Dead End

by R. J. Patterson

  Cal moved onto his next task, which involved operating a commercial toaster. “This certainly how I saw my day going.”

  Natalya nodded. “At least we woke up, which is more than I can say for Maksim.”

  Cal glanced over his shoulder at Natalya and watched her dab the corners of her eyes and sniffle. “You’re a strong woman, Natalya. You’ll get through this—and I think the fact that you’re here right now, making a sacrifice to do whatever it takes in the midst of all your grief, proves my suspicion about you.”

  “Thank you,” she mumbled. “But I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

  “We always have a choice. It’s really about what kind of choice can you live with?”

  “I’ve made plenty of bad ones in my lifetime.”

  “Never too late to start making better choices,” Cal said. “And from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re on the right path.”

  “I will never turn my back on this many helpless people—never.”

  “Your father would be proud of you right now. I know you’d rather be grieving somewhere, but here you are. And that’s exactly what Yuri Listyev would do.”

  “No, Papa would’ve never let things get this far. He would’ve found a way to coerce the stadium security into performing a sweep of the arena so there was no need for a last-minute plan like the one we had to concoct.”

  Cal smiled. “It just would’ve seemed that way to you. I’m sure your father pushed the limits plenty of times when it came to deadlines and making things happen. He was a voice for the voiceless—and it’s easy to get squelched out by more powerful people. The fact that he won so often is why he was a hero to many journalists.”

  “Perhaps that’s why he was a better journalist than a father.”

  Cal studied Natalya closely, her expression and mood turning more emphatic with each movement around the kitchen as if she were about to explode.

  “He loved you dearly,” Cal said.

  “I know, but he had a funny way of showing it. I miss him, but I don’t miss the way he always tried to get me to do something else. No matter what I did, it was never good enough to suit him. That’s why I started working here. I had to do something for work, and this was about as far away from journalism as I could imagine.”

  “And you enjoy your work?”

  Natalya rolled her eyes. “There are days when I’d rather smash my fingers with a hammer than endure this task, preparing and cooking food for wealthy clients who barely even notice I exist at these parties.”

  “There are worse jobs, you know.”

  “Such as?”

  “You could follow in your father’s footsteps and become a journalist.”

  Cal’s words hung in the air, and he watched a glimmer of joy flash in Natalya’s eyes.

  “You really think I could do what you do?”

  Cal laughed softly. “It’s not rocket science, if that’s what you’re concerned about. And while I enjoy exploring mysteries in the sports world, my primary job is mundane. Writing about sporting events isn’t taxing work, nor is it even as remotely exciting as it may sound. But I think you’re destined for a beat far more important than that of simply regurgitating facts to a readership base that likely already watched the game. I think you would make Yuri proud if you became an investigative reporter.”

  “And become the least favorite person in every room?”

  “Well, as long as there were no lawyers there, you might very well be the most hated person around.”

  She flashed a smile. “The point I’m really trying to get to is I’m not sure I am cut out to do this.”

  Cal shook his head. “I disagree. From what I know about you, you’re more than ready—and I bet all of Russia would be quaking if it saw you coming.”

  “Cal, you are too kind. Perhaps I’ll look into it after today.”

  “The world will be a better place with your watchful eyes and dogged determination driving you to deliver hard-hitting journalism that will eventually result in substantive changes.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” she said as she surveyed the mess in the kitchen. “In the meantime, we need to hurry up and get this food plated and delivered. The Ukrainian team will be hungry.”

  CAL MARVELED at Natalya’s ease at handling last-second changes in their plans, much less that she was still committed to stopping the terrorist act destined to take thousands of innocent lives. She hopped out of the delivery van and swung open the back doors to reveal a wheeled-tray loaded with plates for the players. Cal helped her slide a ramp in place to ease the task of removing the cart from the van.

  “Think we’re going to get away with this?” Cal asked.

