Fallen: A Daniel Briggs Action Thriller (Corps Justice - Daniel Briggs Book 2)

by C. G. Cooper

  When Anna had asked about the girls she’d rescued, her mother informed Anna that the girls were already safely in the hands of the authorities.

  That put her mind at rest about the poor girls, but it still didn’t assuage her fears about her father. Would the police arrest him? She’d have to ask her mother about that. Maybe there was something that could be done to explain why he’d done it. If someone made him do it, there was no way he could take all the blame.

  In her head, Anna went down that path, imagining how the investigation might go, her possible role in it, and the likely outcomes. She’d seen enough detective shows to know that what the cops really wanted was the main bad guys, and not the poor pastor who was being blackmailed into doing what he’d done. That made Anna smile. It would be a hard road, but with the help of God and her mother, Anna had faith that everything would figure itself out in the end.

  So as she finally dozed off, her thought bounced from her mother, to her father, and then another face appeared in the darkness. Daniel. Where is Daniel?

  +++

  “When will it be done?” Natasha Varushkin asked.

  “This evening,” said the man sitting across from her. He was Russian, but like his boss, there wasn’t even a hint of an accent. In fact, he didn’t even look Russian. His fair skin and sandy hair made him right at home with the Irish population in Boston.

  “Good.” Natasha sipped the tea in her glass and glanced at the well-stocked bar. For a moment she considered getting a real drink. That wouldn’t do. She fought hard for her sobriety. Multiple stints in rehab had taught her to regain control of her life, that the bottle was never the answer. She smiled when she thought about all that she’d accomplished since finding sobriety. It was the reason she’d been elevated to her current position within The Pension, and she knew it would be one of the many reasons her father would soon name her as his successor. “Tell me when it is done,” she said, nodding to her lieutenant as he rose from his chair and left the room.

  The issue with her ex-husband was a small thing in comparison to what would soon transpire. Although, the thought of having her daughter close by might increase her value in the eyes of her father. He’d always chided her for giving up custody, and had even offered to pay for the custody hearings over the years. But she hadn’t been ready. Natasha was gifted in so many ways, and yet, certain aspects of her life had always held her back.

  That was no longer the case. She was in control.

  Natasha had been the one to purge The Pension of low-life thugs and petty criminals. Instead of flashy cars and shiny suits, Pension associates now worked hard to blend in with the latest upper middle class fashions. They lived on quiet streets in lazy suburbs. They drove American cars and were involved in community sports and small business.

  Let their foolish cousins prance around in Armani suits, live in New York penthouses and jet set in hundred-million dollar planes. It made them easy targets, and the fact that they invested in American companies and touted themselves as the “new Russians” did little to hide what they really were: criminals masked in Prada sunglasses. Fools.

  The final pieces were finally being played. The Pension was well-entrenched, their future almost secured. All that needed to happen was for their leader to arrive and take his rightful place at the head of The Pension.

  Yes, Natasha thought, it will be good to have father home.

  Chapter 15

  The cruise ship’s sun deck was deserted except for the lone figure who sat wrapped in a blanket, gazing out over the endless ocean. Wind whipped his weathered face, and the occasional gust of sea spray sometimes came high enough to mist his vision, but he did not care. If anything, the ocean was greeting him, a long lost friend, a comrade who’d braved Poseidon’s tempests and lingered in tropical calms.

  Georgy Varushkin was a man of the sea. His father was a fisherman, and Georgy’s earliest memories all included the smell of the catch or the pitch of a deck. But the quiet life in the protected cove off the Caspian Sea was never enough for young Georgy. With his father’s blessing (and most likely a healthy prodding from his mother), Georgy enlisted in the Soviet Navy, thinking it would lead to adventure and a better life than that of his father.

