The elevator ride to the lobby was brief. The elevator car was old but well maintained. When he reached the lobby, his suspicion regarding his location was confirmed. The building was neither high-class nor low-rent. Strictly middle of the road—nothing attention grabbing. He found it interesting that Professor Meade chose to keep the platforms in apartments around the country. It made a certain amount of sense. People frequently coming and going wouldn’t draw attention the way they would at a location like the storage locker. The negative side was the paper trail. Payments would be made on these properties. There were utility and tax records. Cyrus made a mental note to contact Allan Underwood. He needed to know how the properties were sheltered. Public records were a potential loose thread that could be used to identify the locations of the platforms.
Passing through the double doors of the lobby, Cyrus stepped onto a busy Manhattan street. Traffic was heavy and moving slowly in both directions. The sidewalk buzzed with the constant bustle of pedestrians, even at nearly ten o’clock at night. The city that never sleeps, was that New York? It seemed appropriate. The townspeople of Berton Springs, Colorado were likely safely ensconced in their beds come ten o’clock.
Double-checking his location on his phone’s map, he turned right and started down the street. He was only a few blocks from The Happy Taste of China.
When he turned right at the next corner, he experienced a curious sensation. There, in the bustle of at least a hundred people, he felt he was being watched. Surreptitiously, he glanced around. There were any number of possible prying eyes, but no observer stood out. He kept walking. Foot traffic was heavy. Maybe that was all he was experiencing. It was unlikely anyone knew he was here. His trip to New York had literally been a spur of the moment decision.
But by the end of the next block, the tingling sense in the back of his skull had become a force he couldn’t ignore. As he reached the next intersection, the crosswalk to his left received a walk indication light, allowing pedestrian traffic to move across the busy boulevard. Without hesitation, he turned and crossed the street.
A glance to his left made him nothing more than a New Yorker ensuring he wasn’t about to be run down while crossing a busy street, but Cyrus capitalized on the look and picked out two men in his peripheral vision. They broke cover, sprinting to make the crossing before traffic routed them. A two-man tail. And where there were two, there could be more. Who were they? How had they found him so quickly?
Cyrus had already given a great deal of thought to the Bola Alvares issue. The more he considered it, the more confident he was that these men where not a part of Alvares’s crew. Based on the prints he’d lifted from the team at his apartment and the information Nathan had run down for him, Cyrus knew those men were Europeans, not Mexican. Two of the three in his apartment hailed from the Baltic Rim, and one was from Russia. If he were to wager, he was betting the men following him now were a part of a second force interested in Meridian. But who they were and why they were interested was still unclear. It seemed unlikely that Chad Brewster would’ve sold Meridian to a drug lord and the Europeans as well.
On a whim, Cyrus turned down a dark deserted alley. He maintained a consistent pace. He wanted to appear as though he knew exactly where he was going. He also wanted to draw his tail to a secluded location where he could find out what they knew.
Thirty yards down the murky alley, he could hear the sounds of footsteps keeping pace with him. Two men. They were going for his ploy. He continued on.
About a hundred and fifty yards in, a figure stepped from the shadows and blocked his way. The man was maybe six foot two with wide shoulders and dressed in dark clothes. Crap, Cyrus thought. He should’ve expected this. The team at his apartment had three men. With two men behind him, he should’ve expected the appearance of a third. The goons behind him must’ve been in radio contact with the third, for him to route Cyrus like this. It spoke to their organization. They were professionals, not street thugs, like the drug runners.
“That’s far enough,” the man in front of Cyrus said, holding up a gloved hand. In his grip was a semi-automatic with a suppressor attached. The gun was not unexpected, but the silencer increased the odds that he intended to use it.
“Marco,” the man ordered. “Take his weapon!”
The man’s voice was deep and accented. Slavic…Russian, Cyrus was fairly certain. One of the men behind Cyrus approached. A quick pat down and the man found and confiscated Cyrus’s Springfield. The man who searched him took the gun and quickly stepped out of reach. Yep, they’re pros. They knew the importance of staying out of arm’s reach, even when a man was unarmed.