  “Even if we don’t, we can always make a run for it,” Natalya answered. “We’re inside the stadium now, so if everything falls apart, at least we have a chance of removing the explosive devices ourselves.”

  Cal glanced up at the support beams towering over them. From where he stood, he couldn’t see anything that appeared to be out of place. But if their plan went without a hitch, it wouldn’t matter.

  A security guard scanned Natalya’s credentials and opened the door for her. Cal stopped and nodded at her.

  “You’re not coming with me?” she asked.

  “I left my access badge,” Cal answered. “You can take it from here.”

  The guard looked at Cal. “Go ahead. You’re fine.”

  “Thank you,” Cal said as placed both hands on the cart and pushed it through the door.

  Once it shut behind them, Natalya leaned over and whispered to Cal, “That was easier than you thought it would be.”

  Cal smiled. “Every once in a while, you get lucky. If he hadn’t been so eager to let me in, you still could’ve done this on your own.”

  “I know, but I feel better having someone else with me, just in case.”

  “Unfortunately, this is as far as I’m going,” Cal said as they neared the locker room entrance.

  “What? I thought you were—”

  “I can’t risk getting seen,” Cal said. “Some of these players would recognize me, and I know one in particular, Dimitry Kitko, who would immediately identify me. And if this whole thing goes down like we want it to, they’d come after me.”

  “They still might come after us.”

  “Perhaps, but at least the whole story will be out by then—and hopefully, we’ll be out of the country.”

  Once they were twenty meters shy of the double doors leading into the Ukrainian national team’s clubhouse, Cal froze.

  “End of the line for me,” he said.

  She smiled and then knocked on the door. One of the team attendants opened it for her. Cal then spun and went in the opposite direction. However, he was surprised when one of the players emerged from the training room right as he was about to take a turn down the hallway.

  “Don’t I know you?” the player asked.

  Cal recognized the Ukrainian superstar almost immediately. It was Fedir Mortuk.

  “I’m sorry,” Cal said. “You must have me mixed up with someone else.”

  “No,” Fedir said. “I don’t think so. I never forget a face.”

  “Perhaps you noticed me the last time we delivered a catered meal.”

  Fedir shook his head vigorously. “I know. Aren’t you that reporter and—?”

  Cal hurriedly fished his phone out of his pocket, blabbing out a short polite apology.

  “Sorry, but I need to take this,” he said before putting the phone up to his ear.

  “Yes, sorry about not calling you back earlier,” Cal said. “I was in the middle of something and just finished it up, so your timing was perfect.”

  He could still hear Fedir shouting after him. But Cal didn’t stop. The last thing he needed was to be identified as the perpetrator of what was about to happen inside the Ukrainian national team’s locker room.

  Chapter 32

  VLADISLAV RAKITSKY HUDDLED CLOSE to the small utility shed perched just off
the catwalk inside Cosmos Arena. Below him, workers scurried around the stadium, making last-minute preparations before the gates opened to the public. He looked at his watch. Four and a half hours to kickoff, three hours before they opened the gates.

  Though Vlad was a respected operative for Sergei Bazarov, trust for anyone only went so far. Vlad only knew what he was told about each target until he put in his own reconnaissance work. At that point, his main goal was to gather information about the person’s habits in an effort to create a smooth kill that wouldn’t attract unnecessary attention. It was his key to escaping without creating a scent that could be tracked.

  But this assignment was different. It was a straight sniper shot with the purpose of removing a man who’d become a burden to Sergei Bazarov’s business ventures. The murder would be very public, and disappearing in such an environment wouldn’t be easy—except that Sergei had several FSB agents on his payroll. Their handsome payouts insured whatever Sergei wanted, he got. And what Sergei wanted was for Vlad to shoot his competitor in the head with a long sniper shot and then vanish. The FSB would make sure that’s exactly what happened.

