by Seeley James
“You did the right thing,” I said softly. “You got the bad guy.”
“Three more to go.”
“Whoa.” I faced her. “You can’t kill the US President or the President-Elect. We are not—”
“No, I intend to destroy them.”
The word destroy has different meanings depending on your life experience. For a soldier, destroy means to kill someone, pulverize the body, set the remnants on fire, and piss on the ashes. I was hoping a billionaire soccer star might have a kinder, gentler interpretation. “Um. Yeah. Do I want to know what you mean?”
“The worst thing you can do to a rich man is make him poor.” She started walking away. “The worst thing you can do to a powerful man is make him powerless.”
I caught up. Miguel pushed Stalingrad and followed a few paces behind us. Dhanpal and Tania commandeered the golf cart to carry Kasey’s box and brought up the rear.
“Did you say three?” I asked her.
“Roche paid for the operation, Hunter found the assassins.” She walked a few yards in silence. “Someone pulled the trigger.”
“Who?”
“The pruner. Kasey Earl’s files should hold the answer.”
Mercury kept pace on my other side. And that person was most likely not a president, dawg. Meaning, she’s going to kill him. You gotta keep her from going off the deep end.
I said, You’re the one always telling me to kill the bad guys.
Mercury said, That’s you, though. You’re just a grunt. Someone fries you on the electric chair, we can find another grunt. But she’s different. She’s royalty. Now, how would it look if a Caesar got the needle for murder? After Augustus died of natural causes, we went through seven assassinated emperors before Vespasian finally went out from old age. We can’t be wasting that much time, dawg. We need stability in the Caesars. It’s good for commerce. You gotta do something.
I glanced over at her. “Just tell me who the third man is, and he’s dead.”
She met my gaze with a short smile. “Sometimes a woman takes care of her own problems.”
She had an odd look in her eyes. A chill zipped down my spine.
“How did you end up here, on Attu Island?” she asked. “Did a messenger reach you?”
“Something like that.” My mind raced through new subjects. Telling her Mercury was worried about her mental health was not where I wanted the conversation to go. “It was damn cold in those old foxholes.”
“Do you have a plan for his temple?”
“Hiding in the dirt for hours left me pretty hungry. Is there food on the jet?”
“There are two famous temples to Mercury from ancient times. There’s one in Rome that looks like the Parthenon. The other is outside Naples and has a dome. I like the dome idea. What do—”
Gunfire erupted on the runway ahead of us.
Ms. Sabel’s jet sat on one end, the Russian transport on the other with over a mile of pavement between them. There were three Sabel agents and three Russians, plus two pilots from each plane. From the scope on my SVLK, it appeared both groups had left the airplanes and ventured a quarter of the mile-long runway toward each other. Neither group had rifles. Pistols with their short barrels aren’t terribly accurate to begin with and, with a good distance remaining between them, hitting anything would be an accident. But flying bullets can be lethal, accident or not.
Mercury said, I don’t want anything that looks like the Parthenon, you hearing me, homes? Domes are Roman, whereas rectangles—even updated Corinthian columns instead of that lazy-ass Doric crap—are just so 5th Century BCE.
I said, We can talk about that later. What’s going down out there?
Mercury said, They have field glasses, bro. They saw Pia-Caesar-Sabel execute Popov. They’re not happy about that cause they’re supposed to bring their guy home. They want retribution.
We were roughly half a mile from the standoff, forming an equilateral triangle between us. My sniper rifle would have tipped the balance of power except that we were downhill from the others. A good sniper needs a prone or kneeling position to steady the heavy instrument. I gave it a try standing up without a shooting stick or bipod. Fail. The extra-long barrel swirled around too much.
Ms. Sabel grabbed my arm. “There’s no reason to kill innocent soldiers. Let’s come up with a plan that gets everyone home.”
We faced each other. I shrugged. She crossed her arms and gave me her “try harder” look.
Which made me turn to god for an answer. Considering he recently encouraged me to shoot a police detective due to a millennia-old vendetta against the guy’s ancestors, I had to be careful about asking him for help.
