Pray for the Innocent

by Alan Orloff

  #

  As Dragunov awoke from a deep slumber, he was vaguely aware of two things. The smell of moist earth and a pain in his side. He opened his eyes to a bed of mulch four inches from his nose, which explained the odor. Then he felt another stab of pain in his ribs. He jolted to a sitting position in time to avoid another kick from a man dressed in a ratty fatigue jacket and khakis so filthy they were almost black.

  Dragunov’s first instinct was to kill the man, but instead he simply stared at him.

  “This is my place,” the man said, raising his hand and pointing a finger directly at Dragunov’s nose. As he did, another odor wafted by. A 100-proof odor.

  The bum’s “place” was a six-foot by three-foot clearing between a thick hedge and the redbrick side of a YMCA building. Dragunov had crawled into it last night—he thought it was last night—when fatigue had overtaken him, and he hadn’t had the energy to find a more suitable spot to crash. Finding a hidey-hole and falling asleep had been part of his training, and he was a little ashamed this man had been able to sneak up on him.

  “This is my place,” the man repeated.

  Judging from the reusable shopping bag crammed with all sorts of nongrocery items, the frenzied look on the man’s grimy face, and the left shoe held together with duct tape, Dragunov figured this wasn’t just the man’s place, but his home. Not all Americans were prone to excess. Of course, many of the fat cats ignored the less fortunate, leaving them to fend for themselves. Relegating them to a life on the streets with taped-up shoes.

  Off in the distance, beyond the hedge, children called and yelled and laughed as they cavorted on the playground, playing tag or capture the flag.

  Two teams comprising any number of players. Object of the game: to capture the opponent’s flag and return it safely to your territory. Game field: Two territories, separated by a boundary line. Each side has a designated “jail” area. Each team’s flag is placed somewhere in their territory, around which there is a safety zone. Game play: Players can either try to protect their team’s flag or attempt to steal the opponent’s flag. If a player is tagged in enemy territory, he or she must report to the jail. If a teammate touches you while you are in jail, you are freed and may return to the game.

  Dragunov slowly rose and brushed some dirt from his jeans. The homeless man backed up a step and curled both hands into fists. Offered a look of fierce determination. Anticipating a fight over squatter’s rights. Dragunov calculated it would take three seconds for him to pull his knife and gut this man where he stood. He could then lay the body down, and the authorities probably wouldn’t find it for days. But nothing would be gained by this man’s death. It would go down as just another anonymous homeless guy who’d succumbed in a democratic society, where it was every man for himself.

  Dragunov started to leave when he noticed something about the man’s expression. A haunted look, pain, confusion. That thousand-yard stare. This man, this man without a home, without a decent pair of shoes, without a future, was a vet.

  And Dragunov felt a strange kinship with him.

  Something loosened inside Dragunov’s head, setting his own painful memories in motion, a mental slideshow. Bodies lay strewn about, missing arms and legs, some screaming, some suffering in silent anguish. The sounds of others shouting, in different languages, but all in a frenzy. Blood and gore and gristle covering his shirt, none of which belonged to him.

  Gray matter leaking from a civilian’s skull.

  More explosions. Dismemberment. Death.

  An image of Dragunov in a chair talking to a . . . a psychiatrist.

  Major McCann.

  With the creepy smile and the modulated voice and the fucked-up theories. PTSD, my ass.

  It didn’t add up. On many occasions, he’d had to blend in with the locals, endure less-than-ideal sleeping arrangements, and sacrifice, all for the success of his mission. But Dragunov had never been in the thick of any type of wartime mass casualty incident. Most of his work was removed from the theater of war. On those occasions where he did become involved in a battle, he did it from afar. Remotely.

  Dragunov was an operative, not a soldier.

  Where were these memories of wartime episodes coming from?

  His heart pounded, and he struggled to keep his eyes open but couldn’t—the pull of the past was too great.

  He was a soldier.

  Wasn’t he?

