Golden Chariot

by Chris Karlsen

  She wondered briefly what his family and educational background was. She imagined a contract killer in a garish environment of bad art, exotic electronics, and mismatched furniture.

  He kept his gun and shoulder holster on as he crossed the room to a mahogany secretaire. Crystal decanters sat on one side of the desktop along with a set of wine goblets and cocktail glasses. On the other side were bottles of different liquors.

  Who does this psycho entertain? She’d love to ask.

  He filled one of the goblets to the top with Putinka Vodka. Back home, most of her friends preferred Absolut or Ketel over the Russian brands. She didn’t drink vodka, having never acquired a taste for hard liquor other than scotch.

  Tischenko brought his drink and sat in one of the wing-back chairs, repositioning it so he could watch her.

  “Strip her,” he told his men.

  The same man who tied her wrists stepped close and severed the ropes. She felt a lightning fast rage cut through her as the restraint came off. She knew a self-defense move Nick taught her. Temporarily disabling and nasty, she could put the man behind her in a world of hurt. She’d only have a shot at the one man. The others would pounce on her. Punishment would be inflicted. But...if she hurt the one guy enough, it made that one less effective later.

  She dropped her hands to her sides, resisting the temptation to rub her raw wrists. She made a tight fist with her right hand, her strong hand, and swung back hard and fast with a direct hit to his nuts.

  The whoosh of air as he gasped and cried out blew warm over her neck. Everything afterward happened in bursts. The second man’s face flashed in front of her, then his fist, and a glimpse of tan skin. The air rushed from her lungs with the explosion of pain in her midriff. She fell onto her knees and doubled over. The panic of not being able to breathe blanked everything else from her mind.

  She had a vague awareness of two men hauling her to her feet and ripping her clothes off. She didn’t care. All she wanted was air. When they finished, she collapsed to her knees again, naked. She stayed there, struggling to take in tiny gulps of air. Once she finally managed a deep breath, the intense throbbing pain where she was punched reached her brain. No one punched her there or anywhere before. She didn’t know whether this degree of pain meant she was badly bruised or if he ruptured some organ. The throbbing began to ease a bit. She figured it was a sign nothing was ruptured.

  “Leave us,” Tischenko ordered his men.

  The doors closed behind them as they left. It was just her and Tischenko now.

  He walked over and yanked her hair, forcing her to look up. With his other hand he C-clamped the pressure points of her jawbone, his fingers squeezing until she opened her mouth.

  “Drink.” He poured vodka down her throat.

  She choked down a small amount.

  “More?”

  She hated the taste but accepted another swallow, a larger one. Maybe it would help the lingering pain from the punch.

  The liquid filled her throat and mouth. It ran down the sides of her face, past her ears, drenching her neck.

  He chuckled as she emptied the glass. Afterward, he went back to the chair and set the glass on the wine table. Then, he came to her again.

  “Stupid move, striking my man.”

  Charlotte ignored him. She hoped she made ground meat of the bastard’s testicles.

  “Can you breathe now?”

  She nodded.

  “Good, you can suck me off.” Tischenko unzipped his fly.

  Nausea washed over her. She remembered her father’s words. Fight. Fight as long as you have breath in your body.

  “Take it out.”

  I’ll bite it off, she thought. I’ll make a woman of you, like you threatened to do to Atakan.

  He was already aroused as she tugged his underwear down. The strong odor of salt and sweat hit her in the face and she recoiled slightly.

  Forget the smell. Blank you mind.

  She wrapped her hand around his dick.

  “If you think to bite me, I’ll cut your tongue out.”

  She believed him.

  Silently apologizing to her dad for taking the coward’s way, she bent and did as he asked.

  Tischenko finished fast, zipped, and called to his men.

  “Can I see Atakan now?” Charlotte asked, still on her knees.

  “Atakan’s not here. I never had Atakan.”

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Istanbul

  Atakan finished his call listing the additional equipment needed from Director Firat and clicked off.

