For Duty and Honor

by Leo J. Maloney

  This time, Morgan pushed with his feet, and the chair fell backward. He grunted at the pain as it pinned his hands to the floor. He wriggled to give them some freedom of movement and felt for the lock pick.

  “Oh, goodness, look what I’ve done.” He lifted Morgan’s chair by the back, set him right and stepped back. “What I do not understand is why you insist on protecting the people who abandoned you. No one tried to find you, you know. No inquiries or requests to get you back from your government or any agency. Nothing.”

  No, he thought. There is one thing. Morgan held the lock pick between his fingers, already working the handcuffs. He had to keep Suvorov busy as he worked them open.

  “Has it crossed your mind that maybe I just don’t like you?”

  Suvorov drew a military knife. It wasn’t impressive, but it didn’t have to be to cut into the flesh of a man tied to a chair. “Perhaps it’s time to move on to mutilation.” He touched the blade to Morgan’s right shoulder and pushed it in, opening a gash that bled freely. Morgan bellowed in pain. “I find that cutting off parts is what really crosses a line for most people. When they see pieces of them removed, see their own bodies diminished . . .” He touched the edge of the blade to Morgan’s earlobe. “Shall we start here?”

  “How about we start here?” Morgan shook off the handcuffs and head-butted Suvorov. As he staggered back, Morgan picked the chair up off the floor and swung at him. He raised his hands in self-defense, dropping the knife in the process, and was knocked against the side wall by the blow.

  This gave Morgan the opening to grab the knife. He then pushed Suvorov against the wall and held the blade to his neck.

  “Tell the guard to open the door.”

  Morgan moved the blade to his eye. “If that door doesn’t open in five seconds, you’re going to be shopping for eye patches for next season.”

  Suvorov called out in Russian through the door. They exchanged some words. Suvorov barked exasperated commands.

  Morgan heard the deadbolt being undone on the other side of the door, which opened to reveal the single guard keeping watch on the cell.

  The guard was holding a nightstick, ready for action. He raised his eyebrows in shock when he saw that Morgan had Suvorov hostage.

  “Drop it,” he said. “Slide it over to me.”

  Suvorov translated for him. The guard let the nightstick clatter to the ground and kicked it over. Morgan bent to pick it up.

  “Inside,” he said, motioning with his head.

  The man walked inside the cell.

  “Keys,” he said, pointing. The man understood. He hesitated, looking to Suvorov for guidance. Morgan pushed the blade against Suvorov’s neck, just enough to pierce the skin and draw a drop of blood.

  The guard unhinged the key ring and tossed it to Morgan.

  “Thank you very much. I’m going to be sticking around for a minute. If I hear a peep out of you, the general here loses an ear.”

  He pulled Suvorov out of the cell and closed the door, pulling the deadbolt shut.

  That was one less to worry about.

  He looked down either side of the hallway. No one there.

  He looked at the row of other cells. Two of them were padlocked. Two cells containing prisoners.

  He pulled Suvorov along with him and unlocked, one-handed, the nearest cell. He pushed the door open.

  It wasn’t Badri. Behind the door was Kolya the Cannibal. He stood as the door opened and looked at Morgan, his face expressionless as ever.

  Suvorov twisted free of Morgan and slammed the door against him. Morgan was left dazed, which gave Suvorov the opening to twist his arm and wrest the knife away from him.

  Regaining his grip, Morgan brought the nightstick hard against Suvorov’s leg. The general screamed and fell on his back, inside the cell.

  Morgan took a look at the general’s leg. He had a compound open fracture where the nightstick had connected. At a glance, Morgan could tell wasn’t getting up again, not without some serious surgery.

  Suvorov held his knife defensively, wide-eyed with pain and fear. He could barely move from the pain. He couldn’t defend himself, but Morgan didn’t have time for this.

  Kolya stared a Morgan. Blank. Empty. Then he looked down at Suvorov.