  He glanced again at the homeless man, whose face was caked with dirt, bare skin visible only in the creases near his eyes and mouth. Just like many of the insurgents he fought against in hellholes around the world.

  The pop-pop-pop of gunfire. With each shot, he flinched. Now, just as before. Just as forever.

  The children on the playground, kicking a soccer ball or playing softball or running after each other, their shouts floating through the air . . . their shouts floating . . . their shouts . . . their screams.

  The screams. Worse than shots, worse than the explosions, were the screams. The never-ending screams, echoing in his mind, always the screams. Innocent or guilty, civilian or soldier, hit or missed. Dragunov couldn’t escape the perpetual screams.

  The terrible, terrible screams.

  He fell to his knees.

  The Big Black Vortex.

  “No. No. No. That’s gone. That’s . . .”

  Dragunov’s memories of Cole Tanner’s battlefield terrors slowly slipped away, but the feeling of uneasiness remained. Uncertainty. A few wisps of doubt crept into his head—about his mission, about his methods, about his identity. Had the American scientists planted some kind of timed-release virus intended to make him think he was someone else? Had he been allowed to escape as part of the experiment? Was he being monitored at this very minute?

  A pain in his left shoulder brought him back to the present. The homeless man had kicked him and then had retreated to his side of the small clearing. Both fists up, ready to brawl. “This is my place.”

  Using the wall to support him, Dragunov managed to get up. Felt the weight of the knife in his jeans, heavy, hard. Lethal. He wasn’t accustomed to leaving witnesses. Collateral damage, as it was called. They were hidden from view behind the hedge. He could spare three seconds.

  He stuck his hand in his pocket and withdrew something.

  It wasn’t the knife.

  It was a twenty-dollar bill. And then, without really knowing why, he dropped it at the feet of the homeless man and slipped through the hedge.

  If circumstances were different, he would have continued his attacks on the general public, instilling terror in as many people as he could. But he didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to hang on to some thread of sanity; the confusion and flashbacks were getting stronger and more debilitating. He had a strong feeling that, without some sort of medical intervention, his time was drawing short.

  And if that was the case, he had important business to wrap up, someone he needed to neutralize.

  The man in charge of the medical experimentation they’d begun on him.

  The leader of those out to destroy him and his countrymen.

  The man behind it all.

  His archenemy.

  Nick Nolan.

  Chapter Twenty

  The sound of a car door slamming in the Stop Inn’s parking lot jolted King awake. He pawed at his puffy eyes, and his throat felt as if he’d swallowed a cup of sand. A pounding headache, the kind that started at the top of the skull and radiated outward, made him wish he’d brought along his industrial-size bottle of Advil.

  Needless to say, he hadn’t slept well.

  But what did he expect, sleeping on a lumpy, fifteen-year-old mattress in a run-down motel? It wasn’t the Ritz. On the other hand, he was still breathing, so maybe he shouldn’t complain about something as trivial as a poor night’s sleep.

  He peeled down the covers and swung his legs over the side, content for the moment to sit. Snippets of a dozen dreams floated in his mind, just out of reach, but he didn’t try to
o hard to remember any of them.

  His dreams lately hadn’t been pleasant at all.

  He wiped a hand across his face, felt a few days’ worth of stubble. He remained on the bed, hoping if he just stayed still long enough, his body would recover. Unfortunately, the only cure for the fatigue he felt was a span of uninterrupted sleep—eight hours, if he could choose.

  First, though, he needed to devise a plan to escape Locraft’s babysitters. He didn’t like being a sitting duck. Hell, for all he knew, Locraft had somehow broadcast King’s location at the Stop Inn on the terrorist airwaves, so Dragunov would know right where to look. Flop sweat started to soak his T-shirt. So this is what awaiting doom felt like.

  He sat there, running through a few scenarios. But for each one he’d come up with, he’d find two—or more—reasons why it wouldn’t work. Pretty much all of them ended with Locraft’s eagle-eyed men slapping handcuffs on him and dragging him back into his room to await Dragunov’s arrival.

