Chasing Sergei: Dark Romance

by Aubrey Collins

  “There’s only so much they can do in a crowded space like an Amtrak train. And you said the phone cut off, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So they probably realized that they had messed up by not getting his phone.

  “So they snatched it from him,” Nicholson said.

  “Yeah,” Grabowski replied. “You’re getting good at this.”

  Nicholson smirked. There were a million things that he would’ve like to say or do to her. But that would have to wait.”

  “One day that mouth is going to get you in trouble, Grabowski.”

  “Is that, right?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Her eyes glanced down towards his crotch. She smiled and licked her lips. “I think it’s already gotten me into plenty of trouble already. Don’t you?”

  Nicholson had never had a sparing partner quite like this—man or woman. All he could do was shake his head in admiration. “Enough chit chat for now. We got calls to make.”

  Nicholson called up a couple of his Chicago PD friends. He didn’t give them too many details but the moment he said the word “Russian” he could hear the excitement in their voices. They would do whatever he asked. He told them what exactly needed to be done and promised to make it more than worth their while the next time he came to town, which would be sooner rather than later. Then he contacted a few guys in the Chicago Bureau. Before he had finished the call, they were already gunning it to the Amtrak terminal.

  While he was taking care of that end of the business, Grabowski had the Amtrak national office on the line. She wanted to know exactly where that train was and what station it was nearest to.

  She pulled the phone away from her ear and said, "The train recently left the Connellsville station in western Pennsylvania. Next station is Alliance, Ohio.”

  “Tell them to stop the goddamn train at that station. Lock the doors. Nobody gets on or off. Nobody!”

  “Got it.”

  She delivered the instructions, then hung up. “They most they can hold it for without a more detailed reason is 30 minutes.”

  “How far away is that station?” He asked.

  She quickly entered the information into the cruiser’s GPS. “226 miles. Damn. There’s no way we’ll make it there.”

  “Weren't you the one that was lecturing me about not giving up?”

  “Touché,” she said, lowering her eyes and smiling. Then her head rose quickly. “What are we waiting for?”

  “Right!”

  Nicholson thanked the cops who were standing around the body. If there was no traffic and no accidents, they might just be able to make it. Nicholson got behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition, then revved the engine. “Woooooo!” He yelled.

  Grabowski shook her head from side to side. “I really do hope that you grow up one day, Nicholson.”

  “Me too, sweet thing. Me too.”

  They both turned to each other and smiled, their eyes twinkling with something like desire.

  “AGENTS NICHOLSON AND GRABOWSKI RESPOND. REPEAT AGENTS NICHOLSON AND GRABOWSKI RESPOND.”

  The smiles drained from their faces. Nicholson picked the radio transmitter. “Agent Nicholson, here. What’s up?”

  “Get both your asses down to Quantico, ASAP. All hell’s breaking loose.”

  “Sir, this is really—”

  The phone cut off.

  “Fuck!” they said in unison.

  Chapter 18

  Sergei clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. He had never been a violent man. A lover, not a fighter. But it was taking every last ounce of his self-control to restrain from throttling the neck of this cold bitch of KGB agent. She had him by the balls. And she was about to blow them off smiling a wild, wicked smile, then bursting out cackling while witnessing him die an agonizing death. She definitely seemed like the sadistic sort the kind of chick who would enjoy slipping on a strap on and pounded a man’s ass or a woman’s pussy.

  If he was going to be interrogated and tortured, there was no doubt in his mind that she would be there enjoying the spectacle, and probably taking part. And those two goons, the guys sitting a row ahead of them, who kept turning around and staring hard into Sergei’s eyes, then turning towards the woman, nodding, they would be there too. Definitely KGB. That hard, cold look in their eyes, the ten thousand mile stare. He was very familiar with it.

  Without turning her head towards him, the woman spoke to him in Russian, “That was a very foolish thing for you to do.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “But thanks for the phone. I’m sure it's going to come in handy.” She giggled.

