Class Fives: Origins

by Jon H. Thompson

After a few twists and turns the car made a final jog around a corner toward a cul de sac and White reached to flip off the headlights, plunging them into the final gloom of a dying day.

  White glided the car to the curb and to a stop.

  John perked up, glancing around.

  “Okay, what now?”

  “Reconnaissance,” White said. “I have to make a pass, verify that he’s actually there.”

  “And if he’s not?”

  “We wait until he returns,” White said, flatly.

  “Okay, what about me?”

  White’s attention was now fully fixed on a small white house at the edge of the large circle that ended the street.

  “Stay in the vehicle. Put the radio on channel sixteen. If I need you to jump I’ll say just that, ‘jump’. Go back as far as you can and stop me from going in there. Tell me something went wrong. And we’ll know he is in there, I won’t have to check. Think you can do that?”

  “Right,” John responded.

  White nodded sharply, quietly pushed open the door and slid from the car, easing it shut behind him.

  He turned and moved off into the deep, rich shadows, quickly blending in.

  John sat in the car, watching the older man disappear, feeling a tension crawling up his skin. He felt the weight of the pistol, and it was strangely reassuring.

  The bald man stood over the bed, sipping from the tall glass of iced tea he’d just made himself and staring down at the girl. She was naked now, her terrified eyes fixed on him, her whimpers muffled by the gag. Her hands and feet had turned a deep red, the blood flow restricted by the ropes she had unknowingly tightened during her earlier struggles.

  He noticed the tiny ridges scattered across her skin, the so-called goose bumps, and he felt a warm rush of pleasure. It wasn’t cold enough for the air temperature to cause those. That was pure fear. Excellent.

  He reached out a hand toward her slowly and felt another jolt of pleasure when she saw the move, emitted a sharp yelp and slammed her eyes closed, her body going rigid.

  He felt a rush of delight and froze, holding his hand over her body, savoring her distress. To elicit this strong a response and to not even have done anything yet was beyond what he could have expected. The very first time he began to feed the tip of the needle into her skin, she would explode, he thought. She’d be screaming herself raw into the gag just as he got warmed up.

  He slowly straightened and took another sip of the cool, bittersweet liquid.

  This was the last time he would ever be able to do this, he thought, but it would be one of the best. And that was fitting. Like going out on top. That’s how it should be.

  He turned to set the glass down on the small end table beside the head of the bed, and just happened to be glancing out the open door, down the hallway toward the small, plain den at the back of the building, when he saw the flicker of light.

  Instantly he knew it was a shadow, moving past the side door, caught for a moment in the glare of the bright floodlight deliberatly positioned and aimed to throw a harsh square of light through the room. At night he could see that box of light from practically everywhere in the small structure. Anyone who tried to slip around the side of the building would break that beam, and might as well simply shout their presence.

  Instantly he was moving silently, tiptoeing across the small bedroom to where his jacket was draped over the back of the plain, wooden chair, reaching for the dangling shoulder holster.

  He knew not to turn off the small bedroom light. That might be noticed by whoever was cautiously circling the building.

  He eased the large automatic pistol from its holster and quickly dug in the pocket of the jacket, extracting the silencer.

  Then he stepped into the bedroom doorway and took a relaxed but ready stance, rapidly screwing the silencer onto the barrel of the weapon.

  He raised it, thumbed off the safety and gently cocked the hammer, finally gripping it with both hands.

  Then he began to move, tiptoeing smoothly down the short hallway and stopping in the very lip where it joined the den. He watched the shadow slide away as whoever it was moved toward the rear corner of the house.

  He flicked his eyes to the large window that dominated the back wall, allowing those inside to look out over the nicely maintained back lawn, enclosed by the high walls.

  Good, he thought. There was only the single way into and out of the backyard. Whoever it was had trapped himself.

  He saw the shadowy figure appear at the edge of the window, moving slowly, eyes scanning. He knew he would be hidden from the intruder's view by the shadows that shrouded the hallway. He could wait to see if this was simply a nosey neighbor or –

  It happened within a single second.

  The dark shadowy figure moving slowly by the back window suddenly froze, changed shape as it jerked upright. An instant later the bald man realized the bedroom light was still on, perhaps casting him into a sharp silhouette that the person outside must have seen.

  They seemed to both freeze, two indistinct beings staring through glass and shadow and the night directly at one another. Then the shadowy figure began to move, snapping to the side.

  The bald man squeezed the trigger.

  The muted spitting sound of the weapon was overlaid by the sharp, high ping of the glass as the bullet penetrated it, and the figure dropped out of sight below the wide window.

  He moved swiftly, keeping the gun pointed at the window, even as he turned and strode to the large glass door set to the side of the building. He flipped the lock and pushed it open, swinging the barrel of the weapon to go before him into the night.

  He stepped down to the concrete walkway that ran the length of the building and eased toward the back corner, where he paused before stepping suddenly out, the gun swinging to where the figure had fallen.

  The man lay there, sprawled on his back, arms bent awkwardly, the pistol laying almost limply in the open, dead palm.

