Tainted Blood

by Ferrel D. Moore

  She could feel the sticky residue of blood on the stock and trigger. Nothing about this night was going right. What started out as a precise strike turned into a an out and out war.

  When she returned to the maintenance closet to tell Drogol that it was time to go, she stopped in the doorway as though an invisible hand wouldn’t allow her to go any further. What she saw almost stopped her heart. Zoe was sitting up, leaning against Drogol’s shoulder. Her eyes were open and she smiled weakly at Sveta.

  “You see?” said Drogol. “What is in the heart of God is more important than what we believe.”

  Sveta could not take her eyes off the two off them. Zoe had no pulse just minutes before. None. Zoe was dead. Now she was smiling.

  Unwinding to his full height with the fluidity of a cat, Drogol raised Zoe with him.

  “Why do you stare?” he asked Sveta. “Whom our most glorious God chooses to heal, is healed.”

  Chapter Ten

  “All I got to know,” said the Instructor over his secure phone, “is whether or not this is bullshit.”

  “Everything on that video is absolutely real,” said Hauck.

  “Bad piece of work, that one there. Gonna be tough to kill.”

  “No one has been able to accomplish that so far.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what you get for working with amateurs.”

  Hauck closed his eyes and counted to ten. Before he could begin speaking, the old man was already poking at him again.

  “My wife hates you, you know.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How soon before you can be here?”

  “Who says I’m coming?”

  “Five million dollars.”

  “I don’t need the money. I’ll take it, though, ‘cause I’m getting old and I want to live good.”

  “And the chance to see that thing face to face.”

  “It’s no wonder Anna wants you dead. My wife hates you and the old bitch wants you dead. They got something in common. Go figure. And I’ll be there before noon. I’ll have one of my guys drive me.”

  “Shall I meet you?”

  “I’m coming to your place, Pancho. We got to pick up a few things when I get there.”

  “I can arrange—”

  “Don’t arrange nothing.”

  “You’ll need an address.”

  “Like I don’t know where you live? Dream on.”

  Before he could answer, the Instructor clicked off.

  Hauck’s face was bathed a ghostly gray-blue by the light from his computer screen. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he sent a message to Yuri and then pressed the “Send” icon.

  With that out of the way, he leaned back and breathed a soft sigh. The Instructor was on his way. Now all he would have to do is make sure that after the old man dealt with Drogol that he escaped with his own life. He knew the old man. Not once during their conversations had he said that he hadn’t accepted Anna Kazakova’s contract.

  *****

  At four a.m. Detroit time, Anna Kazakova’s private jet touched down. It was a smooth landing, expertly managed by her pilot, a former Russian Army fighter pilot. A team of Red Mafiya soldiers pulled up in an ambulance and removed Sasha’s cage and loaded it in. Ivan had given him water laced with a sedative to insure a quiet transition. The cage itself was covered by a black tarp stretched tight and roped to eyeholes at each of its four corners.

  Ivan carried both Anna and her wheelchair down the stairs from the plane and deposited her on the ground without so much as breaking a sweat. Dr. Pazyryk followed dutifully behind, and then leaned over to check the old woman’s breathing.

  “Get away from me, I’m fine,” she snapped.

  The doctor jerked back as though shot.

  Mishka waited a respectful distance away. He was flanked by a man on either side, with five more sober-faced men spread out behind them. His dark cashmere coat flapped in the wind like a limp flag; his thick black hair hung down near his shoulders like a fluttering curtain.

  “My car,” said Anna icily.

  A long Hummer limousine pulled into view when Mishka raised his hand. It rolled to a slow stop beside the ambulance and idled silently. Faint gray fumes puffed out from the exhaust, and the windows reflected back the shiny black of the night haloed by the tarmac lights.

  “I don’t like it.”

  Mishka looked aghast.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “Is there something wrong?”

  A corner of his mouth twitched, and he nervously flung back one side of his scarf over his right shoulder.

