Nightmare Army

by Don Pendleton

  “Right. If she—” Scott waved at the still nearly nude woman “—would kindly do us the favor of getting dressed, we could get down there, find Lusine and call for help.”

  Having grasped how serious the situation was, Siranush had pulled on her dress and began putting on her shoes. Alcaster shook his head. “Go barefoot. If we have to run, you’re done.”

  She looked at the ridiculous four-inch heels, then nodded. Picking one up, she regarding the spike on the back, hefting it for balance. “I think I will keep them, however.”

  Alcaster glanced at Scott, who shrugged. “Better than anything we’ve got. Speaking of...” Rising from his chair, he tipped it over. “Give me a hand.”

  Together the two tore the chair apart enough to get the legs off. Alcaster swung one through the air, getting the feel of it.

  “A very serviceable club,” Scott said as he swung his own back and forth. “Much better than going down empty-handed, right?”

  “Yeah.” Licking his lips, Alcaster looked at the door, then at his friend. “You sure you’re up for this?”

  Scott stared back at him for a moment. “No. But there isn’t any other choice. We have to get out of here, and the sooner the better.” He held up the thick piece of walnut. “And I’m not letting anyone get in my way.”

  “All right, then.” Alcaster walked to the door and quietly unlocked it. “Will, take the other side,” he whispered. “Siranush, get behind him.”

  Scott took his position behind the door, improvised club held high to clobber anyone who might come at his friend. Taking a deep breath, Alcaster looked at his buddy, who nodded. Holding his own club high, and turning the knob as slowly as possible, he cracked the door open, braced for someone to charge at him.

  Nothing happened. Other than the creak of the hinges, he didn’t hear a sound from the hallway. Even the crazed Anoush had finally stopped beating against the door of her prison.

  Alcaster opened the door just wide enough to stick his head out. The hallway was empty. Where is everyone else? he wondered. The answering thought—they’re all dead—made him shudder.

  “All right, let’s go,” he whispered. Opening the creaky door just wide enough to slip through, he stepped into the empty hallway, looking both ways. “Follow me.”

  The stairway was in the middle of the building, bisecting the upper hallway. Alcaster, with Scott and Siranush trailing him, crept over there, wincing every time one of them stepped on a creaky board. Every time they passed a room, Alcaster held his breath, sure that the door would fly open and he’d be attacked by a bloodthirsty psycho.

  By the time they reached the staircase, he was sweating all over, and quickly wiped his hands on his pants so he could hold on to his club. “Watch the other hall. I’m going to take a look down the staircase.”

  He was about to step down when a hand grabbed his arm. He looked back to see Scott’s worried face staring back at him. “Not too far, okay?”

  Alcaster shook his head. “Don’t worry, first sign of trouble and I’m hightailing it back up here.”

  His friend nodded. “Be careful.”

  Alcaster nodded back, then eased around the corner. The staircase had a landing about ten steps up, and he would have to get down there before he could see through the railing into the bar. Step by creaky step, he descended, his heart in his throat. At the landing, he leaned down and peered through the wooden balusters. The main desk and a small sitting area were on one side, with the bar on the other. At this hour of the morning, the whole place should have been empty.

  However, it wasn’t.

  Scanning the main desk area, Alcaster turned to see Lusine standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at him. Even in the dim light, he could see the sheen of sweat on her face, and was pretty sure her eyes were red-rimmed. Still, she hadn’t immediately leaped for him—yet.

  “Uh, Lusine? Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

  She didn’t reply, just put her foot on the first step. Her cheek twitched and she raised a pale arm to absently wipe her glistening forehead. When she did, Alcaster noticed the new, raw bite mark on her arm, still oozing blood. “Stay where you are,” he said a bit louder while raising his club. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Again she didn’t answer, but took another step up.

  “Gary? What’s going on?” Scott whispered from above him. “Is that Lusine?”

  “Yeah, and I think she’s got what the others have,” he said over his shoulder while not taking his gaze off her. She took another step up. “She’s not listening to me.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I want her to stay the hell down there!” Alcaster said as she took another step. His arms trembled from the strain. It was one thing to defend himself against someone who was clearly out to hurt him, but she hadn’t done anything like that yet. She just kept coming closer and closer...

  “Not another step, I mean it!” he said as he cocked his club back, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

  Lusine took another step, moving faster now.

  “Lusine, stop...” Siranush said from the top of the staircase. Her friend paused for a moment, cocking her head to regard the other woman, then kept coming toward him. As she took the final step, her face darkened, mouth dropping open to reveal dingy teeth, and her hands came up, fingers curved into grasping claws.

  “I’m sorry—” When she was a step away, Alcaster swung his club toward her head. She didn’t duck or dodge, and the end of the chair leg smashed into her temple. Lusine stood there a moment as blood trickled down from where the corner had split her skin open. Then she fell backward and slid down the stairs, coming to a graceless heap at the bottom.

  Alcaster stood there for a long moment, the bloody club nearly forgotten in his hand. Sensing a presence beside him, he turned to see Scott and Siranush standing there.

