Hellhound On My Trail

by J. D. Rhoades

  Vasily nodded. “Fair enough. But I think when you see…ah, here is Kolya.”

  Kolya came back into the bar, hefting a large red Igloo cooler. He placed it on the floor next to Zaubermann, who shifted in his chair to lean over. As Zaubermann reached for the latch, Keller saw the gunmen Luka and Kolya tense, then reach under their suit jackets. He reacted without thinking, grabbing the now half empty bottle of Gentleman Jack by the neck and hurling it at Luka, the nearest gunman. Zaubermann was backpedaling from what he’d seen in the cooler, a gagging sound coming from his throat. He stumbled and went down on his ass. Luka, focused on that spectacle, didn’t see the thrown bottle until it exploded against his right temple. He shouted in pain and reeled backward, the gun he was in the middle of drawing falling from his slack fingers.

  Keller had the shotgun out by then. He saw Kolya, who’d drawn a black semi-automatic pistol, turning to draw a bead on him. The blast from Keller’s shotgun caught him in the chest and knocked him back over a table. Keller swung the shotgun to where Vasily was rising from his chair, pulling an identical pistol from beneath his own jacket.

  “Don’t do it,” Keller barked.

  The Russian locked eyes with Keller for a moment. Keller’s finger tightened on the trigger. Then, to Keller’s amazement, Vasily smiled. He placed the pistol carefully on the table. “You got me, Jack Keller,” he said. “You got me good.”

  “Damn, Keller,” Tiny said, “that was—”

  “WATCH THE GODDAMN DOOR!” Keller bellowed.

  Tiny turned just as the door slammed open and a man burst in. He was slimmer than the other gunmen, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, but he was carrying an ugly black Uzi submachine gun. He got off a quick three-round burst from the weapon that blasted several of the bottles behind the bar into shards and filled the air with the stench of mingled liquors. Keller ducked away and his own shot went wide, punching a tight pattern of holes in the wall beside the door.

  The man in the leather jacket raised the gun for another burst as Keller tried to pump another round into the shotgun. The man’s head snapped back as Zaubermann fired his boot pistol from where he was rising up from the floor and hit him just under the jaw.

  Another man was coming through the door, this one firing an AK-47 on full auto. The rounds stitched a line across the wall behind the bar before Tiny finally brought his own pistol into play, a cheap silver .40 caliber model that nevertheless managed to put a steel-jacketed round into the side of the man’s head. He stumbled and fell sideways, crashing to the floor of the bar.

  Then there was only silence, reverberating with the echoes of gunfire and reeking with the sharp choking smell of expended rounds. Keller popped up from behind the bar, training the shotgun on Vasily. The Russian had picked up his pistol again, but as he looked around, he could see not only Keller’s shotgun, but Tiny’s .40 and the .44 Zaubermann held on him as he got up from the floor. He smiled and placed the pistol back on the table.

  “Okay,” he said. “I give.”

  “You give?” Keller said, “What, you think this is fucking grade school?” He advanced around the bar, shotgun pointed at the Russian. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples. Vasily’s mocking smile slipped a notch. “Get on your fucking knees,” Keller snarled, “while I decide whether or not to blow your goddamn head all over this floor.”

  “Keller,” Zaubermann said as he picked up Vasily’s gun. “Dude. He’s giving up.”

  Keller turned to him, pointing the shotgun at his face. “STOP USING MY FUCKING NAME!”

  Zaubermann stepped back, holding his hands up. It would have looked like surrender if he wasn’t still holding the two guns. “Easy, man,” he said. “Take it easy.”

  “Yes,” Vasily said. “Take it easy. We can still make peace, Mr. Jack Keller.”

  Keller moved across the bar, toward the cooler that still sat on the floor, bringing the shotgun to bear alternately on Vasily, then Zaubermann, then an increasingly confused-looking Tiny. He spared a glance down into it, long enough to register the open, dead eyes of the severed head that rested inside in a half-congealed soup of drying blood. “Mr. Hardway, I presume,” he said. No one answered. “Tiny. Get the other guns.” Tiny blinked in confusion, but he did as he was told.