  At that time, in the mid-1960s, the Soviet Navy sailed proud, its warships and submarines playing the ultimate game of survival against the Americans. Georgy knew, barely a year into his enlistment, that he’d been naive. While he respected the institution and believed in its mission, his intellect alienated him from his peers. They were simple men, used to the hard toil of life underway. Georgy had always worked hard, but when he wasn’t helping his father, he was either curled up with a book or rushing to school.

  He climbed the enlisted ranks as if on fire, passing sailors who’d spent many years at the same job, on the same ship. Looking back, he realized that not only had his work ethic and education helped him, it had been the benevolent gaze of certain officers who recognized his talent. Not yet two years into his initial enlistment, Georgy Varushkin found himself in front of a board of officers where he was questioned at length about not only his skills as an enlisted man, but also about his family and about his allegiance to the Soviet Union.

  Weeks went by and he heard nothing. Just as he passed it off as a fluke, thinking maybe others had been through the same interview, he was summoned to the captain’s quarters. He reported in on shaky legs. The captain of the ship was there, along with one of the officers who’d been on the board. The captain informed him to pack his belongings. He would soon be receiving an officer’s commission as a Sub-lieutenant, along with a world class education.

  Rather than send him to the academy, or perhaps one of its smaller sub schools, he was passed from command to command, always reporting to a single senior officer. He worked hard, and soon had a solid view of everything the Soviet Navy beheld. There was only one caveat. Each time he reported to a new six-month stint, he was told by his mentor not to discuss his “situation” with any other junior officers, and especially not the enlisted men. The request seemed strange for the first time or two, but then he was swept away by this warrant officer or that engineering chief to see the bowels of the latest nuclear behemoth.

  By the end of his fourth year of on-the-job education, Lieutenant Varushkin had spent time with the Navy’s surface forces, submarine fleets, aviation component, and even a brutal six-month stint with the Naval Infantry.

  He remembered it now with fondness; his early years in the Navy had taught him so much about life. There had been a reason for his unusual education, but he wouldn’t come to find that reason for almost a decade. Sometimes he wished he could have remained a simple sailor, maybe even retiring to a quiet life of fishing like his father. But such dreams were wasted. Great men were accorded great destinies.

  He’d paid for his destiny, including his most recent five year stay in a maximum security political prison just outside Moscow. It was so secret that there had once even been a McDonald’s three stories above it. His time there had been easy. It was the periodic journeys to a laundry list of some of Russia’s worst Gulags that had done the real toll. He still shivered when he thought about those sleepless nights, never knowing when the systematic torture would begin again, or when the cell block’s most sadistic prisoner would be allowed into his cell for a little play time.

  They’d almost killed him once, and after that, the beatings were only administered by the president’s cronies disguised as prison guards. He’d always known the difference, could see it in their eyes, the cunning and the intelligence.

  Georgy rubbed his arms and pulled the fleece blanket up to his chin. What he would have given for such a luxury as a soft blanket. His first night on a bed in the cruise ship’s posh suite had lasted ten minutes. He knew because he’d counted them as they passed on the gold clock next to the bed. After that, he’d slept on the floor, huddling with a pillow and a sheet, the only things he’d managed to grab as his emaciated frame slipped to the ground
.

  “Your dinner is ready, Captain,” came the familiar voice from behind his bench. Varushkin turned to find his man waiting, hands holding onto a wheelchair.

  “Thank you, Vasily.”

  His steward nodded and wheeled the handicap device around.

  The thing with his legs was new. One morning, maybe a month before, he’d awoken to find that he could no longer move his legs. The guards hadn’t offered to take him to a doctor, and he had never asked. Instead, his ever-faithful friend Vasily, a former sailor who’d been one of his stewards on his final ship, fetched a wheelchair and pushed him wherever they were ordered to go.

  Vasily did the same now, taking care to lift his former commander’s 136-pound body in a way that would not knock him into the railing or the chair. Varushkin wondered what kind of fate had delivered this man to him. What power in heaven had allowed the two men to meet in prison and form a bond that they’d both so desperately needed? For a time he’d thought it all a ruse, that maybe his captors had placed Vasily there to spy on him. But Varushkin still had friends, and those friends confirmed that Vasily’s appearance was a simple coincidence.

