by Alan Orloff
The lady at the desk frowned. “I’m sorry, sir, but—”
“The Rose Garden. Which way?” King raised his voice, causing the other visitors to shrink away.
Another frown, but this one was accompanied by a finger point. “Outside, circle around the building to your left. The garden is on the right side of the path.”
King rushed off, Slattery at his heels. They burst through the front doors, squinting into the daylight. They followed the lady’s directions, jogging on the path, careful not to bump any slow-moving tourists. The gardens spread out to their right, but through the vines and bushes and trees, it was difficult to see what—or who—lurked down the rows.
Whether it was the lack of exotic plants outside or the oppressive heat, the garden was fairly isolated, at least the part they could see. Empty paths. Empty benches. An oasis in the midst of the mass of humanity on the Mall. Only a slight breeze barely able to move the thick air.
The entire garden was surrounded by a seven-foot-high concrete fence, which added to the feeling of isolation.
Just what Dragunov would want.
A terrible thought flashed through his mind. If Dragunov wanted isolation, then why agree to an exchange on the Mall, on July fourth, the most crowded day of the year? The bottom of King’s stomach dropped out. King had originally thought it was to provide cover for Dragunov’s escape, but now the real reason became obvious.
Hundreds of thousands of potential victims. Sitting ducks.
King stopped and grabbed Slattery’s arm, speaking in a low tone. “Hold up. I think Dragunov’s got something more planned than just this exchange. He’s going to try to kill thousands of people. That’s why we’re here.”
Slattery nodded. “Then we’d better make sure we get him, huh?”
“Yeah.” King texted Emily. We’re here. Where in the garden r u?
A moment later: In back right corner. Please come now, sir.
Sir? Dragunov was there, and he’d grabbed Emily. What about Amanda? King typed out, Be there in a few minutes. R u alone? He hit send and waited for the reply.
King turned to Slattery and whispered, “Something isn’t right. Dragunov has Emily, I know it. Hold on.” King took a few steps, reached the last row, and peered around the hedge. At the far end, Emily sat on a bench next to a man.
There was no sign of Amanda, and King felt as though he’d just been sucker punched by the heavyweight champ of the world.
King trudged back to where Slattery stood. “Dragunov has Emily, but there’s no sign of Amanda. Shit.” Part of him felt like charging right after Dragunov, consequences be damned. The other part of him wanted to curl up into the fetal position and go to sleep. For a very long time.
Slattery gripped King by the shoulders. “Listen, Dragunov doesn’t know I’m here. I’ll circle all the way around by the fence, squeeze through the hedges, sneak up from behind. You go back there, keep him talking, keep him concentrating on you.” He withdrew a syringe from his pocket. “I’ll nail him with this, and it’ll be over.”
King marshaled his energy. He had to stay in the present, not give up hope on Amanda. Or allow something terrible to happen to Emily. “Okay, but don’t do anything until we find out where Amanda is.”
“Absolutely,” Slattery said, but King was concerned there wasn’t more conviction in his tone.
Unfortunately, King didn’t see any other way. “Okay. Good luck”
Slattery gave a terse nod, then slipped away.
This time, instead of a text reply, King heard Emily’s voice. “Professor King! Watch out. He’s—” Her words became muffled.
King stepped forward and rounded the corner of the hedge that separated one row from the next. Dragunov and Emily stared at him as he slowly made his way down the gravel pathway toward them. With each step, the knife in his pocket got heavier. If Slattery failed to bring Dragunov down, he’d take a crack at him. Of course, before anything happened, they’d better damn well find out where Dragunov had taken Amanda. Or they might never know where she was.
When King closed to within twenty feet, Dragunov got up, pulling Emily along with him. Poor girl. Her face was painted with fear, and King’s guilt mushroomed. Her involvement in this mess was entirely his fault.
“Okay, far enough.” Dragunov smiled. “Finally we meet, Nick Nolan. I must say, although I’ve seen your pictures, I expected someone a little more . . . formidable.”
“Where’s Amanda?” King asked.
