The Man From Belarus (Corps Justice Book 16)

by C. G. Cooper

  “I’m done with this crap detail, Top. Two weeks and still nothing. We’ve gotta tell the big dog that it’s time for us to go home.”

  Gaucho had been regurgitating the same sentiment. I’m done. Let’s go. Master Sergeant Willy Trent took it in stride like he’d done for most things in his life. But in those moments when his legs ached a bit too much, or the pull for home slinked through his musclebound armor, yeah, he wanted to leave, too.

  “I’m sure he’ll show up any day now,” Top said, patting his good buddy on the back. “How about I treat you to a real meal tonight? All the fixings and dessert to boot? It ain’t Atlanta, but I’m sure I can find us a good downhome plate o’ something around here.”

  Gaucho licked his lips. “You mean it?”

  Top almost felt sorry for him, he looked so pathetic. “I mean it.”

  Reality caved in on Gaucho a moment later and his face clouded. “Dammit.”

  “What?”

  “Who’m I kidding? We can’t leave. We have to keep watch.”

  “Who’s in charge here? I say we deserve a break. Come on. I promised you a home-cooked meal and if I can't find one, I’ll make one.”

  They didn’t technically have to stay in this cramped Copenhagen apartment. They had mobile units that fit in their pockets. And although being thorough in this job meant being vigilant, Top knew that even the most vigilant needed a break.

  Gaucho was already headed to the door. “I’ll drive.”

  “You’ll hear no complaint from me, compadre.”

  Top took another look around the room, shoved the mobile video unit in his pocket and followed his friend out the door. He knew that the place was safe, tamper-proof, and recorded.

  He’d come to find out he was wrong.

  Very wrong.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  WILCOX — COPENHAGEN — PRESENT DAY

  Wilcox grinned as he watched the two men pile into the cheap Toyota knockoff. One comfortably. The other less so.

  As they started the engine, he made his way down the stairwell and out to the street. If they’d looked back, they would’ve seen him. They didn’t.

  The car disappeared and Wilcox sent a text to one of his many contractors. Cal’s friends would be followed and he’d know exactly when they’d be back. Wilcox didn’t like surprises. He planned for a multitude of contingencies in order to mitigate surprises. He still had a few aches and pains from the scuff-up in the Philippines. No sense going through that again.

  He let two minutes pass and then entered the rundown apartment building. It was the type of place that respected anonymity, damn near worshipped it. No one would even make eye contact if it wasn’t warranted.

  He trudged up three flights of stairs, entering the hallway he’d been watching for weeks. This surreptitious visit was more curiosity than necessity. It was one thing to see a place. It was quite another to stand in it, smell the smells, gaze on it with your own eyes. Sometimes it offered a clue and sometimes not.

  Bottom line: He was bored. Even the mundane task of picking a simple lock seemed thrilling compared to what he’d done for weeks.

  The lock opened easily, and Wilcox was standing stock-still, less than 30 seconds from touching the door. He gazed around the familiar sight, noting how a certain mirror looked larger here in person than it did on camera, and that the turn down the short hall to the bathroom was much narrower than he’d thought.

  Not much else tickled his Spidey sense. He’d cased too many places to count, and this one was only marginally better than the rest. And that was only because of its occupants.

  When he inspected the rooms, he confirmed the ship-shape half belonging to the massive Marine and the untidy jumble was the Hispanic’s nest.

  He took his time, not worried about the cameras. His tech was better than theirs. If they were viewing their little screen they wouldn’t see him. A ghost in plain sight. Wilcox loved the magic of computers that kept getting smarter and smarter. He paid well to have what no one else had. ‘No one’ included some of the top intelligence agencies in the world.

  Wilcox flipped through their working journal. Nothing of value there. The fridge was near empty, but a cooler of bottled water sat near their kitchen table perch. Why didn’t they use the fridge? It didn’t matter. A couple of drying dishes next to the sink and a trash can full of delivery food containers.

  Nothing remarkable. Nothing at all.

  He checked in with his contractor and was told that the duo had found a spot two miles away. Wilcox knew it by name and had even had a drink with some backpacking coeds the year before. The food was middling and the service was slow. Perfect.

  He made another round inspecting the apartment, pulling out drawers and peering in shelves.

  He finished up by taking some snapshots of the journal. You never knew. If nothing else, it helped to have a sample of handwriting.

  It was his thoroughness that had him at complete ease. He hadn’t even brought a weapon.

  Matthew Wilcox regretted that decision a minute later when he opened the apartment door to leave and found himself staring down the barrels of two guns.

  “Well would you look at what the cat dragged in,” Trent said, and motioned Wilcox back into the kitchen.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  LENA — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY

  They’d spent the first two days together, working the farm that her father said, “belonged to a friend.” He didn’t seem to have much money, or much food for that matter, but that didn’t matter to Lena. In those first days she was content to watch him, hear the occasional sound of his voice, and just be. He didn’t speak much now. Maybe that had to do with his face and its droopy lilt. He had yet to tell her where he’d been, what had happened—really anything at all.

