Cane

by Dwayne Gill

  Dwayne Gill

  Cane's Detour

  A "Written By Blood" Prequel

  Copyright © Dwayne Gill, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Second edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  Foreword

  Short Stories By Dwayne Gill:

  Daniel’s Darkness

  Cane’s Detour

  Novel coming this summer:

  Written By Blood

  -Part One of a Series

  Subscribe to my mailing lists for updates at:

  dwaynegillbooks.com

  Moscow---Three Days Ago

  The first dead body that Drugov saw as he opened the stairwell door belonged to Pashin, a good friend and an even better soldier. He lay sprawled on the floor, belly-up, arms spread; his hand no longer clutched his gun. Even after death, Pashin’s wild eyes displayed the shock and horror he experienced. Pashin was no easy mark; Drugov observed his combat prowess often.

  Drugov looked around him, confused, and considered which of his enemies might be responsible. He supervised shipments of illegal firearms out of Moscow, so competition would have a motive to sabotage his operation. It may also be thieves after his inventory. It wasn’t the police. In Moscow, they never caused him any problems. In fact, he employed several of the officers.

  As Drugov entered the large room, it became clear that none of the three groups could’ve been responsible for the carnage in front of him. Though he was no stranger to death and violence, this massacre rose to a different level. Eight more bodies lay scattered across the white tile floor; the fresh blood pooling around a few of them suggested it happened recently. Whoever committed this atrocity may still be in the building. Drugov didn’t hear movement anywhere, but that meant little to him. The nine men also didn’t seem to have sensed anyone; most of them didn’t appear to have defended themselves. Although Drugov didn’t have clear sight of every corpse, the ones he observed were single-tapped in the forehead. Clean kills. The person who committed this act of violence was a professional.

  The victims were the most skilled security guards in or around Moscow. Yet, here they lay, all dead. How long was I upstairs? He thought. Twenty minutes, give or take a few. He wouldn’t have heard anything from the third story.

  Drugov’s heart pounded as he stood, frozen. He had only one choice. He sprinted across the large open area, hurdling two dead men on the way, and dove through the doorway of his safe room. His brother designed it for such an occasion. He flipped open a hatch on the wall and typed in a code, and the steel door slid into place. Drugov fell to his knees with relief; the room was impenetrable. The walls were also steel, and every window bulletproof. The only exit was a rear hatchway that led outside. A secret escape. Drugov needed to get his bearings and exit; he would then call his brother Rugov and relay what happened.

  Today didn’t come as a complete surprise to Drugov. The FBI raided three storage facilities in the U.S. in the past month, which signaled the start of a prolonged effort to eradicate the Russian gun smugglers. Drugov and Rugov sensed something bigger brewing; so much so, in fact, that Rugov was hiding at a remote cabin in Florida until things calmed down.

  But here in Moscow? No matter how much pressure existed in the U.S., it should never spill over into Russia. But somehow, it had.

  Drugov’s mind wandered to stories of a man dangerous enough to take down a government. This same man now served the interests of the U.S., who needed to contain the smuggling problem. Right about now those rumors fit well in light of today’s events. Someone exceptional killed these men.

  Just as Drugov gained his composure, a chair squeaked behind him. The relief from only a moment ago vanished and panic surged inside him. There could only be one man in that seat; everyone else was dead.

  The room had an exit from the inside, but he would have to flip the panel open and type the code again. He didn’t have time. He considered spinning around and trying to out-duel the man, for he would have the element of surprise on his side, but that seemed foolish. Although Drugov was handy with a gun, he didn’t like his chances in this situation. Talking to him would be the best approach. After all, the man had delayed killing Drugov on sight.

  “What do you want?” Drugov asked in his thick Russian accent.

  Drugov heard the chair squeak louder; the man was standing. Drugov’s heart raced as he listened to his approach. He reached for his holstered pistol, but the man’s voice stopped him.

  “Ask who I am before you reach for that.”

  “Who are you?”

  “You know who I am,” said the voice.

  “Cane.” Drugov had no doubt now.

  “Tell me where Rugov is.”

  Drugov stiffened. That’s what all this is about? His brother, Rugov, headed their operation in the United States. The FBI wanted him, but he didn’t think they’d go to these lengths to find him.

  “I’ll get his location one way or the other.”

  Drugov believed him, whether he was Cane or someone else. The man spoke with confidence and authority. He wouldn’t be able to stall this man, much less talk him down. However, Drugov refused to give up his brother’s location, even if it cost him his life. Drugov was the only man alive, other than Rugov and his security team, that knew his brother’s hiding spot. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage somehow. Cane wouldn’t kill him; he needed him alive. Maybe he—-

  A sharp tug on the back of the head interrupted Drugov’s thoughts; Cane grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked back. Fierce pain shot through his left eye, like someone inserted a red-hot fireplace poker. Drugov screamed in agony. He heard what sounded like muffled popping, but the noise came from inside his head. He writhed and scratched at Cane’s hand, but he was too powerful, and it ended too quickly. He sensed the pressure release from his head and fell forward, only to realize that he was blind in his left eye. Blood poured onto the floor beneath him; his body ached, and he was exhausted. His left eye throbbed in rhythm with the sound of his heartbeat as it pounded in his head, loud as a drum. He tried to gather himself but still whimpered with every breath; he sounded like a wounded animal. Footsteps echoed around him, and he swung his arms wildly, more out of instinct than with any actual intention. His assailant stood in front of an open laptop lying on the counter. My laptop. Panicked, he looked at Cane’s left hand; it held something he dreaded seeing. No. He reached up to touch his left eye but found nothing. He screamed again, more from despair than pain.

