Do Or Die (Surreal Blue Rogue Agent)

by E. R. Baine

  Miriam stilled. The glass of scotch paused, the glass rim right at the tip of her lips; a sly smile animated her face. Her left eyebrow quirked upwards, her eyes lowered from Viktor’s stern features to the chilled golden liquid. Her gaze became shuttered.

  “Faulty wiring: a leak gone unnoticed, water pooling over some exposed wires, a minor electrical explosion, a life lost. That’s the story I’ve been pushing across the internet and it’s been picked up by the AP.” Miriam swirled the scotch confidently in her hand. The ice cubes chinked as they clashed against the glass surface, knocking against each other. “I’ve got someone on the report from the fire services, the police department, and the private ambulance service. They’ll all concur with the initial on-site findings – an explosion due to faulty wiring.” Miriam drained the glass. Her mouth pouted in a soft moue. “Ohh,” she released a soft breath. “Bully for us.” She placed the empty glass on the waiter. “The only casualty was one of ours. A national would have muddied the waters…the body bag is already in transit to New York.” Miriam nodded to the assistant and made a small gesture with her index finger, waving it up and down, indicating she’d have another.

  “Z’ank you, Miriam, for z’ee brief,” Viktor said through clenched teeth.

  Miriam sighed, familiar with her boss’s cue for when it was time to make a quick exit. She grabbed a lime wedge from the serving tray, the bottle of scotch, and two glasses. She shoved the wedge in her mouth. The two glasses clinked against each other as she held them neatly together with her right index and middle fingers. Standing, she raised them along with her hand to salute her boss. Miriam then sauntered through the exit as Emily held the door open for her. The assistant departed as well, closing the door behind her. The three men were once again alone in the room.

  Viktor turned to observe the menacing weather through the window once more, his back to the two assistants. Lincoln observed the Russian’s stiff posture. Victor wore a dark silver pin-striped waistcoat with matching trousers. His lengthy raven hair was wound into a close-fitted Dutch braid that fell squarely down the middle of his back. The end of his braid was bound by a fat black rubber strap. The bit of loose hair at the end of his braid always captured the attention of onlookers for its striking shock of white-grey color.

  Lincoln opened his mouth to address his superior once more, only to give pause to the shrill ring of the office IP phone. Viktor waved Mat aside when he advanced to pick up the receiver. Viktor answered on the second ring. “Dobryy denʹ, Viktor Maxckmillian.” As he listened to the voice over the phone, his face suddenly paled and he sat down slowly in his chair. The voice on the other end had unmistakable similarities to his missing wife. Viktor shut his eyes when he realized that he was instead speaking to her mother. He released a short breath over an inaudible, muttered curse. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, dragging his hand down his face gently, using his thumb and index finger to massage his closed eyelids. “No, Mama.” Viktor stopped to listen. “Yes, she is a very ungrateful girl, I’ll make sure she comes over to you before the day is out, of that you could play lotto.” Viktor shrugged off the well of reassurance that surged through him at the sound of the quiet giggle that erupted in his ear. Yes, the both agreed he was no good at colloquial slangs. He ended the conversation with his mother-in-law, only to field another call.

  “Viktor, how are you? I have yet to speak to your wife today. I am having trouble getting a hold of her – is she still unavailable? Tonight is the one true night she can see the Saturn’s rings at optimal clarity.”

  Dammit! Viktor cursed silently. Had he known his wife had this many personal engagements on a daily basis, he would have reined in her private schedule long ago instead of leaving her ‘daily’ to be settled between herself and Lincoln. His wife was an amateur astrophysicist. Witnessing Saturn’s rings for the first time was all she could talk about the whole week. Viktor kneaded his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Really, hmm, I’m not aware of her being busy, ‘ve meeting has overrun – she may run late.”

  “She is well then?” Dr. Eli asked, concerned about his colleague.

  “Yes, she is over the moon about the meeting, so to speak. She has long to arrive; after all, you have all night.”

  “Yes, very well then, I will see her soon.” Dr. Eli left the conversation at that. He was not too familiar with the Russian diplomat. He had only met him on occasion when he was with his wife.