“She’s fine. For now. As long as you cooperate, I’ll be happy to let her loose.”
“I’ll cooperate, once you tell me where she is.”
“Oh, you’ll cooperate. You wouldn’t want me to kill your friend here, would you?”
“You’re ill. Surrender, and we can help you.”
Dragunov laughed, a harsh, crowlike sound. “Help me? You and your American scientists? You tried to kill me before. Why would you help me now?”
This whole situation reminded King of the ending of Chaos in the US when Nick Nolan had to impersonate a CIA agent in order to bring in another agent who’d been brainwashed. King considered this. He’d made his living spinning stories. Telling tales. Getting people to suspend their disbelief as they turned the pages. He was the master. He could do this. He had to—Amanda’s and Emily’s lives depended on him.
King sucked in a deep breath and channeled a Russian agent’s handler, the evil mastermind behind the operative’s mission. He lowered his voice and acted conspiratorial. “Dragunov. There’s something you need to know. It’s mission critical.”
“What do you know about my mission?”
“I know all about it. I gave you your mission, years ago. I am your handler. My real name is Federov.”
“What? Federov? How stupid do you think I am?”
“This is not a trick. I’ve been under deep cover, longer than you. Watching. Keeping track of your progress. You’ve done an admirable job, all right, but there’s been an important change. I need to bring you in. Right now. There’s . . . uh, there’s a more important mission your unique skill set is needed for.” King watched for any sign of Slattery creeping through the underbrush. So far, nothing. No Slattery, and nobody else wandering by, either. King wasn’t too worried about a random person stumbling upon them. The place was deserted, and there really was nothing of interest in their corner of the garden.
Dragunov stared at King, eyes full of disbelief. Now that he’d started down this road, King would have to see it through to the end of the journey. He needed to sell it completely.
“Oh? What new mission is that? And what could possibly be more terrifying than killing hundreds of thousands of people?” Dragunov asked.
So King was correct. Dragunov planned to go after the crowds on the Mall after their “exchange” was complete. He riffed through some possibilities, then remembered Dragunov’s final scene in Attack on America. “The president. We want you to go after the president of the United States.”
King noticed Dragunov flinch, just a hair.
“The president? How do I know this isn’t a trick?”
“I know all about you, Dragunov. You’re patriotic. You think America is full of excess and that its citizens are soft. You have many skills, and you’re not afraid to use them, including your intelligence. That’s how I know you’ll come with me, Dragunov. You’re too smart not to recognize the truth.”
“I think you’re full of shit, Nick Nolan.”
“I’m a double agent, but there’s no need to keep up that charade any longer. Refer to me as Federov. I knew your late parents, Dragunov. Fine patriots. They sacrificed their entire lives so you could live in this country and gain the trust of those around you. Do you know how difficult that was for them, Dragunov? But they never complained. All so you could thrive. Make the right decisions. Bring honor back to the motherland. You must listen to me, Viktor Dragunov. Your parents have given me the responsibility of seeing that you continue to make your nation and your family pr
oud.” King swallowed, hoping he wasn’t laying it on too thick. “Assassinating the president is the ultimate achievement. I think you realize that.”
“What about the experiments you had your scientists perform on me? I can’t think straight now. If you were truly my handler, why did you let them operate on me?”
A rustling in the hedge behind Dragunov caught King’s attention, but he forced himself to focus his gaze on Dragunov’s face, afraid if he glanced at Slattery, even for a second, he’d give things away. In his peripheral vision, King watched as Slattery squirmed through a hole in the shrubbery.
King raised his voice to help drown out any telltale signs of Slattery’s ambush. “A terrible mistake. We were trying to improve you, but something went wrong,” King said, trying to spin bullshit into gold. “That’s another reason I need to bring you in, the prime reason, of course. To cure you. We have the antidote, Dragunov. In fact, I have it with me right now. The sooner you let Emily go, the sooner I can get you all fixed up.”