  “I asked you twice,” said Cane. He didn’t require Drugov’s cooperation to get what he wanted. He needed only his eye for the retinal scan to gain access to his computer.

  Drugov fell to the floor in defeat and listened as Cane finished his business. He remembered many tales of this man, though he doubted they were all true. One now spun through his mind, the rumor that likely guaranteed he wouldn’t live through this encounter. No one could see Cane’s face and live; some said Cane went to great lengths to ensure his anonymity, including killing entire villages that glimpsed him.

  Who cares? I’m dead no matter what. With or without rumors, Cane had no reason to spare his life today. Drugov’s laptop snapped shut, and he sensed the end was close. He
has no more use for me. He heard Cane’s voice talking on the phone.

  “Lynks. I have it. Rugov’s in a cabin in rural Florida. Get it mapped for me. I’m sending you the file.”

  Drugov’s humiliation was complete. Cane knew Rugov’s location and he could do nothing about it. He looked at Cane and spat at him.

  “You think you’re stopping bad guys. You ARE a bad guy.”

  He paused, waiting for a reaction that didn’t come.

  “You think you’re better than me? Than Rugov? You’re not. You’re no different.”

  Drugov shut his eyes as he sensed Cane hover over him. Cane’s response came quicker than he expected.

  “I’m not better than you or Rugov.”

  Drugov’s heart pounded as Cane cocked his gun.

  “I’m much worse.”

  Drugov barely heard the gun fire as his world exploded into blackness.

  Abandoned Barn---Present

  It was Kristy’s fourth day in this god-forsaken place, a dark, hopeless abyss of a dungeon that mirrored what she’d felt since she woke up here. Her strength declined each day, and with each moment that passed the sense of dread increased, as if death itself was sneering at her, tormenting her with constant thoughts of what was to come. It was eerily quiet, aside from the occasional screams, grunts, and shuffling of the other women. The longer she was captive here, tormented by her thoughts, by dread, and with her strength failing, her chances of ever leaving this place alive decreased.

  Kristy must make a move today. If she couldn’t summon the strength and will to escape, she’d die trying.

  The ties on Kristy’s wrists hurt like hell, though she stopped struggling against them the first day she awakened here. She realized the struggle against her bonds was futile, at least in the conventional manner, and it would only weaken and injure her at the earliest stage of a long nightmare. The four days of tension still took a toll on her wrists, and her shoulders ached because her arms twisted behind her back, around the large pillar.

  The small portion of water provided to her each day was the only thing keeping her alive, but was also a tormenting reminder of the actual hunger and thirst that racked her body. She had eaten nothing in days.

  Kristy was held captive in an abandoned barn that had been altered and enhanced to suit its sinister purpose. Rows of pillars lined one side of the barn, to one of which Kristy was tied. Not every post served the structure for function; many of them accommodated other unfortunate prisoners. Three women fastened to pillars were too far away to communicate with, unless she shouted, and that didn’t seem like a good idea. They weren’t responsive, anyway; their heads drooped, and they barely moved. They had been here a while. Weeks. Perhaps longer.

  Wooden cages resembling large dog kennels lined the walls of the barn, most of them containing a woman. There was little movement in the cages; Kristy saw a few of the women change positions, but none spoke. It was unclear whether their silence resulted from their captor punishing them for talking, or if they succumbed to fear and weakness.

  The barn stank of urine and feces, amongst other unidentifiable odors that might be dead, decaying bodies. Kristy soiled herself several times in the past few days, and she was sure the other women had done the same, which would explain the smell.

  The barn itself, not surprisingly, was filthy and unkempt. The floor was straw and hardened dirt, and there was always a thin layer of dust in the air. Kristy often felt the crunch of dirt in her mouth when she clenched her teeth.

  There was little natural light, just some slivers peeking through old boards that drifted apart over the years. The double doors at one side of the barn were the most significant source of light. Kristy’s captor had lanterns scattered about to see the dungeon after dark.

  The only area that looked more habitable was along the back wall opposite the barn doors. A long, wooden countertop stretched the length of the wall. On top lay a sink, microwave, television, radio, and a cardboard box. An old, worn-looking couch sat in front, flanked by a refrigerator and deep freezer. Her first day here, Kristy spotted artificial blue roses sticking out the top of the cardboard box, which was a revelation not only of her kidnapper’s identity but of how much danger she faced.