  “You—you had to do it, man. She would have ripped into you otherwise,” Scott said.

  “I—I know. That doesn’t make it any better.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll be all right. Come on, let’s find that phone.”

  The three ran to the main desk, where Alcaster grabbed the receiver of the old, black phone on the counter. He put it to his ear as he jiggled the receiver. “It’s dead.”

  “Fuck it, then!” Scott said as he whirled and headed toward the front door. “We’ve got a car. Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  “Will, wait!” Alcaster ran after him, but the towheaded Brit was already fumbling with the old-style bolt.

  “Got it—let’s go!” He began pushing the door open.

  “Hold up,” Alcaster said, reaching for him. But it was too late.

  As he trotted outside, the dozen or so people already on the street all turned to look at him at once, their eyes practically glistening red in the light of the rising sun.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Evie,” as Alexsandr Sevan knew her, came back to consciousness on the floor of the master bedroom. Her head pounded as though a hammer was beating it, and a dull ache throbbed at the base of her skull.

  What...happened? Pushing herself up on her elbows made the pain shoot to the front of her head and bounce around her brain for a minute. Squeezing her eyes closed, she breathed in and out until the agony receded a bit. She knew she would have to watch for a concussion for the next day or so.

  When she felt up to it, she opened her eyes—and saw the motionless bulk of a man lying in front of her. Startled, she recoiled for a moment, then relaxed when she saw who it was. The bullet hole in his cheek distorted his features into a smeared caricature of what he had looked like when alive.

  “Lernik finally got his. Good.” She had been careful to never be alone with the pig, not since the first time she’d made that mistake and he’d drunkenly tried to rape her in a club bathroom. She had fende
d him off then, aided by his throwing up and passing out, and kept quiet about what had happened when he didn’t seem to remember later. She had also made sure to encounter him in a group from that point on.

  Looking at the mussed bed and open window, it all started coming back to her: the masked assailant holding a knife on Sevan...grabbing the vase and throwing it...listening to their conversation from under the bed...coming out and attacking him...seeing his face after hitting the floor, all black hair and ice-blue eyes...and then blackness... She looked around for other bodies, but didn’t see any. The usually security-locked door to the bedroom stood open, and she couldn’t hear any noise from the rest of the house.

  Jesus, who was that guy? Did he take Alexsandr? Did Alexsandr kill him? All questions she’d have to find answers to later—assuming she stayed alive long enough to ask them.

  However this turned out, she was pretty sure her mission was screwed. “Evie” was really Dina Finigian, a deep-cover operative with the Armenian Police, Combating Organized Crime Main Department. Finigian was half Asian, half Romanian. Her parents had moved to Armenia before she’d been born to help care for some distant relatives and help with disposing of a business. They’d ended up buying it and living in the city of Martuni. Finigian had grown up here, and considered the country her home.

  Recently a new police chief had been appointed by the president. He had risen to prominence due to his dismantling of several smaller crime families in the southern part of the country, despite threats against his life, an assault and two assassination attempts. Those operations had brought him to the prime minister’s attention, who had nominated him to coming to the capital to oversee a concerted push against the rest of the organized crime in the nation.

  Finigian, along with her superior, had scheduled a meeting with him during his first week to present their deep-cover proposal. All previous attempts to infiltrate the Armenian mob had been tried using male agents. All of them had failed, with the undercover agents disappearing or getting killed in gruesome ways. Finigian had presented a compelling case as to why a woman might be able to accomplish what the male policemen couldn’t. The crime families, with their patriarchal, honor-based systems, wouldn’t look too closely at a woman in their organization—especially an ordinary prostitute.

  The prime minister was interested but apprehensive, fearing the public opinion backlash that might occur if the operation went wrong and Finigian was injured or killed. It was the riskiest operation they had ever undertaken—Finigian would be entirely on her own, with no backup, since they didn’t know whom they could trust among the police force. However, she had told him she joined the force to fight all criminals, no matter what it took. That speech, along with her exotic appearance—all but guaranteeing the locals wouldn’t think she was a plant—and the carefully orchestrated plan, was how she had ended up here, after being planted in Romania and “recruited” by the Armenians.

  Since then she had found out exactly how callous they could be to the women they trafficked, dispensing casual brutality every day. Physical abuse, rape and even cold-blooded killing were normal facts of life here. Finigian had tried her best to minimize the brutality among the girls without blowing her cover, but it had been nearly impossible. Everything she’d seen, however, had only made her more determined to take these wolves in human form down once and for all.

  She thought she’d gotten her chance when Alexsandr Sevan had seen her on a tour of the brothel and selected her to accompany him on the trip to Italy. That week had been spent charming both the Italian and Armenian mobsters while feeding her “clients” knockout drops to keep them out of her pants. She had been worried when the trip had been unexpectedly extended, but they had returned last night without incident. Fortunately, Sevan had been tired from the travel, so there had been no need to drug him before bedtime. Although that might have made the unknown intruder’s job even easier, she thought.

