Without looking away from him I fired three times into his wife, the rounds hitting her center mass, tossing her body against the wall before it slid to the floor, bloody streaks behind her.
“Then you know you never should have killed my wife and daughter,” I hissed, twisting both arms around to face forward, guns aimed at his chest.
Across from me Blok stared at the bloody remains of his wife, his face a mixture of agony and contempt.
After a long moment he moved his gaze back up to me, a murderous roar sliding out from him. Propping his weight against his bad leg he pushed himself to a standing position, trying to hurtle himself forward at me, his hands pawing for the gun on the desk.
Firing each gun in succession I put a half dozen rounds into him, starting at his chest and placing the last one right in the middle of his bald head. It entered at an angle, tearing a short trench through the skin before exiting the top of his scalp, slamming into the wall behind him.
His body hung suspended in the air, weightless, motionless, for a long second before falling backwards, depositing itself in the chair. His momentum pushed it back several inches across the floor before it came to a stop, the house silent and, except for me, lifeless.
Chapter Forty-Two
Even though Blok and his wife were both dead, I knew they were only the tip of the spear. Somewhere out there was Pavel, along with Viktor and who knew how many others. Those two for certain knew who I was, the rest probably eventually figure it out.
I decided to help them along, just in case.
I left the Blok’s upstairs in the office, their blood striping the floors and walls. There was no need to arrange their bodies in any particular manner, no point in exerting the effort to put them on display. In an hour or so, it wouldn’t matter anyway.
Keeping both guns in hand I made my way back down through the house, not bothering to mask my noise. Anybody even close to the place would have heard the shots fired from Sergey and his wife, would see the front door sagging open. If they were brave enough to venture inside for a look, they would see the butler lying in the middle hallway, his unblinking eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Stepping over him, I made my way back into the kitchen and dug through the cupboards below the counter, coming up with a gallon jug of cooking oil and a bag of flour. I returned the Mark 23’s to the small of my back and ditched the sport coat, sliding it down over my shoulder and leaving it on the kitchen floor.
The button down shirt I stripped off as well, twisting it into an elongated bundle, the finished product looking like a homemade cigarette two foot in length. I jammed the tail end of it under the grate on the stove, turning the heat on high, a blue-hot flame sparking to life beneath it. A few moments later the material caught, the smell of burnt cotton filling the space.
Bright orange flames licked upward behind me as I started with the oil, dribbling some on the bottom of the shirt, splashing the remainder around the kitchen. As more of the shirt burned the light grew stronger, illuminating the walls around me. Photographs of Blok and his family stared down as I deposited the last of the oil throughout the kitchen, leaving the empty jug on the floor by my jacket.
Grabbing up the flour in one hand I trailed an uneven path of the flammable white powder behind me, sprinkling it down the front hallway, tossing a thin layer on the butler, throwing large handfuls into the parlor and dining room to either side.
In my wake the oil caught with a thunderous whoosh, heat and light both kicking up fast. Flour hung in the air like a white smoke, mixing with the real thing now funneling out of the kitchen, visibility dropping by the second. The mixed scents filled my nostrils as I opened the front door and stepped outside, bits of white dotting my slacks and black compression shirt. My skin shined with perspiration, the end result of the extra clothes, adrenaline, fire.
The front door opened without a sound as I stepped out into the night, my briefcase still resting where I’d left it just minutes before. Already my mind was moving on to the next step, knowing that time was limited before the fire was called in and authorities found the scene. With luck the blaze would be burning strong enough by then to keep everybody back, the police having to wait until at least morning before pilfering through and finding the charred remains of three people inside.
Armed with only a rough outline of the streets nearby, I needed to put as much space between myself and the house as possible. The scent of smoke lingering on me was too strong to allow for public transportation, my only hope to catch another cab in a public area, allow it to carry me to my next stop.
Briefcase in hand, I made it three steps down the path before I saw it, my pace slowing to an abrupt halt. My supercharged system somehow managed to push out a bit more adrenaline, my heart rate once more rising. In a slow, exaggerated movement, I raised the briefcase to shoulder height beside me and released it, the black leather valise landing silently in the grass.
Standing before me, his hulking figure just inches inside the gate, blocking my exit, was Pavel. Behind him a black sedan sat idling on the curb, its lights off, a puff of exhaust rising from the tailpipe.
“Hawk,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that sounded more like a growl.
As I had suspected all along, he was the one in the organization to be reckoned with. The fact that he knew and employed my real name proved he had done his homework. His role was as an enforcer for the Blok’s, one he took quite seriously. Under different circumstances I would consider him a worthy adversary.
Those times were long in the past though.
“Pavel,” I said, letting him see the silenced Mark 23 in my right hand.
Behind me I could sense the fire was catching on, tearing its way through the house. The sound of wood snapping carried out into the night, hungry flames devouring the bait I left for them, expanding into the rest of the home. Smoke began to pour out, the smell strong, acrid. Shadows and disparate colors danced across the front lawn, bathing everything in multiple hues.
