Cost of Life

by Joshua Corin

  For that matter, all incentive toward keeping him alive was gone too, and yet why weren’t his bodily fluids splashed across the flight deck? Why was this man continuing to attempt to establish, of all things, a friendly rapport?

  Was this sadism?

  Or was it something else entirely…?

  Only one way to find out.

  “I bet you’re glad Reese didn’t call your bluff,” he said.

  Bislan frowned. “Hmm?”

  “Option B. Shooting through the cockpit glass. You weren’t actually going to risk damaging the airplane. Because then you wouldn’t be able to take off again.”

  “Captain Walder—”

  “If it’s all the same, I think I’d like to speak with my wife and son.” He rose to his feet and stood eye-to-eye across from the man with the gun. Time for Larry to be unflappable—or at least fake it. Time to go all-in. “Now.”

  “Captain Walder, you seem to be under the misconception that we are negotiating…”

  “We’re not negotiating at all. I’ve made a request. I’m waiting for you to honor it.”

  “Please tell me, Captain Walder, that you’re not staking your life on a strongbox key.”

  “Oh right. The key. Here.”

  He reached into his pocket, withdrew the key, and tossed it with as much nonchalance as he could muster. Because Bislan’s good hand was occupied with the gun, though, the old man had to rely on his bad hand to catch the key, which he managed to do—but he couldn’t close his twisted fingers in time to keep the small piece of metal from bouncing off his palm and clattering to the floor. In those few moments that Bislan bent down to pick it up, Larry could have probably rushed the old man, tackled him, seized the gun, et cetera—but to what end? No, if Reese Rankin’s sacrifice had been for anything, it was to underline the futility of cowboy diplomacy, at least right now. Aggression had its place, but it was not the only tactic one could play at the card table.

  “Sorry,” said Larry. “I didn’t mean for that to happen…”

  The look in the old man’s eyes—one part humiliation and one part fury—could have seared through steel.

  Larry swallowed deep and persevered:

  “It’s just…whatever it is you’re here to do, you’re going to need to escape and the way I see it…you’re going to need a pilot to do it…and I’m guessing you never took flying lessons…”

  Bislan pulled himself to his feet, squared back his small shoulders, and gently smiled—although the temperature of his blue-hot glare did not diminish one degree. “Are you offering up your services, Captain Walder?”

  “Let me see my wife and son. And then…it’s like you said…everything is negotiable.” Which was clearly bullshit—Larry had no intention of helping this bastard do so much as cough—but a wise man played the cards in hand and worried about the next hand later. The trick therefore was simply to make sure there was a later.

  Bislan stepped aside and waved toward the door.

  Larry didn’t move. Had he failed?

  “Captain Walder, what are you waiting for?”

  Waiting for? What the hell was that supposed to mean? In what way was this a viable response to his request? Christ, had he miscalculated?

  Then Bislan added:

  “Do you want to see your wife and son or not?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then go. See them. Speak with them.”

  “How?”

  “Oh, Captain Walder, haven’t you figured this part out yet? They’re on the plane. They’ve been on the plane all along. Row Fifteen, to be exact. Bye now.”

  Chapter 17

  Around the same time that Bislan shot Reese Rankin in the face, the thug spat in Xana’s, and a full wet wad too, all bubbles and slime. The glob of spittle splashed against her left cheek and drooled its way down her smooth tan jawline.

  To be fair, she had instigated him.

  A heartbeat after zeroing in on his barcode tattoo, Xana had preened toward the prisoner, set her hands on the table, and given him a dismissive once-over. Then she rattled off in bona fide Chechen:

  “So this is the little bitch who thinks he’s a bear.”

  Thus the aquatic mouth-bullet.

