A Soldier's Revenge

by Matthew Dunn

  “Why didn’t you cook the burgers and fries when we lived with you?”

  The question gave Faye pause for thought. “Things were different then. I’m better now.”

  “Things aren’t better now, though, are they?”

  Faye glanced in her rearview mirror and saw a young boy who was scared, confused, angry, and sad. Quietly, she answered, “Not everything, no.”

  Zhukov had dragged the two dead cops off the road onto rough ground between trees.

  The bodies would be easy to spot during daylight hours, but by then it wouldn’t matter. In any case, Zhukov wanted them to be found. It would further add to Cochrane’s misery. He walked over soft ground around the squad car, to make absolutely certain his footprints would be found. They were very special prints in boots that had been expertly modified. The soles’ size and markings exactly matched the bootprints found in Cochrane’s Waldorf room.

  Fifteen minutes later his team and all three of their vehicles were around him, next to the road and five hundred yards away from the squad car that was still in position facing up the lane. Two of the former military men were wearing Roanoke city cop uniforms and insignia, along with the dead officers’ boots.

  Zhukov changed clothes and said, “Showtime. And remember: only I use a gun.” He looked at the two fake cops. Their military expertise and demeanor made them perfect, because they not only looked like cops but could do what was necessary.

  On foot, Zhukov and the two men walked to the police car. The uniformed men got in the front of the vehicle; Zhukov got in the rear and lowered his body so he couldn’t be seen through the windows. They drove up the lane, headlights off, engine noise minimal due to their slow speed. Around them, the valley was still and in near pitch darkness, the men relying on moonlight to navigate the narrow and increasingly steep track. It was only when they got to the rise of the valley that they put their headlights on.

  “Okay, here we go,” said the driver. He parked the car outside the front of the Granges’ home.

  Both fake cops got out of the car and waited alongside it, the engine still running.

  Within seconds one of the detectives watching over the Granges exited the front door and sauntered over. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” replied one of Zhukov’s men. “We’ve just taken over the night shift. Our colleagues had to return to the station. One of them had an urgent family crisis. We thought we’d come up here and take a peep. Nothing going on down the lane. Quiet as the grave.”

  “You want coffee? I could do with some. We’ve got a long night ahead.”

  The fake cops glanced at each other and shrugged their shoulders. One of them answered, “Can’t see why not. We’re just as much use up here. More so.”

  “The Granges are getting ready for bed, so I’ve got access to the kitchen now. Come in.”

  He turned and headed back to the house. Zhukov sprang out of the car, walked right up to the detective, and shot him twice in the head with his silenced handgun. He said nothing to his men. They knew exactly what they had to do. They got in the squad car and waited.

  All was silent in the house as Zhukov rapidly entered and moved through the dwelling, his gun expertly held at eye level. He worked angles as he went from one room to another. He knew the precise layout of the house, having studied it with long-range day- and night-vision equipment. And he knew the exact ground-floor back bedroom where the second detective would be resting. Carefully, he turned the bedroom’s handle and eased the door open. The detective was by his bed, his back to Zhukov, shirtless and loosening his belt. One bullet smashed through his skull and sent blood and fragments of brain and bone onto the bedsheets. Zhukov shot him again.

  He moved fast along stairs and entered the upstairs hallway. At the far end was Robert Grange, wearing pajamas. Behind him was the bathroom. Adjacent was an open bedroom doorway. Lights were on inside. Robert stood stock-still, terrified when he saw the man at the end of the hall, who was wearing an all-in-one white paper boiler suit, dentist’s mask, and green Wellington boots with strange thick soles that extended beyond the cut of the boot.

  “Celia! Danger!” They were Robert’s last-ever words. The old man slumped to the ground with a thud after one bullet hit him in the eye and a second went through his heart.