  Viktor hung up the phone, but it was a moment before his tight grip on the receiver was released. His strong resolve remained hidden behind the look he gave the two assistants, who gazed at him with questioning eyes. “Find her,” he ground out.

  Viktor stood grabbing his tailored jacket from over the chair’s back and hastily drew his arms through the sleeves. Lincoln’s cell played the beginning of the Niki Minaj song “Beez In The Trap”. He pulled the phone out and glanced at the screen and then froze, his eyes locked onto it. He slowly turned to face the other two men, displaying the cell’s screen message. The Google map with the red icon representing fixed coordinates could not be misinterpreted.

  Viktor, already adept at masking his emotions, easily hid his annoyance at the fact that Adrianna’s explicit location was divulged to Lincoln so quickly. Viktor wondered at Xin’s mounting challenge to his authority at every turn. This further shrank the time available to him to manage his deliverables – Audrianna to Dr. Eli by dusk.

  “We have a decisive lock on her GIS coordinates.” Lincoln looked at Viktor. “Would you like to lead the SWAT team?”

  Lincoln had to hand it to Viktor; he appeared genuinely puzzled by the question.

  “Me?” Viktor replied.

  “Given your former profession, I thought you would rather like to handle the undertaking yourself.”

  Viktor blinked, aghast. “As an actuary?”

  Lincoln sighed. “Are you willing to keep up the pretense, even now, though your wife’s life is on the line?”

  Viktor sighed in response to Lincoln’s clipped tone. He laid a reassuring palm on his shoulder. The men were nearly equal in height; Lincoln had only two inches over Viktor. Viktor looked squarely into Lincoln’s eyes and said quietly, “I trust you,” before he grabbed his briefcase and headed towards the door.

  Leaving the job of finding his wife in the hands of his U.S. Army-trained aides, Viktor headed towards the elevator. Trinidad was a small island, and he had no time to lose to arrive at the coordinates before Lincoln and his team. Audrianna’s security team was highly trained in combat, a daring mash-up of ex-Marines, Interpol agents, and volatile assassins. They had no doubt taken the kidnapping as an affront to their very existence. Yet Viktor’s training was undoubtedly of a more lethal vein than any human could dare measure against. Audrianna was his wife. He would make sure the person who had taken her drew his last breath the very second he laid his hands on him.

  Viktor related to his secretary that she was to remain on call until further notice. He reached the elevator, pressed the button and waited. He then slowly turned to his right to face the approaching auburn-haired man. Viktor’s brow furrowed as he sought to recall the young man’s name. Viktor extended his arm and grasped the callused hand the man extended. “Brighton,” Viktor inclined his head, “Darksmith.”

  The man had a somber, disquiet disposition about him that left others unsettled in his presence. Viktor had remained unperturbed by him.

  “Sir,” Brighton addressed him as he reached for the case held by his apprentice, who stood beside him. “Your “Hell’s Embrace” as per your request.”

  Viktor stayed the man’s hand by gently tapping it with his index finger. He waved his finger negatively. “No, no.” Viktor spoke softly. “Not here, we’re too overexposed.”

  Viktor turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. Lincoln and Mat drew close, the doors to the elevator opened and Viktor entered. Three young women of African descent dressed in white tube tops, black leather jackets, and leather pants stood wa
iting his arrival in the elevator. Viktor sighed in exasperation. His silver-lined suit should have been enough to deter them from following him.

  The trio of werewolves was a part of Audrianna’s pack; they protected Audrianna on occasions, and one of their own had been the only casualty in the attack. He had hoped to not have to bring them with him, he had never agreed to them being a part of her entourage. But he was not in the mood to turn them away.

  They all wore their natural hair in a corkscrew hairstyle that massed at the shoulder. One’s complexion was a fairer shade of almond brown than the others. The ultimate goal was to be a decoy for Audrianna in case of an attack such as the one that occurred last night. But all that had resulted in is the death of one, and the kidnapping of his wife. Revenge must be at the forefront of their minds.

  Their expressions gave away no measure of discomfort as he turned to the elevator’s opening and beckoned Darksmith and the young boy inside.

