The Throwaway

by Michael Moreci

  That left him with unnerving options for who was responsible for setting Mark up. Because whoever had played Mark and the FBI like a fiddle, they were still out there.

  The real traitor was still at large.

  If O’Neal had been cautious with this private, unauthorized investigation of his before, he was being downright paranoid now. Because the people closest to this contract weren’t men you trifled with, whether they were spies or not. General Hodges and Senator Dudek were two D.C. players who’d been kicking around the American political scene since there was an actual declared war—a cold one, but still—against the Russians. Through wars, shifting political control, cultural upheavals, scandals, and more, they had endured. That kind of temerity was not for the faint of heart, O’Neal thoroughly understood, and neither Hodges nor Dudek had survived this long without accruing a whole lot of power. Enough to squash the career of one FBI agent like a bug under their shoe, O’Neal was certain of that.

  Either Hodges or Dudek could be reasonable paths to pursue—after all, if O’Neal had learned one thing about powerful people, it was that they constantly craved power. Even if the pursuit meant the deepest of betrayals. Power was a drug, and like any drug, addicts would do anything for their fix. But while Hodges and Dudek were the official committee appointees who decided on this cyber security contract, O’Neal discovered a third player, buried deep in the contract logs, one who worked as a consultant to the decision-making process. It struck O’Neal as strange, having someone involved without being officially involved.

  It was almost like they didn’t want anyone knowing about their influence.

  O’Neal picked up his cell phone. Even at this hour, he had to tell someone, and he knew Lewis was a light sleeper. He’d be pissed, but he’d come around once he heard what O’Neal had to say.

  But O’Neal was interrupted by the sound of something crashing just outside his house.

  There was a momentary lapse as O’Neal’s brain pulled away from the puzzle laid out in front of him and toward the unnerving intrusion that had undermined his domestic solitude. It was by no accident that O’Neal’s home was located at the end of a rural Virginia road with nothing but sloping woods trailing off from the end of his property line. His ex-wife called him paranoid, and his colleagues had their share of inside jokes about O’Neal’s need for seclusion. But with over twenty years’ experience acting, at times, as the eyes and ears of the government, O’Neal learned to never discount the value of privacy. That’s why he lived in the woods, why he scanned for bugs weekly, and why, when a sound shredded his quietude and 2:00 A.M., O’Neal immediately jumped to high alert. It could be raccoons rifling through his trash again—or it could be something else entirely.

  Treading cautiously over his creaky hardwood floor, O’Neal made his way to the living room, which is not only where he thought the sound came from but also where his hunting rifle was stored. His standard issue pistol was upstairs, on his nightstand. Where he always kept it while he slept.

  The living room was dark. Darker than usual. A dim exterior floodlight, set on a timer, ran from dusk until dawn; its glow cast dim illumination in the room, enough to give it shape. But now, the room was completely black. Someone had knocked out the light.

  O’Neal crept closer to the window looking out to the light; beneath that same window was a chest, one that housed his loaded rifle. O’Neal knew exactly which steps to take, not only to avoid the room’s furniture, but also to best avoid the creakiest floorboards. Still, every step he took was exaggerated by the silence around him. The floor sighed and moaned despite O’Neal’s precise movement.

  As O’Neal drew closer to the window, he felt a draft. A lazy, chilly breeze. The window came into focus in greater detail.

  O’Neal was only a few steps away when he noticed that the window was open. From the inside.

  He rushed forward, flinging open the wooden chest and plunging his hand inside. But the rifle was gone.

  In that moment, where he caught himself gasping in fear, O’Neal realized how meticulously he’d been set up. Before he could turn to act on his realization, O’Neal was grabbed from behind. A forearm and elbow wrapped around his throat. It wasn’t that impressive of a lock, but the hold wasn’t important.

  It was just a slight diversion for the knife that followed, driving into O’Neal’s side.

  O’Neal roared in pain and anguish. He tried to break free of the hold, but whoever was behind him pulled him in tight and then stabbed him again. And again. And again.

