The Perfect Weapon

by Christopher Metcalf

  “I know what you’re thinking. You wish I hadn’t gone to Moscow on my own,” she turned her head to look at him. Her smile was deadly. “You may not believe this, but for the first time ever, I actually debated going there alone. Never once crossed my mind before...” she trailed off.

  “Before?” he caressed her arm with the back of his hand. He did it naturally, not aware of his need to touch her as much as possible, constantly was best.

  “Before about six weeks ago.” Her smile turned into a slight frown.

  “Oh. I see.” He put his lips to her right shoulder. “I think I know what you mean.”

  “Lance, you are getting in the way of my work. You are affecting my behavior," her face inches from his.

  He smiled and kissed her. She welcomed his lips. He pulled away enough to speak into her ear, “Marta, you are affecting my life, not just my work.” She kissed his jaw line and neck. The conversation was over for now. They both would have liked to get messy and sweaty, but his injuries still required some control. She was patient, but it was running low. She needed him back to 100 percent soon.

  It was later that evening that Lance was able to get a few more fragments of information out of Marta. She wasn’t withholding facts on purpose, they had just avoided talking shop for two weeks. But lying there in the soothing warmth of the tropical night, she laid out the steps she had taken after he had left her still in bed in Vienna.

  They had devised a fairly detailed plan with multiple contingencies. She told him about traveling to Belgrade to meet with two contacts, then to Sarajevo to check up on an operation she had placed on autopilot earlier in the year. From there, she flew to Moscow and worked her way through several peripheral resources she had called upon sparingly over the years. She researched security, travel patterns, key team members and potential leverage points in Cherzny’s personal and professional lives. It was a nuts and bolts report with just enough detail to make it believable.

  But Lance wasn’t fooled. Left between the lines and floating around the edges was the real story. He didn’t push her on it. She’d share more when she was ready.

  If she had been willing to share the details of her weeks away from him, those details would have indeed got his heart racing. Marta did travel to Belgrade, Sarajevo and Moscow. Those were not lies. And she did visit field resources in each city. She just neglected to tell Lance that she killed one contact in Belgrade and wounded another. Was shot at and attacked on the road outside Sarajevo. And some of the information she extracted in her review of security and other details in Moscow was due in large part to her torturing a man who thought he was about to enjoy her intimate company.

  Her Belgrade excursion returned her to the heart of downtown, where she set up an appointment with a telecommunications professional she had worked with a dozen times in five years. He was unmatched in his knowledge of wired communications and moving data over phone lines. Turned out, he was also scared to death after receiving the call from Marta, and had placed a call moments later to the number two KGB man in the city. This, in turn, set in motion a plan to ambush Marta, with six men stationed at perimeter sightlines outside the drug store where they were to meet.

  Marta, after a several meetings with people lying in wait to kill her, expected the attack. Truth be told, she was hoping to provoke it. She looked down on the street in front of the drug store from a third floor window and counted five men that shouldn’t be there. That meant there were likely others. She focused her binoculars on one gentleman situated 150 yards from the store’s front door.

  The man leaned against a wall in a doorway, lazily holding a radio up to his ear. His eyes aimed at the street. He had no reason to think the glass door to an office building behind him would come into play. Minutes later, Marta moved to the building and stood inside the door for three minutes, watching the man, listening.

  He spoke into the radio only once. Before he heard the door behind him open, Marta brought the retractable club down diagonally on his neck and shoulder. The blow caused momentary paralysis. She picked up the radio and put it in a pocket and dragged him back into the building.

  “Comrade,” she spoke Russian to the KGB operative. “You chose a good day to die. The sun was shining. Only a few clouds in the sky. And tonight you can visit your children using your angel’s wings. That is unless you will be stuck down in a fiery pit.” She was inches from his face. A silenced gun jammed into his neck.

  She smiled pleasantly. “Did they tell you I was dangerous, or maybe just that I’m a girl?” She laughed at that. “I guess I’m both really.”

  She moved the gun from his neck to his shoulder and fired. The bullet exploded quietly through his body and into the wall behind. Her gloved hand clamped over his mouth muffled his scream.

  “Tell me one thing, and I may let you live.”

  “Anything,” he pleaded without hesitation when she moved her hand.

  “Your call numbers and pass codes. Now, and don’t delay.” She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small tape recorder.

  The broken and bleeding man recited three phone numbers and six passwords. He did not hesitate in the least.

  “Very good. One more thing, how many children do you have?”

  “Two.” He answered.

  “Why?” she raised her eyebrows. It made her think of Lance and his fascination with the procerus muscle.

  The man did not grasp the meaning of the one-word question. “What do you mean?”

  “Why do you have children and still do this job? Do they, or your wife, know that you might never come home when you leave the house each day?”

  “No. They have no idea.”

  “Then you live a lie, a series of lies.”

  “Yes.” Tears came to his eyes. He knew he was a dead man.

  “I don’t know you, and I never will. You are a lucky man to have a family. You should have chosen a different profession. This is not a job for a family man.”

  “I know, I know.” He began to cry. He would never see his children again.