  On the nightstand, his phone rang, and he practically jumped out of his skin, but he made no move to answer it.

  Once, twice, three times. He was tired of getting bad news. If he ignored the call, would this bad news go away? His phone stopped ringing, and King sucked in a deep breath, noting there was nothing wrong with his lungs. Everything else hurt, though.

  The phone rang again. Knowing he wouldn’t get any peace unless he answered it, he picked it up and glanced at the caller ID. Emily. He clicked it on.

  “King here.”

  “Professor King, where are you?”

  “I’m . . . on vacation.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were going on vacation.” She paused. “At a time like this?”

  “Vacation is a euphemism.”

  “Professor King. It’s only nine thirty in the morning. Have you been, uh, drinking?”

  “No, Emily. I didn’t sleep well. Is there a problem?”

  “A problem? Well, I didn’t hear back from you yesterday, so I wanted to make sure you’re okay. And I also have something you might be interested in.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “Well, I’m at your house. I swung by and . . .”

  “Hold on. You’re at my house?” King’s mind gained some clarity.

  “Yes.”

  “You need to get out of there. At once.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  King sat up straighter on the bed. “Emily, listen to me. I think Dragunov might be out to get me, and if that’s true, I don’t think my house is a safe place to be.”

  “Oh. You might be right. There’s been . . .”

  King heard some movement, shuffling, and some heavy breathing over the phone. “Emily? Emily?”

  No voices, but it sounded like Emily was on the move. Something was going on. “Emily? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine . . . Professor King . . . I’m just . . . running . . .” Wheezing interrupted her words. King had no doubt she was running. From what? He imagined Dragunov in hot pursuit.

  “Emily! What’s going on?”

  Silence.

  “Emily!”

  “Professor King . . . I can talk now . . . I’ve . . .” Heavy breathing, but this time the sound was steadier. She’d stopped running. “I . . . just a minute.”

  King waited, heart racing. What was going on? What hell had he dragged Emily into?

  “Sorry. There was a car in front of your house. When I got there . . . and . . . when you said . . . he was after you . . . I got suspicious. It seemed . . . creepy. So I took off. I . . . ran across someone’s yard and . . . hopped a fence. He won’t find me.” More gasping.

  “Was it Dragunov?”

  “There were two men in the car. But why would Dragunov want to get me?”

  “He’s mentally unstable. His actions don’t make sense. Are you sure you’re safe?”

  “Yes, I don’t think they followed me. I’m . . . okay.”

  “I thought I told you not to work on this anymore.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I have some ideas I thought might be helpful. Please don’t be mad at me, Professor King.”

  “Okay, okay.” King tried to push past his headache and get his pulse to stop racing. “Let me think a minute.” He hoisted himself off the bed and went to the window overlooking the parking lot. With a finger, he pushed aside the curtain, just a hair. Locraft’s goons were still there, still parked six spaces down the row, along the access road leading to the front of the motel. A plan gelled in his mind.

  “Professor King?”

  King let the curtain close. “Did you drive?”

  “Where? To your house?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I usually walk. It’s only a few blocks.”

  “That’s what I thought. This is what I need you to do. Get your car and meet me at the Dunkin’ Donuts in Annandale. ASAP.” He gave her directions. “Call me when you’re in the parking lot there. And Emily . . .”

  “Yes, Professor King?”

  “Be careful. If something doesn’t seem right, go straight to the cops, okay?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll see you at Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  King hung up. He threw some clothes on and quickly gathered all his papers, stuffing them into his messenger bag. Then he looked around the room to see if he needed to take anything else. Snacks, dirty clothes. Nothing of importance.

  When he was ready, he called the front desk. The same guy who’d checked him in answered. “Front desk.”

  “This is Sam Clemens, room 123. There’s two guys molesting a girl in a dark sedan out back. You need to do something, and quick.”