  Sergei swallowed hard. The sticky, sweat that had covered his body when he boarded had completely dried. The AC inside the train was blasting. The woman’s voice and laughter made him shiver, and so did the well-dressed thugs sitting only a few feet away.

  It seemed that his luxurious, playboy lifestyle was finally coming to an end. For so long he’d been living high on the hog, literally, the cocaine and champagne life, 5-star hotels, bright-eyed buxom broads lusting after him, their soaking wet panties sliding down their quivering thighs. He’d lived without a care in the world, even though he knew that he was being tailed by the FBI, even though he knew that encrypted phone would ring one day and he would have to pay. Well, now he was paying. And if he didn’t think of a way to slip his neck out of this noose, then he would end up having to pay with his life.

  His eyes briefly shifted to his left ankle. A slight smile creased his face. Kel-Tec PF9. 9mm. 7 rounds. As long as he had that pistol, he felt like he still had a chance. It surprised him that the KGB agent hadn’t frisked him or asked him if he were armed. That lack of attention to detail was most likely due to his reputation of not often carrying a weapon. He didn’t normally carry one—at least when he was doing some kind of business with Americans. But with Russians, it had always been different. He knew better than to walk amongst them unarmed.

  But what the hell was he going to do with the gun, anyway? Pull it out and start shooting? Pow! Pow! Pow! Three shots. Kill shots. No civilians hurt. Only the bad guys. Yet to a lot people on that train, they would all have been considered bad guys. He was no hero. He was a bastard on the run from his government. Where was the honor in that?

  He hated thinking about it in those terms. He was an actor! An artist! Why had he allowed these bastards to drag him into a web of espionage and international intrigue? He should have stayed in Moscow, began taking more serious acting classes, continuing his journey towards mastery. Sure, he had plenty of setbacks, plenty of humiliating failures. Sure, he had been written off as another actor who failed to realize his potential. Sure, all of that was true but it was still no justification for him giving up on his dream and giving up on himself.

  So what the hell was he going to do with the gun? Take this cold bitch hostage, get off the train at the next stop with the gun pointed at her temple? And then what? If he did that he would be crossing a line, a point of no return, which would completely change the nature of the high-stakes game that he was playing.

  And that point it wouldn’t just be the Russians on his ass. US local, state, and federal law enforcement would join the chase as well. That would turn the heat all the way up, which was something that he definitely didn’t need. Yet he couldn’t see any other way out.

  She spoke to him again, this time in English, without turning in his direction, “Don't you understand that your American friends want you dead?” A sadistic smile split her face in half. What a sick, twisted mind she had! Was she psychopath, or maybe she was motivated by extreme patriotism, a deep and noble love of her country, and a fanatical hatred for the United States. Whatever it was that made her smile like that when she contemplated him dying or being tortured, whatever that thing was he knew one thing: he hated it!

  It reminded him of the fanatical look in the eyes of chess players. He had been forced to play the game competitively at the age of five years old. From the first time he ever
sat down at a chessboard, he had hated it. He found no joy in the metaphorical violence of the game. He didn’t understand why he should care about destroying someone else’s army. He had none of the makings of a warrior. But he knew better than to complain or to ask to opt out of competitive play. His parents already thought it weird enough that on bright sunny days, he would spend hours in the cherry garden acting out Chekov plays.

  He never asked his parents to sign him up for any theater or acting groups and when he became a member of the Moscow Actors Troupe, shortly after graduating high school, he knew better than to tell them.

  “Don't you think it's strange that they've been following you around all this time. And suddenly you slip through their net and manage to get on a train leaving town. And you just happen to walk right into our trap?”

  She turned towards him, sneering. He looked out the window at the passing fields and abandoned factories.

