The Hunt

by Jack Arbor

She stepped away. “Leave it alone, Max. These guys are going to drive you back up to Dubāsari and take you over the border into Moldova. They might have to rough you up some to make it look good. From there you can grab a cab up to Chisinau. Don’t come back here, Mikhail. There’s nothing here for you, and the people we answer to won’t take kindly to your return.” She strode from the room.

  The heel clicks faded into the distance leaving only the sounds of the mechanic’s shop. A deep breath escaped his lips. Hiding something in a locket was just like his father. Raisa may not even know it’s there.

  One of the guards produced a switchblade and the other held a gun to Max’s face while the tape holding him to the chair was cut. He stood and stretched his shoulder muscles by moving them in circles, until a guard grabbed him and wound duct tape around his wrists. “You guys ex-KGB? Moscow Centre? What directorate?”

  No answer. The one with the gun waved it at the opened roll-up door where the van was parked.

  Max walked. “How’s retirement? Tough? Finding it difficult to pass the time?”

  They ambled behind him. Max abruptly turned and held his two wrists up. “Seriously. I have to pee before the car ride.”

  One of the men lowered his gun to keep from running into Max. The second was in the process of digging in his pocket for the van keys. Max made an abrupt downward motion with his hands, while pulling his elbows back, and used his body as a wedge that severed the duct tape. With his wrists free, he stepped in, trapped his opponent’s gun arm in his left armpit, and drove his right fist into the man’s throat, choking off a yell. A wrench of his left arm and the other man’s arm bent in a way it shouldn’t, forcing him to loosen his grip on the gun. Max snatched the pistol.

  Spinning, Max fired the Makarov. Two rapid bangs filled the warehouse, and two red holes appeared in the second retiree’s chest. The man staggered, gun halfway out of his holster, his eyes wide. Max whirled and fired point-blank at the first man, putting two 9mm bullet holes in his broad chest. He sank to the concrete floor with a surprised look on his face.

  A quick pat down of the first man revealed Max’s Blackphone, wallet, and passport. He shoved the second Makarov into his belt before melting into the dimly lit racks of car parts.

  Twenty-Five

  Tiraspol, Transnistria

  The warehouse was quiet. The workers had disappeared. The overheads were snapped off, leaving only the dim glow from security lights to illuminate the endless shelves of boxes and car parts. Max crept from row to row, watching for movement and looking for Raisa.

  A faint scrape to his left caused Max to flinch, and he shifted in time so the iron bar whistled past his head and bounced off his shoulder. Pain shot up his neck and down his arm.

  Corroded steel flew at Max a second time, aimed straight for his face. He stepped back, bumping a metal rack of exhaust pipes, and the bar missed him by a hair. Instinct prevented him from firing his gun as Dominik’s rage filled face materialized out of the darkness. The young man wound up for another swing.

  Snatching a piece of chrome exhaust pipe from the shelf, Max used it to parry the next strike, sending a ringing sound reverberating through the warehouse. He blocked another attack and poked Dominik in the neck with a weak jab. His opponent recovered and swung the tire iron, his eyes flashing.

  Max struck him with the pipe and caught his forearm, which forced Dominik to let go of the weapon. The tire iron clanged off the concrete floor and Max stuck the gun in his face. “On the ground. Now.”

  With a sneer, Dominik stretched his long frame on the floor. Max patted him down and tossed away a knife before using electric cords he found on the shelf to secure Dominik’s arms and ankles. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you,” he hissed at the younger man. “Where’s Raisa?”

  “Go to hell.” Dominik squirmed and tried to move away.

  Max kicked him in the ribs. “Stay still. Keep quiet.”

  With the Makarov in front of him, Max threaded his way out of the shelving and into an open area where metal stairs led up to a set of offices a story above. To his right were the mechanics’ bays, and to his left was an open space for unloading tractor trailers. The ground was cluttered with boxes, and the concrete was stained with grease and oil.

  “Mikhail!”

