Chimera

by Rob Thurman

  “I have a brother,” I stated in soft contemplation as his shoulder spasmed beneath my steadying grasp. “Did you know?” Of course the poor bastard didn’t know. All he knew of me was my role as Konstantin’s shadow. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t talking to him. “His name’s Lukas, after our grandfather.” I pushed at the exit, paying little attention to the buzzing alarm. Passing out of the gloom into a brilliantly sunny Miami morning, I continued with a numb tongue that was flying solo and out of control. “He needs me, Vasily. He needs me alive. Can you understand that?”

  From the gasping sobs that vibrated his frame and had him dropping to his hands and knees on the asphalt, I had to assume he didn’t. I couldn’t blame him; I don’t think I would’ve understood either. He was crawling away from me now, the pathetic, terrified son of a bitch, over pavement littered with broken glass that tore at his palms. I could see the blood in a scarlet handprint on a discarded fast-food bag.

  “Vasily.” I didn’t remember drawing my gun, but the crosshatched rubber of the grip filled my hand as cool plastic teased my trigger finger. It was the only thing I could feel. My arms, legs, even my face, felt numb and lifeless, but my palm felt the imprint of the gun as if it were a brand, red-hot and marking me for life. “Be still,” I said gently. “It’s over.”

  And it was over. Once I put him down, it would be all over . . . for the both of us. But Lukas would live. Lukas would be free. Whether that made it worthwhile depended on your point of view. I raised the 9 mm. It was unfortunate for Vasily that his point of view no longer counted.

  Chapter 8

  Saul leaned loose and relaxed against the rear bumper and watched as I cleaned the trunk with Formula 409. He was the second person to watch me do it. The first had been Sevastian, who’d growled low in this thick throat when I’d shoved a handful of crimson-stained rags stuffed into a plastic grocery bag at him with the emotionless command to dump them. Profoundly disappointed that he couldn’t report back to Konstantin any news that would’ve permanently removed me from sight, he’d left me in the condo garage with a wad of spit beside my shoe. Less than five minutes later Saul showed up with take-out sweet and sour tofu that included a sauce the unhappy scarlet of fresh blood.

  It was not one of my better days.

  Raising curious eyebrows, Saul bounced a fortune cookie in his hand as I continued to scrub. “Should I even ask?”

  “No,” I answered shortly in a tone that had made lesser men think twice. Saul, unfortunately, was not a lesser man.

  “So much for scintillating conversation,” he said dryly. Cracking open the cookie, he extracted the small slip of paper and gave an audible growl. “Do you believe this shit? It’s a hard sell for some time-share scheme. It’s not bad enough we get this crap in bathroom stalls. Now they’re screwing with our cookies.” At any other time his outrage would’ve been amusing, but not too much was tickling my funny bone today.

  “You want a fortune? Here’s your fortune.” I slammed down the lid of the trunk. “Life is short, so get to the goddamn point.”

  His eyes dropped to the wad of paper towels clenched in my fist. I’d cleaned up most of the blood with the ones I’d pawned off on Sevastian, but there was still a faint splotch of red fading to wet pink on the one I held now. A ripple of unease passed through the mobile face before disappearing under a smooth mask. Saul had a definite nodding acquaintance with violence himself, but the implications here . . . a bloody trunk . . . might be more than even he cared to consider. “How about we go upstairs and eat while we talk? Having a picnic in an underground garage isn’t my idea of class.”

  Giving his green, blue, and purple kaleidoscope silk shirt a disparaging glance, I drawled, “Yeah, you’re all about class.” I shrugged and led the way to the elevator. Upstairs I let us into my place, tossed the paper towels in the garbage, and washed my hands. As the warm water washed over my skin, I let it also carry the morning’s events with it. I couldn’t afford to be distracted. If that meant mentally burying the vision and consequences of what I’d done, that’s what I would do. It wasn’t as if they wouldn’t be in good company. I might have to look into a bigger box. It was getting tight in there.

  “Bring me a beer, would you?” Saul called from the living room.

  Seconds later I tossed him a cold bottle with a jaundiced growl. “Don’t you hate it when your ass gets superglued to the couch? Lazy bastard.”