  Still, as irritated as he was, his rage was but a raindrop compared with the Biblical Flood roaring now inside Lieutenant Dundee. He had imparted to this woman, this guest, whose presence he had neither requested nor accepted, a series of specific instructions, and as if she were once again behind the wheel of a car, she’d disregarded authority and plowed straight into catastrophe. He wanted to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze until her pretty little head popped off. Surely this qualified as justifiable homicide…

  But then he felt Officer Chiles clandestinely tug on the back of his sports jacket. He didn’t have to ask Chiles what she meant. He knew. Damn it, he knew.

  After this man before them, this cop-killer, had in broken English confessed his crime and led them to the Audi and the murder weapon, he’d clammed up, not even muttering the god-awful phrase I want a lawyer. There was that spattering of phrases he’d spewed once they’d bound him with zip-ties to the chair, but neither he nor Chiles spoke whatever language that was—and this woman, this guest, this impudent and reckless hag did speak it.

  And so Lieutenant Dundee did nothing. For the sake of a fallen policewoman, he’d give Xana Marx five minutes to gab some vital truth out of the prisoner. That said, he was in no way entitled to tell her that she had only five minutes. If her time ran out, well, no one could say he didn’t cooperate.

  He checked his wristwatch.

  Four minutes and fifty seconds.

  Xana ran an index finger across the thug’s tattoo. “Where did you get this? Eh? Some shit-stained parlor in the back of a Grozny whorehouse?”

  “You know nothing,” he growled.

  She wiped his germs from her skin and sat down across from him at the metal desk and leaned her head on the lectern of her palms. Frankly, she appeared bored.

  The thug glanced at the detectives and then back at her. So they’d deduced he was Chechen. He had peasant features, although it had been years since anyone had teased him about them, not since his growth spurt, not since he took Durgali Chechenets out back behind the school and beat him repeatedly in the testicles with a cone-shaped rock. After that, everybody knew to leave Giant Nezh alone. Giant Nezh was crazy.

  And of course these Americans would choose a lady to go at him. Once they had identified his native tongue, they had probably pegged him as some kind of misogynistic Neanderthal, buying into Russian propaganda. Well, he wasn’t about to be their stereotype. He exhaled through his nose until the tendons in his neck and shoulders loosened.

  Xana replied by yawning.

  “Am I boring you?” he asked.

  “Hm? Oh. No. I mean, yes, but it’s not your fault. It’s my fault. I saw that ink on your neck and for a second I actually believed it was authentic, but that would have to mean you were an inmate at The Oprichnina, and you…well…you wouldn’t have lasted an hour there. I mean, don’t get me wrong—that is a real tattoo on your neck. You’re the fake.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What do you know about The Oprichnina?”

  “Probably more than you—that’s for sure.”

  “That is unlikely. The Oprichnina is not a place for women.”

  “Tell me then. Frighten me with the story of what a badass macho criminal you are that the Russians had to lock you up there.”

  “Gladly. And then I will tell you where I was born, what my favorite flavor of ice cream is, and also reveal the identities and intentions of my comrades aboard the airplane.”

  He showed her his teeth.

  She couldn’t tell if he was happy or hungry.

  She leaned forward.

  “Do you want to know why I called you a ‘little bitch’?” she asked. “It’s not because of your tattoo. You needed to use a thirteen-ounce handgun to shoot a police officer in broad daylight. Yo
u know who needs to use a fifty-caliber handgun? Someone with a fifteen-caliber cock. And even that’s not why I called you a little bitch. No. The reason I called you a little bitch is because you were someone’s pet dog and you misbehaved. You had one errand to run. Bring the pilot to the airport. There is no amount of calculus that factors in the death of the police officer in whatever nonsense your comrades have planned aboard that airplane. I’ll bet you’re even supposed to be there now, little bitch, but your master punished you for misbehaving and now you’re stuck here with me.”

  “I will not be goaded.” His rictus grin remained firm. “I am only chatting with you right now because I choose to be chatting with you right now. There is no information you have that I don’t want you to have. You should also know that the gentleman behind you has been checking his wristwatch every twenty seconds or so ever since you came in, but he hasn’t checked it in over a minute now. I think the moment I stop chatting with you, he is going to tell you that your time is up. Let’s find out.”

