by Chuck Holton
Sometime later that night, he awoke with a start. The ground was shaking beneath him. What is it? An earthquake? Fear tugged at the nape of his neck. He stood up and ran out into the crisp, moonlit night.
The air had a terrible metallic taste. Alexi spit to try to rid his mouth of it, to no avail. Then he saw the light—pale blue and intense—emanating from somewhere beyond the forest. Dread pooled in his gut. Something terrible had happened at the reactor.
Mother! He stumbled off toward the house, but without a light, he must have gone the wrong direction. He found himself pushing through a stand of fir trees, their needles tickling his face. He tried to bring his hands up to push them away, but it was as if his arms suddenly weren’t there.
“Mother!”
Alexi sat up, his head throbbing. He shook the old memories from his mind. He must have been dreaming. Something was wrong. He leaned on one shaky hand and blinked at the shaft of sunlight that formed a perfect rectangle on the dusty wooden floor of the room where he had been imprisoned. It was daytime, and the metallic taste no longer assaulted his tongue, which nonetheless felt like worn-out shoe leather. Pasha, his longhaired cat, was rubbing against his trembling forearm.
“What are you doing here, Pasha?” He looked around. Where is here?
Then he remembered the youth with the gun and the greasy hair. The church.
A wardrobe sat against the wall across from him. Its wooden door hung askew by the lower hinge, revealing a pair of empty wire coat hangers. Two wooden drawers that must have come from the wardrobe were tossed in the corner next to a chair with one broken leg. Faded yellow walls stretched high overhead, where the single window, missing its pane, gave radiance to the otherwise dingy room.
He had never been in this room before. And there was only one room in the church that he’d never entered—this had to be the vestry.
He crossed himself twice. This was the room where the sacred liturgical instruments had been kept and where Father Andropos had changed into his vestments. Alexi had always been curious about this “secret room” behind the altar but had never dared go inside.
He looked at the closed door that led to the sanctuary, knowing it would be barricaded from the outside. Whatever the boy with the gun was after, Alexi was now his prisoner.
His skull pounded, the pain made more intense by the knowledge that now he would not be there to look after Mother.
Kiev, Ukraine. 2246 local
Grigor shuffled up the rain-slick walkway toward his apartment building as quickly as the boxes in his arms allowed. They contained the last vestiges of his life as an employee—something he planned to never be again.
He felt a surge of energy as he ascended the aging concrete stairs to the third floor and fumbled for his keys. After turning the latch, he shouldered his way inside the dark flat.
Strange. All the lights are out. Adela should have been home from the airport hours ago. She had planned to go purchase their plane tickets not long after he left with Dimitri to clean out his office.
Something is wrong. A cold, heavy weight settled in his chest. She should be here waiting. He dropped the box on a chair and flipped the light switch. The tiny apartment was much tidier than it had been that morning. His eyes narrowed. If anything, it was too clean.
He shrugged out of his jacket and moved through the small living area into the bedroom. The cheap compact fluorescent light did a miserable job of illuminating the room, but he could instantly see that it was worse than he thought.
Their closet door was open. All of Adela’s clothes were gone.
“No!” The exclamation forced itself from his lungs as he lunged for his mobile phone. He dialed her number and paced as it rang five times. When her sultry voice came on the line, it said simply, “Leave a message.”
He slammed the phone shut, then quickly reopened it. His fingers flew as he punched out the number of his bank, entering his account number and passcode into the computerized system. A balance inquiry confirmed his worst fears.
Adela is gone. She has betrayed me.
Somehow he knew he would not find her in the Seychelles, even if he tried.
And he would never see his money again.
Loading Docks, Port of Los Angeles, California. 2048 hours
The forklift rumbled down a narrow, brightly lit alleyway between two towering stacks of metal containers. Its driver, Rob Denny, deftly piloted the vehicle toward the end of the row, maneuvering the four-foot steel forks around the cones that a longshoreman had set up to mark the work area for his next job.