  He caught the bottle and disregarded the barb with aplomb. “Hope you can use chopsticks.”

  He couldn’t have told me that while I was still in the kitchen with the forks. I had many skills, some of which involved pointed objects, but wielding chopsticks wasn’t one of them. It didn’t matter. Hunger was the last thing on my mind at the moment. “It’s all yours, Skoczinsky. Eat up.”

  “Your loss.” He put his feet up on the coffee table and opened a carton of rice. “Don’t come crying to me that you didn’t get your daily dose of MSG.”

  I knew better than to think I could go toe-to-toe with the perpetual motion machine that was Saul’s mouth. “Did you get all the equipment?” I didn’t sit, instead walking over to the window to take a look at a view with which I was already intimately familiar.

  “Everything but the weapons. You said you would handle that.”

  We’d been planning for five days now. In that time I’d managed to gather enough guns to give the NRA an orgasm. I’d also obtained Tasers, tear gas, and stun grenades, all police quality. My friends of the semiofficial capacity weren’t exactly in high places, but they didn’t have to be to get their hands on what I needed. “I took care of it.”

  “Sure you got enough?”

  The side of my mouth crooked. “You’d better bring a back brace.”

  Saul had no complaints. He liked his skin in one piece and keeping it that way was of paramount importance in the Skoczinsky scheme of things. “I’ll bring a wheelbarrow if I have to.” Popping a clump of steamed rice into his mouth, he chewed and swallowed. “Have you given thought to what the hell you’re going to do if we manage to pull him out of that place?”

  Had I given it thought? I’d given it nothing but. I could go to the police. None of my past indiscretions were known, not even today’s. What a versatile word, indiscretion . . . and how amazing the amount of dark and ugly territory it could cover. Most of that territory was invisible to the cops, and that meant I could take Lukas to the nearest station and scream for help like any other law-abiding citizen. And within an hour I’d be yelling again as those beefy guys in khakis dragged us back to the compound. Not government, but the government ties we so strongly suspected could come into play to pinpoint us in a heartbeat. The police were out of the question; probably the FBI as well. Call me suspicious and paranoid. It was better than being called dead.

  My best bet was to go underground. Konstantin wouldn’t be exactly thrilled to have me use the family network as a place to hide, but he would go along with it. It wouldn’t be for my sake so much as a gesture for Anatoly. For protecting his ally’s long-lost son, he could and would expect to be rewarded. Whether in measures of money or power, Gurov would come out far ahead of the game. I had never known him not to.

  Taking this to my father now wasn’t an option I’d wasted any time entertaining. At best he’d think me crazy; at worst he’d interfere. Aside from that, the possibility of finding Anatoly could take more time than I had. But once I had Lukas and could prove he was my brother, then I could go to my father. Out of sight within the family, hopefully I would have the leeway to track him down. Whoever ruled that armed structure might have the authorities on a choke chain, but fucking around with my less-than-easygoing pop was on par with sticking your dick in a shark’s mouth and asking for a blow job. It just wasn’t a good idea.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I turned and watched as Saul broke into the second carton. Red sauce thickly coated the tofu clump and I shifted my gaze to over his shoulder. “If worse comes to worst, we’ll crash at your place
.”

  The disquiet evidenced in the sharp knitting of his eyebrows dissipated as he realized I wasn’t serious. “Asshole,” he grumbled around a mouthful of sweet and sour.

  “Better you don’t know anyway.”

  “Better for you, yeah,” he countered cynically.

  He was right. It was better for me. They shouldn’t be able to hunt down either of us if we did our jobs correctly. But if by some bizarre twist they did find one of us, specifically Saul, I didn’t want them to be able to get a scrap of information on my escape plan. With enough incentive anyone would talk. I knew the truth of that from personal experience seeing that today for an unforgettable time I had been the incentive.

  Dumping the warm container on the coffee table with no care for the fine fake wood veneer, Saul appeared to have lost his appetite. “I put your money in my happy place. Funny. If anything, it made it less happy.”