  From inside the bedroom, Celia screamed and jumped out of bed as quickly as her arthritic limbs would allow. Directly opposite her room was the boys’ room. She didn’t know how quickly she could cross the six-foot-wide hallway without getting knocked off her feet. She hadn’t run in decades. But she had to try to get there. Tom was all that mattered right now.

  With no time to waste, she hurled herself across the room, her eyes focused on the door handle to the twins’ room. She grabbed it and turned, just as a bullet tore through her frail arm. A second bullet raced toward her, but she piled into the bedroom and shut and locked the door. She looked urgently at Tom. He was wearing his favorite Star Wars pajamas, sitting up bleary eyed in his bed. Every nerve in Celia’s body was in utter pain.

  What to do? She didn’t think the door and its flimsy lock would stop a firm kick. She looked at a nearby chest of drawers and grabbed it while whispering, “Tom, hide! Get under your bed! Don’t make a sound no matter what, you hear me?”

  She tried to move the heavy piece of furniture, but it was no good. Her body at the best of times would have struggled. Now her shot arm was limp by her side, blood pouring out of the wound, the pain so excruciating that she couldn’t help loudly crying. Tom too was crying, his eyes fixed on her horrible wound.

  “Under the bed! Quick!”

  Tom dived out of bed and wriggled under it.

  “You must be silent,” Celia implored. She knew it was an impossible request. A killer was out there and he was now taking his time. She had to do everything she could to protect Tom. She put her body weight against the door. Most likely it was a pointless thing to do. But logic didn’t feature. All she felt was an instinct to protect.

  It was probably her last maternal act. But she was damned if it wasn’t going to be her bravest.

  The kick to the door slammed it off its hinges. Celia was lifted off her feet and sent crashing to the carpeted floor, landing on her injured arm. The pain made her eyes feel like they were going to pop out. She was losing consciousness, her mind punch-drunk. But she still retained enough focus to see the white-clad killer standing in the doorway, his sickening clinical appearance making him all the more terrifying.

  “I . . . came in here to hide. No one else here. Children are away.” The room clearly belonged to kids. “Please, it’s true.”

  Zhukov stood over her bloody body.

  On her back, Celia stared up at him. She knew what was coming.

  And she just knew in her bones that this was proof that Will Cochrane was innocent.

  The man in the room wasn’t here for money.

  He was here to kill.

  No chance this was random.

  It had to be connected to Will.

  He’d been framed in New York, and now he was being framed in her home.

  She wished he were here.

  Will would protect Tom.

  And he’d kill the scum standing over her.

  Zhukov was laughing as he pumped bullets into her body.

  Underneath the bed, Tom screwed up his eyes and rolled back his lips in an attempt to seal his mouth completely shut. He felt like his head was going to explode. He grabbed the teddy bear Will had bought him.

  An adult’s legs were visible and getting closer.

  The man sniggered. “I know you’re under the bed. It’s going to hurt if I have to drag you out.”

  Tom was shaking uncontrollably, threw his teddy to the space underneath the head of his bed, and placed his hands over his mouth.

  Unable to control his bladder any longer, he wet himself.

  Zhukov grabbed Tom’s ankle and wrenched him out from under the bed.

  I was in the forested valley, on
e mile from the Granges’ home.

  I could see the lane leading up to their house, and also the main road it joined at its base. I froze. Five hundred yards away were three vehicles, headlights on and engines running. I pulled out a pair of binoculars from my backpack and studied the group.

  Four men and a woman were standing adjacent to the cars, two of them smoking. Three of them looked like they could be detectives, the others less so, though that meant nothing—one of the requirements for being a detective was to avoid looking obvious. On Waldorf Astoria stationery, I wrote down the vehicles’ license plates and a description of their appearances. No doubt now I’d have to be extremely careful entering the Granges’ property.

  Part of me wondered whether it was worth the risk. But I just had to look the Granges in the eye, ensure they were capable of looking after the twins, and tell them that whatever they heard in the media, I was an innocent man.

  Keeping the lane to the Granges’ home in sight, I began my ascent up from the valley.