  “You are a good boy, Mishka, but you are weak.”

  “What have I done to offend you?”

  The men on either side of Mishka seemed to learn away from him. Behind him, the others remained still. The terminal behind them was a giant gray building with two bleak eye-windows on either side of a massive hangar door. Fuel trucks were parked 150 feet away near a row of pumps, but there was no one else in sight save Anna’s small entourage and Mishka’s grim-looking bodyguards.

  “Go,” she said, motioning with her hand. “Dr. Pazyryk will show you his new patient.”

  “Me?” questioned the doctor.

  “Or else he will join his new patient.”

  In his semi-drunken state, Dr. Pazyryk was about to ask another question. Ivan moved sideways, and then slammed a palm against the doctor’s back. He reeled forward as though hit by a train. Mishka caught him before he fell.

  To cover his loss of dignity, the doctor looked down dismissively and said, “They should have salted this. What good if we safely land then kill ourselves trying to walk?

  Mishka looked hard at Dr. Pazyryk, but the doctor only smiled and walked past him.

  “Yes, this way, Mishka. Is that right? Is that your name? Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. Come along and I’ll introduce you to my very special patient.”

  The doctor’s words were slightly slurred, and that terrified Mishka. Intuitively he knew that the man was afraid, groping for oblivion.

  “Who is ill?” he asked.

  “Come, come,” said Dr. Pazyryk.

  His men were staring at him. Although his bodyguards looked straight ahead, Mishka could feel the eyes of the men behind him, looking for some clue as to what was going on. They had never seen anyone talk down to Mishka and live. And he did not want to join the doctor at the ambulance. He had a very bad feeling about the situation.

  When Dr. Pazyryk flung open the ambulance doors, Mishka saw a large tarpaulin covering a box or crate of some size. It instantly reminded him of a coffin. The space between his shoulder blades itched. He wondered if Ivan had a weapon aimed there. It would be simple enough to shoot him, then load his body into the box and send him away to be buried under someone else’s name. He turned to look behind him, but the doctor put a hand on his shoulder.

  “But you haven’t seen my new patient, Mishka,” said the doctor. The alcohol made him feel expansive. “Perhaps you know him.”

  The physician reached in and lifted up an edge of the tarpaulin, revealing the cage it covered. There was someone in the cage, Mishka realized as a cold feeling flooded through him. The man was unconscious, and covered with a blanket, but his manacled wrists were clear to see. And his face was familiar. He leaned forward for a closer look, and then stopped. It was Anna’s son, Sasha.

  Mishka turned and strode quickly back to stand between his two personal bodyguards. He felt his other men close in behind him. The old woman had caged her own son. What was going on here? What did she know?

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  He tried to make his voice forceful, full of outrage, but it cracked along the edges like an ice floe on the verge of breaking loose and floating away. Two bodyguards. Five gunmen and himself. Eight on his side. Against an old woman, a drunken doctor, Ivan and a pilot. Mustn’t forget her crew. Ivan was not someone that Mishka wanted to deal with under any circumstances. But if things escalated, he would have no choice.<
br />
  The doctor was back leaning against the ambulance. Mishka saw him close his eyes as though sleeping. Ivan stood to one side of the old woman, like a ceremonial statue.

  “Things change very quickly sometimes, Mishka,” said the old woman. “Do you know how quickly?”

  “Please. You know I have been faithful to you.”

  “I do indeed.”

  Mishka did not know what to say. His mind raced ahead, wondering whether his men would stand beside him against her.

  “Things change as quickly as this,” she said, raising one finger as though to test the air.

  Blood sprayed on Mishka’s beautiful coat as the heads of first the man to his right and then the man to his left exploded. As they fell beside him, he could only stare at his ruined cashmere. A piece of scalp adhered to his lapel, and he could see by the tarmac lights that it was a mixture of black and gray and knew that it came from the head of Lubkin. His hands began to shake, but he did not bolt and run. He knew now that he was outgunned. Anna had stationed snipers throughout the airport. If he went for his own pistol, which now weighed heavily in his coat pocket, he would be killed before he could draw it out.