  It would be so easy, he thought, to just cut loose. Kill them all. Paint the walls with blood and brains and viscera. It wouldn’t just feel good. It was the smart thing to do. There was no one in this room that could be trusted to keep his name and whereabouts secret as long as they were alive. Death, a voice whispered to him. You bring death. But there were other voices inside his skull, pulling him back from that chasm filled with fire and darkness that had beckoned to him for so long. Lucas. Angela. Marie. Julianne. You’re a good man, Jack Keller, they had all said at one time or another. Despite everything that had happened, everything he had done, he still wanted to believe it.

  He stopped at the door, his weapon trained on the kneeling Vasily. Luka was stirring and moaning from his position on the floor next to him. “You said my name like you know it,” Keller said. “Tell me how. Maybe I’ll let you and your boy Luka there live.”

  Vasily shrugged. The effort of repressing fear seemed to thicken his accent. “Word is out. Find a man named Jack Keller.”

  “So who wants to know?”

  Vasily’s laugh was remarkably relaxed for a man staring down the barrel of a twelve-gauge shotgun. “Come on, Jack Keller. You know how it is. One man works for another man, who works for someone else.”

  Keller nodded. “Okay then. Let’s do this.” He turned to Zaubermann. “I know Boris Badenov here has the idea to shop me to whoever’s looking for me. After he killed you, of course.”

  Zaubermann shook his head. “I already told you, man—”

  “Skip it,” Keller said. “Leave him alive, he’ll just take a blowtorch to the soles of your feet until you tell. Kill him here, he’ll just be replaced by another asshole who’ll do the same. Right, Vasily?”

  Vasily’s face was turning dark red with anger, but he managed a nod.

  “So give him what he wants,” Keller said. “Tell whoever’s looking for me where I am. And tell him I’ll be waiting.”

  “What?” Zaubermann said, clearly not believing what he was hearing. “But I thought—”

  “Change of plans.” Keller walked over to where Vasily was kneeling on the floor. His stare as he looked at Keller was hard enough to cut diamond. Keller reached over and patted the Russian on the top of his head. “But tell them to come himself. Not send someone like this piece of shit here.” He was still holding the shotgun in his right hand. He shifted it to his left and delivered a stinging slap to Vasily’s face. The Russian rocked to one side, then recovered. His eyes were blazing with hate. “You think you can deliver that message, bitch?” Keller said.

  “Oh, yes,” Vasily said. “I deliver message. And someday soon, I deliver message to you.”

  “Looking forward to it, shithead.” Keller didn’t lower the gun as he backed out of the door. He didn’t turn around until he was halfway across the parking lot. Then he turned and bolted back to his truck.

  THEY CAME the morning of the next day. There were four men in the lead SUV, Vasily and three handpicked gunmen, with Riddle riding in a separate vehicle, a faded and creaky Jeep CJ-7 with open sides and a soft top, driven by Zaubermann.

  Vasily Lazarenko had called Riddle (whom he knew as Hank Jessup) as soon as he had left the bar. It was five PM by the time Riddle pulled up outside the bar. A hand-lettered sign on the door said CLOSED FOR REPAIRS. Riddle had knocked anyway. Vasily was inside, with an unhappy-looking Zaubermann and a man with a heavily bandaged face. Negotiations were quickly completed, aided by the fact that Zaubermann’s alternative to a negotiated settlement was a lingering death at the hands of the Russians. Riddle/Jessup turned over information on how Vasily could access the money he’d been promised for the information, and Vasily volunteered his men for the strike team. He also le
t them know that Keller probably had a large stash of currency that he’d taken in Mexico. That, too, would be theirs once their quarry was dead. “I know you want to teach Keller a lesson,” Riddle had said. “But don’t. Just kill him.”

  “I do what I can,” Vasily said, but not convincingly. He gestured to the man with the bandaged face. “But look at what that bastard did to poor Luka. And I have to tell Kolya’s mother, and Andrei’s, and Kyril’s…” He shrugged. “These men were friends. Close as family. Closer even. I can’t promise.”

  “Promise,” Riddle said. “Or you’ll regret it. Not because of me. Because of Keller. I know what this guy can do, given an opening. And he knows you’re coming.”

  “Sure, sure,” Vasily said. “But he is only one man. We can handle.”

  Riddle let it drop. “Get your people together.”

  “More men will be here by midnight,” Vasily said. “Good men. Better than this Keller. We can move then.”