  It took a moment to make him out fully, the plain, dark suit blending into the darkness of the grass at night, but he made out the head easily by the shock of gray hair that almost seemed to sparkle at the edge of the floodlight. He could see the black circle in the center of the forehead where the bullet had penetrated.

  The bald man glanced back down the narrow walkway between the building and the fence that led to the street at the front of the house, alert for any movement, but assured himself no one was there.

  He stepped quickly around the corner of the building and eased down to a knee beside the corpse. He reached cautiously out to place a finger on the body’s throat. There was no pulse. Good.

  He let his eyes make a wide, slow sweep of the enclosed backyard. No one else here, he told himself.

  His eyes flicked up to the wall. It was tall enough to hide whatever happened here from any prying eyes, one of the main reasons he had selected the place.

  So, a single intruder, he reasoned. Unless there was some kind of backup out front.

  He quickly reentered the house and moved down the short hall to the other bedroom, opening the door enough to slip inside but not spill too much light through the unshaded windows that overlooked the street beyond.

  He eased toward the windows, staying back just far enough to be sure the motion would not be seen from outside, and slowly began to sweep the entire quiet, peaceful vista. He noted every car parked along it, dismissing those that he was familiar with. He let his trained eye pause over every corner, every junction, every tree that might provide a hiding place for someone far too interested in his dwelling.

  He stood there for a long time, waiting, his mind already developing and storing scenarios for how he could get out of the building, slip away into the dark.

  At last he felt his skin begin to quiet, the tingling alertness having sensed no immediate threat.

  Then he felt the wave of disappointment. His last fling had been stolen from him, he realized. He would have had enough time to make it truly memorable, s
omething worthy of experiencing. But now he would have to move. He would have to give up his simple pleasure, abandon this place and return to his employer. And that would be it, he realized. No more opportunities, no more sunsets, no more anything.

  Ah well, he thought wistfully. Such is life.

  He eased back from the windows and slipped out of the room, returning to where the girl was now staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes, her chest billowing, deep and rapid, in utter panic.

  He stared down at her, feeling a pang at what he would be missing. This one would have been special. She would have been the one.

  He hesitated, then raised his arm to check his watch. Did he still have time? Even a little?

  What the Hell, he told himself. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  He leaned to place the weapon on the small end table, and plucked up the long sharpened knitting needle he had already placed there.

  Just a little bit, he thought. Just a few minutes. He deserved that much, he told himself.

  The Lieutenant slammed on the heavy brake pedal, causing the tracks to lock with a high squeal. Beside him, the other man shot out an arm to steady the large nylon container that sat on the floor of the vehicle between his legs.

  The figure in the black uniform had stepped from between the blackened tree trunks, already holding the launcher for the rocket-propelled grenade ready to fire. From fifty yards away the Lieutenant knew he couldn’t miss.

  “Guess this must be the place,” he said quietly, reaching to take the lumbering tractor-driven vehicle out of gear. He turned to glance down at the floorboard between the other man’s legs.

  “How’s the thing? he said.

  The other man leaned forward to pat the bulging container and nod.

  By the time he turned back, the Lieutenant saw three other men approaching the sides of the conveyance, all of them pointing automatic rifles at it.

  He smiled charmingly at the one easing his way forward, automatic weapon raised, feet stepping gingerly through the sloshing, sodden ground.

  “Good morning,” the Lieutenant said brightly. “I’ve got a delivery for a Constantine Gvorshin? Any of you guys know where I can find him?”

  The man stopped abruptly, keeping the weapon trained on where the Lieutenant grinned winningly back at him.

  “God, I hope you speak English,” the Lieutenant muttered through his wide teeth.

  The guard slowly lowered his weapon back onto its sling and stepped over to the large, tracked machine, reaching up to climb atop it, crouching down on the edge of the cab, clinging to the side.

  He pointed ahead.

  “Okay,” the Lieutenant said brightly, leaning back into the cab and slapping the vehicle into gear.

  “Well,” he said to the other man, “I hope to Hell they’ve got a better way out of here.”

  The Lieutenant’s mind was already turning over, groping for a suitable Plan B. He had originally intended to get within a reasonable distance from the coordinates he had been given, leaving the vehicle concealed there while he progressed on foot. Once he got to the actual site, he would work out with whoever was to receive the object a means of making the actual transfer in such a way that he would feel secure about his being able to depart this place in one piece. He never went into such situations without watching out for himself. If it required tossing members of his team under the proverbial bus, so be it. But he himself was a natural survivor, and always took pains toward that objective first and foremost. The fact that he had run into what he assumed to be security forces for whatever it was he was making the delivery to, was unsettling. It was almost as if someone, somewhere, was one step ahead of him in his planning.

  It took another twenty minutes, winding carefully through the soupy swamp, maneuvering between the jutting, charred tree trunks and avoiding the obstructing stumps that jutted up everywhere, before they at last could see the weird, rounded lump that seemed to rise up out of the utter flatness of the landscape like a blister.

  It looked like it had been carpeted with twigs and muck, dredged up from the swamp in which it sat. Only the fact that, as they got closer, he could make out that it was in fact sitting on a perfectly flat, white sheet, erected just above the surface, like a bizarre igloo cut out of the arctic ice and dropped here, indicated it was not natural to this place.