  I knew he was worried about getting out of this alive. He would be an idiot if he weren’t, and Saul was anything but an idiot. “Stay quick and smart, and you’ll live to buy leather pants again.”

  “At least I’d look good in them. I can’t say the same for your flat Russian ass,” he sniped before finishing off half his beer in two long swallows. Saul’s much-vaunted fashion sense came from the disco era, but it didn’t seem to slow him down with waitresses who dreamed of one day making the big time: exotic nude masseuse. Who was I to say anything? If it worked, it worked. How it worked could remain a mystery. I was fine with that.

  It went on that way for the majority of the night as we ran through the scenario again and again. Caustic quips and sarcastic swipes kept us from dwelling on what an incredible long shot this was . . . both for rescuing Lukas and maintaining a healthy pulse for ourselves. Near dawn, Saul dozed off, sprawled loose limbed and at ease across my sofa as if he owned it. I ended up at my computer desk, fiddling with the handle on the bottom drawer. After several minutes I gave in and pulled out the picture I’d received in the mail two weeks ago. Running a thumb lightly across the glass, I wiped away a nonexistent speck of dust.

  “One more day, Lukasha,” I promised, the whisper a bare breath of sound. “One more day.”

  Chapter 9

  The key had been the delivery truck—a cursory search going in and a more detailed one coming out, all made on the inexplicable assumption that the true threat was behind the walls. I didn’t know what lay at the core of that reasoning and I didn’t care. What I did care about was stretching that loophole to the screaming point and beyond.

  The large dead tree limb lying haphazardly across the road was the beginning of the stretching. There were many dead or dying trees in this area, but we’d decided against an entire tree. The driver might have been tempted to call for help in moving it. But one branch too big to carry but light enough to be dragged off if he put his back into it—that should do the trick.

  With twilight falling just before seven this far into the year, the headlights of the truck were already on as it rolled past our hiding place. It was one week after I’d first spotted it—one week and right on time. There was the gentle squeal of brakes and a less gentle cursing floating out the window as the driver spotted the obstruction. A blond guy with a beer belly and hairstyle best left in the sixties, he climbed out of the cab. By the time he, with hands on hips, was studying the branch, Saul and I were on the move.

  Dressed in black shirts, pants, gloves, and silk masks similar to a balaclava, we ran unseen to the back of the truck and slithered underneath. Fist-sized powerful magnets equipped with handles let us cling to the undercarriage as our combat-booted feet dug for purchase. Saul had come up with most of the more esoteric equipment with a flash of a brief and bitter line of a smile. “Connections of an ex-military life. Don’t ask, don’t tell,” had been the beginning and end of his conversation on the subject.

  As we silently hung there with arms straining, I could hear the driver puffing and swearing as he cleared the road. Then he was back in the truck and the asphalt began passing beneath us. The entire thing had taken less than five minutes, which was essential. If too much time passed, the guards would be suspicious and start to grill the driver, and that wouldn’t do. As it stood now, this event barely registered with our blond, not especially bright Elvis and wasn’t worth imprinting on an alcoholic brain cell, much less mentioning to the khaki crew.

  The five miles passed and if we’d been walking rather than riding, it couldn’t have passed any more slowly. By the time we reached the compound’s gate, the muscles in my arms were howling in agony and I had a mild headache from the exhaust and the adrenaline. Turning my head, I could see the hyped glitter of Saul’s eyes through the narrow opening of his mask. We were both feeling the rush, although neither one of us seemed to be enjoying it. I felt the truck jerk as the driver put it in park. Several pairs of big feet in leather sneakers approached as I heard the driver’s side door being opened. This was it then.

  “Open the back.”

  The voice was dispassionately professional, just a man doing his job. I hoped he did it precisely the way it had been done last week; otherwise we were stuck outside the gate with a couple of dead guys in tan pants, which was not the sign of a well-executed plan. Suddenly the truck’s shifting on its tires as someone got a leg up on the bumper was followed by the sound of double doors in the back being opened. With a mouth dry and gritty as sandpaper, I waited for one of the inevitable thousand things that could go wrong. They could change their routine and look under the truck. Elvis could mention the unexpected stop a few miles back. There was no end to the shit that could befall us. Waiting was always the worst. Whether for ten seconds or ten years, it didn’t matter. Waiting could shrivel the soul.

