Krokodil

by Dustin Stevens

  In that moment, it all came together.

  The late season trip. The stilted English. The unusual demeanor. All of it.

  She was here to murder Mateo. And she wouldn’t be leaving any witnesses.

  The polished black handle of a Heckler & Koch P7 with a contoured grip emerged, followed by the extended barrel of a noise suppressor. My gaze focused on it a full moment, my feet already carrying me backwards, my instincts from a prior life kicking into gear.

  Without pause Lita raised the gun to shoulder level and fired it at Mateo, his hands and feet still furiously fighting to push his body back away from her. Three times she pulled the trigger, oblivious to his cries, a trio of white muzzle flashes erupting between the snowflakes swirling around her.

  The first two caught him square in the chest, red splotches growing atop his yellow parka. The third split his glasses in two, cleaving the thin metal frames down the middle and ripping a clean hole through the bridge of his nose. Inside his skull the nine millimeter parabellum round mushroomed out, sending a plume of blood and brain matter onto the ground behind him.

  Rotating at the waist, Lita kept the gun at shoulder level and aimed it at me. Inch by inch I retreated away from her, my hands by my waist, palms facing down.

  If it were most anybody else standing across from me, I would have tried to reason with her. I would have told her she didn’t have to do this, assured her that I wouldn’t say a word. Tried anything to keep her from applying the two pounds of pressure that would send gas powered projectiles flying my direction, doing to me exactly as they had done to Mateo.

  I knew there was no point in even trying with Lita though. This was a woman that had just spent half a day tromping through the Yellowstone wilderness, then mowed a man down after barely saying so much as hello.

  I was a loose end, and people like Lita didn’t allow for loose ends.

  Despite what my brain knew to be true, my body still acted like there was a chance, calling on the most basic of all primal urges to survive. Without lifting my feet from the ground I nudged my way backwards, closing the gap between me and the edge of the rock face.

  Lita watched me retreat away from her, the same look of amusement she’d had on her face before she shot Mateo. Knowing what was about to happen, having just seen her pattern, I did the only thing I could.

  “Go to hell,” I said, my voice like steel, just loud enough for her to hear me over the sound of the storm.

  For one brief moment the look of amusement faded to one mixed of surprise and something bordering on respect. Just as fast it disappeared, replaced by a fourth and final muzzle flash.

  The round slammed into my chest, driving my body back off the edge of the rock shelf. I hung suspended in the air, pain coursing through me, before splashing back into the water, every nerve ending in my body set ablaze on contact by the frigid water.

  Drawing in as much air as I could before going under, I wrapped my arms tight across my chest, letting the weight of my pack pull me to the bottom, the darkness of Heart Lake swallowing me whole.

  Part II

  Chapter Seven

  A pair of double doors opened from the master bedroom onto a sweeping veranda, their curtains swaying in the early morning breeze. The scent of sand and saltwater drifted in with it, filtering through the room, sweeping over Viktor Blok’s naked body as he extracted himself from bed and took his feet. Behind him lay the sleeping figure of a local blonde a decade younger, the latest in his conquests since relocating full time to North America.

  For a long moment Viktor stood above her, staring down at her sun kissed skin, the thin cotton sheet outlining her perfect form, and considered diving back in for more. He could still feel the fresh scratches on his back from the previous night, see the smears of blood where he’d laid, the wounds oozing as he slept.

  A small quiver ran through him, stimulating his nether regions, but just as fast he shrugged it off. He turned his gaze away from the girl and took up a silk robe from the chair in the corner of the room, wrapping it around himself as he stepped out onto the veranda.

  The warmth of the early morning sun hit him full in the face as he emerged from the bedroom, washing over his body, illuminating his pale skin. He walked in a straight line across the Spanish tile on the floor, its surface smooth against his feet, and came to a stop against the waist-high railing encasing it. He pressed his palms down flat on the stucco finish and leaned forward, the fresh scratches tugging as he stretched his shoulders and back.