  His name rang through the building. The thin form of Raisa stood at the top of the metal stairs, a pistol clenched in her two fists and aimed at him.

  “Hello, Raisa.”

  She yelled through clenched teeth. “My son? Where’s Dominik?”

  “He’s fine. Bruised ego, but fine.”

  Her face relaxed.

  “The locket, Raisa. I need the locket.”

  Her eyes darkened as a tear slid down a cheek. “I loved him, you know.”

  Max nodded once. “I know. A lot of people did. He had that way about him. Toss it and I’ll leave you be.”

  She sniffled as she stepped down the stairs, the pistol wavering. “I would have done anything for him. I tried so hard to make him love me. I would have gladly given myself to him. He treated me like a queen. He was such a good man. He didn’t deserve to die that way.”

  When she stopped at the bottom step, Max let his gun drift lower.

  She wiped a tear from her cheek. “He gave me the locket the week before he...it’s all I have left. My only memory.”

  Max held out a hand. “I know, Raisa. Just let me look at it. I’ll give it back. I promise.”

  “Why, Mikhail? What is this all about?”

  “I wish I could tell you. All I know is he uncovered something that got him killed, and now the same people are after me. I think he left me a message. Something that will help me save Arina and Alex.”

  She wiped another tear away, unfastened the top button of her blouse to remove the locket, unhooked the clasp with one hand, and held it out. “Take it. If it helps you. If it helps your nephew. I don’t need to cling to the past. I don’t need to hang on to something that never was.”

  She threw the locket at him.

  Twenty-Six

  Tiraspol, Transnistria

  The locket arced through the air.

  As if in slow motion, it soared at Max, and he held out his hand.

  A barrage of bullets pounded into the wall, shattering the stillness in the mechanic’s shop.

  Raisa staggered, and a spatter of blood sprayed on the wall behind her. She faltered and stumbled but caught herself on the railing. Her gun fell from her hand and clanged off the metal stairs before clattering to the ground. A bullet flew into her brow, and her head snapped back. She held herself upright by a death grip on the handrail, suspended on the stairs, before sinking to her knees and collapsing against the bloody wall. More bullets clanged off the metal staircase.

  Max whirled and dropped to a knee, pistol up in two hands, searching the murky darkness for a target. The locket hit the floor with a clink while hurried footsteps sounded on the concrete. A shadow fell over the floor near the rear of the warehouse, and Max fired twice, causing a black-clad commando to fall to the concrete.

  Who the hell are these guys? Did someone alert the Russians?

  Max held his pistol with one hand while he searched the ground for the locket with the other. From behind the far row of shelving came a storm of bullets that plinked off the exhaust pipes behind him.

  Where’s the damn locket?

  His hand touched the metal chain. He grabbed it, stuffed it in his pocket, and backed into the shadows as another volley of gunfire hit the concrete where he just kneeled.

  Stealing around a shelving unit, he peered through the gloom for movement. He turned around another shelf and scanned the darkness in all directions. Nothing. He came to a center aisle with rows of shelving units on both sides and stuck his head out to look both ways. The corridor opened into the mechanic’s bays, and beyond that was the front door. The commandos would have left a team waiting to take down anyone who tried to escape out the front. The main warehouse area and an open roll-u
p door were to the rear.

  There. Something flickered in the shadows near the open door. A human shape bristling with armor and weapons moved near a stack of fifty-five-gallon drums. Max aimed and fired three times. The shape stumbled and fell.

  Five steps took him around the end of one shelving rack to another closer to the front of the building. Another couple of steps and he almost tripped over Dominik’s inert form. In a hushed whisper, Max told him about the intruders before cutting his bonds. “Is there a way out of here other than the front or back?”

  Dominik looked at the ceiling while he whispered. “Ladder running up the wall leading to the roof. Another ladder outside goes to the ground.”

  “That’s our way out. If I give you this pistol, do you promise not to shoot me? Your mom’s dead. Her killers are out there somewhere. There’s a team. I don’t know how many. We need each other to escape alive.” He held out a pistol.