  He shut his mouth and leaned back in his metal chair.

  Xana didn’t bother glancing back. “I don’t think you understand just how bad your situation is about to become. You killed one of their own. They are going to crucify you. I’m the last friendly face you’re going to see for the rest of your life. Now, I might be able to get you transferred to a federal facility, but I’ll need your cooperation in order to make that happen.”

  He didn’t budge. He didn’t even blink.

  “The petulant child routine? Really? I’d have expected better from someone who claims to be a hard-core ex-con from The Oprichnina. From what I hear, they make you stand in your cell bent over and staring at the floor. I hear they make you sleep like that. Well, if you think that’s the epitome of suffering, you’ve obviously not been paying attention to the world news. We’ve gotten very, very good at torture, but you don’t have to learn that firsthand if you give us something to go on about your comrades in the plane.”

  Nope. Nothing.

  “Don’t make this mistake. It’s not worth it. Whatever you think you owe to your friends, the fact of the matter is they left you here. They—left—you. But hey, if you want to just sit here and take it, let them throw you away like a piece of garbage, that’s your choice. It’s not the choice I would make, but I guess I’m more of a man than you are.”

  But he refused to be goaded. He crossed his arms and remained tight-lipped and suddenly Xana had a hand on her shoulder and she knew it belonged to Lieutenant Dundee and that she had failed.

  She had failed.

  Without a word, Lieutenant Dundee escorted her from the interview room. As the door shut behind her, Giant Nezh finally spoke, shouting out to her:

  “Good-bye, little bitch!”

  Chapter 18

  Out of courtesy, Xana waited until the interview door shut behind her before she shoved Lieutenant Dundee in the chest:

  “You stupid motherfucking hick cop! Where did you learn how to practice law? Short Attention Span Theater? The man in there is our only connection to a possible hijacking! And if you knew anything about basic criminal investigation, you’d know the best way to let those of us who are actually in law enforcement instead of babysitting civilians at the airport—the best way to let us do our jobs is to let us do our jobs and that means, you pigheaded son of a bitch, you do not micromanage while you’re in the goddamn room!”

  Everyone in the squad room was looking at them, scrutinizing, wondering how their LT was going to react. They were all witnesses. Yes, before launching into a verbal assault, the tall middle-aged woman, whoever she was, had indeed instigated a physical altercation against their commanding officer.

  Cuff her, LT.

  Shrink her down to size and tell her the way of the world.

  Put her in her place.

  How was Lieutenant Dundee going to react? Hayley O’Leary was so frightened of the darker possibilities that she almost forgot to breathe, which, for someone in her condition, could have been very, very bad.

  As to Lieutenant Dundee, he chose to react in a way sure to disappoint just about everyone else. He quietly asked Xana to follow him to his office and the two of them disappeared behind the door, depriving the onlookers of their show.

  Lieutenant Dundee’s office was small and nondescript, with the requisite photographs of the current president, governor, and mayor on the wall. The room’s only exceptional piece of furniture was a coffeemaker on a shelf. One reason for the lack of specific décor was that Dundee undoubtedly shared the space with several other rotating shift commanders. On the other hand, Major Hewlett’s office down the hall was probably garish and palatial.

  Once alone with him, Xana felt her anger ease. After all, she hadn’t really been angry with him; she was angry with herself. Her interviewing skills had demonstrated themselves to be, to say the least, rusty. How hubristic she had been to think that a seven-month absence wouldn’t take its toll…

  “Well?” asked Dundee.

  She glanced over at him. Oh right. He probably was waiting for an apology. Well, he had taken the high road and brought the conversation to the privacy of this office rather than going all alpha male on her in front of the troops. Maybe he wasn’t a complete tool.

  “I’m sorry for pushing you,” she said. “It was impulsive and wrong.”