  “I’m beginning to see why nobody ever returns to Russia after they leave,” Viktor said, knowing the comment’s target would be there without looking at him.

  “Are you referring to the girl, the house, or the weather?” Pavel Vazov asked, his accent thick, his voice a low grumble.

  A wan smile crossed Viktor’s lips as he finished his stretch and turned to face Pavel. He folded his arms across the silk robe and leaned his backside against the railing, shaking his head from side to side.

  “Why does one have to separate them?” he asked.

  “Because they are not the reason we are here,” Pavel said, flint in his voice.

  The smile fled from Viktor’s face as he looked at his associate. His features grew rigid as he stared across at the man, the folds of skin near his eyes tightening. He set his jaw in a tight clench, feeling his back molars scrape together, as he glared.

  “I know full well the reason we are here,” Viktor said. “And Sergey knows it. That’s why he put me in charge, and told you to do everything you can to help me.”

  Pavel matched the glare a moment, his body poised. “And I have done that.”

  Viktor remained stiff, examining the man in front of him.

  Standing exactly between six and seven feet tall, Pavel was an intimidating presence by any measure. His thick shoulders and neck appeared to have oversized links of coiled chain just beneath the skin, bulging muscles that seemed to squeeze his neck from either side. A thin beard lined his mouth and jaw, along with bushy eyebrows and a thick head of dark hair that made him always seem as if he were brooding, about to explode.

  Which, in Viktor’s experience, wasn’t far from the truth.

  Viktor had not wanted his presence on this endeavor. He hadn’t wanted the glowering beast shadowing his every move, inciting fear in everybody they encountered, no doubt reporting back to Sergey each night on what transpired.

  “Any word yet?” Viktor asked, his words clipped.

  “No,” Pavel said, his features easing just a bit now that the subject had shifted back to work.

  “How long since she last checked in?”

  “Nine days,” Pavel said, disapproval plain in his tone.

  Viktor’s eyebrows ticked upward a quarter of an inch at the information. He knew that a bit of radio silence had transpired, but had no idea it had been well over a week.

  “Do we even know if the job is done?”

  Pavel met his gaze a long moment before looking away, out over the waves of the Pacific rolling onto the beach. “No.”

  Viktor blew a long breath out through his nose and turned back to face the ocean. He could feel the robe sticking to his back as he moved, though if it was from sweat or blood he couldn’t be sure.

  “Do you know where she went?” he asked, pressing his chin into his shoulder to speak back to Pavel.

  “Montana,” Pavel said, taking a step forward towards the railing, but maintaining a wide gap between them. “When we last spoke, she had secured the guide and was heading out in the morning.”

  “Remind me why we sent her?” Viktor asked, keeping his attention aimed forward. He already knew the answer to the question before he asked it, but he wanted to make sure Pavel did as well.

  Pavel, sensing the same, took a long pause before replying, “Because Sergey ordered it.”

  “Right,” Viktor said, nodding as if remembering the way things had played out, in reality relishing the small victory. “Do we think this is serious
enough to warrant action? Or will she show up again any moment now?”

  Pavel rolled his shoulders one at a time, his massive frame shifting beneath the black t-shirt he wore. He kept his thumbs hooked into the belt loops above his backside, his chest protruding out in front of him.

  “This was serious four days ago. By now, it’s an emergency.”

  “Okay,” Viktor said, not appreciating the barb tossed in his direction. “Do what you have to. Go find her. Make sure the job is done.”

  Pavel grunted in response, nodding for added effect. “I will send Yuri. It will be done.”

  Jutting his thighs out against the railing, Viktor pushed himself away and turned back towards the bedroom. He let the robe fall open on either side of him as he walked, the ocean breeze cool against his skin.

  “No, you go. Make sure it’s finished.”