He spun the wheel and made a tight one-eighty before coming to a stop in front of a rust-colored forty-footer that had just come off the ship. The towering four-footed crane that had deposited the container there was rolling silently away on its solid rubber tires—each wheel powered by an electric motor. Rob tossed a tired wave at the crane operator, seated forty feet above him in a glass-enclosed control station. He figured the operator was probably as ready as he was to call it a night.
The longshoreman walked over and put one foot on the step of his machine. “How’s things, Rob?”
“Fine, Ed. This the last lift of the night?” He checked his watch. “It’s almost nine. If I don’t get home in time for CSI: Miami, I’m gonna have to listen to Dory explain the whole thing to me.”
Ed snickered. “Fate worse than death, huh?”
“You got it.”
“Yeah, this should be the last one.” Ed checked the clipboard in his hand. “Lessee…this one’s a refrigerator—twelve crates of boxed beef and a pallet of…bottled water.”
“Bottled water?”
“Yeah, that’s what it says. The container came from Panama, so I imagine it’s some highfalutin spring water bottled by hand by blind nuns in the mountains of Costa Rica or something. They’ll probably sell it for six bucks a bottle.”
Rob laughed. “Man, some people is just plain nuts. That’s more than a gallon of gas!”
“Not for long! Let’s quit jawing and get ’er done. The water comes off first and goes on that white box truck.” He motioned with the clipboard to a truck whose driver was apparently sleeping in the cab while he waited—judging from the feet sticking out the open passenger-side window.
Ed continued, “Then we’ll shut the container back up and let the meat truck haul ’er away.”
“Good enough.” Rob reached down to start the forklift.
“Hey there!”
Both men turned to see Ron Cardle, a portly man in an ill-fitting polo shirt, huffing toward them with a clipboard.
Ed groaned. “Here comes everybody’s favorite Customs inspector.”
Rob smacked the wheel of the forklift. “Aw…shoot. There goes CSI.”
Ed grinned. “Well, look at it this way. We’re gettin’ time and a half to be here. Ol’ Ron just works on salary.”
“Small consolation.”
Ron Cardle arrived, his polo shirt stained with sweat. “Hey, I have to inspect this reefer.”
“Have at it, pal. We’ve got nowhere to be.” Rob hated the inspector’s high-pitched voice almost as much as having to miss his television program. The guy sounded like a choirboy who smoked three packs a day.
Ed threw the latches on the container. When he swung the doors back, a cool mist rolled out along the pavement. Rob wondered if Cardle had chosen to inspect this container just so he could get a little free air conditioning. Inside, a pallet wrapped in industrial-strength cellophane showed a four-foot-high load of heavy cardboard boxes. They were sturdy but without markings.
“Pull that pallet out so I can look at it,” Cardle wheezed.
Rob started the lift before he answered so he could lay on the sarcasm real thick. “Yes sir, Mr. Customs Inspector. Anything you say, Mr. Customs Inspector.”
He stomped on the accelerator and enjoyed watching Ed grin as Cardle practically jumped out of the way. Ed motioned that he was going to the office for a cup of coffee and walked off. Rob maneuvered the
forks under the pallet faster than he should have. But who cared? It was only fancy-shmancy bottled water.
He lifted the pallet and backed out, turned ninety degrees, then dropped the load to the ground a few inches from Cardle’s feet. The inspector fumed up at him, hollering something about recklessness and write-ups, but Rob pretended he couldn’t hear over the roar of the forklift.
He left the machine running and motioned that he was going to make a phone call. Gotta explain to Dory why I’m gonna miss our date night—again. As he stalked off toward the office, Cardle was shaking his head and pulling on the top of one of the boxes.
Twenty minutes later when Rob returned to his forklift, Cardle was nowhere to be seen. The only evidence that his least-favorite person had been there was the red U.S. Customs-Cleared sticker on the pallet and the box that Cardle had conveniently neglected to re-close. That bozo wouldn’t put out the effort to breathe if it wasn’t required for the job.