“You’ve caused a great deal of embarrassment for my team,” said the man with the gun.
Cyrus was watching the man’s weapon hand. It was steady. There was no waver in his aim. It was difficult to keep a gun leveled on a target for an extended period of time. Far more trying than people realized. This man was doing it without any drift of the barrel.
“I assume you’re referring to my apartment in Chicago?” Cyrus didn’t know where this was headed, but he wanted answers. If the guy with the gun—Boris, he named him for the moment—was feeling chatty, he would gather as much information as possible.
Cyrus looked over his shoulder. Behind him, the two men had spread out. He was now standing in the center of a triangle. All three men now had guns pointed in his direction. But it seemed to be the man in front of him who was calling the shots. Boris had his gun leveled and he was ready to use it. The two men in the rear held their guns more casually. They didn’t expect to need them.
“Da,” the man in front said. Yeah, Russian was a solid bet. “We were warned that you were skilled. But our men did not take this information to heart. You made quite a mess.”
Cyrus shrugged. His eyes were now fully adjusted to the low light of the alley. He could make out vague details of the man before him as well as the surrounding alley. Nothing within reach could be used as a weapon. “I had no choice,” Cyrus said calmly. “One of them wanted to stick me with a needle! I don’t like needles. They scare me to death.”
This brought a chuckle from Boris. The laugh sounded familiar. Cyrus’s eyes strained in the darkness. He tried to pull more details from the man’s face but it was no use. He was cloaked in shadow.
“Do I know you?” Cyrus asked.
“Nyet,” the man said with confidence. “We have never met. But I know of you. I know a great deal about you. Cyrus Cooper, formerly Coalition. Supposedly retired. But I no longer believe this.” The man was silent for a few moments, as if contemplating something. “You and I must have a conversation, Cyrus Cooper.”
“I’m a lot more conformable talking when I don’t have a gun pointed at me.”
Again the man chuckled. “I am sure that is true. But the information I require is not the type you are likely to give willingly. So, you see, the gun is necessary.”
“Alright. Tell me what you want to know. Let’s get this over with.”
“Just like that?” the man asked with surprise. “Let us be realistic. You have no intention of being forthcoming.”
Cyrus put on his most winning smile. “You won’t know until you try. Ask away. What have you got to lose?”
The man was silent. He seemed off balance by Cyrus’s willingness to have a conversation. He was trying to decipher the ploy Cyrus was playing at. For his part, Cyrus was working something out. It was a fairly solid bet these men were here for Meridian, but it was also possible, though less likely, they were here on another matter entirely. While Cyrus had a plan to close the loop on the Alvares Cartel, he needed to know for certain whether Meridian had suffered another exposure.
“Very well,” the man concluded. “I want you to tell me everything you know about Project Meridian. We know you have hidden the research team. You will give us access to these people and all of their research.”
Damn. The Russian was after Meridian. Taking care of Alvares would plug one leak, b
ut there was another exposure. He’d have to sort that out, too.
Something more nagged at Cyrus. The man before him sounded oddly familiar. But the few features he could make out in the darkness didn’t match with the voice he was hearing.
An easy glance over his shoulder told him what he needed to know. The two armed men behind him were still out of arm’s reach, but they had settled into easy stances holding their guns in relaxed positions.
Cyrus directed his attention to the man before him. “Look man, I know you, don’t I? Your voice is very—” Cyrus stopped mid-sentence and shifted his gaze past the gunman and into the distance slightly to the left.
The gunman, being on alert, noticed Cyrus’s shifting eye movement and instantly reacted. The man shifted to his right as he shot a glance over his left shoulder. But the dark alley was empty.
As soon as the man’s attention began to shift, Cyrus was in motion. With a minimum of body movement, he dropped a telescoping baton from the sleeve of his jacket and into his right hand. A barely perceptible snap of his wrist and the device extended to its full two-and-a-half-foot length. His movements were so minor that they did little to draw the lax attention of the two armed men behind him.
