked back into the night and headed for the café next door.
He took a table by the window and ordered a salad for dinner. He’d lost his appetite but knew he would need his strength. The next few hours would be as physically demanding as the last had been mentally. The salad arrived, topped with grilled salmon. He thanked the waiter and picked up his fork.
His wrists extended from inside his sleeves, revealing the deep gouges left by Andrine. The most difficult ten minutes of his life was not strangling her but removing his DNA from under her dead fingernails. Why did she have to be a peace-loving socialist? Why did she have to champion the unwashed masses? Why did she care about people? Why not be a passive farm girl who would trust her man to have reasons for his actions?
He laid the fork down and pulled his sleeves over his wrists.
Pushed the earbuds back in. Chet Atkins’ Almost Blue fit his mood.
It was Strangelove’s fault. Why had he done anything for the fat slob? He’d been such a fool. All those years he’d convinced himself he had an important career—but it was meaningless. In a hotel room in New York City, everything he’d ever wanted died. Everything was gone. Every promotion, every assignment, every medal was rendered pointless in that small space of time. Why had he worked so hard? Because he wanted to be a big man? Who are the important men? What good does it do them? So they can snap their fingers and have other men jump to do their bidding? Is Vladimir Medevtin any better a man than Yuri Belenov?
Damn Strangelove to hell. And all those who empowered him. If it was the last thing he did, he would kill them all. All the oligarchs, right up to Medevtin. He would do it for Andrine. She would not be sacrificed in vain. He would bring her death back to haunt the souls of those who toyed with the lives of others. Those responsible would die—and anyone who stood in his way.
Roman called from São Paulo, interrupting his meditation. “Strangelove is dead.”
“Impossible.”
“Tass is reporting it. Sabel Security invaded the Tsentr. Sabel has declared war on Russia.”
Yuri took a bite of salmon and thought about it. An interesting development. How could they have snuck into Russia and taken down the king of assassins? Stearne proved one thing: Russia’s officials were vulnerable. And that meant Andrine’s death could be avenged.
“This Sabel operation is our enemy.” Roman was talking as Yuri ate. “We are lucky they lost their leader in the fight.”
Yuri nearly choked. “Who?”
“Alan Sabel, the founder. He was killed. One down and several more to go.”
Yuri paused in thought. Then it came to him. In a flash like a summer storm. Medevtin was no better than Belenov. Belenov had manipulated Jacob Stearne into killing Strangelove for him. Ordering people killed was certainly a presidential privilege. Therefore, he was almost as powerful as Medevtin. With good men behind him, Yuri Belenov could be just as powerful. And SHaRC was full of good men. There was no reason they couldn’t become powerful without a nation, just as Roman and Igor and the others always said.
Nationless was the twenty-first century Utopia. Nothing to tie you down. No old people to feed. No schools to build. No roads or armies. No place for your enemies to attack. Just a few smart men and a fast internet connection. He’d gone along with Roman and the others just to get out from under Strangelove. But now he understood what they were talking about. Genius. No more nations. No more bosses. No more living to please others. No more laws. No more helping those less fortunate. Fuck them all. Yuri would build SHaRC into a formidable force and reap the rewards.
They could bring the oligarchs to their knees.
He would do it for Andrine.
“You need a new perspective.” Yuri sipped his glass of wine. “Sabel Security is the enemy of Russia. But, we are no longer Russians. We are SHaRC.”
“Sabel hacked our logs and pinned #HuntersFail on us.” Roman mulled it over. “They will come after us.”
“I have negotiated with one of their men already. They are reasonable people. We can work with them.”
“If you say so.”
Yuri listened while Roman reported on his men and their travels. He was only mildly interested. Roman wanted to talk, and Yuri needed to eat. So, he listened. Igor had gone to South Africa. Someone else went to the Maldives. Another struggled with internet connections in Bali.
As Roman droned on, Yuri’s mind wandered to Andrine’s purple, swollen face pleading with him to stop.
He tossed his fork down again. He felt bile rising in the back of his throat.
Roman’s voice came through a fog. “Have you heard from him?”
“I’m sorry. Who?”
“Vasili. He’s the only one who’s not checked in.”
“My mind has been …” Yuri stopped himself from breaking down. He took a deep breath.
“Andrine. That was very hard for you, I know.” Roman hesitated. “It had to be done. For the banda. I mean, SHaRC.”
Yuri grunted an agreement.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Roman sounded unsure of himself. “Getting it out will make you feel better.”
“In time, perhaps. Not now.”
They listened to each other breathe, uncertain where the conversation should go next.
Finally, Roman broke the silence. “Will you miss your family?”
“My mother.” Yuri sighed and left a long pause. “You?”
“My brothers, my father, grandparents. All of them.”
“We will need to make enough money to bring them out of Russia.” Yuri felt little enthusiasm. “We will trade stocks on hacked information. We can make a decent living from those.”
“I did well in credit cards.”
“You can make a million on those,” Yuri said. “But when you hack merger contracts from a law firm and find out when Apple will buy Facebook, you can make billions.”
“You are right.” Roman’s voice rose with excitement. “We can build our own private equity firm and buy up whole companies.”
He heard Roman prattle his admiration for Yuri’s wisdom. How important was he, really? What good did it do? Could he re
ally bring down Viktor Popov? Money could buy them houses, ensure a little freedom. But #HuntersFail would always haunt them.
“You are still there, Yuri?” Roman’s voice cracked.
“Sorry.”
“You are still lost, my friend.” Roman waited, but Yuri found nothing to say. “It was painful, no doubt. But, there are plenty more beautiful women in the world.”
“There are not!” Yuri clicked off.
A few minutes later, the man who looked like Yuri skipped past the café window in the sleet, still whistling. Yuri threw too much cash on the table. He whisked through the hotel lobby and up the stairs, avoiding the elevators.
Opening the room with his new key, he surprised the occupant and hit him hard in the temple. The man crumpled.
Yuri pinned the man’s arms with his knees. He needed no new scars on his wrists.
As he strangled the man who looked like him, he explained the situation. “Don’t take it personally, Monsieur Babineau. You see, I need your passport and your identity. And I need to leave mine here with you. That way, the authorities will find the man who murdered my lovely Andrine. I know what you’re going to say, that you have things to do and people who love you. The problem is, Andrine and I were going to do many things—and I loved her. A man you’ve never heard of, who goes by the name Strangelove, made me do bad things and she found out. So. I had to kill her. She had her whole life in front of her, but now she’s dead. Just as you will be in a few minutes. All because of a man named Strangelove who lived far away and never met her. He never met you either, come to think of it. Do you want to know the ironic part? A friend of mine—no, not a friend. A new associate of mine killed Strangelove. The people responsible for your death have already been punished. Isn’t that an odd twist of fate? Don’t struggle, Monsieur Babineau, just relax and let go.”
Yuri pressed his thumbs in harder and squeezed his fingers into the carotid arteries on both sides of the neck. The man’s face turned purple, just as Andrine’s had not so long ago.