I said, You said you didn’t want her going off the deep end on the sanity thing. Well, here she is, looking for a way out of a deadly confrontation. What can we do?
Mercury looked disappointed. You already know the answer, my brutha. You figured out how to motivate the Russians in Barcelona, you can do it here too.
I stared at him for a long time before it dawned on me.
I explained my idea to Stalingrad with Miguel translating into French for me. Stalingrad stood stone-faced for a long time. Then he said something in French.
Miguel said, “He brought something for you.”
Stalingrad reached into his big overcoat and pulled out a large metal object. He held it out as an offering to me: the statue of Mercury.
Miguel said, “He was going to beat you to death with it because you made him look bad, but now that you’ve redeemed yourself, he’s offering it as a gift.”
I took it and handed him the book full of microdots detailing Popov’s disloyalty to the Russian oligarchy. I checked his pistol to make sure it was empty and gave it back to him. Stalingrad and I took the golf cart, waving a white flag. His people were wary—even the pilots aimed at us. We stopped thirty yards short and shouted out. One of them approached, his muzzle aimed straight at my head.
Stalingrad got out, waved the book around, and walked back while his man held me at gunpoint. I’d let him take credit for killing Popov. With the evidence of Popov’s crimes against the Federation, he could convince them they would all go home heroes. If they didn’t buy it, his men might kill him on the tarmac. His problem.
Judging by the tone of voice, they were a skeptical group. It sounded like they were drawing lots for killing me. Uncertainty reigned until they started to warm to Stalingrad’s idea. Eventually, he appeased his countrymen. Then we were all friends.
Stalingrad said something to me. One of his soldiers translated for him. “He says you are honorable soldier. Next time he has chance to kill you, he only wounds you out of respect.”
Working with professionals is a welcome relief in the age of terrorists. We shook hands. He turned it into a Russian bear hug but thankfully skipped the kisses on both cheeks.
They regrouped, loaded up the golf cart, boarded their plane, and took off.
I made the long walk to Sabel One at the far end of the runway.
Halfway back, I heard another turboprop in the sky. It had a similar but different timbre from the Russian Antonov. I looked to the gray mists above and saw small specks floating in the air. At first, there were five or six, but more and more appeared. I counted fifteen before they became clear enough to identify: paratroopers.
Between them, one item fell faster than the men. I sighted it with the scope as it fell to earth. An American flag, weighted on the bottom, it had a small drogue chute at the top to keep it unfurled and identifiable at a distance. They were announcing themselves: US Army.
One by one, they landed like pros and took up tactical positions around Ms. Sabel’s jet. I checked them over and recognized their lieutenant. He had been my last commanding officer before the Rangers turned me out. We’d been good friends and parted on good terms. We exchanged muted recognition in our steely gazes. This was business for him. No special considerations would be given.
I kept walking and joined Ms. Sabel and the other
s being held at gunpoint at the pointy end of the jet. Reluctantly, I surrendered my hard-won sniper rifle.
The C-130 they’d jumped from spiraled down from the skies and landed. It stopped nose-in to our position, blades spinning like a rotary guillotine. Then it turned around as if it were mooning us and lowered the ramp.
David Watson strode out.
CHAPTER 68
Yuri got up and staggered to the bathroom with only one eye functional, and that was blurry. He fell back in bed and marveled at the silk sheets before drifting off again. Some hours later, after a dream involving Andrine, alive and well and naked, he sensed someone in the room with him. He saw two silhouettes in suits discussing him in the third person, but he was out again before he could ask them anything.
A cool, wet washcloth slid across his forehead. He sat upright and grabbed the wrist that held it. A well-dressed man, attached to the hand, stared back. Yuri blinked and blinked again.
Brad.
“Ah, there you are Mr. Belenov.” Brad wrenched his arm away. “Enough laziness. Time to get up. The tailor is here, and we mustn’t keep him waiting.”