  “They’re molesting her? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Can’t you hear all the screaming? I’d take care of it myself, but I left my shotgun at home. You’d better hurry!” King hung up, then unlatched the door and sidled up to the window to watch.

  Thirty seconds later, the manager rounded the corner, wielding a Louisville Slugger. King waited until the man was ten yards from the car before opening the door. Without a glance backward, King ran in the opposite direction along the concrete walk fronting the row of rooms, his messenger bag flopping on his hip. When he reached the far corner of the motel, he glanced back across the parking lot. The car was pulling away, and the manager was gesturing with his bat like Babe Ruth calling a home run.

  King cut behind an adjacent shopping center and slowed, confident he’d lost his tail. Now what? Call the cops?

  They were likely to be in cahoots with Locraft. If he called them, King would probably end up right where he started. As bait.

  Go to the press?

  He’d thought about doing just that, of course, but if he squealed, it would only serve to increase the public’s level of panic and make it more difficult to catch Dragunov. And he would be vilified for being Dragunov’s creator, although he had absolutely nothing to do with this nutcase’s actions. People didn’t always listen to reason, especially when their lives were in danger.

  Ten minutes later, he entered the Dunkin’ Donuts, but not before checking the parking lot for that dark sedan. He sat in a booth in the rear, facing the door, with his back to the wall. They might find him there, but they weren’t going to sneak up on him. He felt better knowing that if Death had finally dialed his number, at least he’d see it coming.

  He’d downed two cups of coffee and two doughnuts when his phone rang. His ride had arrived. Leaving his trash on the table, he headed for the door, clutching his messenger bag. A moment after he pushed the door open, Emily rolled right up, her window down.

  “Hop in, Professor.”

  He jogged around the car and climbed in the passenger side of Emily’s Prius. He’d never ridden in it, but it was exactly how he might have imagined it. The back seat was covered with books and papers and backpacks and tote bags and more than one laptop.

  Before he’d even latched his seat belt, she’d taken off. “Where to?”

  He’d already decid
ed on his plan, if you could call hiding out a plan. From one dive to another. Maybe he’d spend the rest of his life dodging Dragunov and trying to avoid bedbugs. “There’s a Red Roof Inn about five miles from here. Head west, young lady.”

  #

  The Red Roof Inn wasn’t any better than the Stop Inn. In fact, it was probably a notch or two worse by all objective measures, but that didn’t matter to King. When you were on the lam, you couldn’t be choosy. This time, he checked in as Charles Dodgson, and the clerk didn’t ask to see any identification. Of course, who knew what kind of conclusions she’d leaped to when he’d paid cash and arrived with a girl half his age, clearly not his daughter.

  King chuckled to himself. It would give the clerks something to talk about as they whiled away their day. This motel had interior hallways, and he requested a room on the first floor at the end of the corridor, close to a side exit. He came up with some excuse about not wanting to hear the elevator, rather than tell the clerk the real reason he wanted a room on the end. Just in case he needed to make a quick getaway.

  As soon as they entered King’s room, he locked the dead bolt and secured the additional metal latch. Then he crossed the room and looked out the window. Because the motel was built on a slight grade, the ground was about eight feet below the height of the window, and there were woods out the back. No alley or accessway. Seemed safe enough.

  When King turned around, Emily had already made herself at home. She wore a T-shirt with the word “Adverb” in the middle of a red circle with a line through it, and she looked so young and innocent as she reclined on the bed and took her shoes off. What nightmare was he about to drag her into?

  “Now can you tell me what’s going on, Professor?” she asked, with a tentative smile, and King could tell she was hoping for good news but expecting bad.

  He hadn’t divulged anything on the drive over, wanting to make sure they could both concentrate. Plus he didn’t want Emily driving off the road when she heard the awful details. He dragged the desk chair over near the bed where Emily had sprawled and sat on it backward, resting his chin on the top of the backrest. He cleared his throat and began telling her about what had happened.