  Faye and Billy were five miles away, the boy half asleep in the back of the car and willing them to be home so that he could tuck into his warm bed. Many times he’d wished he could stay up this late. But now he felt woozy with fatigue and wished Aunt Faye would drive faster than thirty miles an hour. Her car seemed to be crawling.

  “When are we going to get home?” His voice sounded slurred.

  “We’re nearly there.” Faye tried to hide her irritation with his repetitive questions. She wasn’t irritated with the boy. Rather, she was angry with herself for being such a lousy and panicky driver. “I could make you a hot chocolate when we get home, if you’d like.”

  “Just wanna go to bed.”

  “That’s okay. It’s been a long evening.”

  Her thoughts turned to tomorrow. She was due to conduct a Web-based seminar on mathematics for some of her university students. That would take ninety minutes, though she’d need that much time beforehand to prepare for the session. Robert and Celia would have to keep an eye on the boys while she worked. Thank goodness they were here to help, and thank goodness she didn’t need to physically be back at work for ten days. By then everything might have worked out.

  Who was she kidding? Will Cochrane was in a hopeless situation.

  Tom was screaming and fruitlessly writhing as Zhukov held him in an iron grip and carried him down the stairs. He placed a hand over Tom’s mouth and muttered, “Time to be quiet, or I’ll snap your neck. You choose.”

  Tom immediately complied.

  Zhukov added, “You’ll stay quiet until I tell you not to be. Understood?”

  Tom was still.

  “Understood?”

  The ten-year-old nodded emphatically.

  “I might not hurt you if you’re a good boy. No promises, but at least it’s a start.” He swiveled the twin around so that he could see Zhukov’s face and white cloth mask. “I’m going to take you outside and put you in a car. You’ll see a dead man on the ground. Might scare you. But that will be nothing compared to what I’ll do to you if you make a sound. Got it?”

  Tom nodded, his eyes wide with terror.

  “All right. Let’s go.” After Zhukov removed his mask, he carried Tom to the squad car, dumped him into the rear passenger area, forced his body and head low, and lay on top of him. The fake cops in the front said nothing as the driver engaged gears and drove at a steady pace down the valley track.

  I threw myself to the ground as I saw a police squad car drive away from the Granges’ home. It was driving carefully, navigating the twisty route with precision. Burying my face into grass, my fingers gripped soil.

  The cruiser drew nearer, its engine noise suggesting it was only in second gear to compensate for the gradient of the lane. I waited, motionless, anticipating what I’d do if the car stopped close to me and doors opened. I’d fire warning shots from the pistol I took from the hotel, and run. There was nothing else that could be done, short of murdering the cops. And I wasn’t going to do that, or injure them.

  The vehicle drew nearer as I desperately prayed for it to keep moving down the valley. I didn’t give a fuck about anything else. Nothing else registered. Not the smell of the wet grass around me, my aching limbs, or the sound of a woodpecker drilling into a tree. All that mattered was the damn cop car and whether it spotted me.

  Don’t stop.

  Just. Keep. Fucking. Moving.

  The squad car was as close as it could be to me. I glanced up. I couldn’t see the cops’ faces clearly. But the interior light was on and I could see a man in the back. Black hair, pale face, not in uniform. He was moving about. Maybe putting stuff in a bag.

  The car kept moving.

  My relief was overwhelming.

  I estimated it was now at least a hundred yards farther down the valley. I risked a glance. Yes, its taillights were still visible but growing more distant. I waited until the cops were at the base of the lane. They stopped; one minute later the three-car convoy I’d seen earlier drove up to the car. All headlights were extinguished. I looked through my binos, could discern human movement around the car, but the light was too bad to ascertain exactly what was happening. Five minutes later, the three unmarked cars drove off, leaving the cop car to maintain its vigil at the base of the valley.

  I got to my feet and jogged toward the house.

  Then stopped dead.