  It was the morning of the third day, as they were eating oatmeal and brown sugar, when she found the courage to ask.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, Little Rabbit.”

  She’d gotten used to him calling her that again. At first it felt juvenile, then kind, and now familiar. She didn’t correct him anymore.

  “What happened that day? You know, when you left?”

  The fact that she’d practiced the questions for what felt like eons did nothing to settle her tingling nerves.

  He didn’t answer her immediately, taking his time to spoon scoop after scoop of breakfast. It was his way now, lest some dribbled from the side of his mouth that didn’t work as well as the other. When he spoke it was faint, almost reverent.

  “They found me, and they took me.”

  He wasn’t going on, so she prompted him through the obvious pain in his features. She had to know.

  “And your face, did they do that to you? Does it hurt?”

  His hand reached up and stroked the uneven patches. “Yes, they did this to me.” Then his eyes did something she’d never seen. They sparked to flame. “But I did something to them that makes this look…”

  He looked up at her suddenly, as if just remembering she was there. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say such things.”

  Lena reached out and grabbed his hand, not wanting to let it go, ever.

  “It’s okay. You can tell me. I’ll be okay.”

  And so he told her. And she held him. And she cried for him. And she promised to do to their enemies what they’d so keenly done to her father.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  DUNN — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY

  The week since the shooting, the snatching of Cal, and the upheaval of every operation in the SSI inbox had everyone on edge. Through it all, Todd Dunn had proven to his men why he’d been chosen. He never once yelled. He never once even raised his voice. His approach turned systematic as to almost resemble robotic. In short, he was the glue that held SSI together through the inquiries, the gripes, and the accusations. More than a few offered their resignations. Dunn took it in stride.

  By the second week, no one was implicated
in the death of the man on the trail. They hadn’t found his real name yet. That was strange. The president himself had authorized any agency Dunn needed to open their files concerning the dead man. Dunn didn’t want to press that red button but was quickly realizing the possibility that he might have to do so. As far as he was concerned, the leader of SSI wanted to keep this mess in-house, even though the conundrum spoke of wider implications.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll let you know as soon as we have something.” Dunn hung up the phone and looked down at his notes. He was forever taking notes. He had shelves full of them. All locked away, of course, but you never knew when you might need an old memory. And a note written down was better than a thought in your head that could be discarded as easily as a crumb out of a car window.

  “Was that the president again?” Huckleberry asked, taking his eyes off the computer screen for a brief glance.

  “It was.”

  “That’s cool. You think I might get to meet him some day?”

  Dunn never would’ve thought to ask that question at Huckleberry’s age. Hell, he wouldn’t ask it now. No need to come down on one of the only bright spots in this mess. Of everyone, Huckleberry had risen many tiers in Dunn’s hard-won estimation. Not only was he calm under pressure, he also possessed the uncanny ability to do the work of five men. Five incredibly talented men. No need to jump down the throat of such an asset.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Dunn said, barely believing that he’d said it. He was a Model A in a land of Teslas, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t upgrade his attitude. Maybe that was the lesson here, and Dunn was all about learning from his mistakes.

  “That would be sweet. I hear he’s a really nice guy.”

  “When was the last time you went home, had a hot shower?” Dunn asked.

  “Who me? I’m good Mr. Dunn. I swear. In college I’d stay up four days straight. No need to worry about me.”

  “You’re not in college anymore, Mr. Huckleberry. Wrap up what you’re doing and head home. The work will be here in the morning.”

  That was the thing about top performers, sometimes you had to make them stop despite their protests. Huckleberry was smart enough not to object. Dunn stuck to his own laptop and watched out of the corner of his eye for the next thirty minutes. Whatever madness there was in the computer whiz, he somehow found the method and finished his self-assigned set of tasks.

  “That’s it then,” Huckleberry said, stretching his arms back and over his head. “Won’t mind a night in my own bed. Maybe even a beer.”

  “Don’t overdo it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Huckleberry said, light on his feet now like he was off to a hot date. Dunn wished he still had that kind of energy. In no time, the kid had what he needed packed into a backpack and was headed for the door. “You sure you don’t need me to stay, Mr. Dunn? It’s no problem.”

  Dunn waved him toward the exit as he closed his laptop and began to gather his things. “I’m right behind you.”

  “Well, okay. But if you need me—”

  “We’ll call.”

  Huckleberry finally left and Dunn sat waiting to make sure he didn’t come back. When he confirmed with security that the kid was gone, Dunn unpacked his things and settled in for a long night. He didn’t know why, but he felt more comfortable in the Batcave these days instead of being in his own office. Anyone who needed him could find him, but here he was out of the way and free to go about his own investigation. And tonight, his investigation was going where he didn’t want anyone to be aware of—straight to the top, and the history belonging to President Brandon Zimmer.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  VOLKOV — MINSK, REPUBLIC OF BELARUS — PRESENT DAY

  He put his hands on top of the pair presented before him.

  “May your union be blessed,” he said reverently, then bent down to warmly embrace the man and woman.