Chapter Forty-Five
“Give me a minute. I need to think,” Dragunov said. The confusion in his head had exploded to its greatest level yet. Chaos and pain, so much pain. He wasn’t a doctor, but he’d learned enough about pain—through his many own experiences, as well as by holding dying men in his arms—to know if things didn’t turn around damn soon, he would succumb.
And he had so much left to accomplish with his life. His mission, for one.
If it was the truth, if the cure was a mere fifteen feet away, then Dragunov would say, or do, anything to get it. All of Nick Nolan’s declarations about his parents, his new mission—about anything—were just so much noise.
Was Nick Nolan really a double agent? Was he Dragunov’s handler, Federov? Possibly. The man knew all about Dragunov. He claimed to know his parents and drew an accurate picture of them. Dragunov had no evidence to refute his claim.
But did it really matter? If Dragunov could be healed, he could go on to greater things. He could, in fact, take out the president of the United States, a lifelong dream.
Dragunov’s mind reeled. Images of his youth, with a different set of parents, flashed in his memory. That woman, the attractive brunette with the wonderful laugh lines, Janie, seemed to reach out and caress his cheek with the softest of touches. Those sweet memories morphed into another darker image. A circular saw spraying gristle and blood. So much blood.
The name Cole Tanner swirled in his chaotic thoughts, spoken in a dozen different voices, coming out of a dozen different smiling faces, friends calling his name, laughing, loving, crying.
But the smiling faces gave way to darker, more insidious memories. Death, dismemberment, destruction. Strong slimy tentacles closed around his mind and began to suck him down into a deep dark abyss.
The Big Black Vortex.
With one hand, Dragunov grabbed the spray mister loaded with Bivex-N14. He clamped his other hand around the back of Emily’s neck, and they started toward Nick Nolan, toward the cure. Toward his salvation.
Or toward his death.
Either outcome would be a relief.
#
Two things were paramount in King’s mind: get Dragunov to release Emily, and find out where Amanda was. Everything else—his safety, Slattery’s safety, Dragunov’s capture—wasn’t even on the table.
Slattery had emerged from the bushes and now stood ten feet behind Dragunov. In one hand he held the syringe. In the other hand, he brandished a gun. He inched forward.
“Dragunov, I can help you. I’ve got the cure right here,” King said, patting his pocket. “But first, you need to tell me where Amanda is.”
“She’s safe.” One corner of Dragunov’s mouth twitched.
“Let Emily go. There’s no need for her to be involved.”
Dragunov didn’t release her. “You can never have enough bargaining chips.”
Behind Dragunov, Slattery crept closer. King shook his head, trying to stop Slattery from attacking. He still needed to find out where Amanda was.
The way Dragunov cradled the fan alarmed King. “What’s in there?”
“Something very nasty. Another reason for you to fix me up. If you don’t, I’m afraid I’ll have to let it loose. And trust me, that wouldn’t be good for anybody. It’s very potent.”
“I told you, we’re on the same side here.” King smiled and forced a laugh. “As a child, you were a shy boy. Your parents were always worried about that. Everyone was glad when you finally blossomed.” He paused and cocked his head to one side. Softened his tone. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“What do you mean, I don’t remember you?” Dragunov winced, as if in severe pain. He still had one hand on Emily and one hand on the fan, but it looked to King like he was struggling to maintain control. Fortunately, Slattery had gotten the message and halted his advance.
“When you were about nine, I came to your house once, for lunch. Just a friend of your father’s. You had a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich washed down with Tang, the drink of astronauts. That was your favorite meal, wasn’t it?” In Attack on America, King had given Dragunov that unusual dietary preference.
Dragunov gave a small nod.
“I was there to observe you. Evaluate you. See if you had what it took to become one of our agents. I saw something in you then, something that told me you’d be one of our finest operatives ever. I’m glad to see my judgment was on the mark.” Over the course of decades, King had conducted many virtual conversations with the characters he’d created, but this was a first, talking to the embodiment of one. And there’d never been a time when so much was at stake.