The white box truck was still there, its driver apparently still snoozing up front. Rob sighed and walked over to the pallet. Inside the open box were a half-dozen glass water bottles, each fit snugly into its own padded compartment.
Nobody else was around, so Rob reached in and pulled a bottle out. It was unmarked. He figured whoever had purchased them would put their labels on later. The bottle was cold and felt good in his hand. He suddenly realized how thirsty he was.
He looked around again. Nobody would notice one bottle missing, would they? Heck, sometimes Customs confiscated a few bananas or a stuffed toy for further testing. Who’d know? Maybe a high-priced bottle of water would go a little way toward making up with Dory.
He walked back to the forklift and grabbed his lunch pail from behind the driver’s seat, then slipped the bottle inside. Call it an overtime bonus. Dory and I can have a little treat while we watch Lost tomorrow night.
He put the padded lunch pail back in its place and hurried to re-close the box. If anyone noticed the bottle was missing, they’d blame it on Customs.
Then he went to wake up the truck driver.
Los Angeles, California
How could this have happened?
Edgar Oswardo Lerida—going now by the name Gustavo Soto—paced in front of the run-down forest green Ford Expedition. He had found the vehicle just as his instructions had said he would: in the outer parking lot of LAX. Whether or not its registration and tags were legitimate, he had no way of knowing. But the vehicle had been scrupulously cleaned before his arrival and appeared to be in good running condition. His new “employer” was thorough, he had to admit.
That said, this was not the way things were supposed to have worked out. He should have been happily enjoying his retirement in Ecuador or Argentina. Now, every moment was filled with a gnawing dread that felt like a truck tire around his neck. In the last twenty-four hours he had alternated between debilitating fear and blind fury-unable to decide if he should go through with the mission the gringo had given him, or run for his life.
In the end, his bank balance had made the choice for him. If he would ever be truly free to live as he desired, he needed the money this job would provide. And since it was obvious the gringo had the power to find him, running would be futile. He was better off proving his worth by completing this assignment, even though on the surface it was almost suicidal.
But Edgar still had his wits—and they would serve him now as they had all his life. He would find a way to do what must be done, with minimal risk to himself. But once this is finished… He would make sure they never found him, and he would happily never set foot in the United States again.
He got into the Ford Expedition and drove to the designated self-storage warehouse just north of Los Angeles.
An hour later, a dilapidated white refrigerated van pulled into the climate-controlled warehouse. Edgar—Gustavo Soto—was smoking a cigarette and waiting. “You’re late,” he said when the truck driver stepped out of the van.
The driver, who looked to be a twenty-something college kid, yawned. “Yeah, man, got held up by Customs.”
Edgar stiffened. “Was there a problem?”
The driver jerked his thumb toward the truck. “Don’t think so. Standard inspection, I think. Sign here.” He held out a clipboard with a bill of lading affixed to it.
Edgar scribbled an indistinguishable line across the bottom and handed it back. “May I pay you in cash? I’m going to be leaving soon.”
The driver looked confused. “Uh…usually people just send the payment to the office.”
Edgar smiled. “I’m very busy. If you’ll carry the payment in for me, I would be very appreciative. I’ll add fifty dollars for your trouble.”
The driver brightened appreciably. “Sweet. I’m your man.”
Edgar climbed into the truck to inspect the boxes of bottled liquid. They were heavily padded, as they had been when he’d loaded them two weeks earlier in Panama. Remembering that he’d never planned to lay eyes on them again sent a stab of anger through his chest, but he forced himself to ignore it.
Once the driver had helped him transfer the boxes to the storage unit, Edgar produced a wad of greenbacks from his pocket and handed over the whole amount. “Here you are, then. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
The kid wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. “What’s in these things, anyway?”
“Just bottled water.”
“Awesome. I could use a drink right about now.”
