Clean Slate

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “What guy?”

  “Andrei’s been lucky at the roulette table.” John chuckled. “Might be his bad luck is breaking.”

  “Uh. Depends. Just heard some Russians down in the marina talking about him. I’d say get the hell out of there and close the doors and windows. I’ll grab a taxi and call GORGON.”

  “Shit. That was to be expected, I guess.” John got up from the couch and indicated for Andrei to follow. “You okay?”

  “They haven’t seen me.” Chris sounded his usual cock-sure self.

  John ordered Andrei into the back. “Get down as far as you can and don’t look up no matter what.”

  “Chris—”

  “Can take care of himself. Don’t worry.”

  Of course John worried. Still, he went on autopilot, driving as quickly and evasively as he could without drawing any undue attention. Instead of going back to the lodge, he took Andrei to the apartment they’d used during their stakeout, rented in one of the many anonymous concrete towers in Monte Carlo.

  He pulled the car around the side of the building and got Andrei inside, then went back out to park the car somewhere else, just in case they knew the license plate numbers.

  “I’ll get off at this turn,” Chris said, pulling some money from his pocket.

  The cab sped up.

  Chris reached for his gun. The driver hit the brakes. Chris’s gun hit the floor; before he could retrieve it, the driver’s Uzi was pointed at the center of his head. There was no way he’d pull an Andrei and survive a headshot. Not from an Uzi, not at that rate of fire, not at this distance.

  And why hadn’t the bastard fired already?

  “Okay, I get it.” Chris smiled and lifted his hands. “I’ll pull the wallet and throw it on the back seat, and then get slowly out, okay?”

  The driver stopped; the front wheel scraped the pavement as he tried to focus on both driving and aiming. Fucking amateur. “Get out. Slowly,” the man said with an unmistakable Eastern European accent.

  “Sure.” Chris opened the car door, although he absolutely loathed leaving a gun behind with his fingerprints all over it. He moved slowly, as if really intimidated, desperate to comply, and thought, Fuck, I should have gotten John to pick me up, but he could hope John had gotten Andrei away and was providing close security—even closer than before.

  The driver slid out of the car on his own side, and for a little while, the Uzi pointed at Chris through the car. Which meant he had about half a second. He exploded into action; one hand on the car roof, he jumped, both feet forward, over the car onto the bastard driver’s head and throat, toppled him while the Uzi spat fire into the taxi, probably waking up everybody living on the street.

  Chris punched the man hard in the throat, then the face, kicked the piece of shit Uzi as far away as he could, then dashed back around the car to pick up his gun and run like hell.

  “He should have been here by now, shouldn’t he?”

  John glanced out the window of the corner bedroom, then ducked back, pistol at the ready. “I’m sure he’s tailing them to see where their headquarters is.”

  “Of course.”

  The flatness of Andrei’s tone confirmed his own bad feeling, but John pushed it aside. Chris always bitched him out for reading too much into some situations. Chris knew what he was doing. He always had a plan and made sure that plan, or another thought up on the fly, worked. John peered through the window on the opposite wall.

  “He mustn’t have fucked them,” Andrei said.

  John jerked his head around. “What?”

  “Those women from the casino. Chris left with them, but it wasn’t long after that he called you. He probably didn’t fuck them.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Andrei. Not much matters right now.”

  “So you say.”

  Did it matter? He knew Chris wasn’t the guy to turn down offers: women, men, pairs in whatever configuration; Chris had told him if he was ready to die any day, he could do with his nights whatever he wanted. The stresses of doing the job pretty much nonstop, of maintaining himself at such a high level, no doubt made sex the best way to relax. John preferred a workout and meditation, but he understood where Chris came from. He was more high-strung; a typical restless American. “We shouldn’t have split up like this. Not on the job. That was unprofessional of him.”

  Andrei sat down on the bed. “I have my suspicions why he did it.”

  John checked his cell. He hadn’t missed any texts or calls.

  “He wants you for himself. He won’t admit it. Have you?”

  John stared. “That’s ridiculous. Besides, it would never work out. Those things between co-workers never do.”

  Andrei shrugged.

  Fifteen terribly slow minutes passed. John checked his phone again. “Okay. They might have him.” The thought hit him in the gut, but Chris still hadn’t arrived, and that was unlike him. Monaco was too small to take so much time to cross. “I’ll get a helicopter in and hand you over to a different team. Once you’re out of the picture, I’ll go find Chris.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Thirty minutes, tops.”

  “He might be dead by then.” Andrei stood. “We should go find him together.”

  “No. I’m not risking your life on top of his.” Losing them both was one of those thoughts that could freeze him. He had to regain the initiative. Do something. But at worst, he was trained to prioritize the mission. “Leave no man behind” was USMC, but not GORGON.