  “You don’t want to be in that swamp at night,” Zaubermann said. “Gets so black you can’t see the man two feet away from you. And there’s snakes. Maybe even a gator or two.”

  Vasily looked like he was about to say something, but Riddle cut him off. “Dawn, then.”

  Now, as they approached slowly up the dirt road, the sky was growing lighter in the east. Tendrils of low-hanging fog writhed across the road at fender level on the beige sedan Riddle and Zaubermann were in. Riddle had his pistol out and kept it pointed at Zaubermann’s ribs. The wheels slammed into a rut with a teeth-rattling impact and Zaubermann sucked in his breath in sudden panic.

  “Relax,” Riddle said. “I never shot anyone by accident. I’m not even going to shoot you if your information turns out to be bullshit.”

  Zaubermann stole a glance at him. “You’re not?”

  “No. I’m just going to let the Russians have you. Believe me, you’d rather have the bullet. I think they’re a little pissed at you.” He looked at the back of the SUV, crawling up the increasingly rough road like a tank. “I’d make sure this whole thing goes well. Maybe then they’ll get over it.”

  Zaubermann swallowed. He reached down and flicked the lights once, twice. The SUV ground to a stop. Men started getting out. Zaubermann took a deep breath and got out as well. Riddle followed, gun held down by his side.

  Vasily and his gunmen were all dressed in black: black jeans, black T-shirts, and heavy black boots. All carried new-looking AK-47s, and each had a pistol in a shoulder holster. One of the men was Luka, with his bandaged face. In addition to his shoulder holster and AK, he had a bandolier of grenades slung across his chest. All four of the men were looking around uneasily. The rich, fetid smell of the swamp hung over everything and the cypress trees were black and ominous in the growing light. There was no breeze and the Spanish moss hung down limply, like tattered curtains. Somewhere off in the swamp an owl hooted loudly. The men jumped, and one raised his AK and pointed it into the swamp. Vasily cuffed him in the back of the head, snarling something at him in Russian. He turned to Zaubermann. “How much further?” he said, his eyes like flint.

  “About a hundred yards,” Zaubermann said. “The ground gets a little firmer on either side of the road. You can spread out some.”

  Vasily nodded and barked instructions to his men. They formed up into two short columns of two each, keeping to opposite sides of the road. Riddle prodded Zaubermann in the back with his pistol. “Get going.”

  “Me? I don’t even have a gun.”

  “You’re going to go up and knock on the door. Tell him to come out.”

  Zaubermann halted. A harder prod with the pistol got him moving again, slower. “He’s gonna know what’s going on. He’ll kill me.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Especially if you’re unarmed. Either way, we’ll know where he is.”

  “Man,” Zaubermann said. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

  Riddle’s voice sounded almost sympathetic. “I know. It sucks. You just backed the wrong horse, is all.” His voice hardened. “Now move.”

  As they came to the clearing where the little house stood, the Russians seemed to disappear, fading into the thick brush on either side of the road. Zaubermann could hear the rustle of them moving and hear the soft squish of boots in the thick mud. One of the men muttered a curse, quickly shushed by another. Then there was silence. Zaubermann turned to say something to the man he knew as Jessup, but he wasn’t there. He raised his hands and faced the house again. Walking slowly, hands raised, he approached. The white truck was still parked in front of the house. “Keller!” he called out, as he passed it. “Hey! Keller!”

  There was no answer.

  He reached the bottom of the steps and stopped, hands still in the air. “Keller!” Frowning, he put his hands down. He looked back to where the gunmen were waiting. No one was in sight. He put a tentative foot on the bottom step. It creaked under his weight. When he reached the door, he hesitated, then gave it a solid knock. “Keller?”

  Still, no answer.

  Zaubermann looked down at the doorknob. He inched his hand to it and grasped it lightly as if he was afraid it might bite him. “Keller?” he said, more softly. Then he took a deep breath, turned the knob, and opened the door. It swung wide, revealing the main room.

  There was no one there.

  VASILY LAZARENKO crouched in the stinking, chilly mud just inside the tree line and watched Zaubermann enter the house. After a few tense moments, he came back out and turned to the men waiting in the trees. He gave an exaggerated shrug with his hands spread wide.

  Vasily rubbed his chin. He looked around for the man he knew as Jessup, but the mysterious stranger had vanished. “Luka,” he said. “Take Fyodor and check it out. If nothing else, see if the money is in there.”