  O’Neal dropped to his knees. He slapped his right hand over his many wounds, knowing how futile the gesture was. A crimson pool was already forming beneath him, and he could only watch it increase with each passing second. O’Neal tried to choke a cry for help out of his throat, but when he opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was blood. And as much as his body tried to convince him how nice it would be to sleep, O’Neal’s mind kept it alert longer than he should have. In death as in life, O’Neal was driven by questions, and as he bled out in the living room of his own home, he couldn’t help but wonder “Why.” Why had this happened to him? To Mark?

  O’Neal collapsed, his body corkscrewing as it dropped onto the hardwood floor. He looked up, and before his eyes closed for good, he saw a man. O’Neal had no doubt that his killer had been sent by the third man in the Hodges-Dudek committee.

  Suddenly, all the dots circling around Mark Strain connected. O’Neal had sent a patsy to Russia, while the real spy was still out there, and he had help. He wanted to say something to his fellow agent, Banks, as he stood above him, a bloody knife in one hand and a ski mask in the other. But he couldn’t get any words to come out.

  O’Neal could only hope that someone else was able to make the connection he had made—and survive long enough to do something about it.

  22

  The golden sheen of the Hotel National’s ballroom glimmered like the inside of a necklace’s pendant. Mark made an apparition of himself, floating the room’s periphery in a stolen server’s jacket that fit snugly over his clothes. The jacket, luckily, zippered up to his neck with a collar that clasped over his Adam’s apple, concealing at least part of the wear and tear he’d endured the past few days. He couldn’t do much about the rest of his appearance—the bruise pasted to his cheek, the blood pooled in the corner of his left eye, the lacerations running along his hairline, or the swollen gashes protruding from his knuckles. His pugilistic mien was reason enough to keep hidden; the notoriety associated with his face, and the unwanted attention it would bring, was only further motivation to remain separated from the ritzy gala that occupied the entirety of the ballroom’s massive space. Mark clung, instead, to the shadows, stalking his prey with sidelong glances, relishing his opportunity to pounce.

  Viktor sulked around the room, engaging in conversation only when he was dragged into one. Mark watched—looking without looking—his every move. Viktor made a quick exit when roped into a chat with an inebriated group of what Mark guessed to be politicians. The disdain on Viktor’s face shone like a neon light in the middle of a pitch-black forest. He sidestepped away, a sneer on his face, and checked his watch for the umpteenth time. There must have been a threshold he had to hit before he was able to leave, and he was determined to watch every minute tick by.

  Later, Viktor showed at least some sign of life when speaking with a decorated military man; he probably had something to gain by behaving like a human being, either that or he genuinely respected the man he was talking to—who, Mark would guess, was a lifelong serviceman. On one hand, Mark had a weird kind of respect for Viktor’s complete disdain for putting on appearances. Mark had made a career of doing just that, and he’d never found it particularly enjoyable. There was something to be said about someone who refused to play the game, Mark supposed. But on the other hand—well, Mark wanted to use his other hand to strangle Viktor into submission. But Mark had to keep his emotions in check, suppressing the anger he felt at Viktor and e
veryone like him, people who didn’t bat an eye at ruining innocent lives to serve their twisted purposes. Viktor, Mark reminded himself, was a means to an end. A link on a chain, and nothing more.

  The question of where that chain led had been dominating Mark’s thoughts. Mark liked to think he was skilled at looking at the world from a myriad of different angles. It’s what gave him his power over people and situations; he understood, thoroughly, what made everything tick. If you knew what people wanted, you could confidently predict what they’d do. But what did the Russians want with Mark? He studied the question from every angle imaginable, but whenever Mark attempted to answer that nagging question he only came up with one answer:

  Not a damn thing.

  Mark didn’t possess a shred of valuable information; he had no ties to powerful people, people who could be negotiated against for his exoneration; he clearly wasn’t a Russian sympathizer. Mark was worthless, and he knew it. He’d known it ever since his first conversation with Gregori. What mattered now was discovering the real angle being played. Because in any negotiation—and that’s all relationships were, negotiations, even between countries—you only attribute value to something that’s worthless to create a distraction. To protect something else. Mark was a smoke screen, and he was determined to know what he was being used to cover.