  Dominik’s bulging eyes filled up with water before he scrambled to his feet and accepted the weapon.

  Max patted the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your mom. She was a good woman. Let’s split up and head for the ladder. I’ll cover you while you climb. You cover me from the trapdoor. Cool?”

  Twenty-Seven

  Tiraspol, Transnistria

  He saw the movement almost too late.

  A pair of black-clad arms came up, rifle held out, and fired as Max propelled himself into Raisa’s son. A rain of bullets spit from a suppressor and sailed by his ear as he and Dominik went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Max landed on his back and fought to bring his gun around to fire, but the shooting stopped. Jerking his head in several directions to find the target, he saw a man wearing black combat gear on the ground a dozen meters away, partially hidden behind shelving, not moving. The warehouse was still.

  What the heck? Who shot that guy?

  “Make for the ladder,” Max hissed as he pulled Dominik to his feet. The shooting started up again as bullets sang over their heads and plinked into the metal shelves. Instead of returning fire, he crouch-ran with his arm around Dominik’s shoulder until they came to the ladder.

  Dominik stopped and spoke in a whisper. “It’s too exposed.”

  The shelving units towered over their heads but didn’t reach up to the high ceiling. Someone on the ladder would be exposed for a few seconds to a shooter below. “Start climbing when you hear the distraction, and don’t look down until you’re through the trapdoor. Got it?”

  While Dominik crept around the end of a shelf, Max stole through the shadows to the end of the shelving. Freezing for a few beats, he watched for movement. The room was still. No gunfire. Holding the Makarov, Max put his shoulder against the tall metal scaffolding and pushed with all his strength. The shelving moved, teetered, but remained upright. He pushed again, this time using a rocking motion to get the tall unit swaying. A final shove sent the boxes crashing to the ground as the shelf tipped over and fell against the next set of shelves. The whole row toppled like dominos, and a deafening roar filled the room as the shelves hit the ground.

  A long shadow darted up the ladder while Max held his breath. No gunfire sounded. As Dominik reached the top, he stopped to wrench open the trapdoor before disappearing into the night. A moment later, the young man’s head appeared through the trapdoor followed by his hand holding a pistol.

  Don’t shoot me. Don’t shoot me. Max darted across the open warehouse to the wall. He gripped the Makarov in his teeth and grasped a metal rung. No shots. He crept up two rungs of the ladder. Two more rungs would expose him to anyone below with a gun. Still no gunfire. He scampered up the ladder and popped through the trapdoor and into the nighttime air.

  What happened to the attackers?

  The stolen Dacia Logan sedan sped west along the empty highway in midnight darkness. Max chain-smoked and flicked butt after butt out the open window while replaying the scene in the mechanic’s shop in his mind again and again.

  Something didn’t add up.

  A group of commandos stormed the warehouse, killed Raisa, and tried to kill him and Dominik. The two men barely escaped, aided by an unseen party who killed at least one bad guy. It didn’t make sense.

  How did the commandos know about the locket? Had Max led them there? And who was this mystery helper? I’m missing something.

  He flicked a cigarette out the window in a shower of sparks and dug out his phone, turned it on, waited for a secure connection, and dialed Baxter while bracing himself.

  “Where in bloody tarnation have you been?”

  Max mashed the accelerator to the floor. “Tell you later. Coming in hot. Twenty minutes out. Get the jet ready.”

  Twenty-Eight

  In the Air Over Romania

  Max settled into the Lear’s wide leather seat and fought off a deep fatigue as the takeoff’s g-force pushed him back. The plane leveled off, and he managed a smile as Cindy handed him a cup of steaming black coffee. He sipped and held the cup in both hands, staring straight ahead.

  Cindy had sucked in her breath at the sight of Max’s bruised face and broken nose when he appeared in the hangar before their departure. His shirt was dusty and the sleeve of his leather jacket was torn, but he brushed off her concerns and urged them to get the plane in the air.