Edgar had a better idea. “Ah, but a beer would be better, no?” He walked back to the car and retrieved a paper bag from the front seat. “Here. On me.”
“Oh, you totally rock, dude. I mean, you are the bomb!”
Edgar just smiled. It was probably better not to respond to that comment.
After the kid left, Edgar hurriedly filled the back of his SUV with cases of the product. His instructions were very clear—he would take half of the cases with him, and the other half would be left in the storage facility. What would happen to them, he was not told.
That was fine with him. The less of the product he had to handle, the better.
The sounds of traffic invaded the otherwise idyllic city park where Task Force Valor waited for their ride.
Sweeney was chewing pumpkin seeds he’d purchased from an old woman at the park’s entrance. He spit a shell on the ground. “So what are we waitin’ on?”
He and John Cooper were sitting on a bench overlooking a bubbling fountain somewhere in Kiev. Rip was wandering around across from them, snapping photos with his digital camera.
John checked the telephone Mary had issued them. “Last message I got from Phoenix said to come here and wait for her.”
Sweeney tossed another seed in his mouth. “Sheesh. Hurry up and wait.”
“Par for the course.”
“You really think we’ll find this lab where the ITEB was brewed?” Sweeney asked.
John shrugged.
A shout came from the other side of the large fountain. Sweeney’s head jerked around in time to see a skinny youth with a shock of scraggly brown hair sprinting toward them.
A split second later, Rip came barreling around the side of the fountain as well. That was when Sweeney noticed Rip’s camera clutched in the teen’s fist.
“Get him!” Rip yelled.
“Hey!” John jumped up and rushed the teen, but the thief saw him coming and changed course. Sweeney was on his feet too, moving to block the kid’s escape. The skinny thug had picked the wrong people to mess with.
He was fast though. No doubt about it. When John lunged for him, the kid dodged out of the way and somehow avoided Rip at the same time. But then he turned and came straight at Sweeney.
Sweeney squared his shoulders and got ready to tackle this punk like he’d learned to do in high school football. This is going to be fun.
But the miscreant had other plans. Holding the camera by its strap, he whipped it at his blocker. Stars exploded in Sweeney’s head as the heavy ob
ject smashed into his left eye. He grunted in pain and dove blindly at his attacker. He felt his shoulder connect with the thief’s hip, and he wrapped his arms around the thug’s body and held on tight. The attacker made it two more steps before Sweeney’s weight drove him to the ground.
The kid kept flailing wildly with both fists and feet, one of which connected with Sweeney’s jaw.
Okay, now I’m mad. Sweeney pinned the would-be thief’s face to the concrete with his left hand and pulled his right fist back. One well-placed punch could knock the kid cold. But that would be too nice. He was going to make this idiot hurt.
Then someone grabbed his arm. Sweeney jerked his head around and saw Rip. “Let go, Rip!”
Rip’s face was serious. “It’s okay, Bobby. Let him go.”
Still sitting astride the struggling punk, Sweeney couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you nuts?” He pulled his arm away from Rip, pointing to the shattered pieces of his camera on the ground. “You see what he did to your camera?”
“It’s okay, bro. I forgive him.”
Now Sweeney was even madder, but he’d forgotten about the kid. He got up, and the thief scrambled away and disappeared into the park.
Sweeney spit blood on the ground. “I’ve had about enough of this sanctimonious horse manure.” He put his face close to Rip’s. “I don’t know what happened to you in Panama, but you need to snap out of it. Your namby-pamby attitude is going to get one of us killed.”
He watched the anger rise in Rip’s face, turning it red as the muscular Latino worked his jaw muscles. Rip spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m a different person now, ese.”
Sweeney cussed again. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
John had been watching the exchange and finally spoke up. “Knock it off, you two. Phoenix is here.”
Sweeney kept his gaze burning into Rip. Go ahead, say something else. But the once-fiery staff sergeant instead took a deep breath and dropped his eyes to the ground, then bent down and began picking up the pieces of his camera.