  His remaining men drew their guns, turning this way and that, looking for someone to shoot. They looked like blind men with weapons. Neither Anna nor Ivan moved. A fine spray of rain started, but the water beaded into droplets on Ivan’s forehead and ran down his protruding cheekbones.

  Mishka looked down and saw that one of his bodyguard’s hands had come to rest on his shoe. He shuddered and slipped his foot backward, letting the dead man’s fingers fall to the ground.

  “Loyalty is more important to me than blood,” Anna said after another moment.

  Mishka nodded. He thought of being chained and bound in a cage.

  “Do you wish me to die of pneumonia?” she called toward the doctor.

  “No, Anna. No, of course not.”

  “Then fetch my umbrella. It is raining and I am an old woman.”

  The doctor held a hand up to protect himself from the rain and galloped over to where Anna sat in her wheelchair. From a compartment beneath the seat, he withdrew a collapsible umbrella, pressed a button so that it sprang open like a bouquet at a magic show. He held it over her while they all stood in the rain. Only Ivan seemed not to notice the inconvenience.

  “You understand me, don’t you, Mishka?”

  “Yes, I do, Mrs. Kazakova. I understand you.”

  “I have more cages, you see. More cages, more snipers, more men, and more money than you will ever dream of. I once had a son that I could trust. Someone to groom to take over what I have built. To share in it.”

  The urge to look down at the dead men pulled his eyes slightly downward.

  “Pay attention to me,” she snapped. “They are dead. Dead men only rot.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Kazakova,” he said in a tight voice.

  She gave the faintest of smiles.

  “What kind of cars do I like to ride in, Mishka?”

  He could feel the sniper crosshairs on his forehead.

  “I thought you might like this—”

  “Get me a Mercedes limousine. Ivan and the doctor and I will wait in our private lounge until the car is ready. Have your best driver drive us. We have much to do tonight and there is much to tell you.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Kazakova.”

  Quick as he could, he gave instructions to one of his men to secure a Mercedes limo for the old woman. He wasn’t dead yet, and she seemed to be offering him a chance to redeem himself.

  “Also, there are Russian paramilitary here in town; some are working for me, some for my enemies. You must use your sources and get me any information that will help us find them. I want to know about any new Russians in town that your agents come across.”

  Mishka was about to nod, but his head froze in mid-nod.

  “What is it? What are you keeping from me?”

  “Mrs. Kazakova, I may already have captured one such person.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Her name is Sveta, and she was a special operative in the GRU. She came to me for help.”

  “And why would she do that?” asked the old woman.

  “She is my cousin,” he admitted.

  For the first time since he had known her, Mishka saw Mrs. Kazakova smile.

  “Good. Very good.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You would turn in your own flesh and blood for me. You may yet indeed go far in my organization.”

  As he started to breathe a sigh of relief, Mishka saw an attendant close the ambulance back doors, then get into the cab. Brake lights flashed red, and the ambulance pulled away into the cold, wet night. He wondered what would happen to Sasha. It was not a long thought. Ivan pushed the old woman’s wheelchair past him, followed by the doctor who patted Mishka on the back lightly and said, “You’d better come inside. This weather is bad for the health.

  Resigned to his new situation, Mishka told one of his remaining men to remove the bodies and clean up the mess.

  “The sun will be up soon,” he told the man.

  “What do we tell their families?”

  “Tell them they won’t be coming home.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sveta led the way back through the warehouse to where she had first been brought in front of Mishka. She found the Hummer and loaded the bag of weapons, clothes and money that Mishka left behind into the hatchback. Before closing the hatch, she took out a Beretta, jacked a magazine into the grip, hung the holster over her shoulder and slid the pistol into it. With the AK slung over one shoulder and a firm grip on her pistol, she felt dressed for the first time since she had killed Hauck’s man at the truck stop.