  Vlad felt his pockets in search of a cigarette. It was a phantom craving, especially for a habit he’d dumped long ago. He only wanted them when he felt uneasy, though he wasn’t sure why a sense of angst hung over him. This was supposed to be a straightforward assignment. Make a shot, connect with the FSB personnel, move on to the next job. It wasn’t complex, as long as he didn’t consider the skill and precision required to hit Ivan Mortuk from a considerable distance. Vlad could complete the task in his sleep, yet he was wide awake and anxious, nervous even. But he couldn’t decipher the source of his angst.

  Was it the heights? Was it the harried nature of the assignment? Was it the man Vlad was about to kill?

  The answer eluded him, which ratcheted up his anxiety. He hated loose ends, unresolved conflicts, uncertain terms.

  Spotting another man lugging a backpack across the stadium on the catwalk only underscored Vlad’s feelings.

  Something isn’t right.

  Using his binoculars, Vlad zeroed in on the man. A quick glance told Vlad everything he needed to know about the stranger, who crouched low as he walked: He was also an assassin, albeit a careless one.

  Like Vlad, perhaps the man believed he was the only one roaming around on the catwalk. It was a desolate place for the most part, devoid of any facility staff close to game time. Yet today the Cosmos Arena catwalk was far busier than it had been since the last hard hat construction workers inspected their final work.

  And it was too crowded for Vlad.

  Only one of us should be up here. And I was here first.

  Vlad considered a long shot, but he couldn’t be sure where the man would fall. If he toppled over the side and landed in the stands, it would surely result in a security sweep that would be too difficult to escape. Even if Vlad were able to stealthily evade any law enforcement personnel—the kind not on Bazarov’s payroll—a dead body falling from the catwalk would likely bring extra eyes to look for any suspicious activity above the stadium for the rest of the game. And that was too risky for Vlad. He realized he needed to address this situation in a more direct manner.

  Vlad stuffed his backpack into the utility closet, but not before checking for his knife. He fingered the edge of the blade. Satisfied it would suffice, he crept around the catwalk, staying low to avoid his new target. The man was still putting together his sniper rifle when Vlad slipped over the edge and used his arms to inch his way toward the man. It was a slow and deliberate march, one that burned Vlad’s muscles as he dangled a couple hundred feet above the seats below.

  Once he was almost directly underneath the man, Vlad reached up with his knife and jammed it into the man’s thigh. Immediately, the man dropped his gun and reached for the spot where he’d been stabbed. Vlad quickly climbed up and pounced on the man, plunging a knife into his chest.

  Acting quickly to avoid blood dripping from the rafters, Vlad flung the man’s body on top of his bag and dragged him along the catwalk. Over the course of the next five minutes, Vlad was able to get the body back around to his original position and pushed him inside the closet.

  It wasn’t until the door was shut that Vlad relaxed. Relieved, he rested his head against the door and took a deep breath.

  But after a few seconds, his anxiety returned. He hadn’t squelched the nervous feelings at all.

  Something still felt off to him—and he had no idea why.

  Chapter 33

  IVAN MORTUK STORMED into the Ukrainian national team’s dressing room, jerking his arms free of the security guard who attempted to apprehend the father of the team’s star player. The man grabbed Ivan by the back of his collar, but the guard’s grip was no match for Ivan. He shirked free of one final attempt to apprehend him. A clubhouse attendant rushed over and put a merciful end to the fracas, assuring the guard that Ivan was welcome.

  Once he realized the guard had relented, Ivan rushed over to his son’s locker. But Fedir was nowhere to be seen.

  “Have you seen my son?” Ivan asked.

  Dimitry Kitko, doubled over, gestured toward the showers.

  “What’s going on?” Ivan asked as he spun around and surveyed the situation in the room.

  Player after player appeared to be in severe pain. He watched as one of the team’s best defenders did his best two-step dance while waiting for a bathroom stall to come open.

  After about a minute, one of the doors finally swung open. It was Fedir. With the color drained from his face, he barely acknowledged his father while staggering toward the sink. Fedir turned on the water and splashed it in his face.