  But all that wouldn’t matter if Sevan was dead. And it would matter even less if Finigian didn’t make it out of here to report and eventually testify about what she’d seen during her time in this region of hell. No matter what, she had to make sure that no more women were fed into the grinder of what amounted to sex slavery.

  First things first, however. She crawled over to Lernik’s dead body and patted him down, breathing through her mouth to avoid smelling the stench of blood, sweat and feces wafting from the body. Finding a .45-caliber SW-1911 Pro pistol, black with gold filigree and ivory grips, still in its holster, she pulled it out and checked the action to find it fully loaded. Under his other shoulder were two full magazines, which she also took.

  The rest of his pockets revealed a cell phone—broken—and a thick wad of 1000-and 5000-dram notes. She also noticed three unusual shell casings nearby. Picking one up, she saw it wasn’t made of brass, but nickel, from an American ammunition manufacturer. Hornady .40 caliber...definitely not a local.

  Only when she tried to put a casing, the extra ammo and cash somewhere did she look down at the sheer, plunging, satin cream negligee barely covering her body and shake her head. “Definitely need something else to wear,” she muttered.

  Opening the walk-in closet door, she began riffling through the endless men’s tailored suits and leisurewear. The only women’s clothing she found were either sluttier variations on what she was already wearing or expensive, ornamental dresses that would be absolutely no use to her now.

  Finally she settled for the smallest pair of khaki trousers she could find, belting them around her waist with a five-hundred-dollar Armani leather belt. At least the length was decent—she had long legs. And now I have pockets, she thought, slipping the two magazines, money roll and shell casing into them. Selecting a navy-blue button-down shirt, she put it on and buttoned it up, rolling the sleeves to her elbows.

  Finding proper shoes was impossible, as everything in the closet was too big. She didn’t even think about trying to use her cheap, four-inch heels. Taking a deep breath, she hurried over to the doorway and peeked out, pistol held firmly in two hands. The weapon’s thick grip made it difficult to hold in her smaller hands, and she knew it would kick hard, so she was hoping she wouldn’t have to fire unless absolutely necessary.

  She stepped out onto the landing and listened again, trying to figure out what had happened after the bedroom door had opened. Only silence greeted her. Pointing the pistol at the floor, she started down the stairs, every sense alert for any sign of Sevan, the intruder, or any of the eight to ten people who were normally around the house at any given time.

  At the bottom of the staircase she found more of the nickel shell casings, along with three bodies in the large living room. Sevan’s former bodyguards were all sprawled out in various lifeless poses. When she stepped forward, she saw the gunshot wounds to the chests and head of all three—accurate shots in the same places on each one. Her assessment of the masked intruder rose a notch. Maybe he was a policeman or military operative?

  There was no sign of where the action had gone after that, so Finigian walked to the massive front door, which was steel-cored. It was impossible to hear through, so she opened it and peeked outside.

  The morning sunlight nearly blinded her, making her shield her watering eyes as they adjusted. By the time they did, the nearest of several people milling around the lawn was only a few steps away. A woman whom Finigian thought might have worked as a maid, but wasn’t sure. She didn’t look very well, however. Her dress was only half on and she was missing a shoe. Also, her hair wasn’t in the typical bun and she was sweating profusely, as if she had just run from the hotel, almost a kilometer away, to here.

  “Oh...hello,” Finigian said in Armenian. “What are you doing—?”

  The second she spoke, the woman looked up, her face making Finigian recoil. Her eyes were red-rimmed and had a yellow cast to the whites. Her face was flushed, her thin lips parched and cracked. For a
moment the two women stared at each other.

  “Are you all—” she tried to ask when the woman opened her mouth in a terrifying snarl. With a scream, the villager rushed at her, fingers curled into claws on her outstretched hands.

  Startled, Finigian backpedaled inside and tried to close the heavy door, but the woman thrust her arm between it and the jamb, blocking it while continuing to scream. The hand that was inside the room clawed at the policewoman’s face and neck.

  “Stop!” Finigian shouted while trying to keep the door closed. Over the woman’s screams, she could hear others running to the door. “Help me! Stop her!”

  The next thing she knew, the door flew open so hard it shoved her backward. Surprised, she stumbled into the middle of the room and tripped over one of the dead guards, landing on her buttocks. She had the presence of mind to hold on to the pistol, which she brought up when she saw the insanity in the eyes of the men and woman bursting through the door and heading straight for her.

  “Stop!” was all Finigian said as she realized if she didn’t kill them, they were going to tear her apart.

  Scrambling backward, she was forced to hold the pistol with one hand as she squeezed the trigger. The pistol bucked and roared, firing heavy .45-caliber rounds that plowed into flesh and bone. She dropped two, but more surged forward from behind them. The two wounded ones didn’t slow much, but their going down caused a knot of several more people to get jammed up in the doorway, with a third tripping over a wounded villager and falling on them, as well.

  The others still charged forward, stepping over and on their fellows, but the break gave Finigian the chance she needed to get to her feet. Shooting until the slide locked back, she ejected the magazine and grabbed another one from her pocket while backing toward the stairs. Slamming it into the grip, she chambered a round and kept shooting, now using both hands as she reached the stairs and began climbing.