  “That appeared to go rather smooth,” Iskender said.

  “It did. Firat is completely onboard with our plan.”

  “What’s the E.T.A.?”

  “He’s sending a vehicle from our HQ here. It should arrive in ten minutes.”

  Cengis said, “Thank you,” and hung up his call to Incirlik.

  “Will they do it?” Atakan asked, afraid the U.S. Commander would want authorization from Washington first.

  “Yes. I told you so. Their pilots are ready to take off once we give them the word.”

  “You gave them the co-ordinates?”

  “Yes.”

  “You explained the urgency?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s enough light left for them?”

  Cengis glanced at Halim and rolled his eyes.

  “Yes Atakan,” he said, with a long sigh. “They have all the information. They have enough light. Tischenko won’t hear it or see it and you’ll have your pictures shortly after the flyover.”

  “Good.” Atakan nodded, oblivious to Cengis’s impatience. “The images are sent directly here, right?”

  “No,” Cengis said. “Their protocol goes military link to military link. They’ll send the pictures to our base. The base will send them via our secure email net.”

  “Fine.”

  “It’ll be dark by the time our helicopter lands in Sevastopol and we set up,” Iskender said. “The dark works in our favor during the assault.”

  Atakan didn’t comment. He checked his watch, stood and went to the window. Staring out in the direction of HQ, he waited, listening for the sirens on the vehicle they sent.

  Long minutes passed, too long in his mind. He checked his watch again. Eight minutes since he’d hung up with the Director. Two more minutes, then he’d call HQ and demand they speed things up.

  Traffic on Resadiye Caddesi, the main boulevard, was at near gridlock. The HQ vehicle may take a different route to avoid the mass of cars and trucks. He searched the side streets, massaging his temples with no relief. The blistering headache had settled in his forehead and behind his eyes. Something flashed in his peripheral vision. Blue and red lights were weaving their way through the heavy traffic, followed by the wail of their siren.

  The four investigators from his unit at HQ brought duffle bags of equipment. Two of the men, Ates and Erten, who were involved in the arrest of Ursula and Abassian volunteered to go on the assault.

  Atakan needed the bodies and accepted the offer.

  “Everyone suit up.”

  Atakan distributed the Mehmetciks assault rifles, extra magazines, radios, and protective gear to his crew. The rifles were in addition to their duty side arms.

  “Give the Americans the go-ahead,” he told Cengis. “By the time we’re finished, they should be sending the photos.”

  All the men set their radios to the pre-determined scrambled frequency.

  The Mehmetcik was a newly issued weapon, replacing the HK G3’s they used for years. Atakan had to familiarize himself with the weapon again. He’d trained on the rifle and fired one many times on the range, but that was months ago.

  Firat had sent the shorter fourteen and a half inch barrel carbines. Atakan liked the way it handled. It was a reliable weapon, accurate, easy to maintain, and quick to use. Odds were Tischenko would stay with what he was familiar with, the Russian AK-47. The Mehmetcik would do well against the AK.

&nb
sp; The flyover shots came in rapid succession. Atakan spread the photos across the desk. The thermal imaging showed two targets on the ground. Atakan guessed Tischenko had one more man with him when he took Charlotte.

  “I think four is underestimating Tischenko’s fire power,” Iskender said.

  “I agree,” Atakan said. “I’d say count on six at least, including Tischenko.

  “Good cover with the woods, here and here, and here.” Iskender pointed to the places the trees were thickest. “It gives us a way to find all entries to the house and if he uses surveillance cameras.”

  “This cleared section must be the main entrance. See the break in the wall. A frontal assault is out,” Cengis said.

  “We need to know if the bodies on the ground are part of a regular perimeter patrol or two guys having a smoke,” Atakan said. “Ares, Erten, you’ll carry cans on your weapons.” He retrieved the suppressors from his duffle bag and handed them to Ates. “If they step outside the walls, neutralize them.”