Just as Boris was returning his attention to his quarry, Cyrus swung his arm and brought the end of the baton down across the man’s gun hand with devastating force. The sound of shattering bone was unmistakable. With a flick of his wrist, he brought the baton back across the side of the man’s head on the return swing. Boris dropped to the pavement and remained there.
Cyrus turned with a swing that knocked the gun from the hand of one of the men at his rear. He knew he didn’t have time to take a swing at the remaining man before he got a shot off. Changing his tactic, Cyrus simply dove at the third man, catching him with a shoulder to the chest. Together they crashed to the alley floor. Cyrus rolled and came up just as the second gunman tackled him, driving him back to the ground. As Cyrus’s head bounced off the pavement, he reasoned that the man on top of him had lost his gun in the darkness and was now simply attacking hand-to-hand. Although his vision swirled from the impact with the pavement, he was happy with hand-to-hand.
The second attacker pummeled Cyrus with a right and left hook to the head. Cyrus’s vision was a mess. He couldn’t tell which way was up. He finally managed to raise his arms to deflect the blows. Grabbing the man by the wrist, he twisted with everything he had. The man would have to give up his position on top or suffer a broken wrist. As Cyrus hoped, the man gave in to the pressure and rolled away.
Before Cyrus could get to his feet, the third gunman was upright and heading his way. As the man lunged, Cyrus pulled his knees tight against his chest. His attacker’s flying tackle landed squarely on the soles of Cyrus’s boots, and with a thrust that used every bit of energy he had, Cyrus pistoned his legs outward. The aggressor was launched through the air in an awkward flight that resulted in him crashing against the brick wall of the alley with a sickening snap. The man would not be getting up again.
Cyrus pulled himself to his feet in time to come toe-to-toe with the second attacker. The man looked a little worse for wear, but he was back for another round. He lunged at Cyrus before he had proper footing. For Cyrus, the world was still spinning. Smacking his head on the pavement had rung his bell. What he wouldn’t have given to have the baton back in hand.
The man grabbed Cyrus and slammed him against the brick wall. Without pause, he started throwing body shots left and right. Cyrus clinched his abs in an effort to take the beating without having the wind knocked from his lungs, but it was only a matter of time. The man before him was only a dark blur. Through muddled thoughts, Cyrus realized he needed to end this now or risk losing the fight.
Another blow to the body and Cyrus countered with a devastating head-butt to the man’s face. The world around him was topsy turvy, but he still recognized the sound of shattering cartilage. That would be the bastard’s nose. Good! As his attacker dropped back a step, both hands going to his face, Cyrus hit him with an uppercut containing all of the energy he had left.
The snapping of the man’s jaw was unmistakable, and Cyrus heard more than saw the man topple to the pavement, like a marionette with its strings cut.
Cyrus stumbled and shook his head. His vision was swimming, but he was beginning to steady. Something was nagging at him—a thought at the corner of his mind. Three. Three. Three? Three! There were three attackers. He looked around the alley. One of the men was in a heap at his feet. The other was in a pile at the base of the alley wall, his neck at an oblique angle. He wouldn’t be getting up ever again. Where was the third guy? Boris…the one who had done all of the talking.
There was a clicking sound behind him. Cyrus recognized it immediately. It was the sound of the hammer being drawn back on a handgun.
Cyrus froze.
“You broke my hand, you bastard,” the Russian sputtered through clinched teeth.
This wasn’t good. Cyrus still couldn’t see straight. He was just barely standing under his own power, and now the Russian had the drop on him. His addled mind searched for a play, some kind of move that would get him out of this before his brains were vented into the night air.
He heard the Russian start to laugh. It began as a chuckle. “Father said you were not to be underestimated,” he said. His laughter grew. “I did not believe him! But you? You’re like that damned Energizer Bunny!”