  Morgan stepped out of the cell and closed the door, leaving Suvorov inside with Kolya, whose eyes were already hungry at the prospect of what was about to happen, the only sign of life Morgan had ever seen in them.

  Chapter Thirty

  Morgan ran to the remaining cells. As he undid the lock, he heard Suvorov screaming from Kolya’s cell and tried not to think about what was happening. He pulled the deadbolt and opened the door.

  Badri, haggard and exhausted, was sitting in a corner. He looked up at Morgan, goggle-eyed, blinking as the situation registered in his mind.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Morgan said.

  “How did you—”

  “Let’s go!” He looked up and down the hall for signs of any approaching guards. “I can tell you the story on the way out of this place.”

  Morgan didn’t have to say it twice. Badri pushed himself up off the ground. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “We need a plan.” Morgan rubbed his temples. “We’re in a Russian gulag with no plan, no tools, and no weapons but a stick. Any minute now, we’re going to be found.”

  Badri worked his muscles, cracking the joints in his neck and arms. “We seem to be at a disadvantage.”

  “I’ve been in worse,” said Morgan. “Let’s think.”

  “We need transportation out of here.”

  “Suvorov’s jeep,” Morgan said. “It’s faster than any of the trucks in this place. That’s our way out of here.”

  “They’ll see us.”

  Morgan frowned. “Then we need to give them something bigger to distract them. We need something they can’t ignore.”

  “You are talking about—”

  “Dynamite.”

  Badri smiled. “I like how you think. Same plan?”

  “No,” said Morgan. “We take out the motor pool. The dynamite added to the gasoline tank . . .”

  “Boom,” said Badri. “Enough of a distraction for us to ram the gates.”

  “We need to get the dynamite,” said Morgan.

  “They still would not have taken the two sticks away from the prison,” Badri said. “It is still on the grounds.”

  “And there’s only one safe place to keep them on this camp. They’ll be in the armory.” Morgan held up the key ring. All were the same. He could bet they were all for the solitary cells. Armory access was not something given to any guard.

  “Nevsky,” said Badri. “He will have the keys.”

  “Then that’s where we go. This way. Side door.”

  Having a plan, Morgan held the guard’s billy club in his hand and took the lead down the hall, taking slow, measured steps. Suvorov’s screaming stopped. Morgan wondered whether he was dead. Any alternative he could think of was worse.

  As they neared the end of the hall, Morgan heard footsteps, heavy boots echoing around the corner. Morgan held his hand up for Badri to stop and then his finger to his lips. Badri nodded.

  As first man rounded the corner, Morgan swung the stick.

  He hit the closest guard square in the face. He bent double, clutching his nose, which was now squirting blood.

  The second man came right behind. His hand went for his weapon, but Morgan swung again, bringing the club down on the man’s leg. The guard stumbled, and Morgan brought his elbow down on the man’s back. He collapsed face first on the ground.

  Badri, meanwhile, lunged on the other guy, bringing a fist to connect with his broken nose and throwing him down next to his companion.

  Before either could stir to stand again, Morgan brought his foot down on each of the men’s right legs in turn.

  “They’re not coming after us,” he said, moving past them and leaving them screaming in pain.

  Badri took t
he lead now, reaching the side door. Morgan unlocked it and opened it a crack. Badri looked up at the warden’s window. “How do we get up there?”

  Morgan looked at one of the watchtowers, which was within view. Waiting for his opening, he ran across the yard, hearing Badri’s footsteps, muffled by the grass, close behind him.

  They reached the administration building and went inside.

  The place was deserted, all the doors in the central hallway closed. Morgan led the way, running up the stairs.

  The double doors to Nevsky’s office. No time to finesse this one. Morgan kicked the door. It caved on the second, swinging open.

  “Look in the—”

  “There will be no need, Mr. Morgan.”

  Nevsky was standing to his right. In his hand was a GSh-18 handgun. Standard Russian military issue. Aimed at Morgan’s face.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Nevsky kept the gun aimed at Morgan’s head as he motioned for him to get inside the office. His hand was shaking. He had a drunk’s unstable hands.