  They called him the Blue Rose Killer, and though at present he was not a proven murderer, was otherwise appropriately named for his signature blue rose he left at each crime scene. He abducted at least two dozen women in the past few months, none of which ever surfaced, dead or alive, and Kristy now knew why. Her mother would have found a blue rose left on Kristy’s behalf. She and her mother watched the news reports and expressed mutual concern for the victims of this man, recently. Now she was one of them.

  Rural Florida Road

  Cane drove down the winding country road, glancing at the clock on the dash; he was right on schedule. He didn’t need to check the time as often as he did; it was just habit. He looked down at the jar that held Drugov’s left eye sitting on the bench seat beside him. He preserved the eye in liquid in case he needed it at the cabin. Cane could use the retinal scan of either brother to access any sensitive information that Rugov might possess.

  He’d arrive at his destination in two hours and thirteen minutes, leaving plenty of time to review the blueprints of the house again, although he memorized every square inch of the place days ago. Rugov’s phone activity had shown nothing peculiar; he didn’t seem to know what happened in Moscow. While Cane couldn’t be sure that Rugov was clueless, he felt confident about the situation. Not that it mattered if Rugov knew he was coming; Cane had infiltrated far more dangerous places, with better security than this cabin. In the past, even well-armed locations aware of his arrival couldn’t stop him.

  Cane guessed that Rugov’s security team was similar in size to his brother’s. However, the cabin was small, so security would be limited in some capacity. Uncomfortable guards, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, would result in lax security.

  After leaving Moscow, Lynks, his partner, had mapped the route and layout of the cabin, though it surprised Cane that another team didn’t eliminate Rugov days ago. Apparently, his superiors would prefer he do it quietly than send a full tactical unit. The suits in power often used Cane for jobs that no one else wanted to do or even discuss. There had been a rumor that Rugov’s wife was at the cabin as well, so sending a full tactical unit there would look bad. American troops killing a Russian arms dealer on American soil would raise eyebrows; the murder of his American wife would make headlines. With Cane at the helm, the government had plausible deniability; few knew he existed.

  Cane was on his own and preferred it that way. This awareness made him value his anonymity even more than he would otherwise.

  The fewer people that saw him, the better.

  Blue Rose

  The Blue Rose Killer abducted Kristy this past Sunday; Kristy and her mother Helen usually ate lunch and walked at Cascade Park, but because Helen was sick, she went alone while her mother rested. Kristy loved to run the trails, but since the day was pleasant, she opted for a relaxing walk instead. She parked, as usual, near the amphitheater and hiked the trail for a couple of hours. It was still daylight when she returned to her car and had no reason to suspect danger. Kristy climbed into the front seat and as she reached for the seatbelt, a hand covered her mouth and nose. Her hands grabbed it, but the intruder wrapped his other arm around her neck and squeezed. The hand on her mouth was damp and caused her eyes and sinuses to burn. Her eyes watered as she tried to peer into the rear-view mirror; she wanted to see her assailant, but she wouldn’t get the chance. Her eyes were too heavy to hold open, so she drifted away.

  The Blue Rose Killer presumably left his signature rose on the seat. He shoved her in the trunk of a car and brought her to the barn. Kristy woke up when her abductor opened the trunk, blinking back tears and fighting nausea as she stirred. He pulled her out of the car and tried to drag her inside, but she resisted, kicking him several times in the leg. He grunted in frustration, and fo
r a moment let up. Kristy tried to roll onto her side but a kick to her mid-section stopped her. Pain shot through her ribs and she cried out, which only angered her captor. Three more boots landed to her abdomen, knocking the wind out of her and leaving her gasping for air. His blurred visage leaned over her and he landed another blow, a fist to the right side of her face, and she blacked out again.

  Kristy woke up tied to a pillar, her abductor hovering over her. He stunk so badly that she nearly vomited. Her vision had returned, but her head ached more than before; she assumed it was the product of the physical beating.

  The killer sounded out of breath, not from exercise, but from excitement. He was tall, lanky, had long black hair, and wore dirty overalls with holes that revealed patches of his unbathed body. His face, obscured by a ratty beard, locked in a grimace and he bared his teeth. Dark, beady, bloodshot eyes stared down, full of evil and deep hatred. A lock of his hair brushed against her cheek as he leaned closer. It was wet. She looked up again, near his mouth, and saw spit seeping through his teeth; it pooled on his bottom lip and dripped onto the strands of long hair. The saturated clumps then rained spit on her face and neck. Kristy gagged.

  “You can’t escape. If you try, I’ll kill you.” He spoke with a hoarse rasp.

  “There’s no talking here. Talk to the others, and I’ll cut your tongue out.”

  He hadn’t spoken since, but his silent lingering was as frightening. And though he hadn’t harmed Kristy again, she was sure he was biding his time, waiting for the strength to leave her body before he risked untying her and having his way. Kristy’s future could be predicted by observing the other women. The ones tied to the pillars, like her, were being prepared; he deprived them of food and water to weaken them. He periodically made his rounds to assault them; Kristy couldn’t rotate her body enough to see, but she could hear the muffled cries and whimpers. The women in the cages had it worst; they were by far the weakest, having endured the earlier stage of beatings and starvation. Blue Rose sexually assaulted one or two of them daily.