“I don’t . . . I don’t remember . . .” Dragunov seemed to wobble, and his grip on Emily loosened, just a hair. Behind him, Slattery seemed to have detected weakness, and he started inching forward again.
But Slattery couldn’t neutralize Dragunov, not yet, not before he learned where Amanda was. King spoke faster. “You’re my operative, Dragunov. I’m the one in charge here. So you need to tell me where my daughter is. It’s absolutely mission critical.”
Dragunov opened his mouth, but as he did, Slattery sprang forward, swinging his arm at Dragunov’s neck, syringe leading the way.
“No!” King yelled, but Dragunov, sensing the motion behind him, spun around and raised his arm, parrying Slattery’s attack and sending him stumbling. The misting fan flew from Dragunov’s hand and landed on the ground, at the base of a bush. King held his breath for a moment, praying that whatever toxins were in there hadn’t escaped.
Dragunov flung Emily aside and was on Slattery in a flash, landing an uppercut square into Slattery’s jaw, sending him backpedaling into the concrete wall and jarring the gun from his hand. It bounced once on the wooden bench, then fell into the grass. Dragunov advanced and, despite Slattery being a muscular man, began pummeling him against the wall like he was nothing more than a punching bag.
King watched, frozen, as the scene unfolded in slow motion.
Emily popped off the ground and grabbed Dragunov around his ankles, trying to bring down the much bigger man. Dragunov threw her aside like a rag doll and redoubled his attack on Slattery. He grabbed Slattery’s head with both hands and rammed it into the concrete wall. The resounding crack made King’s stomach lurch.
Slattery’s lifeless body flopped to the ground.
Emily’s screams pierced the quiet of the garden, and other screams echoed in King’s mind. The screams of his first wife, Rina, twenty-four years ago on that fateful night. A visual flashback of that terror, of Oscar Boorman looming in their dark bedroom played in his mind’s eye, and something snapped inside him. All the stress and anxiety and terror and guilt, built up over more than two decades, seemed to channel itself into a glowing fireball of insane rage.
Fueled by his fury, King felt sure he could have defeated Dragunov barefisted—and torn him to shreds in the process—but there was no sense taking chances. He pulled the knife out of his pocket and unfolded the blad
e, then he charged forward, launching himself at Dragunov, who had turned his attention from Slattery’s lifeless body to his next closest adversary: Emily.
Dragunov saw him at the last moment and twisted his body, but King still managed to hit him broadside, and the two men toppled over. King slashed at the stronger man, once, twice, but on his third effort, Dragunov’s hand closed around King’s wrist. With a twist of his powerful hand, Dragunov sent the knife flying out of King’s grip.
King pretended to go limp for a second, and when Dragunov relaxed, King rammed his knee into Dragunov’s gut. Dragunov rolled to one side, and King scuttled away, ending up on his knees, five feet away from Dragunov, also on his knees.
King reached into his pocket again, and his fingers closed around a ballpoint pen. He pulled it out, yanked off the cap, gripped it tightly in his fist. Then he flung himself at Dragunov, putting his entire body weight into motion, and let loose with a roundhouse swing of the pen, which found its mark in the side of Dragunov’s eye socket. After King felt the sick thwick of impact, he kept driving the pen in, farther, harder, deeper, wiggling and ripping, trying to do as much damage as possible.
But Dragunov didn’t go down. The pen protruded from the side of his eye, where it had lodged, but, impossibly, his strength seemed to grow.
With a loud roar, Dragunov bucked, knocking King to the ground and sending him crashing into the bench. His vision blurred, and he fought to remain conscious, shaking his head vigorously, trying to clear away the cobwebs.
Emily’s screams brought him back. She’d reentered the fray and had grabbed one of Dragunov’s legs, trying to slow him down. Clawing, biting, scratching, gauging. Tenacious . . .
King rolled to his left and started frantically searching through the grass in the area where Slattery’s gun had disappeared. He’d seen it land not too far from the legs of the bench. King glanced up and watched as Dragunov grabbed Emily by the ankle with one hand.