  “Son, are you ill?” Ivan asked, his eyed widening and brow creasing. “What’s wrong?”

  “My stomach,” he said. “I think I have—”

  Before Fedir could finish, he rushed back into a stall that had been vacated only seconds earlier. He didn’t even bother to lock the door.

  Several players moaned in agony. Illya Tereshchenko wasn’t one of them. Relaxed and leaning against the wall, he wore a smug smile and chided his teammates.

  “I told you not to eat meat, especially Russian meat,” Illya said. “I told you that it was a good idea to become a temporary vegan while you were here. But did any of you believe me? No. Instead you mocked me and consumed all the Russian red meat you could stick your fork into. So, how do you feel about my advice now?”

  “Go to hell,” one of the players yelled from inside the bathroom stalls.

  “From the sound of it, you beat me to it,” Illya said before cackling.

  “I swear I’m going to make you choke on tofu when I get out of here,” another player said.

  Illya pulled out his phone and began recording. “The next time food poisoning sweeps through this team, I will play this again to show you the error of your ways. You will regret ignoring my suggestion.”

  “The only thing I’m going to regret is that I didn’t punch you in the face when you started your moral grandstanding. You better not be there when I come out, Illya,” one of the other players said.

  Ivan scanned the room, spinning 360 degrees as he did. Almost all the remaining players who weren’t in the bathroom sat in front of their lockers, bent over and clutching their stomachs in pain. The scene was not the kind he imagined for the hours just before his son’s first World Cup match.

  “How could this happen?” Ivan said as he stomped his foot.

  The Ukrainian national team coach Finn Bauer, the famous German striker who’d led his country to a World Cup title in 1990, glared at Ivan.

  “Who let you into the locker room?” Finn asked.

  “This is a disgrace,” Ivan said, ignoring Finn’s question. “Did you let this happen? Someone has sabotaged this team on your watch, and just hours before kickoff, no less.”

  Finn pointed at the door. “You need to leave.”

  Ivan wandered toward the table covered with food
in aluminum serving trays. He picked up a spoon of cheesy potatoes and held it up, examined it for a moment before slowly turning it over as chunks splashed back down into the dish. He turned up his nose as he moved down the table, hovering over it and inspecting each menu item.

  “Disgusting—all of it,” Ivan said. “No wonder they’re sick. This food isn’t fit for a dog.”

  “I’m not going to ask you again,” Finn said sternly, still directing Ivan toward the door.

  “You are responsible for this team’s well-being,” Ivan said. “And you failed them all. How do you expect this team to perform its best on the world’s biggest stage after feeding them this garbage?”

  When Ivan finished and appeared poised to break into another diatribe, Finn didn’t hesitate. He stooped down and loosened the drawstring on a mesh bag full of soccer balls. Raking them out one by one, he began peppering Ivan’s upper body with swift shots.

  “I . . . said . . . get . . . out,” Finn said, pausing between each word to fire off another ball at Ivan.

  Ivan threw his hands up to cover his head and shouted a string of expletives at Finn. Once Ivan exited the doors, Finn followed the humiliated father into the hallway.

  “I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Ivan said.

  Finn narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you ever question my judgment—I don’t care who you are or who your son is. If I ever see you in my locker room, I’ll have security handle you. And I can assure you that you’ll regret it.”

  Ivan remained frozen for a moment, contemplating his next move. If Finn Bauer was any other person, Ivan would have decked him with a stiff right cross. But he decided to temper his anger.

  “And if you ever speak to me like that again,” Ivan said as he poked Finn in the chest after each word for added emphasis, “I’ll make it my mission in life to see you never set foot on a sideline again.”

  Finn didn’t blink. “If you stay out of my locker room, I promise to never speak to you again—that much you can be sure of.” He pointed down the long hallway. “The stadium exit is that way.”