  Luckily, by the efforts of those same friends, Varushkin’s release had been brokered, along with the guarantee that Vasily be let go as well. Upon hearing of his freedom, Vasily had sworn his life to the former Soviet Navy Captain 1st Rank. The solemn ceremony had reminded the historically inclined Varushkin of the knights of old, swearing allegiance to their lord and protector. There had been tears in his eyes when he’d accepted Vasily’s promise, and the two men embraced like old comrades, too emotional to give formal handshakes.

  And so here they were, on a luxury cruise ship bound for America. He’d been promised safe passage, and so far he’d gotten it. Five years in Russian prisons had given him a healthy sense of doom, and for the first four days of their journey he’d expected that the ship would turn around, someone would simply push him off, or that maybe a Russian fighter would swoop down and destroy the entire vessel.

  None of that had happened and as they cruised closer to the American coast, Georgy Varushkin felt freedom inch closer. Mother Russia had changed. If it hadn’t been for that ill-conceived journey home, he never would have seen it in its entirety. But now he saw it all, how his training and the career-long mentorship of his benefactors had shaped his mind into what it had become.

  And now, billions of dollars were being filtered through hundreds of funnels that flowed into the holdings of The Pension. America was the perfect birthplace: A land where money was respected, where politicians could be bent but not outright corrupted, and where the citizenry was by and large honest and good. They’d explored other options, like Switzerland and even China, but Varushkin always believed that America held the most promise. He’d finally won the rest over. America it would be.

  And so, as Vasily wheeled him down to supper, Georgy Varushkin dreamed of a new chance with his family beside him and the world at their fingertips. Yes, it was a good dream, maybe even the best. Georgy Varushkin smiled inwardly, still unaccustomed to showing outward emotion, an unfortunate byproduct of his imprisonment. He meant to change that soon with the help of his daughter, the dazzling Natasha, and the young girl whose picture he’d first seen that morning: his only grandchild, Anna.

  Chapter 16

  The call from Daniel was short and to the point.

  “Get out, now.”

  Pastor Ed Walker stuffed the few things he thought he’d need into an old day pack, a throwback to his hiking days. Those days had long passed, and yet the feel of the straps on his shoulders brought back a deluge of memories, like it was his vessel back into the unknown. As he went to grab the handle to the back door, he had a thought. Rushing back to his office, he unlocked the safe and grabbed his pistol and a few loose rounds. He wasn’t the best shot, but maybe Daniel could use it. The gun, wrapped in one of his favorite t-shirts, went into the pack with the rest of his gear.

  His task accomplished, Walker took one last look around the only place he’d really considered home in a very long time. There’d been good times, like Anna’s giggles as she cooked her latest concoction and her father retold some obscure story from his past. She thought he was a little hokey—okay, a lot hokey—but what teenager didn’t think that of their ancient dad?

  Those memories clouded suddenly, darker images replacing the lighter pinks and greens. They were the memories of lost souls, the poor girls he’d carted on and off his property. He could no longer blame it on bad luck or possibly God’s will. No, it was time for him to take responsibility.

  He spoke of responsibility often in church, expounding the benefits of taking charge of one’s life and staring evil in the eye. Hypocrite, he thought. For years, he’d sought perfection from his parishioners, but the one who really needed saving was the man standing behind the pulpit. It shamed him. It humbled him. His heart lay splayed, ready to accept judgment. Funny that Daniel, a vagabond with a wandering soul, would be the one to call him out.

  Pastor Walker envied Daniel’s conviction even while he saw the demons dancing inside the young man’s chest. Maybe together they could find forgiveness, clarity, peace. The prayer was still on his lips when he heard the crunching gravel from the front yard.