  The doors to the elevator were about to close when an index finger slid through the cracked opening. With the strength of his artificial index finger Lincoln forcefully, and easily, slid the doors back into its slit. Lincoln looked down at Viktor.

  “You’re not heading to command center?”

  “Sorry. We’re heading up. Prior engagement.” Viktor flicked Lincoln’s finger from the open door, but his finger only moved because Lincoln moved it, not because Viktor could. Lincoln folded his arms and watched as the doors began to close, not before Brighton gave a half-hearted wave delivered with an expectant expression in Lincoln’s direction.

  Lincoln gave Brighton a brief, non-committal smile before the doors shut.

  Mat turned to Lincoln and leered at him. He lifted his curled fingers and gave him the fig sign, wriggling his thumb beneath his index finger. Only a decades-long friendship kept Mat from landing in a world of hurt by offending the towering Lincoln Huntington with his brash teasing.

  Lincoln, in response, flipped Mat his middle finger. His eyes silently told Mat, “Go fuck yourself.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Viktor led the Darksmith and his apprentice through the double doors of the top floor, past the portraits of former Ministers of Finance who had reined over the national Ministry of the preceding years. He led them to the second conference room, which had the title “Scarlet Ibis” engraved over the double doors.

  Viktor barged into the room unceremoniously. They had booked the room for a meeting and had assured the building’s caterers that they would provide their own helpers. They would remain undisturbed until the watchman made his patrol later that night.

  Viktor surveyed the board. His manservant Grigori, a pale figure with a bushy beard and mustache and an aristocratic nose, stood on the far side of the room facing the expansive windows. His attention had been drawn to the darkening skies. “Striking view, isn’t it.” His gaze never wavered; his reflection in the glass was a clear mimicry. “Like having a clear view of what is to come.” Grigori turned to face Viktor.

  He sniffed Viktor’s collar, his brows shot up, Grigori snickered at the scent of silver that lined Viktor’s waistcoat and jacket that assailed him, “ a tad…immature?” Grigori lent accusingly.

  Viktor’s attention had already been caught by the sight of the other young boy in the room. He sat on a chair in the corner. Nikolai, sullen, looked out at the same intense weather. The dark clouds rolling in from the horizon were nearly upon the shoreline. The deep-barreled rumbling and flashes of lightning promised a dire circumstance to the evening. Viktor sighed, annoyed. He drew himself up beside Grigori. “What the hell Grigori, this is not a family affair!” he ground out quietly.

  Grigori looked at him, unfazed by his master’s aura of malice. “I am not to leave young master unattended. He is quite traumatized by the events that occurred last night – you should have a word...” Viktor walked away from him.

  Had Viktor paid attention to what he had said? Grigori scowled as he watched Viktor grab the weapon that had wanted repair. Grigori’s attention, too, had been stirred by the remarkable aesthetics of the club. Hell’s Embrace, Viktor’s superior weapon, had been chipped badly during his last battle.

  The club was about two and a half feet in height, its weight – hefty. Though as a man of strong build Viktor felt no extremity in wielding it. The wood the club was made of was jagged, but smooth to the touch, as though chiseled from a tree trunk and then sandpapered with exquisite care. Its crown was encrusted with clear, hard crystals and black moon rock. Spikes adorned its circular rim.

  Viktor waved his arm in a clean, effortless downward motion. Whoosh; the sound sliced the air. The top of the club sparkled like stars in the night sky, as though with energy born from the swift movement. Viktor was visibly appreciative of the weapon. He brought the club to lay across his palm. Sighing, he walked across to Nikolai.

  The boy’s puffy eyes and red nose were marked signs that he had been crying. Viktor spoke resoundingly in his native language. “You see this club. I’m going to find the man who took your mother, and I’m going to use this club to beat him within an inch of his life…” He looked down, dead straight into the boy’s unwavering stare. “Then I’m going to kill him.” The exchange seemed to cheer Nikolai up, because a slow smile dared to grace his lips.

  “Fantastic,” Grigori thought, pulling out his ringing cell phone. “At least they seem to speak each other’s language.”

  “I trust the club is to your liking.” Brighton would rather take his leave now and make an early flight out of the country. This stop was one of four for the evening, his obligation to the Maxcks were purely sentimental.