  Atakan studied the images. “We’ll breach the wall from the rear or sides, depending on what we find once we’re on the scene. If his men are part of a regular patrol, we synchronize our blast to coincide with their routine. The blast kills the element of surprise, but better to eliminate any threats as we make entry.”

  “Once Tischenko is alerted to our presence, it shortens the time we have to extract Charlotte,” Iskender commented.

  “I know.”

  The phone rang.

  Atakan answered and wrote the details the Director gave him once they touched down in Sevastopol.

  “Good news.” Atakan folded his notes and stuck them in the pocket of his assault vest, then gathered the flyover images. “We have four Ukrainians to assist, two captains from their secret police and two from the regional police.”

  “Is there going to be a language issue?” Halim asked. “They have to understand my instructions when I set the breach.”

  “Not a problem. Firat asked for Turkish speakers,” Atakan said.

  Cengis frowned. “I don’t like the idea of taking orders from their secret police.”

  “Not an issue. They agreed,” Atakan’s brows notched up, “surprisingly, to let us have the lead. They had one condition; the SBU captains confiscate everything on the premises. We get Charlotte, period.”

  “Have at it. Take the guns and all Tischenko’s property,” Iskender said.

  “Who cares?” On another desk, Halim loaded two kilos of C-4 into a metal case with detonation cord. In a separate case he packed the initiator, blasting caps, tape, and the spool of non-electrical plastic tubing lined with explosive.

  “You sure you know what you’re doing? I wasn’t aware you had such expertise,” Atakan asked, leery when it came to explosive devices. In the army, he’d seen the damage IED’s wrought.

  “I have many talents you don’t know about, but the ladies do.”

  “Do not get him started,” Iskender groaned.

  Atakan was curious. “Where did you learn this?”

  “I spent my military time dismantling PKK bombs in the Sirnak Province. You cannot dismantle one without first learning how to make them.”

  “A convenient talent to have right now.” Atakan grabbed his duffle bag and regular issue gear bag. “Let’s go. The helicopter is waiting.”

  #

  They used the dead time on the flight to Sevastopol to apply camouflage paint to their faces and necks, all except Halim.

  Atakan put the final touches of paint along his jaw line and watched Halim out of the corner of his eye. Halim was busy cutting sections of the C-4 kilos into cigarette package size blocks with his boot knife. He set the cut charges into a designated slot in his case. He wound the detonation cord into a perfect coil to prevent tangling when removed, and placed the line on top of the C-4 packets.

  They landed on the roof of the Ministry of Internal Affairs in Sevastopol which housed the regional police station. The two regional policemen were waiting on the roof when they arrived. After introductions, they led Atakan’s crew to a basement conference room. The two SBU captains sat at a long table in front of several maps of the area.

  The men stood and extended their hands.

  “I am Captain Demcuk,” the first man said. “This is Captain Mazur.” He gestured to his partner.

  Atakan shook their hands and introduced his crew. Wasting no further time, he laid the photos on the table.

  The four Ukrainians studied the pictures. Mazur took the two aerial shots with the most detail and compared them to the maps on the wall.

  “The road here,” he pointed to a thin line on the big map. “This is the best way to approach. We set up here and come in from the north on foot.”

  Mazur turned and looked from Demcuk to Atakan. “Agreed?”

  “You know the area,” Atakan said. “What kind of vehicle are we using?”

  Demcuk answered. “We have a van and driver to use as our mobile command post. State of the art, you’ll like it.”

  State of the art. Atakan expected no less from the secret police.

  Atakan broke out four extra radios preset to the frequency his team was using and handed them to the Ukrainian officers.

  “I wasn’t expecting a driver. I only brought four.”

  “Our driver stays with the van. We use our radios to maintain communication with him,” Demcuk said. “We’ll keep him apprised of the situation. If he loses contact with us, he is to notify our headquarters and standby.”

  “Fine.” Atakan gathered the photos. “Ready when you are.”