  John’s phone vibrated, catching him off guard. “Soong here.” He tucked his gun back into his holster while the contact on the other end spoke. “Yes. We will.” He paused. “And Chris? Gibson? All right, then.”

  Andrei had gotten up to face him.

  “A team picked up the pair looking for you. Chris hasn’t checked in, but there was a taxi crash. Gunshots were fired inside the cab. The driver was wounded, but not shot.”

  “Then where is he?”

  Asking himself the same question, John unlocked the bedroom door. “I’m not sure, but we’re getting you out of here.”

  “Where to?”

  “Anywhere. We have safe houses all over the world.” John touched his shoulder and pressed it, wondering whom he was trying to calm with the touch. “He’ll show up. He always does.”

  The doorbell rang, and John turned immediately, checking through the apartment’s security system: Chris, breathing heavily, sweating, but seemingly unhurt. The other monitor showed he was alone. Nobody held a gun to his head. John pressed the door open and listened to Chris running up the stairs. “He’s in one piece,” he murmured.

  Chris very nearly burst through the door, panting. “Fuck. Sorry. I took a detour. The place is swarming with Russians.”

  Andrei tensed. John touched his shoulder again. “Whoever recognized you is in custody.”

  “The one they work for—”

  “Not going to happen,” Chris said. He went to the adjacent bathroom to splash his face and gulp down a few handfuls of water. “Come on.”

  They hurried down the stairs and to the rear door, but a movement on one of the security monitors in the kitchen caught John’s attention. A car turned onto the road leading to the building, then cut its headlights. “Shit.”

  Chris looked. “Maybe they’re ours.”

  John shook his head.

  “Now I want my sniper rifle,” Chris muttered.

  They took Andrei in the middle, providing cover with their own bodies, but of course, that was a pitiful protection against bullets. John keenly remembered whatever else was going on, Chris was a hell of a guy to work with. “Move.”

  They headed out through the garden, Chris walking backward to shoot whatever bastard gave chase. Over the fences, past swimming pools, keeping their heads down as much as possible. Chris pondered splitting up, but there was no point to that. He could only hope they’d find a hole in the net pulling tighter around them.

  Whoever wanted Andrei, he
wanted him fiercely—enough that he didn’t care if his men alerted every cop in Monaco with all the shooting going on. Then again, when a Russian wanted to crack a walnut, he’d always choose a sledgehammer.

  Underbrush rustled a short distance behind them.

  Chris hung back, urged the others to keep going. He crouched and picked off the pursuer trailing them with a single shot to the chest.

  Sprinting after John and Andrei, he caught up to them as the Russian began to falter. “A little bit longer, big guy.” He hoped a team was at the lodge; if they could take a cut through the wooded area ahead, they wouldn’t be far from the end of the twisting access road.

  “I’ll flank,” he said to John, indicating for him to continue. John held Andrei by the arm, urging him forward, and Chris shook off all jealousy. They were a team, first and foremost. He turned away to move a little back, keeping his eyes on any potential attackers.

  He saw a couple men break through the undergrowth and followed them. Kid gloves were off. He killed them both, and, running out of ammo, he grabbed their weapons. Makarovs. Fucking Russians.

  They closed in on the road. From his vantage point Chris could see further down, past the bend. Headlights pierced the darkness. “Get down,” he called. He took aim, sent a hail of bullets into the tires.

  The car veered off the road, landed on its side.

  “Keep going!” he called to John. Hanging back, he trotted through the brush lining the road. The attackers were climbing out, dazed, a couple bloody, but still brandishing weapons. He picked them all off like tin cans.

  He’d taken only a dozen steps when a shot rang out and grazed painfully along his thigh. He tripped, hit the ground hard, and almost lost the Makarovs. A shot whizzed overhead; a pursuer fell from the road into the bushes.

  John was there, lifting him up, Andrei too.

  “Stupid bastards. Keep going!”

  “Not without you,” John said, giving Chris’s arm a squeeze.

  “Cripple brigade,” Chris muttered, but he was damned glad John took some of his weight off that leg. God, that fucking hurt, and his trousers were already soaked in blood. At least there was no arterial blood spurting out. He’d live. Fuck.

  He half-hobbled, half-ran with them towards the lodge, hearing the enemy close in, rustling the undergrowth in the darkness.

  “Give me that pistol,” Andrei said, and took a Makarov from Chris’s hand.

  “You can’t fucking shoot…!”

  “It’s not rocket science,” Andrei answered. Handling the pistol with more ease than he should, he squeezed off two shots toward a movement in the darkness. Did Russians have mandatory military service? No idea whether he hit anything, but shooting in general was a good idea; it made the pursuers keep their fucking heads down.

  John shoved his spare clip into his Beretta and fired a couple more rounds before helping Chris scramble over some rocks and logs. The whir of a chopper broke the night, a blinding spotlight shining through the foliage as it neared.