  “It must be hard,” she said, reaching out and placing her hand on his thigh. His entire body froze as if she could kill him with nothing but a gentle touch. “You don’t have any friends. And a lot of people want you dead.” Sergei gritted his teeth and clenched his fist. A good, hard open hand slap right across her mouth was exactly what she needed. He would’ve loved to see the look of shock in her wicked green eyes. She seemed to be really enjoying herself. And she wasn’t done taunting him. “Nobody in this world cares about you. Except your mother.” His opened wide and he quickly turned in her direction. She turned away from him and smiled with satisfaction. She had hit her mark. Had finally gotten a reaction out of him. “She still lives just outside of Moscow, in Sergiyev Posad, right?”

  He couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. “My mother has served the government faithfully and loyally. She gave you her only son.”

  “That’s not quite how it happened. Your mother opposed you joining us until the very last moment.”

  “She gave you her only son.”

  She looked him up and down, frowning contemptuously. “That doesn’t amount to much. But I guess it is something.”

  He should have slapped her.

  His father had passed away several years ago, dying abruptly of a heart attack after an early morning boar hunt with friends. His mother had never quite recovered from the shock. Just like that, he was gone. Sergei was a bit more ambivalent when he heard the news. His father had never supported his artistic ambitions. He considered acting to be lowly, ignoble endeavor, despite the fact that he loved laying on the couch for hours laughing his head off at one sitcom or the other. His mother didn’t support his decision to become a professional actor but she didn’t seem to enjoy his numerous failures the way his father had. The long-time civil servant would snicker and sometimes openly laugh in his son’s face when Sergei returned gloomily from another failed audition. “Ready to give up yet?” his father would sometimes ask him, contempt in his eyes.

  “HELLO FOLKS, OUR NEXT STOP WILL BE ALLIANCE STATION IN ALLIANCE, OHIO. 15 MINUTES. ALL PASSENGERS GETTING OFF AT ALLIANCE STATION, PLEASE BEGIN GATHERING YOUR BELONGINGS. ALLIANCE STATION. 15 MINUTES.

  Sergei’s eyes opened wide. This was his chance. Right as the train pulled into the station, he would draw his weapon, point it at her head, “EVERYBODY PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!” He would yell. He would threaten to blow the pretty blond’s brains out. No one would want to see that. But he would still have to keep his eyes open for any civilian that felt like playing the hero and saving the pretty blond from the big bad man with a gun. He would have to pay particular attention to the two goons sitting across the aisle. Would they just throw their hands in the air because he said so? Fat chance. Hopefully, they would be too stunned to act right away. That would be his only hope. Catch them unawares. Daze them with boldness.

  Another announcement came over the PA system. “Sorry folks. There’s been a change of plans. When we get to Alliance station no one will be allowed to either leave or board the train for at least one hour.”

  People moaned and groaned throughout the cabin, openly voicing their frustration.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “One hour?”

  “I’m going to miss my meeting.”

  “This sucks!”

  “I knew I should have flown.”

  Sergei closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Shit! His plan was out the window—at least for now. But now was all he had. Time was quickly running out.

  “EVERYBODY PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR,” A deep, masculine voice bellowed.

  Sergei opened his eyes and blinked several times as if in a daze. As if he’d taken a full-sized fist straight to the face. The two goons, broad-shouldered, close crop haircuts, well-fitting suits, both held two guns in their hands. Beretta Nano’s. They were flashing them around the cabin.

  He doubted they had the balls to shoot anyone.

  “AAHHHH! DIE YOU BASTARDS!” A middle age man rushed towards the two thugs.

  “POW! POW!” Two shots.

  The would-be hero flailed his arms in the air as the bullets ripped through his chest. He cried out in pain as he stumbled backward.

  “AHHHHH!!!” People started screaming inside the train.

  “POLICE!”

  “DOCTOR! ”

  “HE’S DYING!”

  “HELP!”

  “YOU KILLED HIM!”

  “MURDERER!”

  Sergei felt something hard and metal pressing into his rib cage. He knew exactly what it was.