  As Mark narrowed his glare on Viktor, he felt his body temperature rising. He followed Viktor’s path to the other side of the room, toward the ballroom doors, and had to remind himself of Viktor’s value. But the more he thought about the position he was in, having been manipulated into a charade that existed to obfuscate some hidden truth, the more furious he became at being cast as an expendable pawn. A pawn whose life had been indiscriminately destroyed.

  Mark carved a path through the room, keeping his eyes firmly locked on Viktor. An older man with an arrogant smirk on his face—probably some hideously wealthy oligarch—grabbed Mark by his elbow as he passed and said something he didn’t understand. Even with the language barrier, the words sounded condescending and rude, and it was clear he was ordering something from the server he saw in front of him. Mark pulled the man’s fingers off his body, twisting them hard, and shoved him out of his path. The surrounding crowd turned their attention to the scene and a murmur grew, but Mark didn’t care. He felt capable of fighting his way through the entire room if that’s what it took to reach his target.

  Mark quickened his pace as Viktor cut through a thick crowd in front of the doors and disappeared beyond. Mark reached into his pocket, retrieving a cell phone Ania had purchased at what looked like the Russian equivalent of a currency exchange. She paid cash, buying a phone for herself as well, and had them both activated on the spot. No one asked for their names, and Ania didn’t offer them. The phone, Ania instructed Mark, was to keep her updated on Viktor’s movements. Mark had yet to use it—there had been nothing to report—but he shot her a quick text as he followed Viktor to the ballroom’s double doors.

  V is on move, Mark tapped into the phone. Leaving ballroom.

  Mark hurried into the lobby and scanned the area, panicked that Viktor had possibly darted to the hotel’s exit. More gala attendees were mulling around, and Mark couldn’t spot his quarry. He dashed around the room, searching, his anxiety growing with each passing second that Viktor remained out of sight. If he had somehow made it out of the building, he’d be long gone, and Mark and Ania would have lost their one real chance to rip this conspiracy to pieces.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, Mark caught a flash of a lumbering figure. He turned and saw Viktor, bottlenecked by people as he headed toward the bathroom.

  “Lobby bathroom,” Mark texted, hoping Ania was already on her way. “Now.”

  Waiting for Ania and cornering Viktor together was the best approach. Mark knew that. But Mark wasn’t feeling measured or pragmatic. Or levelheaded. He eased into the men’s bathroom, pulling his gun out of the back of his pants.

  The heavy bathroom door opened with a creak. Viktor didn’t even look up, too busy relieving himself in one of the urinals that ran in a row along the left side of the room. No other urinal was occupied, and the stall doors were all wide open. Mark and Viktor were alone, which was exactly what he’d hoped for.

  He walked toward Viktor, eyeing him out of his periphery as he tightened his grip on the gun. He was right behind Viktor when he heard him zipper up.

  That’s when he whipped his gun out from behind his back and cocked the hammer—the sound of it clicking into place made sharper by the room’s emptiness.

  “Don’t. Fucking. Move,” Mark said, breathlessly. Anger, fear, and anticipation pounded in his head; life was unsustainable with the stakes so high, with never knowing what was going to happen next. But Mark thought of those stakes, thought of Sarah and their baby, and it helped ward off how exhausted and overwhelmed he felt. Home, he reminded himself, as he trained a gun on the back of the head of a relative stranger. I have to get back home.

  Even though Mark had ordered Viktor not to move, the Russian slowly twisted his head around so he could see over his shoulder. A patronizing smile spread across his face when he spotted Mark, then the smile turned into a snarl.

  “The American nobody—Mark Strain.”

  “Turn around,” Mark ordered. “I will shoot you, I swear to God I will.”

  Viktor did as he was told, but his condescending tone remained intact. “No, you will not. I heard that you had escaped, and now you must be here because you need something from me. Yes?”

  “Good for you, you’re capable of deductive reasoning. I do want something from you, that’s right. And if you don’t give it to me, then I will shoot you. I don’t have a damn thing to lose.”