Yuri looked across the expanse of perfect bedding to find a diminutive man with a tape measure around his neck, holding a rolling rack of men’s suits.
“Who do you work for?” He looked back at Brad and his washcloth. “Where am I?”
“You are safe, Mr. Belenov. I assure you.” Brad rose and backed up. “You’re also behind schedule. First the suit, then the barber, then the final alterations. We have to get moving.”
Yuri’s strength was coming back but was still depleted beyond resistance. He crossed to the window. They were on a cliff, high above an ocean. The coast was rocky. Waves pounded solid black cliffs directly below him. Spray shot high into the air. He had no energy. He could barely stand. He had no choice.
“OK,” Yuri said, “I’ll go along.”
The tailor held up different suits to Yuri’s frame and picked a dark blue, slim-fit Zegna. Yuri slipped it on and fell in love with the feel. The tailor scurried around, marking this, tugging that, smoothing the back, and making more marks. Then he pulled the suit off Yuri and left.
For the first time, Yuri took a look around the room and realized he was in a first-class suite in a nice hotel. Brad watched him with part respect and part wariness, like a fighter squaring off in the ring.
Bottled water waited on the wet bar. Yuri grabbed one and chugged most of it. Then he turned to Brad. “I’m hungry.”
“Too bad.” Brad tossed him an apple from the bowl on the coffee table.
Yuri looked it over suspiciously before taking a big bite. Cool and sweet.
“Talk to me.” Yuri dropped to the couch and put his feet on the table. “What is going on and where am I?”
“If I knew, I couldn’t tell you. I’m a special ops guy on a mission. My employer paid me a lot of money to bring you here. It’s a private island in the Azores. You’re supposed to get a suit, manicure, hair, and shoes. Then you get delivered to cocktails at 1900. End of mission.”
On cue, a knock at the door took Brad away. Yuri dug through his old clothes while Brad was occupied. He found his switchblade and hid it in the sheets. He bounced back to the couch and finished the apple.
A woman came in and gave him a manicure and pedicure. She was followed by a barber who gave him a great cut, trimmed his stubble to a three-day length, and shaved his neck. The tailor came back with the suit, which fit like a glove. He produced shiny shoes and the fanciful socks celebrities wore. When Yuri looked in the mirror, he saw someone who could easily be mistaken for an important man. He smiled at his reflection. When Brad turned away, he palmed the switchblade and stuffed it in his pocket.
His handler led him down an elevator, then to a banquet hall where he opened a large door, ushered Yuri inside, and announced his name loudly. “Presenting Major Yuri Belenov, President of SHaRC.”
With that, Brad turned on his heel and exited, closing the door behind him.
A few stately women stood among the hundred or so men. Many of them turned slightly to acknowledge the newcomer with a minimal nod before returning to their conversations. They came from all over the world. Though predominantly white, most races and creeds were represented. They were immensely rich judging by their clothes, accessories, and attitudes. From their stiff conversations, he also surmised none of them were friends.
No one approached him. He continued observing the assembled crowd. After a few seconds, he began to recognize many of them. Two were wealthy Russians who had bought major soccer teams on a whim. Others were famous dictators or autocrats. He spotted an Arab prince who had just ascended the throne. A Swedish billionaire running for prime minister. A Chinese businessman who had just paid the highest price ever for a piece of art. More faces came to him as he completed his observations.
A hand squeezed his elbow. “Yuri, there you are.”
He turned to find Chuck Roche, leaning on his silver-handled cane. “Mr. President-Elect, good evening.”
“You must have a million questions, my boy. Walk with me.”
They promenaded through the crowd, Roche nodding and speaking to the others who paid him no more than slight attention. They twisted their way to the balcony. When they exited the loud interior, Roche closed the door behind them. He pulled two cigars from his breast pocket and offered one up.
Yuri waved it off, wary of any offerings.
Roche lit his and puffed a few times. “You have to be the quickest thinker I’ve ever heard of. My people are quite good. They tell me you gave them the slip six times. Of course, they would’ve had you in Brazil if Popov hadn’t meddled—against my wishes.”