  Chapter Eight

  The last time I saw Don Hutchinson was four and a half years before. We were sitting in a makeshift office in a double wide trailer in the California desert, the rickety structure made entirely of plywood, shaking every time a stiff breeze blew in off the Pacific.

  He was seated behind a battered metal desk, a hand-me-down from the Naval base in San Diego, an air conditioner from the same source stuck into the window behind him. The aging machine pushed out a rattle like a smoker’s cough over the room as it ran, the heat outside too stifling to even consider turning it off.

  If we’d been trying to talk to one another we would have had to scream to be heard.

  As it was, there was nothing more to say. I was done, a fact we had both known for a long time, but neither had said out loud.

  The front porch of his new home in Alexandria, Virginia was bright and open as I sat and waited for him. A clear fall evening, the air was a good fifteen degrees warmer than what I’d left behind in Montana. Tucked away on a swing looking out over his suburban neighborhood I could hear children at play, see an older man down the street raking leaves.

  Nobody paid me any mind as I sat and waited, forcing my façade to remain serene, my inner-workings pulsating at ultrasonic speeds.

  My wait turned out to be a little shorter than expected, beginning at five o’clock and ending a few minutes before six-thirty. I’d made a point to park my rented green Taurus on the curb so he would see it as he approached, making him aware of my presence without raising any alarms.

  The last thing I needed was to anger a ranking DEA official, especially when I was there to solicit his help.

  The sun was fast fading from the sky above as a pair of headlights rolled to a stop in front of the house. They paused for a moment along the street, no doubt inspecting the Taurus, possibly even calling in a tag check, before proceeding into the drive. Halfway down the brushed concrete his Chrysler came to a stop, the lights blinking out.

  The years and change of address had altered him in the ways that were to be expected. As he emerged from behind the steering wheel I could see his California tan was gone, as was another inch or two off his hairline. In their stead he had added ten pounds to his midsection, a small paunch starting to strain the bottom buttons of his dress shirt.

  “Hawk,” he said, standing by the car and assessing me before walking on towards the front porch. If he was surprised to see me he didn’t show it in the slightest, his voice, his expression, even.

  “Hutch,” I replied, dipping the top of my head down slightly in greeting.

  “You’re the dumb pilgrim I’ve been hearing for twenty days and smelling for three.”

  The corner of my mouth curled up in a smile. Since the first time Hutch had pieced together the origin of my name he’d been quick with a quote from the movie. If not for it being one of my favorites, the practice might have gotten old.

  As was, it was just good to see a familiar face.

  The soles of his brown loafers scraped against the concrete steps as he ascended them, his hands shoved in his pockets. He motioned to the small red container on the ground by my feet and asked, “What’s in the cooler?”

  “We’ll get to that.”

  He walked up without looking at me and took a seat in the Adirondack chair alongside the swing, matching my gaze as we stared out over the darkening neighborhood.

  “Tell me everything,” he said simply, his voice low and even.

  Again I got the impression that he’d been expecting me, waiting to have this very conversation, but in that moment I didn’t care. I had things to do, and I needed his help in doing them.

  “How much do you know?” I asked, not wanting to rehash any more than necessary.

  “Assume I know nothing,” Hutch said, his voice the same graveled baritone I’d remembered.

  “She came to see me on October 24th, claiming her brother was camping in the park and hadn’t checked in in a few days.” I leaned forward and rested my forearms on my knees, thinking back to that first encounter just ten days before. “I didn’t want to take the job, not that late in the season, not having any time to prepare, but in the end I caved.”

  “The power of the almighty dollar,” Hutch inserted.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head, “fifty thousand almighty dollars.”

  A small shrill whistle slid out between his teeth, but he refrained from speaking, signaling for me to continue.

  “Every day he’d been calling in on a SAT phone, so she had coordinates for his whereabouts. Her story seemed to check out, so I didn’t bother following up on it, just mapped out where he was and the next morning we went up there.