  He didn’t think, just ran, taking a route toward the backwoods that would keep him from view. As he passed under the protective shade of the tree line, Pastor Walker looked back to see the van with a flashy security company logo pasted along its side pull up to the house. He noted the name of the company and plunged deeper into the woods. He had a schedule to keep.

  +++

  Adam Eplar grabbed the tool kit from the back of the van and walked to the house. He tried the doorbell first. No answer. He knocked next. Still no answer. He made one pass around the house calling out, “Mr. Walker? Anyone home?” Nothing.

  No cars in the driveway, no signs of life inside or out.

  The back door was unlocked. He stepped in, sniffing the air out of habit. Old house. Turn of the century. Lots of wood. No sound except for the creaking of the hardwood floor under his feet.

  “Mr. Walker?” Adam called out again. “I’m here from the security company.”

  No answer.

  He cleared the house in five minutes. No one home.

  He slid the cell phone from his pocket and put it to his ear, the call already going through.

  “The place is empty,” he said when the answering click came on the line. “Do you want me to wait?”

  There was a pause and then a voice said, “No. Burn it down, and then do the same with the shelter in the woods.”

  Adam heard another click and replaced the phone in his pocket. He was a little disappointed. Things had been pretty boring for a while now. The bosses said it was a sign of things to come. Adam Eplar wasn’t sure what that meant, but he did worry about his skills going to shit. He’d have to renew his membership at that local gun club. No sense in letting all that hard work go to waste.

  From his coat pocket he pulled the pistol and aimed it at the smiling picture of Pastor Walker sitting on the living room table. Adam had a copy of the same picture in his office. He imagined squeezing the trigger and watching the glass frame shatter. He smiled and put the gun away. Hopefully, there would be time for that later. Word in the organization was that the guy was the Duchess’s ex-husband. Lucky bastard, Adam thought, and then went back to the van to get what he needed.

  +++

  Not much longer, I thought, rubbing my hands together to fight off the early evening chill. I’d stood guard for four hours, watching the occasional customer pull into the Sunshine Car Wash bay, and leave five minutes later with a newly clean car. There was never a line, and pretty soon Florence or someone higher up the chain made the decision to start letting the workers go. I saw one and then another familiar face get into a car, and take off away from Amesbury.

  Florence was the last one to leave, waddling her way to a maroon Toyota Corolla with princess st
ickers all over the back window. Her cell phone never left her ear as she got in and drove away. I wondered if she was bragging to one of her friends, telling them that she was going to get it on with a blond stranger who’d just happened to walk into her store.

  The phone I’d picked up at a local drug store buzzed. It was the only person in the world who knew the number, Pastor Walker.

  “Yeah?” I answered, anxious to hear that he’d gotten away safely.

  “I made it out.” Then there was a pause, and a grunt, like he was stepping over something and then he said, “Someone showed up in a van just as I was leaving.”

  I nodded to myself.

  “Who was it?”

  “A security company called Samson Security. I didn’t catch the plates.”

  “Did you stick around to see who was in it?”

  A small hesitation and he answered, “No, you told me to run, so I did.”

  “Good. How long do you think it’ll take you to get to Boston?”

  I’d come up with the plan to have Walker get a hotel room downtown, something off the main drag that didn’t cost too much. We’d meet there once I finished at the car wash.

  “Probably two hours,” he said, grunting again. I imagined him traipsing through the woods in the darkness, avoiding branches and logs like a city slicker.

  “Okay. I may be here a while. I’ll call when I’m on my way. Oh, and Pastor?”

  “Yes?”

  “Watch your step out there. I need you in one piece, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I ended the call and set the phone back on my lap. As my eyes shifted back to the car wash, I began reciting my stay-awake-list in my head, which included the memorable guys from my boot camp platoon. Recruit Finn, the one with the mole on his ass. Recruit Rice, the one who stuttered. Recruit Islander, the one who was always praying.