  Viktor grunted. “And who said I have something that can help you?”

  Right on cue, the door squealed and Ania entered the bathroom. Both Mark and Viktor turned and watched her, and they both saw her snap the dead bolt shut once the door closed behind her.

  “I told you to wait for me so we can do this together,” Ania scolded.

  “Aaaaahhh,” Viktor said before Mark could explain himself to Ania. “The rogue spy. Now I see what’s happening here.”

  “Viktor, you can speak when you’re spoken to,” Ania said as she pulled out her gun and held it down at her hip.

  “She put you up to this,” Viktor said to Mark, not asking, but stating.

  “Why me?” Mark asked, ignoring Viktor. “Why was I framed? What’s really being hidden?”

  “She’s using you, American,” Viktor said, a hint of mirth in his tone. “Whatever she told you, it is a lie.”

  “I’m warning you,” Ania spat, training her gun on Viktor.

  “Or you’ll shoot? And draw all that attention to yourselves? No, I don’t think you will.”

  “Answer my question!” Mark yelled. “Who’s behind all this? Why did they pick me?”

  “American, do you want to know why Ania is really helping you? What she really wants?”

  Ania took an aggressive step forward, pushing her gun toward Viktor, her tone subdued but furious. “Shut your mouth, Viktor. I’m warning you.”

  “You think she is helping you, but no, no,” Viktor said, mocking both Mark and Ania. “She has a mission of her own. A revenge mission.”

  “Ania?” Mark asked. His eyes darted to her face, which was red and constricted, like she was enduring an excruciating pain.

  “Ania always needed her role to have meaning, to have some kind of grand, noble purpose. But what was it we had to do? Frame some American so rich Russians could get richer? She hated every minute of it, even more than me. Isn’t that right, Ania?”

  Ania didn’t say a word. Mark could see her out of the corner of his eye, seething. She looked ready to put a bullet right through Viktor’s forehead.

  “We did what we were instructed. Made you look like a Russian spy, and then we returned home. But that is where trouble began for Ania. She learned that her parents—the only reaso
n she stayed with the service—died in a boating accident while she was away. And no one told her.”

  “God damn you, Viktor,” Ania said, her voice cracking as she tried to maintain her fury while fighting off grief.

  “And now, now she is angry,” Viktor said. “Angry for being forced into this life. Angry that she was thousands of miles away while her parents were being lowered into the ground. I know this woman. She wants payback. Payback for whoever put her in the United States. Payback for whoever is benefitting from what we did to you.

  “You’re being used, Mark Strain.”

  Mark looked at Ania, whose eyes were on Viktor. He didn’t even have to ask the question, he knew by the look on her face: Every word Viktor had said was true.

  And in that moment of realization—that moment of distraction—Viktor made his move.

  With lightning-quick speed, he whipped around and punched Mark’s gun out of his hand, sending it skating across the bathroom floor. He grabbed him by his jacket and turned him around, putting Mark between himself and Ania, blocking any clear shot she had. Mark grabbed Viktor’s arms and tried to break his hold, but his grasp was too strong. Before he knew it, Viktor was racing forward, using Mark’s body as a shield against Ania.

  She tried to spin out of the way, but Viktor anticipated her move. He twisted Mark’s body and threw him forward, sending him spinning into Ania. They both tumbled to the ground, and Viktor was on them fast. He kicked Ania’s gun out of her grasp just as she was whipping it in his direction. Mark recognized that he and Ania were both weaponless, and it felt like they were outnumbered, too.

  Mark rolled off Ania’s body just as Viktor stomped his foot down at her; she spun out of the way, and his foot smashed against the floor, splintering the tile. Ania, in a crouched position, kicked out Viktor’s knee and leapt into an uppercut that sent the man tumbling backward. She tried to follow her strike with a kick to his midsection, but Viktor recovered too quickly, and he caught Ania’s foot before it reached him. Using his tremendous strength, he whipped Ania around and sent her flying into the outer wall of the row of stalls. She landed on the ground, hard, and didn’t move.