  “Took us a half day to hike in. Her brother was holed up on Heart Lake in the backcountry, a good ways off the beaten path. We found his camp easy enough and within a minute of spotting the guy she pulled a P7 and put three in him. She almost put one in me too but I was able to get away.”

  “Returned fire?” Hutch asked. There was no concern in his voice, no twinge of accusation, simply a follow-up question so he could better understand the story.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Got damn lucky. Her round smashed into the buckle on my pack. It crushed the thing to bits and left a hell of bruise on my chest, but it didn’t penetrate the skin.

  “I used the momentum of the shot to launch myself backward into the lake and let my pack drag me to the bottom where I stayed for a full two minutes. I could hear bullets ripping through the water around me, see little streaks of white as they sped by, but I was deep enough that even if they hit me they wouldn’t do any harm.”

  “Damn,” Hutch whispered. “Bet that was pleasant.”

  A nasty, deep-rooted snort rolled out of me, lifting my head a few inches into the air. “About a minute and a half into it I started wishing that bullet had hit flesh. Cold as hell, entire body burning as hypothermia began to set in.

  “Once I could take it no more I dragged myself to the water’s edge and slid out.”

  “And she was gone? Just that fast?” Hutch asked.

  “Like I said, pure dumb luck. There was a hell of a storm settling over the lake as we hiked in. She had no choice but to get her ass out of there or she was going to be stuck for who knows how long. She waited a minute to make sure I was gone, emptied her clip into the water, then took off.”

  Hutch nodded, his gaze never moving. In front of us a sedan rolled by and a young couple walked past, a bulldog on a leash between them, but none of them looked our way.

  “Took me two days to ride the storm out,” I said. “First night I damn near died of exposure. I built that fire as big as I could get it, put on every piece of clothing the guy had brought with him, even took his blood stained coat off and used it.

  “By the time the storm passed and I was able to hike out, my chest and shoulder were sore as shit from the shot, but everything was in decent working order. On the way out I found her body. Looked like the elements had gotten to her first, the scavengers not far behind.”

  Hutch sat a moment in silence, his eyes squinted up a bit in concentration, the way they always had
when we worked together. I knew he would remain in that position as long as it took, working out the events in his mind, piecing things together.

  “Anything else?”

  I took a deep breath, drawing the air in through my mouth and slowly exhaling through my nose. I ran my palms down the front of my thighs, knowing before I even said the words how crazy they were going to sound.

  If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.

  “The man we were looking for was Mateo Perez.”

  For the first time Hutch took his attention away from the street, snapping his gaze over at me. “Bullshit.”

  “I knew you’d say that,” I said.

  I bent down at the waist and lifted the lid on the cooler, sliding it across the wooden planks of the porch so it was just a few inches from his foot. Hutch leaned over and glanced down into it, raising his gaze back to me just as fast.

  Inside the cooler were two hands, one stained dark brown with broken nails beginning to yellow, the other pale white, no more than a few days removed from a manicure.

  “You could have just brought their fingers, you know,” Hutch said, his expression dour.

  “I wasn’t taking any chances,” I replied. “Besides, it’s not like they need them anymore.”

  Hutch nodded once, then reached out and lowered the cooler lid shut. “Come on in. I’ll order some food and we’ll get to work.”

  Chapter Nine

  The smell of grilled chicken and onions hung throughout the room, its source two oversized sandwiches Hutch had ordered in from somewhere named Benicio’s. The name on the box and the heavy-handed application of tomato sauce said the place fancied itself an Italian restaurant, though it tasted more along the lines of cardboard to me.

  Still, it was free food. And it wasn’t like I’d come across the country for dinner.

  I left the last quarter of my sandwich in its box and folded it shut, tossing the scraps into the plastic bag they’d came in. I leaned back in the oversized leather sofa I was sitting on and draped an arm across the back of it, crossing my right leg up onto my opposite thigh.