It could be a trick. It could be the truth. If there was one thing Roche was famous for, it was lying. Yuri didn’t react.
“You’re understandably cautious.” Roche waved his cigar at the crowd inside. “Relax. Welcome to Regents United for the Legacy Eternal. RULE for short. It was originally named something in French. It sounded better. But our forefathers had to dump Napoleon after Waterloo, the anti-French contingent converted it to English. You’ve heard of our public facing think tank, Global Economic Development Institute?”
“Yes,” Yuri said. “Are you a GEDI knight?”
Roche shook his cigar at him. “Don’t get cute.”
Yuri looked over Roche’s shoulder at the people inside. Vultures.
Roche puffed his cigar.
“For centuries, this group worked through governments.” Roche turned to the sea. “We’ve had puppets, we’ve had partners, kings, queens, princes, generals; we’ve had all kinds of arrangements. Then Teddy Roosevelt came along—quite by accident—and took democracy seriously. RULE shored things up with Harding and Coolidge, but the Depression swung the pendulum back to democracy. Took us another fifty years to get things back under control. It’s been a long, expensive trip.”
“My, how you’ve suffered.” Yuri parked his butt on the balustrade and crossed his arms.
“That smart mouth won’t get you very far.” Roche puffed and blew out a big blue cloud.
Yuri wondered if they were going to kill him. Perhaps all the nice clothes and fair treatment was part of a killing sport devised by the rich to amuse themselves. But they wouldn’t have bothered with a new suit and a manicure if that was the end game. They wanted something. He had a thousand questions about what RULE wanted, but he heeded his mother’s proverb: a fly will not get into a closed mouth.
“Do you know Yeschenko?” Roche asked.
“What I’ve read in Pravda.”
“He’s a good man with a sharp eye. He called a special session of the board just to tell them that you’d formed Stateless Hackers … whatever it is. Strangelove was going to kill you, he said.”
Roche waited for Yuri’s reaction like a vulture observing a mouse for signs of life.
After a second, Yuri responded. “Stateless Hacktivist and Resistance Collective, SHaRC.”
“Awful name. A good consultant would’ve spared you the embarrassment.”
“Says the man who belongs to RULE.”
“Touché.” Roche glared at him. “But don’t get cocky. No matter what you call us, we own a quarter of the world.”
Roche returned to his cigar and blew a cloud out over the abyss. “Your methods have proven valuable. We need good men like you and your SHaRCs.”
Roche rested his forearms on the marble rail and watched the waves slam into the rocks.
After a minute of silence, Yuri sighed sarcastically. “The suspense is killing me.”
Angry eyes swept back to him. Roche snarled and poked at him with his cigar. “My men could’ve killed you in that stinking hotel room. Is that the life you want to lead? Looking over your shoulder for Roche Security all the time? Hell, boy, I could snap my fingers and have you tossed over this railing.”
A hot flash of rage overwhelmed him. He grabbed the President-Elect by the throat and pushed the old man over the marble until most of his weight tipped over the balancing point. He pulled the switchblade and snicked it open and held it to Roche’s face. The miserable old man’s life was literally in his hands.
The President-Elect’s eyes went wild with fear.
Yuri said, “Never threaten a man who has nothing to lose.”
He heard the clicks and rattles of weapons drawn. He could sense the Secret Service rifles pointed at him from a hundred yards away. He pushed Roche’s weight farther over the edge. If anything happened to Yuri, Roche would die, and someone would have a whole lot of explaining to do.
“Drop him.” Behind him, a calm voice spoke in Russian. “You’d be doing the world a favor.”
Yuri considered his options but didn’t want to test them. Not yet. He pulled Roche back from the brink, set him on his feet, and smacked the cane hard across his chest.
Roche grabbed the cane, glared at the newcomer, then at Yuri.
“Beat it,” Yuri’s benefactor said in English.
“You’ll regret this,” Roche hissed, his eyes sliding left and right. He hobbled away, trying to suppress his gasps.