  Such specimens these two were. They reminded him of himself so many years ago. Before everything. When he was still a child really. He’d been naive. Naive and brave.

  But bravery makes fools of us all, he thought, his mind casting back through years of heartache and triumph.

  Chapter Sixty

  VOLKOV — MINSK, REPUBLIC OF BELARUS — 1978

  Aleksandr could barely contain himself. Here he was, a mere twelve years of age, and he’d completed a thorough trouncing of men as old as eighteen. He held a ski up in either hand and felt the roar of the crowd wash over him.

  This is just the beginning, he thought, hugging his coach, who’d been with him through it all. He was the father young Alek wished he had. His own father wasn’t even there. Probably off on some pointless business trip trying to scrape a few rubles together.

  “Al-ek! Al-ek! Al-ek!” the crowd cheered.

  This was heaven.

  When he got home, his mother was sitting as close to the stove as she could without getting burned. Her dirty dress bore the scars of numerous close calls.

  “You’re late,” she croaked, taking a sick drag of her cheap cigarette. How Alek hated them. His clothes wreaked of the filth.

  “You shouldn’t be smoking, Mama. The doctor said—”

  “The doctor can stick this up his ass,” she replied, raising the burning stick and grinning yellow.

  He’d tried. He always tried. But she’d been drinking. These days it was worse than usual. It could’ve been the fights with his father. It could’ve been the sorry state of their cramped living conditions. For all Alek knew it could’ve just been a part of her, like slug slime is part of a slug.

  And still he tried.

  “I won, Mama,” he said, holding out the gold medal and then pulling it back before her claw reached out to snatch it.

  “Let me see it,” she said, trying to get to her feet, but failing. She was drunk all right. Drunk and staggering in her chair.

  He pretended like it didn’t happen. He pretended like it didn’t hurt that she didn’t care. But it did. She used to come to his skiing competitions. That seemed so long ago. When was the last time? When he was 10-years-old maybe?

  “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  A normal mother would ask if he wanted dinner. A normal mother would have sat him down and asked him about his day.

  “Do what you want,” she said, turning her attention back to the fire and whatever it was she was miserable about this day.

  A feeling streaked through Alek in that moment, hot and piercing like a smoldering spear. He wanted her dead. It would be better if she was dead. Then maybe his father would stay home. Maybe he and Alek could go skiing together like they used to. Before the lost jobs. Before Mama’s drinking. Before everything.

  “Good night, Mama,” he said instead, immediately guilty for wishing ill on the only mother he had. It was a sin. He knew that much despite having no religion to speak of.

  No response from his mother, so Alek did what he always did at night. He crept down the hall, went in his room, and locked the door behind him. No sense giving his mother the chance to steal his medal and trade it for three bottles of vodka like she did the last time.

  The pounding on the front door woke him from a feverish sleep. For an instant he remembered the dream. Something about a demon spear burning lava red. He had it in his hand, but it didn’t burn.

  Bang, bang, bang, the pounding again.

  He slipped on a robe and unlocked his door.

  “Mama?”

  There was no answer save more banging from the other side of the hovel. If his father was here, he’d have a shotgun in hand and tell Alek to go to his room. His father wasn’t here and neither was the gun. His father always took it with him on business. What sort of business required a shotgun? Alek didn’t know.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  He slipped into the living area. No Mama and the fire was only embers. He shivered and pulled the robe tighter. Maybe whoever was at the door would go away.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  This time it was followed by
a gruff voice he did not recognize. “Open up.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I said open up.”

  Alek looked around for something he could use as a weapon. He wished he had his own pair of skis and poles, but the ones he’d used earlier that day belonged to his coach.

  And then, to Alek’s surprise, another voice came from the other side of the door.

  “Alek, it’s me.”

  “Yaroslav?” His ski coach?

  “Yes. Open up, Alek.”

  He unlatched the door, gritting his teeth when the chill wind pushed in. There were three men outside. Yaroslav and two others.

  “Alek, we’ve come to get you,” the coach said.

  “But it’s late,” Alek said, confused and uncomprehending. He wanted to do what his coach said. It was safe to say the man had saved his life. He fed him when his parents couldn’t. He let him stay on his own couch when the fights became too much.

  “I know. I’m sorry. But you’ve been chosen.”

  “Chosen for what? I don’t understand.”

  His coach stepped forward and Alek could really make out his face now. The man was beaming. “They want you to go to Moscow. You’re going to be on the Olympic team.”

  And just like that, Aleksandr Volkov’s life took a giant stutter step down a separate path.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  STOKES — BODO’S BAGELS, CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA — PRESENT DAY

  He swirled a generous helping of whole cream in his coffee. He usually drank it black, but this morning he enjoyed the indulgence. He knew the reason why. His mother.

  I wish you were here, he thought to her, wherever she was. He still couldn’t believe that his father had cheated on his wife, Cal’s mother. Impossible. There was no man more devoted to family and friends than Colonel Calvin Stokes. At least that’s what Cal believed. There’d never been a misplaced look or an unkind word in Cal’s presence that might’ve tipped foul play.