  “Ah yes, heavier than I am used to…” Viktor kept admiring his piece.

  “That may be ‘cause of the added inner component you requested.” Brighton pointed at the weapon in Viktor’s hand. “Dead center, as per your instructions.”

  “Hmm…” Viktor folded his arms. Still holding the weapon, he brought his other hand upward to stroke his chin using his thumb and index finger. “Brighton…” He paused. “After this…we need to have a word.”

  “Viktor,” Grigori addressed him from behind. “That was your master interrogator. He is stuck on the highway, he will be another twenty minutes. Brian is just now drawing that symbol you’re so fond of on the roof top, and Kelly should make it in time for the transportation ritual…”

  “We have no time,” Viktor said decisively. Lincoln was probably on his way to Audrianna now, the epic Lincoln Huntington was sure not to wait for backup, thought Viktor. Aside from the urgency of the matter of his wife’s kidnapping, Viktor was not yet sure if she was being held for ransom or for another reason altogether too sinister to comprehend.

  “I’ll protect you.”

  His boastful words came back to haunt him now; he closed his eyes to the vivid memory. “Marry me, I’ll protect you.” He had promised her.

  Viktor walked over to the long window, surveying the black man on the roof of the other building. He was barely out of sight, using the paintbrush in his hand to quickly fashion the Star of David on the roof. “Spare me…” Viktor breathed. He extended his arm in a swooping arc; Hell’s Embrace glowed, emitting a soft hum. “I’ll grab Kelly – Darksmith, how good are you tactically, in the field?”

  “I’m no fighter.” Brighton was quick to reveal with raised brows.

  “But you are armed,” Viktor stated.

  Brighton gave no answer.

  “Viktor.” Grigori approached him as Viktor made a mental check of everyone aligned with him: the three wolves, Darksmith, Kelly in transit. “You mean to transport these four men, and yourself, plus one in transit without knowing precisely where he is and without a proper marker to keep your locations in check – have you ever done it before?”

  Viktor kept his eyes trained on the toe of his grey, Versace, patent leather dress shoe and the inane thought flitted through his mind that he hoped the decorative lines of the shoe would not dizzy him. “I’m doing it now.” Vikto
r did not look up. “Everyone, stand where you are and do not move a muscle, do not even blink – and if you can help it, do not even breathe.” Viktor flexed his arm, gripping the club’s handle. He could hear the sound of metal clang as he was deftly in tune with his instrument of destruction. Only Viktor could hear it, only he could see the vibration of the ground, the heartbeat of each man he was to bring with him on his journey. There was the harsh sound of metal dragging slowly against steel as though a clammy echo of a creaking door had been opened, and then Viktor saw nothing but the black.

  They were gone. Grigori looked at his charge, sitting in the ergonomic chair, staring at him questioningly. And who is this kid? Grigori thought to himself as he stared at the young apprentice of Darksmith. Ahh yes, Grigori Rasputin: healer, supreme master of the mystic arts - errant babysitter. Grigori thought wryly.

  He clapped his hands together and wore an effectively bright smile commanding the attention of both children. “Okay,” he rubbed his hands together, speaking lively. “Who is up for some chocolate ice cream and some cake?”

  Kelly sat in the convertible. His red BMW drew stares from the locals, as it was clearly expensive. They must wonder who he was, but Kelly was not concerned about the attention he drew to himself. Dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, black overcoat, and slacks, he sat in the driver’s seat checking his emails on his smart phone – in that instant he felt an oppressive hand placed firmly on his shoulder, making him gasp. He whipped his head to see who could have possibly caught him, Kelly Payne, off-guard. His eyes met blackness.

  Kelly started. His feet were no longer neatly tucked into the driver’s seat of his newly-refurbished car, but planted on a hard unseen ground. Kelly fell backward, and his derrière hit asphalt. He cursed. “Damn it Viktor, some professional courtesy is not only welcome,” Kelly said, picking himself up and dusting himself off, “It is advised.”

  Kelly stared at his employer’s broad, tensed shoulder and took heed of his stance. He automatically reached for the weapon secreted on the inside of his overcoat.