The man’s laughter gained intensity. Cyrus couldn’t help it, he started to laugh too. He didn’t want to, but now he could feel the barrel of the gun pressed against the back of his head. Somehow this struck him as funny…ridiculously funny.
Through his laughter, Cyrus decided that both he and the Russian were likely suffering concussions. The situation was rather amusing after all that had happened, but it wasn’t that funny. Still, for the life of him, he couldn’t help laughing.
Something finally clicked for Cyrus. The man’s voice. It was so familiar. And now that laugh? He knew it too…but he didn’t know the face. “Dargoslav!” Cyrus said, as the name finally popped into his head. “Yuri Dargoslav! You’re Dargo’s kid?”
The man’s laughter died down to a chuckle. “Da,” he said finally.
“I know your father,” Cyrus said calmly.
“Da! He warned me of you. I should have taken him more seriously. Now I think maybe we both have concussion, no?”
“Why are you doing this?” It was a direct question. It was all Cyrus could manage given the circumstances.
“You really need to ask this?” Yuri slurred. “Father said to bring you in alive. He has questions for you. But you make this difficult. Would be easier to kill you!”
Yuri chucked again. Yeah, Cyrus thought. They were in bad shape. Another blow to the head would be bad for either of them. But then again, Cyrus figured since Yuri was pressing a gun against his head, he probably had it coming.
In a flash, Cyrus spun, pushing the gun away with one hand and delivering a brutal right cross with the other. Yuri hit the ground in a heap.
Cyrus took a deep breath and looked up and down the alley. He was alone—the last man standing. But it hadn’t been an easy fight. His vision was finally returning to normal. Well, close to something that might pass for normal. And he wasn’t feeling nausea. That was a good sign. In fact, he was rather hungry.
Hungry? Oh, crap!
He was late picking up dinner!
It took a moment for the sheer absurdity of the idea to make its way through his semi-muddled mind. He had just been in a fight for his life, but somehow he was more concerned with his impromptu date with Reese. Even after what had just transpired, he couldn’t fight back the small grin that crossed his face.
He was feeling like himself for the first time in years.
He searched the three men for anything useful but found nothing. They carried cash and short-range walkie-talkies attached to headsets, but nothing more. No identification. Not even a mobile phone between them.
He found his Springfield and the baton on the floor of the alley. It took only a moment to reclaim his weapons and to strip the men of theirs. He tossed their guns into a dumpster before reaching the street. As he started walking up the block he dropped the magazines for their guns down the nearest storm drain.
Walking on, he pulled out his phone. He launched a special app simply called Burner. The app let him make a call from a single use number that was independent of his normal phone’s identification. It was the software equivalent of having a pre-paid burner phone. The same anonymity of a burner phone but without going through the trouble of carrying the disposable device. Using the Burner app, he dialed 911 and reported that an ambulance was needed. He gave the address of the nearest street corner and told the operator that the EMTs would need to check the alley. When the operator asked his name, he simply hung up. His last encounter with Yuri Dargoslav’s father, Dargo, had been tense. They had a complicated history that went back many years. Cyrus had no idea whether Dargo wished him ill. All the same, killing the man’s son wouldn’t improve the situation. Better to get the young man help now and see what a roll of the dice got him.
A quick check of the map on his phone, and Cyrus confirmed his location. He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Chapter 30
Berton Springs, Colorado
Thursday, 8:02 pm
Tucked under a blanket at the corner of the couch, Reese was reading a paperback by the firelight. Candles were spread intermittently along the perimeter of the room.
She saw Cyrus’s dark silhouette move in the corner of her eye. “How was the bath?” he asked as he headed directly for the kitchen.
“Amazing!” she said with such enthusiasm that it was almost a purr. Lounging in a hot soapy tub had invigorated her. Though the whole time she was soaking, she couldn’t help letting her mind wander. She had joked about Cyrus joining her in the Jacuzzi, actually surprising herself with the brazen remark. Not because of the offhanded quip but because she realized it was Freudianly sincere. She had known him only two days. Such a response was decidedly unlike her.
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