  Luka nodded, his eyes twin pits of fury over the bandages that wrapped his face. He motioned to his cousin Fyodor. The two advanced on the house in the fashion they’d learned as recruits in the Russian Guards Rifle division before getting their chance to desert, come to America, and work for their distant relatives the Lazarenkos. Luka went first, running in a crouch to take shelter behind the white truck while Fyodor scanned the area over the sights of his rifle, looking for threats. When Luka was safe behind the truck, he took the job of overwatch as Fyodor scurried to join him. They looked over the scene with the paranoid focus of men who know there’s an enemy waiting but don’t know where. Luka bolted from behind the truck, running for the front door, weapon ready. He barely noticed Zaubermann going as fast as he could in the other direction. Luka bounded up the steps and through the open door, his rifle held to his shoulder, his eyes alert.

  The front door opened on one room that seemed to serve as a combination living room, dining room, and kitchen. There was a counter along the back wall with a metal sink and cabinets beneath. There were two doors to Luka’s left; one open, one closed. Through the open door, Luka could see the edges of what looked like a bathroom sink. He couldn’t see anyone in the house, and the place was absolutely silent.

  He heard footsteps on the outside stairs and moved to the side, out of the way of Fyodor, who came through the open door, rifle held to his shoulder.

  “Nothing,” Luka said in Russian.

  Fyodor nodded to the closed door. “What’s there?”

  “Bedroom?”

  Fyodor shrugged. “One way to find out.”

  As Luka approached the door, he smelled something odd. “Cousin,” he said, “you smell that?”

  Fyodor looked puzzled, then shook his head. “Smell what?”

  Luka hesitated. Then, with Fyodor pointing his rifle at the closed door, he kicked it as hard as he could. The door burst open and Luka stepped aside, giving his cousin a clear field of fire. Nothing happened, but that smell was more pronounced. Luka finally recognized it. The smell of gasoline. He saw Fyodor’s eyes widen as he straightened up. “Luka,” his cousin said. “Look at this.”

  Luka moved to the door. The only light in the room was provid
ed by a window that was left open. But what drew their attention was the floor. It was covered with hundred-dollar bills. It looked as if someone had picked up handfuls of money and cast them around the room with reckless abandon. Luka frowned in confusion.

  “Phew,” Fyodor said. “What a stink.”

  He was right. The smell of gas was making Luka’s eyes water. He looked up and saw a large glass jug sitting on the windowsill. His English wasn’t good enough to read the label, but he could see the pictures of apples on it. He frowned. The liquid in it didn’t look like apple juice.

  Suddenly, Luka’s blood went cold as he realized what he was looking at. He turned to Fyodor to shout a warning, but he saw his cousin drop to the floor, clutching at his leg and crying out. Luka reached for him and saw with horror that the wound that had appeared in his leg as if by magic was smoking and sputtering like a holiday sparkler. He barely had time to open his mouth to scream before the second tracer round coming from outside shattered the jug and ignited its contents. The flaming gasoline spilled into the room and touched off the gas with which Keller had soaked every surface. The last thing Luka heard was a low sighing sound that filled the room like the moan of an angry ghost as the flames drew all the nearby oxygen to them. In a split second, the cabin’s small bedroom became a blast furnace.

  KELLER SAT absolutely still, perched in the tree stand he’d bought at a sporting goods store he’d found on the outskirts of Charleston. He stared down coldly, dispassionately, like a killer god, through the scope he’d acquired for the AR-15. First one, then the other, of the Russian gunmen he’d seen enter the cabin come stumbling out, wrapped in flames and screaming.

  Burning, they’re burning…

  Let them burn. Let the fuckers burn.

  The dark voice that had haunted him for years, skittering and slinking around in the back of his mind, was coming to the forefront, becoming more insistent, and sounding more and more like the voice of reason. That voice wanted to luxuriate in the screams, revel in the sound of men burning to death in agony. He’d heard that sound before, on a night he couldn’t help but revisit again and again. But it was something else in him that moved his hands, his eyes, his trigger finger to focus, breathe out, feel the trigger break under his curled finger and send the merciful bullet down into the clearing to end the suffering of first one, then the other of the men who’d come to kill him.