  “Don't tell me,” Chris ground out.

  “It’s ours,” John said as the spotlight swept past them to the woods.

  A sniper’s shot exploded overhead.

  “Come on,” Chris said, giving John a shove. They pressed on, the chopper swinging back around and lighting their way to the road. “Lose the Makarov,” he told Andrei as they stepped toward the road.

  John holstered his weapon as they broke through to the road where they were greeted by three agents with flak vests and weapons drawn and cocked.

  “Thanks for the evac, guys,” Chris called out. Now he really felt the pain in his leg. Every step was agony. Adrenaline was wearing off, probably, or just the shock. They helped him into the chopper, where John immediately demanded the first aid kit. The other agents joined them, and the pilot lifted off.

  “Whew. Fuck. Playing tag with half of fucking Russia.” Chris grimaced. “It’s just a graze, right?”

  “Yes. Still bleeds… we’ll have that stitched,” John said, applying a pressure bandage and covering the wound. Chris thought he looked cute, concerned like that. It made a huge difference to see John fawning over a guy needing help and being the guy being fawned over. The latter wasn’t so bad, actually.

  Andrei wiped his face and peered out of the helicopter. “What now?”

  “To France. Paris. We have a facility there. Then we’ll keep moving until we’re safe. Chris needs some medical attention first.”

  “Aw honey, I didn’t know you cared.”

  John grimaced. Andrei grinned. The agent closest looked uncomfortable.

  In Paris, Chris and Andrei were ushered into the medical complex while John was summoned to a debriefing. He still hadn't arrived by the time Andrei and Chris were given the go-ahead to leave.

  “So what now?”

  Chris shrugged, pleasantly uncaring from the recently administered painkiller. “You remember anything else?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know.”

  “I guess you’ll be kept on ice till you remember or until the docs say the memories are gone for good.”

  “And you and John?”

  Chris shrugged. “No clue, man.”

  “I think you’re making a good couple,” Andrei said carefully, as if he were gauging his reaction. Many things were easier with all those painkillers. Such as admitting shit.

  “So do you.”

  Andrei gave a crooked little smile. “Duel at dawn?”

  “I’d kill you easily, and you know it.” Chris sat back. “If anything, that’s his decision.”

  Andrei nodded and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I’d find it hard to let him go while I don’t remember. Or you.”

  “You were a job, Andrei. We did what we were told to do.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Fine.” Chris rubbed his face. “What a fucking mess.”

  A cute nurse Chris had hooked up with once popped into the lounge with some coffee and sandwiches for them. Chris brushed off her fretting as nicely as he could and looked at his watch once she finally left.

  “Where the hell is Soong? The boss must be pissed to keep him this long.”

  “What will it take for you to admit it?”

  Chris scowled. “What?”

  Andrei shook his head in a disappointed sort of way, much as a father would when he knew his son was lying. “You care for him beyond the job.”

  “Fuck you.” Chris took a bite of his cheese sandwich.

  “Perhaps.”

  Chris swallowed and sipped the coffee. “What the—” He broke off when John came through the door, looking more like shit than he had the day after breaking up with his ex. “What happened?”

  John grabbed a sandwich but didn’t actually eat. “The boss was thoroughly unimpressed. Monte Carlo’s swarming with police now… they’ll have to do a lot of work to make that go away.”

  “And?”

  “And we have very little to show for all the trouble and expenses.”

  “Well, I’m alive,” Andrei volunteered.

  “Yes, Andrei, but without your memory, you’re only a body to us. And keeping bodies walking is not… necessarily our priority.” John let his head hang. “Who the hell are those people?”

  “Well, time to tell me why you were sent to protect me,” Andrei said. “Can I finally hear the truth? Don’t I deserve it?”

  John looked tense and uneasy, and Chris thought it might be better if he broke the news. Andrei already disliked him. “It wasn’t so much that. The game was asset denial.”

  “What?”

  “You are another man’s asset, Andrei. The idea was to either remove you from the man’s influence—deny the asset—or neutralize you.”

  “Kill me.”

  “Yes.” Chris grimaced. “There were alternatives. We discussed a grab-and-bag or turning you, but killing you was the most efficient, fastest way to fulfill the objective of taking you out of the game.�
��

  Andrei frowned, and Chris could tell the man wasn’t breathing for long moments. “Did you… shoot me?”

  “No. Barely not.” Chris met the gaze full-on. “That day, when I was going to blow your brains out, somebody else did. We arrived at the scene while you were dying. John here decided to switch plans, then, and go for a grab-and-bag. That’s why he just got torn a new asshole from the boss. We don’t like last-minute decisions like that, especially if the backup and infrastructure isn’t in place. We weren’t prepared to take you, but we improvised.”