  Everyone grabbed their equipment and followed Demcuk and Mazur to the waiting van.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Tischenko’s Compound

  Tischenko’s men had Charlotte by the upper arms in painful grips, forcing her upstairs. It was all a blur as they moved her toward the bedroom. Questions and panic filled her mind. They jumbled together feeding off each other. Her nakedness was the least of her worries.

  From the time she left Bozburun, she expected she’d see Atakan. She thought at some point, when Tischenko tired of her, he’d toss her into the same place as Atakan or close by.

  She didn’t delude herself. She knew the nightmare Tischenko had in store for her. But, as long as Atakan was alive, there was a chance of escape.

  Never, after hearing the recording of him on the phone did it occur to her Tischenko had somehow faked the calls.

  It didn’t matter how. He did. She was alone.

  The terrifying meaning of that reality overwhelmed her. She had to do something, no matter how desperate to save herself. At the top of the stairs, she made her move. She struggled and fought with the men, writhing and jerking against their hold, trying to break free. She planned to run. Somewhere...anywhere. The front door was out. If the two men who held her didn’t catch up, Tischenko was still in the main room. He’d get to her before she made it outside. She’d have to risk a leap from the upper window.

  She managed to pull out of the grasp of one man only to have the second man wrap his arms around her in a bear hug from behind. The man she broke from stepped close and he raised his hand to hit her. His back was to the stairs. She pushed back hard against the chest of the man who hugged her. Using him as leverage, she lifted both feet and kicked the first man in the torso.

  “Fall you bastard.”

  He staggered but kept his balance.

  Hearing the commotion, Tischenko came to the bottom of the stairs as the first man made to hit her again.

  “Enough,” Tischenko yelled, stopping the man. “I do not want her too bruised to look at, already her cheek is blue.”

  You made it that way, Charlotte thought.

  “Get her tied down. If you cannot, I’ll send someone who can,” Tischenko ordered.

  The second man continued to hold her in a strong hug, dragging her along to the bed. Tossing her onto her back on the bed, he straddled her. He held her hands in place while the first man tied her up
with ropes to the bedposts.

  Once her hands were tied, the man who straddled her climbed off.

  She pulled against the restraints, tugging, clenching her fists. If she made her hands smaller, maybe she could slip the bonds.

  The first man stood at the side of the bed and withdrew two more lengths of rope.

  They were going to spread eagle her. There was no escape. She’d be raped by Tischenko then gang raped by his men, then killed. She’d die, but she’d suffer first.

  She stilled.

  The second man leaned on the doorjamb, watching while the first man clamped his hand around her right ankle. Ever so slow, Charlotte edged her left leg to the far side of the bed. It was her weak leg and she wanted as much momentum as possible.

  The first man bent to tie the knot on the ankle rope. His face inches above her right leg. Charlotte swung her left leg and aimed the top of her foot for his head. She caught him with the full impact of her foot. He recoiled, holding his bloody nose.

  Sharp pain radiated from her foot and up her leg. The blow ignited every nerve ending in the top of her sensitive arch. She rocked forward off the bed, yanking the ropes on her wrists taut. The second man rushed from his spot by the door and held her loose leg down. He snatched the last length of rope the other man had dropped and tied her ankle to the foot post. When he finished, he reached over and pinched one nipple between his fingers until she cried out and then he twisted. Charlotte screamed louder. He smiled and did the same to her other nipple.

  Tischenko stepped into the room. He looked with disgust at the first man whose nose no longer bled, but the streaks of blood had begun to cake around his nostrils and mouth.

  “The bitch kicked me.”

  Tischenko waved him away. He laid a hand on the arm of the second man who had moved away and started to leave. “Kill him,” Tischenko said low near the man’s ear.

  Good. Breathing hard, her breasts aching, she wanted them all to die. One was a start.

  Once his men left the room, Tischenko sat on the edge of the bed and looked her over. He tipped her head to the side with his finger. With a feather light touch, he brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers where he’d hit her in Bozburun. He stroked her cheekbone all the way to the hairline. He wiped the sweat that dampened her face from her struggles with the sheet.