  But despite my dark expectations, everything went like clockwork. It made me wonder if someone was paying attention up there or if they weren’t and we’d slipped under the radar.

  Within moments the rummaging was over, the doors were shut, and the feet were in retreat. I closed my eyes and forced the churning acid back down where it belonged, eating a hole in my stomach. Elvis settled back into his seat, lowering the chassy by several inches, shifted into drive, and we were inside—just like that. It couldn’t have gone more perfectly if it had been scripted by fate itself.

  The truck moved on at barely fifteen miles an hour for a short space until it pulled up next to a building; I could see the concrete base of the wall, plain and spare, in a dingy yellow artificial light. With the damn thing finally parked, I was able to unclench my fingers and with trembling arms let myself down to the ground. Every muscle in my body had taken on the consistency of overly boiled cabbage. Rolling over onto my stomach, I slid along the gravel to the edge of the undercarriage. I caught a glimpse of Elvis standing in an open door chatting up this place’s version of the lunch lady. Improbably red hair, pear-shaped butt, and thick hose on thick legs, she didn’t float my boat, but apparently she did something for Elvis. I didn’t judge. I simply recognized the chance and took it.

  Propelling myself on my elbows, I crept out from under the truck and lunged into the shadows. Saul was hard on my heels, so hard in fact that he nearly ran me over. With a healthy sense of self-survival combined with those cutting-edge fashion skills of his, Saul was a true Renaissance man. With the building wall gritty against my back, I moved fast until I took a corner and passed into a deeper darkness.

  “And that, Smirnoff, is why I refuse to marry. Once the ring is on, the ass immediately triples in size.”

  The disgusted hiss was a puff of air against my ear. His comment on the mating habits of food servers and ex-Kings of Rock and Roll couldn’t have been heard from more than five inches away, but it didn’t stop me from jabbing a warning elbow into Skoczinsky’s ribs. It had passed from full twilight into early night and we were fairly well concealed by it, but there was no need to press our luck. Moving on, we found a stairwell framed by straggling bushes and concrete. It was thick with grime and dirt, indicating it ha
dn’t been used for some time. Settling down into it, we prepared to wait four or five hours until the place was tucked in for the night. There might be a few khakis on patrol on the inside of the walls, but at least the other personnel, including the maligned lunch lady, would be asleep. It made the process of breaking and entering a little less dangerous for us.

  The hours passed. And that’s about the best that could be said, that they did pass. After ten years, you’d think a few hours was something I could handle; that in comparison it would be nothing—less than nothing; a drop in an angry, churning ocean. But it wasn’t. It was ten years all over again.

  Finally a hand on my shoulder brought me out of a reverie of nothingness. “Time to go.” With his voice tight and controlled, Saul was all business now. He moved to the metal door and went to work with a skill that had me whistling low under my breath. Whatever branch of the service Skoczinsky had served in, he hadn’t spent his time peeling potatoes. It took nearly forty minutes, but he got us in, bypassing an alarm system I doubt I would’ve detected and cutting the glass from the tiny window set high on the door. After that it was a simple matter to manipulate a dead bolt with a long wire, and then we were in.

  Out of the night and straight down the rabbit hole

  It looked like a hospital operating room. There was the glitter of metal everywhere in the form of needles and probes, clamps and gurneys. Monitors upon monitors and trays of instruments put the finishing touches on the theme. And if that had been all in the room, it could’ve passed as a medical facility. But that wasn’t all; that was only half the picture. Recessed security lighting showed computers on standby, softly humming in oddly comforting song. It wasn’t one or two either, but an entire bank of them lining the wall. Screen after screen filled with a slowly rotating DNA strand shed a sickly green glow onto the shiny linoleum floor. That kind of tan and white checkerboard-patterned tile was cheap and easy to clean—especially of blood. I’d seen that theory proven true firsthand in the basement of Konstantin’s bar. A bucket of a water and bleach mixture and a mop and it was as easy as that . . . except for the cracks.