Pavel motioned with his chin towards the house. “Sergey? Anya?”
“And the butler, too,” I said, nodding.
His mouth twisted into a sneer, his eyebrows lowering a fraction of an inch, bunching together above the bridge of his nose. “He was shit. They were family.”
“So was my wife and daughter,” I replied.
I had no interest in standing on the front lawn having an epic back-and-forth with him. As much as this man needed to die, I had no interest in becoming a martyr in doing so. The clock was ticking, the Russian police not far away.
Sensing my train of thought, Pavel reached behind him and removed a handgun from the small of his back. He dangled it in front of him before tossing it into the yard, returning behind him and pulling out a pair of Russian shashkas, the curved blades almost two feet in length. He swung them back and forth across his wide body, the muscles in his arm reacting to the movement like corded steel, the striations obvious in his forearms, before tossing one my way. It skidded across the concrete with a spark, coming to a stop just inches from my toes.
“Why don’t you put down that gun and we settle this like men?” he asked, his mouth and eyes both twisting up in a look that bordered on glee.
Even on my best day, physically I was no match for this man. In most situations, my training was enough to carry me through. Ninety-eight percent of the people I encountered were used to relying on natural acumen, their size, strength, to get them through. When pitted against such opponents, I was almost assured victory.
In a case like this though, where both men were similarly trained, poised, physical attributes made the difference. Not who connected the most punches, but who did the most damage while doing do. In that regard, it was obvious Pavel was without equal.
What he didn’t realize though, was I had no intention of a fair fight.
I didn’t say a word, just raised my weapon and fired twice, one to each of his knees. The firelight behind me muted out the muzzle flashes as I ste
pped forward towards him, gun extended. He wavered in place for just a moment before his bulk became too much to support, his knees folding in on themselves. He fell straight forward onto them, slamming down onto the concrete, the sound of bone splintering reaching me ears as he hit hard.
Even if I were to walk away and never look back, he would never be right again. The damage to his joints was too great, his size too immense to ever allow them to recover. From where I stood I could see the lower halves of his legs jutting out at odd angles, blood seeping through his pants and onto the concrete.
To his credit he never made a sound, masking the pain he was in as he stared up at me, malevolence on his face. “Coward,” he spat at me, watching me grow closer, weapon in hand, the second shashka still lying where he tossed it.
I put a third shot into his right wrist without responding, one final bark of the gun that twisted his body to the side, bright red blood coursing onto his pale skin. His hand flopped open on impact, useless, as the shashka fell from it, blade clattering against the ground. For a moment he started to reach across his body with his left hand before abandoning the idea, accepting his fate.
There were no illusions on my part. This wasn’t part of some elaborate scene I had planned out in my head, flying across the world, dealing retribution to those that deserved it. My scheme was never to be facing down the man that killed my family and best him in a hand-to-hand duel, burning building providing the backdrop.
People that thought real life worked that way watched too many movies. My reason for coming, my only reason for coming, was for blood. Years of trying to suppress what had happened had done nothing to quell the hatred inside of me. It had eaten me up every day, kept me from falling asleep, forced me to hide in the mountains, ashamed of what had happened, afraid of what I would become if I ever allowed myself to confront those feelings.
No more. Never again would I avoid the bathroom mirror in the morning or fear going to bed at night. For five years I had hidden, fearful of what I’d become. In doing so, I had grown ashamed of what I became. I had never sought this out, had never wanted Lita to show up on my doorstep and solicit my services, but she had and now here I was.
I was going to finish it.
“I tell you what a coward is,” I said, sliding the shashka away from him with the toe of my shoe, gun trained on him the entire time. “A coward is someone that sneaks out into the desert and kills a woman and a little girl in cold blood. A coward is someone that is so afraid of a man he’s never met, he’ll target his family.”
I tucked the gun into the small of my back alongside its companion and hefted the sword from the ground, holding its gleaming steel blade up so the burning Blok home danced across it. Beside me I could hear Pavel muttering, his words thick and low, monosyllabic swears spit out in Russian.
Something deep within told me he hadn’t given my family the benefit of a few last words. I’d be damned if I afforded them to him.
“You wanted to fight like men, you should have found me five years ago,” I said, whipping the blade across me, the honed edge of it finding the base of his skull, tearing through it without opposition.
Chapter Forty-Three
The lo mien noodles were a little chewy, the chunks of carrot and broccoli a bit like rubber. In the bottom of the carton pools of sauce had congealed into gelatinous blobs, clinging to pieces of chicken, coating the sides of the paper container.
The late lunch was less than ideal for Mia Diaz, the only thing she could find after ten minutes of rummaging through the break room that wasn’t clearly labeled with somebody else’s name. Given that the office was over twenty miles from the closest Chinese restaurant, the origin of the carton or the date it arrived were both mysteries, neither of which she was especially keen on deciphering at the moment.
Her time at the office had started more than two full days ago. The first night had been spent organizing and conducting a raid that proved to be an exercise in securing a vacant home. The second was spent manning her desk, waiting for lab analysis, hoping for something concrete to come back she could use to pin down the Blok’s.