  The guard riding just beside the driver’s seat pointed toward the far corner of the huge bulge, and the Lieutenant guided the rumbling tracked vehicle in that direction.

  A minute later they were pulling to a stop beside another small vehicle, its tracks sunk half into the muck, that apparently acted as some kind of command post in this inhospitable environment.

  The officer who had been standing in the low doorway of the other vehicle was already climbing down by the time they stopped.

  As the officer approached carefully, the guard hopped down, turned and once again raised his weapon, pointing it at the vehicle’s cab.

  The Lieutenant looked over at where the officer approached, and once again switched on the charm.

  “Hi there!” he called, cheerfully. “You wouldn’t happen to be Constantine Gvorshin, would you?”

  The man stepped up to the cab and stopped, raising his arms to drape his hands on his hips.

  “Who are you?” he said, sharply.

  “Lieutenant Parker, sir. I have a delivery for you from a Dr. Montgomery.”

  Constantine merely stared at him.

  “Anywhere you want us to drop it?”

  Constantine shot a glance at the guard and gave a tiny nod. Instantly the guard was moving toward the cab. Before the Lieutenant could react, he heard the clump of boots leaping onto the rear of the vehicle and the passenger’s door was yanked open from outside.

  “Whoa! Easy there, Geronimo!” the Lieutenant blustered, raising his hands. “We’re all friends here.”

  Without a word the guard grasped the shirt of the passenger and half-dragged, half-led him out. Another man in a white coverall and thick gloves appeared in the passenger’s door and gently retrieved the bulging nylon container, easing it over the seat and out the door before turning and moving carefully toward the dome.

  The passenger was almost roughly pushed back into the cab, and even before he had settled, the door was slammed shut behind him.

  It had all happened so quickly the Lieutenant hadn’t even had the opportunity to react.

  “Okay,” he said soothingly. “I guess that constitutes delivery, yeah? So, you got anything I need to sign?”

  But the guards were moving away from the vehicle, forming a cordon around it. The Lieutenant took a moment to scan what he could see through the grimy windows. At least six up front, God knew how many out behind. And his only bargaining chip was pretty much useless. This had not gone as he had hoped.

  All the plastique explosive he had packed around the inner walls of the vehicle bed and under the floor of the cab were supposed to provide a bit of reassurance that, if he was dissatisfied with any arrangements related to his safe extraction from this place, and the receipt of his final payment for the job, he could always simply take away the thing they’d paid so much for him to acquire, whatever it was.

  But that only really worked after he had secured the package in the cab, and left it some distance away while the final reassurances were being given. Actually sitting in the mobile bomb tended to render it useless as a potentially life-saving backup plan.

  He turned to look down at where Constantine stood, unmoving.

  “So,” he said, finally, “I guess we go now?”

  Constantine stared back at him for a long moment, then turned and began moving back toward the other vehicle.

  The Lieutenant turned to look at the other man in the cab, who had done so many jobs with him in the past, and had been the only member of the team he’d taken on this mission to get out of it in one piece.

  “What do you think?” he said quietly.

  “I think we’ll find out soon en
ough,” the man responded, his eyes fixed on the closest of the guards.

  The Lieutenant eased the vehicle into gear, and began to back up slowly. The guards moved to keep a wide circle around the lumbering machine, even as it stopped, then began to roll forward, turning back the direction it had approached.

  In the rearview mirror, the Lieutenant felt a bit of relief to see that none of the guards, now falling away behind them, had raised their weapons or were moving to follow.

  “I guess that’s it,” he said, a hint of relief in his tone.

  So, he thought, another couple of hours back to the road, then another three or four to the little nothing village, and from there, an actual car, not this swamp buggy. And by tomorrow he’d be on a plane toward a well-earned vacation. Maybe retirement. He’d certainly been paid enough for this job. He could make it his last if he wanted. If the need for action didn’t overcome him again any time soon.

  And as last jobs go, this wouldn’t be a bad one. Good story to get a free dinner out of, he thought. And he had a lot of good dinner stories.

  Constantine watched the vehicle disappear into the tangle of charred tree trunks and turned to mount the low steps from the oozing muck to the white platform. He stepped through the small opening into the air lock and closed the outer door. Punching the button to equalize the pressure, he waited a moment until the low hiss had stopped before opening the inner door and entering the enclosed space.

  It was gloomy in here, he thought, and the air was chilly and dry. In the distance he could hear the steady, low roar of the pumping system, constantly flooding the huge space with air, keeping it inflated and taut.

  Once the camouflage went on it had grown considerably darker inside the huge space. A few small lights had been installed, but it was mostly a wash of deep shadows and hollow, distant sounds.

  He looked down to where the two technicians were carefully unzipping the bulging nylon sack to reveal the container, gleaming glass and silver.

  A shiver ran up his spine at the sight of it.

  He wasn’t stupid. He knew about radiation. Everyone born within a thousand miles of Chernobyl knew about that murderous, invisible monster. And he had been assured that this container, whatever it was, was perfectly harmless, no more destructive than holding a large magnet in your hand.