  “How did you get out? Where is Suvorov?”

  “He’s about to die,” said Morgan. “You can save him if you hurry. But you’ll have to leave us here.”

  “Perhaps I can come up with a better idea.” He aimed for Morgan’s leg. Before he could shoot, Badri rushed him. Nevsky reacted, but not fast enough. Badri barreled into him. Morgan moved to help him, pinning Nevsky’s arm and taking the gun.

  He stepped back, with Nevsky at gunpoint. “Keys,” Morgan said. “Your lighter, too.”

  Nevsky took a key ring and tossed it to Morgan, and then the lighter. “Here. I will enjoy your death from the vantage point of my office.”

  “You will not.” Badri stabbed Nevsky in the gut with a letter opener from the desk. He pushed the blade in farther and twisted. By the angle, Badri got his kidney, maybe his liver as well.

  Nevsky grunted and braced himself on his desk.

  “Let us go,” said Badri, pulling the cord from the intercom out of the wall. “He is done.”

  Morgan didn’t make a habit of killing men in cold blood. But he had to admit that it was convenient.

  They stepped out of the office and closed the door. Morgan took the armory key off the ring and tossed the remaining to Badri. “Get the doors to the prisoner barracks unlocked,” he said. “The alarm is going up any second now. Let’s kick up our distraction a notch.”

  Badri nodded.

  They parted ways and Morgan made his way down to the underground armory. There was a light on down there. Morgan tiptoed his way downstairs. At the landing, he surveyed the room, hidden around the corner of the wall.

  One guard, armed but distracted with a magazine, sat at a table in front of the locked armory cage.

  Even one shot fired would attract the attention of every guard in the camp.

  He was strategizing his approach when the prison’s general alarm started blaring, deafening even here, underground.

  Well. No use being coy now.

  Morgan ran. The man saw him, drew his gun, and took aim. Morgan went low. The man fired and the bullet sailed above him. He took a running jump, holding on to the edge of the bed, and swinging his legs to kick the man in the chest. The guard fell backward.

  This left him on the desk, sliding to the other side. The guard was reaching for the gun, but Morgan was already bringing the nightstick down to connect with the man’s head. He was knocked out cold.

  Morgan had seconds before guards would start streaming in.

  He opened the lock to the gun cage.

  He found a duffel bag under the shelves. He picked the dynamite sticks up carefully, putting them in the bag.

  Since he was here . . .

  He looked over the guns. Half a dozen Saiga 12-gauge shotguns, twenty Vityaz-SN submachine guns, two Dragunov SVD sniper rifles, and three racks of MP-443 pistols.

  He loaded two of each of the SMGs, shotguns, and pistols into the bag, plus ammo. He slung it over his shoulder. He took an additional handgun.

  He broke the key in the lock. No big guns for the guards. That should help even the odds for the prisoners.

  He heard footsteps coming down the stairs. They would have handguns. Morgan drew a shotgun from his duffel and whispered to himself, “Time to make some noise.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Morgan held on to the shotgun, Saiga 12, twenty-round detachable magazine, and waited for the two men to come down.

  The first wasn’t expecting him, and didn’t have time to react before Morgan fired, the gunshot reverberating in the cramped, windowless space. The second went for his gun. A second shell, and he was down.

  Two more were at the landing above. If they consolidated their position, if enough guards amassed up there, Morgan would be trapped no matter how much firepower he could muster.

  He cast down the shotgun and drew out a Vityaz SMG. Thirty-round box magazine. If he held down the trigger on automatic mode, he’d drain it within three seconds.

  Morgan aimed blindly around the corner and fired off a burst upstairs. This gave him the opening to move up the stairs as the men took cover on either side. One of them made his move when Morgan was halfway up. Morgan loosed another burst, which caught him in the chest.

  He slowed down as he approached the upper landing and listened. What he heard was boots running away. The other man was beating a prudent retreat.

  Morgan needed to get out of the building, fast. He ran in the opposite direction of the guard.