  Dundee hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and shook his head in disbelief. “Missy, I don’t give two shits about you laying your hands on me. What I want to know is what the prisoner said in there. What are we dealing with here?”

  Hmm. Twice now this man had surprised her. Had she prejudged him? To be sure, his first impression had been abysmal. Xana took a seat in one of the office’s tall-backed metal chairs.

  “OK,” she said, gladly taking an offered mug of coffee, “what do you know about Russian–Chechen relations?”

  The lieutenant sat behind the desk, his own coffee mug in his hands, and rested his boots on an open drawer. “Civil wars. Rebellions. I know what I’ve seen on the news.”

  “Then let me take a step back. What do you know about Ivan the Terrible?”

  “Are you about to tell me that we have a slain police officer in Atlanta, Georgia, because of Ivan the Terrible?”

  “No. For about seven years in the 1500s, when Ivan wanted to perpetrate some really ambitious, evil shit, he assembled a secret police called the oprichniki and had them burn down villages along the countryside of his empire…well, just because, really. During this time, he had these torture camps established that he would visit whenever he needed a pick-me-up. This period—this reign of truly hellish tyranny—is referred to in Russian history as The Oprichnina. Officially, it ended in 1572, after the Tartar descendants of the Great Khan defeated Ivan’s army and burned Moscow to the ground. All of the torture camps were disbanded…except one.”

  “There’s always an exception, isn’t there?”

  “Over the centuries, this final camp, located on the Terek River, became a fort and then a castle. Through the years, it acquired an appropriate name: The Oprichnina. The atrocities committed under Ivan the Terrible were continued by his successors within those walls to countless political prisoners, especially the Cossacks. One centuries-old tradition they maintained was to mark and track all new prisoners. They were branded on the neck. In its most recent iteration, this brand is a barcode tattoo.”

  “So our guy is, what, some Cossack ex-con?”

  Xana sipped at her coffee. Some kind of light roast, barely more than sweetened water. Ugh. “He’s Chechen. But that’s not the part that’s got me nervous.”

  “What is it?”

  “There are no ex-cons from The Oprichnina. For the unfortunate few, the doors to that nightmare factory only open one way. No parole. I mean, how can you get parole if you’ve never been officially sentenced?”

  “So he’s a poser.”

  “No. He’s not.” She set her coffee on the desk. “The tattoo is real. There’s a symbol hi
dden in each genuine mark, kind of like an image in one of those magic picture paintings. You can’t see the symbol unless you look at it the right way, and nobody outside the prison is aware of it.”

  “Except you, of course.”

  Xana shrugged. She wasn’t about to elaborate, at least not while sober—and that meant never again, didn’t it? Good. Some stories were best left untold.

  Lieutenant Dundee lifted his boots off their resting place and stood up. “That’s a great story. It really is. But it doesn’t tell me anything to help me understand why Wynonna Price is dead or if the one hundred and seventy-four passengers of Flight Eight Sixteen are imperiled.”

  “Right—so here’s my plan. When I go back in there, I go back in there alone. I pretend that—”

  “When you go back in there? You’re not going anywhere.”

  Xana raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “By refusing to follow the direct instructions of a police officer in the course of an ongoing criminal investigation, you impeded said investigation and—”

  “Oh, you got to be kidding me…”

  “Missy, I gave you a set of simple rules.”

  “Yeah, go ahead, arrest me.” She held out her wrists to be cuffed. “I’m sure that will look peachy when this turns into a case of domestic terrorism and the Powers That Be realize they can’t communicate with one of the accomplices because the translator is in jail!”

  Dundee chuckled to himself. “You’re something else. You know that?”

  “I do, yes, but—”

  “You think we won’t be able to find another person in this whole metropolis who can speak Chechen? Please. Now, Reidsville may not be The Oprichnina or whatever, but as prisons go, I’m sure your stay will—”

  His phone rang.

  He picked up the receiver.

  He listened to the voice on the other line.