  It was difficult to ignore the odor and the blood slicks, but Sveta had been in combat situations before. She understood and could adapt to that. But the warehouse smelled more like a slaughterhouse. And she would be glad to be away from the hideous emergency lights that had been flashing since the moment of the beast’s attack.

  Drogol gently helped Zoe into the backseat of the Hummer and then slid in beside her. Sveta hopped into the driver’s side, laid the AK-47 down, reached up to an overhead compartment and got the spare set of keys, then turned them in the ignition. She adjusted the rearview mirror and took a careful look at the man who had brought Zoe back to life. He leaned over toward the young woman when she looked momentarily distressed, and smiled when she felt better. It was obvious that he cared for her. For a moment she wondered if this was really the killer Hauck was tracking. The things she had seen tonight, though, brought her back to reality.

  He was not a handsome man. He had large eyes, a narrow face with a prominent forehead, thick nose and strong chin. His hair was long and brushed back so that he vaguely resembled an Indian shaman except for the dark intensity that radiated from him. That sense of power and energy was as real to Sveta as his physical features. Being close to him was like being pulled along by a human magnet.

  “Drive. Go where I tell you. I have a sanctuary in this evil city.”

  Sveta nodded and drove the Hummer forward to where a hand-sized red button was mounted on an I-beam. She rolled the window down, depressed it, and the giant warehouse door began to rise with a complaining screech. As it went up, she withdrew her pistol from her holster and tried to calm her breathing. As the warehouse door rose enough for her to see the empty street, she wondered why she was taking direction from this man.

  Because I’m using him, she told herself.

  “Go slowly. Turn in whatever direction is clear. First we drive to see if we are followed. Then we go to safety.”

  Sveta shifted to drive again, depressed the pedal and turned onto the street.

  “Concentrate on driving, please. I will look for watchers.”

  Time to push back.

  “Drogol?”

  “Yes?”

  “Quit giving me orders.”

  From the backseat she heard his bitter
laugh.

  “You find that funny?” she asked.

  She’d seen the dashboard button. She knew Mishka. She knew this car, since it was the one she had been locked in the backseat of hours before. It was the type of car driven by only two types of people in Moscow—politicians and criminals. Mafiya vehicles were filled with all sorts of toys. With a quick look down, Sveta found the other switch she was looking for and rested her finger on it.

  “There is no time for this, young woman.”

  “I’m not your young woman,” said Sveta, and without thinking about it she pushed down on the gas pedal and drove faster.

  “All women are young to me,” said Drogol. “And you are a trained soldier, are you not?”

  “What about it?”

  “I was born to give orders, and you have trained to take them, don’t you see? So, I will give them and you will take them.”

  Sveta met his eyes in the rearview mirror. They were cold and unyielding.

  “I can’t hear you,” she said. “Window’s in the way.”

  With that, she hit the auto-lock and depressed the switch for the bullet-proof partition window. The motors silently engaged and the three inch thick silicon aluminum oxynitride barrier slid up and locked into place with a solid click.

  The rage in Drogol’s eyes was so hot and angry she fought the urge to lean forward. Instead, she smiled. She caught sight of Zoe leaning over to catch her attention in the mirror.

  Sveta saw her mouth a panicked “No.” Zoe’s face was a mask of horror.

  Drogol’s fist rammed into the bullet-proof divider so hard Sveta felt her teeth click together.

  *****

  “Do you have control of yourself or do I need to turn on the knockout gas piped into the backseat?”

  There was no knockout gas, but he wouldn’t know that.

  Drogol glared at her. His eyes grew wide and his nostrils flared as her voice boomed at him through the backseat speakers. Once again he pounded his fists against the bulletproof glass. The impact sent a concussion through the car frame. Zoe cowered like a frightened child, pressing herself back into the seat as far as she could go.