  After takeoff, he let her apply a cold washcloth to his face and fuss over his wounds until Baxter shooed her away.

  Popping two hydrocodone and chasing them with water, he glared at Baxter. “Why’d you do that?”

  Baxter blew on a mug of tea while Cindy settled herself on the arm of Max’s chair. “Debrief time.”

  How much should he divulge?

  Bone-tired, all he wanted to do was sleep. Using as few words as possible, he described his talks with Raisa and the subsequent attack on the mechanic’s shop but left out the evidence of the mysterious third party.

  Baxter played with his goatee. “Describe these commandos.”

  “Well equipped. Russian military-grade rifles. All black. Helmets. Professionals, but didn’t know the layout of the interior.”

  “Four of them?”

  Max nodded. “I think so.”

  “And you took out all four of them before escaping up the ladder to the roof with this Dominik fellow?”

  “Correct.”

  The MI6 man’s bushy eyebrows twitched.

  Max reached into his pocket and withdrew Raisa’s locket and gave it a once-over. The chain was thin silver with an ordinary clasp at the neck. The locket itself was also sterling silver, about the size of an American quarter and as thick as three quarters stacked. The monogram AA was scratched into the back with jagged and amateurish etching. Max tried to work the clasp with thick fingers but gave up.

  He gave it to Cindy, who held it up to the light. “Is this what all the fuss was about?”

  Max pointed at the locket. “Open it.”

  Cindy pried open the two halves of the locket with a fingernail. After a glance at the contents, she handed the open locket to Max.

  Whatever was inside caused Raisa’s death and might give him the clues to unravel the mystery of his father’s actions. He took it with a mixture of unease and hope. One side of the locket’s interior was empty. The other held a picture. The image was grainy and old. It showed a man and a woman in an embrace, facing the camera, but the details were faded by time.

  Baxter handed him a magnifying glass.

  Max took the implement. “You carry this around with you?”

  Baxter leaned to get a closer look. “Trust me. When you reach a certain age, you’ll carry one too.”

  The lines of the woman’s face, now clear through the glass, looked familiar. Shifting his attention to the man, he wasn’t surprised to see his father’s face as a younger man. He handed the locket and the magnifying glass to Cindy.

  She inspected the image for a moment before squinting at Max. “The man looks just like you. Except for the hair.”

  He smiled. “It’s my father when he w
as about my age.”

  Cindy scanned the photo again. “Who’s the woman?”

  “Pretty sure it’s Raisa.”

  She smiled. “She’s beautiful.”

  He drank the coffee, which had grown cold. “Was.”

  Another casualty.

  “See if you can dig out the picture,” Max said, still gazing out the dark window.

  Cindy scraped at the image with her fingernail until Baxter handed her a pocketknife. She used the tip of the blade to pry up the photo, which she cradled in her hand. “Aha!”

  Max accepted the locket and looked inside. Staring back at him was a black micro SD memory card with white lettering that read Sony, 16GB. He dug out his Blackphone. Along the side of the heavy device was a tiny slot that accepted a micro SD card. He shoved the memory card into the slot and turned on his phone while remembering how his father had hidden a similar memory card in the frame of a family photo. The clues are slowly falling into place.

  Using the phone’s navigation, he tapped his way to the folder showing the memory card’s contents. There was only one file—Mikhail.mov. Max inserted earbuds. “Sorry. Might be private.”

  Baxter sat back in his seat and grabbed a file to read while keeping one eye glued to Max. Cindy moved to a chair across from Max.

  Tapping on the .mov file, Max’s stomach flipped when his father’s image filled the screen. The view was taken from the chest up as his father sat behind his desk in the secret office he kept underneath their barn. Andrei looked relaxed, as he always did, dressed in a faded denim work shirt open at the collar, revealing a thatch of gray chest hair. His stubble was laced with white, and his thick hair was pushed to the side and held down with some kind of product. As was his habit in his latter years, he clenched a thick cigar between the fingers of his anvil-sized fist and used it for emphasis as he spoke.