  She leaned towards him and blew into his ear. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she said. “And I’m gonna need to grab that pistol on your left ankle.”

  The color drained from Sergei’s face.

  Chapter 19

  Regional Director Mackenzie raised the volume on the television.

  “BREAKING NEWS OUT OF WASHINGTON! BREAKING NEWS! The President of the United States has just fired the director of the FBI. Let me repeat that! Richard Tomey, who has been the director of the FBI for the past 5 years has been fired by President Dikshitt.”

  Mackenzie shook his head slowly from side to side. He’d received the news a couple of hours ago. Everyone in the Bureau was losing their mind. The President seemed hell-bent on starting a war with his intelligence services. There was no way this would end well. According to the whispering that Mackenzie had heard, the President had been advised that the best way to make the very troublesome Russia investigation go away was to fire the director of the FBI, a life-long Republican who most likely had voted for him a few months earlier in the election. It was a very bad piece of advice. There was no way in hell that this investigation was going away. If anything, the heat was about turned up—director or no director—the agents would be out in the field doing their jobs.

  “Folks we haven’t seen anything like this since the days of Richard Nixon. Watergate. The Saturday night massacre. That’s how people are beginning to talk about this ever-developing situation. Right now let’s go to our White House Correspondent Heidi Smoleska. Heidi, what are you hearing from the White House, and from other power players about the President’s latest shocking move?”

  “Thank you, Jack! I've been talking to several lawmakers and there are a couple words that I keep hearing. Chaos and confusion. Nobody quite understands why the President thought this would be an appropriate time to fire the director of the FBI, in the middle of a very serious investigation into any possible ties between his campaign and Russia.”

  Mackenzie snickered and shook his head. Personally, he was tired of hearing about Russians. The country had so many damn serious problems that needed to be addressed. And that’s why he had voted for the boastful, loud talking, New York City real estate mogul, and branding genius. But the man seemed hell bent on making things as hard for himself and the campaign as possible. He couldn’t go more than a day or so without saying or doing something that gave people new, fresh ammunition to come after him with.

  “NO ONE IN DC CAN BELIEVE IT! Just when insiders figured that Preside
nt Dikshitt had done every foolish, unadvised thing possible, just when it seemed that he had pushed past all limits of decency upturned one convention after another, he goes and does something totally unexpected. HE FIRES THE DIRECTOR OF THE FBI!!!

  Mackenzie turned down the volume. He poured himself another scotch over ice, leaned his head back and took a slow sip. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he grumbled. ‘They’re talking about Nixon. That bastard.”

  Watergate? He didn’t actually think things were quite that bad—at least not yet. The President still had to make this Russian investigation go away before members of inner circle start asking for immunity before they give public testimony. At least one former member of the President’s team, a former five-star general who was awarded the powerful and prestigious role as Director of Homeland Security, was currently in the process of cutting a deal for immunity before he speaks before Congress about his role in the scandal.

  Potential presidency destroying scandals loomed on the horizon. More than ever the President needed loyal, no-nonsense men around him, the type of men who would be able to sense and smoke out all enemies and traitors. Mackenzie couldn’t remember the last administration that had suffered so many leaks after such a short time in power. It was unbelievable! And it was also the kind of thing that would only get worse, the leaked information becoming more and more sensitive.

  Mackenzie looked at the red baseball hat hanging from his coat road. He smiled and shook his head. Embroidered in white were the words, “Make America Great Again.” That had been the slogan on everyone’s lips. It was the slogan that helped to define the President’s improbable campaign. Nobody was able to quite say what it meant. And that was the genius behind it. During his campaign he had promised to “drain the swamp” and stay out of stupid foreign wars. It had all sounded so good. They were going to build a wall and keep the wetbacks—um, Mexicans out. They were going to ban all foreigners from Muslim countries. Let them blow themselves up, institute Sharia Law, or do whatever the hell else they wanted to do in their own countries.