  “Calm down. I’m not going to kill you.” The radio in her pocket burst with static and then a whisper asking where the man was. He had left his post. “Answer them, and then step outside the door for two minutes. At that time, you can fake being shot. You never saw me, of course. And then you have a choice, continue living your lies, or find a new profession. You will have a few weeks of recuperation to think about it.”

  With that, she stepped away from him and deeper into the dark building. He struggled to his feet and made it painfully out the door, where he stood for two minutes and then cried out in pain, for the others to hear.

  Marta watched the scene from the third floor window two buildings over. The KGB operative she had shot was taken away and the others converged on the store to escort her telecommunications expert out to a waiting car. It was well executed.

  Later, Marta waited inside the telecommunications expert's apartment. The hours passed. He was not coming home. She sat there in the dark, her gun in hand. She felt somewhat relieved not having to shoot the man. She was alone with her thoughts. They were annoying at first, but she was slowly growing accustomed to having something of a conscience. She thought of Lance, and wondered how his day had gone and, of course, how quickly he could get back to her.

  The next afternoon, Marta left a meeting with a contact beyond reproach. The businessman knew little about her and had always been helpful in aiding her development of assets in Sarajevo. She had shown up without notice in his office on the southwest end of the city’s downtown. He welcomed her into his office and was receptive to her questions about her crumbling network.

  He had heard the talk on the street about the sanctions placed upon her by Moscow. He did not like them, did not think Moscow could call those kinds of shots anymore. Not even Smelinski.

  He informed her of two new factions growing in prominence, and confirmed her prediction that Sarajevo would indeed be a flashpoint in the com
ing racial and ethnic violence between Croats and Serbs. He saw war for Yugoslavia and death for his people, his family and friends.

  Marta left his office with a good bit of information. She also left with three tail cars. And she was pretty sure a helicopter overhead was there for her as well.

  Within minutes, the tails were in active pursuit, and like a bad American movie, guys leaned out car windows shooting at her. “Zhalkii,” she muttered looking at the rearview mirror. She used the Russian word for “pitiful” as she concentrated on the streets ahead. She lost focus for just a moment when she thought of Lance. Not his face or smile or body, she thought of his photographic memory. He would know which turn to take, which highway onramp to choose.

  Instead, she had to work with what she knew of Sarajevo. She’d been here many times and knew her way in and out of town. She rounded a corner from a busy thoroughfare onto a two-lane street with cars parked on each side. It was perfect, and she reacted in a perfect fashion. Two of the three cars chasing her came around the corner a moment later. She slammed on the brakes and swung the car sideways to create a roadblock. Before her car was stopped, she was out the door with a gun in each hand, aiming the weapons at the approaching vehicles as she moved around the rear of her car.

  Marta knew about windshields and their ability to deflect bullets. The angle of the shatterproof glass could protect the person behind it. The first car pursuing her came screeching to a stop. She could see in the eyes of the two men inside they knew they were in trouble. She burst into a run, and was parallel to the driver’s side window a second later. She aimed both guns at the window and fired six shots. Glass exploded and the men inside were dead before broken glass hit the asphalt below.

  The second car had also come to a skidding halt. The driver slammed the car into reverse and it started accelerating backwards. Problem was, Marta was already running in their direction. There wouldn’t be enough time to get it up to speed.

  The passenger in the car recognized this fact and began firing at Marta through the windshield. It was a mistake. When the bullets from his gun exploded through the glass, the shatterproof glass did its job and spread the impacts across the screen creating an impossible mosaic. Neither driver, not passenger could see Marta as she rolled on the street next to the car. She came back up to a knee and fired two shots from the gun in her right hand into the front right tire, and then three shots from the one in her left hand back through the broken windshield. Her shots found their targets. The driver was hit and lost control. The car swerved to the left and into a parked sedan.

  Marta crossed in front of the car. She fired three more shots into the passenger side window. The glass didn’t explode this time, but the bullets did their job. She didn’t stop to admire her work. Instead, she looked up at the helicopter hovering overhead and thought “what the hell.” She steadied her aim by placing her right arm atop her bent left arm and fired the remaining six bullets in her gun. All six hit the copter. Two struck the windshield, leaving two distinct holes she could see from 200 feet below.

  She sprinted back to her car and saw up ahead that the third vehicle was waiting at the end of the block. The driver had gone ahead in an attempt to cut her off. She hopped into the driver's seat, spun the steering wheel and floored the gas. She was up to 40, then 50 kilometers in seconds. She grabbed the seat belt and strapped it over her, preparing for impact. The driver of the third car put the transmission in reverse and pulled out of the way at the last moment. Marta blew past doing 60.

  The car appeared in her rearview mirror a minute later as she took the onramp onto E761. The freeway would take her northeast into the mountains, away from Sarajevo. She kept the pedal down. Marta had driven this road several times before and really enjoyed the twists and turns it offered.

  She worked out a plan to slam to a stop around one of those turns and put a hail of bullets into the car chasing her. The helicopter presented another challenge.

  After a few minutes of blazing through the mountain road, she slowed a fraction to let the chase car gain on her. Her spot was up ahead. She focused on the road and rearview mirror. The helicopter would have to wait.