In the time since, she had burned through both changes of clothes she kept on hand and even gone against her usual self-imposed rule to stay far away from the community cots, catching a total of four hours in the preceding two days. She was now to the point in her body cycle where every flat surface presented itself as a satisfactory place to stretch out for a nap, every food item that wasn’t marked toxic seemed fine for consumption.
Diaz had just forked a hefty clump of noodles into her mouth, slurping up the uneven ends of them, as the fast-becoming-familiar scent of herbal tea greeted her nostrils. Even in her near delirium, shoveling down week-old Chinese food, the scent turned her stomach, bringing a bit of moisture to her eyes.
“I wondered what that smell was,” Hutch said in greeting, pushing himself inside the door and coming a stop, his shoulder leaning against the frame. He peered over at the carton and said, “Szechuan Garden, never heard of it. New around here?”
Diaz held up a finger for him to pause and chomped down on the mouthful with vigorous aplomb, swallowing everything half-chewed. It caught in her windpipe and landed in her stomach with a mighty splat, a small burp rolling up and out of her in reaction. She covered her mouth with a fist and waited until her stomach settled before lowering her fork and leaning back in her chair.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said. “I actually have no idea. I saw the carton in the fridge and claimed it as my own.”
“Ah,” Hutch said, rocking his head back in understanding, raising his mug to his lips. “The spoils of war.”
A smirk shoved the left half of Diaz’s mouth up, her head tilting back with it. “Something like that. And I hardly think a man that walks around drinking that swill has the right to be commenting on smells.”
“Touché,” Hutch said, raising his eyebrows. “Anything new coming in from the tech guys?”
“No,” Diaz replied. “Lots of residue, lots of fingerprints, but nothing substantial enough to make a compelling case yet.”
“That’s what I figured,” Hutch said, nodding. “That place was clean by the time we got there the other night.”
Diaz nodded, a sick feeling rising in her stomach. His assessment, his word choice, both fit perfectly. The place was clean by the time they had arrived, almost too much so. The scene had practically been scrubbed in anticipation of their arrival.
Across from her, a forlorn smile crossed Hutch’s face as he looked down at the mug with a face that bordered on longing. “Yes, I will miss this when I’m gone. I’ve tried having some shipped into D.C., but it just isn’t the same.”
Fingers laced atop her stomach, Diaz raised her eyebrows at him. “Going somewhere?”
Hutch kept his attention down on his mug a long moment before looking up, his eyes widened just a bit. “Yeah, I was just stopping by to let you know. The word has come down from on high. It seems things are slowing down here, so my presence has been requested back in the Capitol.”
Diaz nodded, the information clicking with what she’d been wondering for the better part of a day now. While the case was certainly far reaching, it wasn’t anything over and above a handful of other things the DEA was working on at various times. While he did have some personal background involved, it seemed unusual for a ranking bureaucrat to spend so much time in the field.
“The only reason I’ve stayed this long was hoping Hawk would turn up,” Hutch said. “This began as a bit of a personal favor to him, after all.”
There was momentary pause, Diaz getting the impression it was her turn to interject. Unsure what to add she simply said, “Yeah, he didn’t really seem like the kind to up and disappear like that.”
“Ha!” Hutch said, shaking his head, his face mirthful, as if her comment was a joke. “Not counting those five years he spent in the mountains, you mean?”
A forced smile came to Diaz’s face. Having heard the breadth o
f Hawk’s story, she had a hard time thinking of his time alone in Montana as disappearing, fought down the urge to say just that.
“Yeah, besides that, obviously.”
“Nobody knows whereabouts he come from and it don't seem to matter much. He was a young man and ghostly stories about the tall hills didn't scare him none,” Hutch waxed, his attention aimed on the opposite wall.
The words themselves made no sense to Diaz, though she sensed it was another movie quote she wasn’t meant to understand. She made no attempt to feign knowing, instead sitting quiet, her stolen lunch on the desk before her, watching Hutch stare off at nothing.
After a moment he snapped himself awake, shaking his head and looking back to her. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from him, have you?”
Diaz met his gaze for a long moment before twisting her head from side to side, her expression neutral. “Not since he told me we had things under control and walked out of the base two nights ago.”
The two sat in silence nearly a full minute, neither emoting anything at all, before Hutch drew in a deep breath. “Well, he’ll turn up somewhere eventually again I suppose.” He took in the last of his tea and lowered the mug to his side, a few stray droplets dripping to the floor by his feet. “Anyway, it was a pleasure working with you again, Diaz. Hope to see you soon.”
He stepped forward and extended a hand across the desk, which Diaz stood and met.
“You too, sir. I look forward to it.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Nabbing the sedan from Pavel was a stroke of pure luck. By the time I dispatched of the brute I was certain the clock was running low, most of the lower level of the house already awash in flames. Once I collected the briefcase and climbed into the idling car there weren’t yet sirens in the distance or flashing lights refracting off the clouds above, but I was reasonably certain they weren’t far off.
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