  Outside, the siren alarm was blaring. The perimeter guard towers, the biggest danger at the moment, the only ones who would be armed, were flashing their lights wildly, looking for the source of trouble. Outside was a bad place to be. Too exposed.

  Morgan saw Badri hiding in the shadows across the yard. Badri pointed to the car. Morgan signaled for him to go ahead, and then took off running at an angle. A light caught him, then moved to shine right on him. Shots fired, whizzing past him.

  He pushed himself harder, staggering his pace to avoid sniper fire. He didn’t stop until he the garage was between him and the shooter.

  He moved along the wall until he found the window in the northwest corner, the one Grushin has used to gain access. On the other side of this was the gasoline tank that fed the generator and the trucks.

  This was going to make a splash.

  He picked up a rock and hurled it through a windowpane. Glass shattered and clinked on the floor inside.

  That’s when he heard barking.

  Dogs. Let loose and running toward him, fast.

  If he ran now, he didn’t have a chance in hell of getting away.

  So he tried to concentrate. He balanced both sticks of dynamite on his left hand and drew out Nevsky’s lighter with his right. He struck, and it did not light.

  Two dogs were running toward him, heavy paws beating the pavement. He had seconds to get this done.

  He struck the lighter again, and this time a flame emerged. He held it under the fuses on the two sticks of dynamite, which hissed and sputtered as they caught fire.

  He tossed the two sticks of dynamite inside through the pane and turned to run. The dogs were right behind him within a fraction of a second. And then he emerged out in the open yard, and a light was on him almost immediately. It was only a race now to see which would get him first, the sniper on the tower or the dogs snapping at his heels.

  The explosion was more than he’d anticipated.

  The corner of the concrete building shattered into rubble, and the fuel tank exploded in a ball of flame that rose upward, lighting the camp in bright orange before consuming itself.

  It rocked the ground, knocking Morgan off his feet. Windows exploded in a rain of glass.

  Morgan raised his head. The guards were no longer much preoccupied with him, and he found no sign of the dogs behind him. By the light of the fire—all electric lights had gone out with the destruction of the generator—he saw prisoners coming out of the barracks, taking their fi
rst tentative steps outside.

  He heard the rumble of an engine, and then the bright white headlights. It was Badri with the jeep, speeding across the yard. He came to a skidding stop next to Morgan.

  “Move over,” Morgan said. Badri complied, and Morgan sat behind the wheel.

  The windshield cracked. Sniper bullet. Morgan glanced at Badri, saw that he was unhurt, and gunned the accelerator. They were an easy target.

  Morgan saw prisoners pouring out of the barracks now. He passed them in the jeep.

  “How are we going to get through the gate?” Badri demanded.

  A group of guards who had seen which way the wind was blowing had opened a pedestrian gate to the outside. It was too narrow for the jeep, but the gate was held up by thin, hollow steel poles, surrounded by chain link. Unlike the main gain, this he had a hope of ramming.

  Morgan aligned the car with the gate. Guards scattered.

  “Hold on to your butt.”

  They hit the gate full force. The windshield and driver’s side window shattered, but the gate gave way, and with a terrible scraping sound the vehicle made it through.

  The jeep skidded, and Morgan struggled until it steadied. He veered a sharp right, and within a few seconds they hit the road.

  The wind blowing hard in their faces, Morgan and Badri looked at each other and laughed with the exhilaration of freedom. They took off into the night, toward their rendezvous point, as the prison behind them popped with gunfire.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Morgan drove off the road after about an hour in the car. They were one hundred miles away, near the foot of the mountains. The terrain there became rocky and uneven. He had to move slowly. They might easily hit a rock and get stuck, and that might well be a death sentence for them out here.

  “The light signal came from somewhere around here,” Badri said.

  Morgan looked back on the road behind them, lit by the predawn glow. The prison lay in the distance, a thin line of smoke rising from it. He wondered what the prisoners were burning.

  He shuddered, trying not to think about the fate of the guards.