  She took the hairpin turn at 45. Rubber burned and gravel flew as gravity and momentum tugged at the four wheels holding her vehicle to the earth. She continued to swing the car around onto the shoulder on the inside of the turn. Her vehicle faced the oncoming road, and the car chasing her. She had reloaded both guns a few miles earlier. She calmly stepped out of the car with both guns ready and bent to a knee to steady her aim. Marta fired seven shots at the windshield and front tires of the car as it rounded the hairpin corner. The driver lost control, and the sedan plowed straight ahead into the rocky mountainside to the right of the roadway. Marta was up and running at the vehicle as it crashed to a stop.

  Both men in the car were still alert. They opened their doors and spilled out. They came out firing. Marta didn’t change her approach in the least, firing from about 50 feet away. With two barrels blazing, like another bad American movie, she placed four holes in the head of the vehicle’s driver. Not bad at all considering she was running full speed. The passenger ducked down beside the vehicle and crawled to the rear. Marta could see his next move, so she dove to the ground and skidded to a stop just off the road.

  She lay on her side with her guns aimed at the spot she expected his head to appear. When it did, she fired eight shots, hitting him with six. He was a bloody and dead mess before he hit the ground.

  That left the helicopter.

  Marta was back on her feet and to the wrecked car in a flash. She reached in and grabbed 9 MM and a shotgun in the back seat. She rolled to the ground beside the car just as the helicopter cleared the mountain. It swooped slowly down on the scene. Marta inched her way underneath the vehicle as the copter came in close for a better view. The blades whipped the air, creating tremendous noise and dust as the pressure of pushed air bounced off the tight valley walls. She had chosen the perfect location.

  The bird descended for a clear view and clean shot by the shooter hanging out the chopper's door. She waited, covering her face with her arm to protect from dirt and debris blown by the propeller. The pilot maneuvered the helicopter straight over the car, just the mistake she needed. Marta rolled out and lifted the shotgun to take aim at the bird’s rear rotor. She fired both shells. The spread of pellets struck the spinning vertical blade causing damage and creating a cacophony of sounds. Pellets sliced through metal and ricochet in every direction. Several struck Marta in the legs, ripping into her jeans.

  She dropped the shotgun and aimed the 9 mm into the door of the whirly bird as it spun around, losing control. The shooter hanging out the door was annihilated. She raised another gun and fired through the open door at the pilot. He too was hit. She knew what was coming next and decided to play it safe by diving back under the sedan for protection.

  In the next few seconds, the helicopter rose slightly, spun four times and then tipped to it’s left side, causing it to pick up speed, accelerating into the side of the mountain. The pilot's dead weight on the stick was all that was needed to send the bird to its fiery death. The explosion was deafening in the tight valley. As the fireball rolled down the hill on the opposite side of the road, Marta emerged to see a VW van approaching. The driver slammed on his breaks 200 meters from the deadly scene.

  Marta would have preferred no witnesses. She had a choice. Race toward the van and dispatch the passengers in the vehicle or sprint across the road to her idling car and hightail it out of there. She chose a middle ground. She jump in her car, nailed the gas to spin it around and shoot directly at the van and its terrified occupants. She stopped beside the driver’s door, jumped out with gun in hand and pointed it at the man's head through the window. She could see a woman beside him with a look of pure, uncontrollable horror on her face.

  Marta tapped on the window and signaled for him to roll it down. He shook his head so she pointed the gun at his forehead. He complied.r />
  “T23N7. That is your license plate number and that tells me your name and address. You did not see me here. Is that clear?” She shouted in English.

  “Yes. Please.” The gentleman replied.

  “Drive away or stick around for authorities, but do not mention me, or I will use that name and address and pay you two a visit. And then I will visit your relatives. Good bye.”

  She turned and slid back into her driver’s seat, closing the door behind her. She was completely calm, already coming down from the adrenalin rush of the chase and shootings. She had killed eight men in 16 minutes. They should never have followed her. She was happy to leave the couple in the van alive. Just months ago, she wouldn’t have done that. She was different, changed.

  As she sped away from the chaos and death behind her, she thought of the trigger for the attack. Did her contact in Sarajevo give her up? She just couldn’t see that happening. More likely, his office was bugged. Maybe it was bugged just to see if she ever showed up, or perhaps it had been wiretapped for years. She considered that the most likely scenario as she drove away, further into the mountains northeast of Sarajevo. She ran back through the preceding minutes and laughed to herself again. It really was like a bad American action movie. Lance would have loved it. He’d never hear about it, but she knew him well enough to know that stuff was right up his alley.

  Indeed, she shared none of this, or the gruesome details of her recent Moscow escapades with Lance. He didn’t need it right now.

  “How did you find me in Hawaii?” Lance broke into her concentration, as he often did nowadays. He had let her drift for a few minutes and watched her little trip into her recent past. It was fun just looking at her lying there with eyes closed.

  She opened them, “How do you think?”

  “Originally, I thought it was your psychic abilities and our mystic connection. But then I thought it through and had to consider a couple of other options.”

  “And, what did you come up with?”