  In front of the Granges’ home was a male, wearing a shirt and slacks, prone on the ground. Oh, no. I pulled out my gun as I urgently looked around and listened for any signs of movement. All was quiet.

  I ran up to the man; he’d been shot dead. Heart beating fast, I entered the house and dropped my backpack to the floor. It took me twenty seconds to check the ground floor and to find the second dead detective. Now my heart was sinking as I raised my gun and climbed the stairs.

  My mind was doing overtime.

  Fake cops had killed real ones in the valley, I was sure.

  They or someone with them had entered the house.

  Then, two possibilities.

  Everyone slaughtered.

  Or, most people murdered apart from someone they wanted kept alive.

  And the fake cops had gotten in their car and driven back down the valley.

  Me watching them join their colleagues at the base of the lane.

  Willing them to leave.

  Delighted when they did.

  Oh my God.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, I saw Robert Grange’s shot-up body at the far end of the hall. No way was he alive with those wounds. I didn’t go to him right away. First, I checked the nearby rooms—a laundry room, two studies, three spare bedrooms, all empty.

  Standing over Robert, I listened for any sounds, but there were none. Crouching low, I rapidly glanced into the master bedroom. The room looked empty. I entered to be sure.

  Sheets on the bed were ruffled. Celia must have been in there, though she was nowhere to be seen. I’d expected that. There was blood on the opposite door, leading into the twins’ room. She’d dashed there, been injured in the process, but almost certainly managed to get in the room. That gave me zero comfort; the door was off its hinges and the room was completely insecure.

  The twins’ room was the last to check in the house. If the twins were dead, my life was over.

  I wiped sweat off my hands, gripped the gun, moved across the hallway, and got ready.

  Faye spotted the police squad car at the bottom of the lane that led up the valley. She was relieved because her eyes were getting tired and much more driving would have been hazardous. Her headlights picked up the squad vehicle while she turned onto the lane, and she could see that the car was empty. Probably they were on foot, checking their surroundings. She was relieved the cops were nowhere to be seen. If they had been, she’d feel obliged to stop and engage in small talk with them. Fatigued at this late hour, she was crying out for her bed as much as Billy was. Thank God she’d driven up the lane so many times that she could do it with he
r eyes closed. Five more minutes and they’d be home.

  I kicked the door back and rushed into the twins’ bedroom. Celia was on the ground. Whoever had shot her had done so either with amusement or anger. As well as the bullet entry wound in her forehead, she’d been shot six times in the chest and stomach. I imagined the killer standing over her, her dead body flinching as he pumped more rounds into her frail torso. Bastard.

  The twins were nowhere to be seen, yet one of the two single beds had been slept in. It was Tom’s bed. I sat on his bed and murmured, “Dear Lord, no.”

  What the hell was happening? Had they been kidnapped? Murdered and their bodies removed? That would make no sense. The only blood in the room was that surrounding Celia’s dead body. The poor woman had come in here for a reason. And it was to protect. One of the twins had been in here; the other was most likely out with Faye. Unless Faye and the other twin were dead somewhere on the property.

  I had to get my thinking straight and search for anything in the room that might help me understand what had happened. So many times I’d searched rooms—partly in the way that police forensics teams do, but also looking for things that only spies know may be relevant. Though time wasn’t on my side to conduct a thorough search. My thinking accelerated in the way it always did when I was under extreme pressure.

  Only Tom was in here. Celia comes in. Locks the door. Knows it won’t hold. Courageously puts herself between the killer and the boy. She tells the boy to hide. Where would he go?

  I rolled under Tom’s bed. The teddy bear that I’d bought him was there. Why would he discard the favorite toy, when in a situation of abject terror he would have clung on to it for dear life? If it had been grabbed off him, it would be lying on the floor away from the bed. I picked it up, got out from under the bed, and pulled back the drawstring to activate its voice recorder. What I heard chewed me up.

  An eastern European man’s voice. Most likely Russian.