by Ellis Shuman
Ayala dropped the megaphone and dove to the ground. Bullets whizzed overhead in both directions, lighting up the night with piercing streaks of red.
53
They had traveled for hours, a bumpy journey made infinitely longer by driving on back roads through the countryside instead of on main highways. Restrained on the backseat with his eyes blindfolded, his other senses were fully alert, but still Boyko could not determine their direction. It was only when the car came to a final stop and his blindfold was removed that he saw and recognized the darkened form of Damian’s hunting lodge.
The thugs pushed him forward, up the steps and into the building. The fierce Dobermans he remembered from a previous visit were nowhere in sight. Boyko was forced down the hall plastered with the mounted trophies. The glazed eyes in the stuffed heads offered no clues as to what awaited him in the isolated lodge.
“I have lost my patience with our game,” Damian said, sinking into the large leather armchair near the unlit fireplace. “And I will not be with you much longer. There are other matters requiring my attention. Your colleagues are coming to the Strandzha and the funny thing is that they seek you, not me. How does it feel to be hunted by the police?”
Held upright by the Hunter’s men, Boyko was near collapse. His limbs ached, his throat was dry, and his beaten face throbbed with pain. But he vowed not to show signs of weakness.
“They will see soon enough that it is you who they must stop,” he said.
Damian laughed. “I think not,” he said. He signaled to his men to shove Boyko onto a wooden chair at the side of the room. “No need to tie him up. He is too weak to escape. That game is over.”
“The police are on their way,” Boyko said, although he wasn’t sure if his words came across as a question or a statement. “What do you plan to do?”
“I will not be here when your former colleagues arrive. When my men turn you over, the police will leave peacefully. There will be no violence in the Strandzha this evening.”
“You sound so sure of yourself,” Boyko challenged. “Who is feeding you this information? How can you be certain the police are coming here?”
“They are coming because I invited them to come. My associate on the force informed your commander regarding your whereabouts. The honorable Commander Ivan Zhekov and his men will apprehend you here.”
“Who relayed your message?” Boyko shifted on his seat, only to be pushed back by the two thugs at his side.
“Again, you ask the identity of my ally at Burgas police. Surely you must have determined this by now.”
“I have not been free to pursue this information.”
“Your rival does not think too highly of you,” Damian said, standing up and preparing to leave. “He says it was a mistake for you to get a promotion to serve with SANS, that the position should have gone to him. I would tend to agree with this assessment.”
“My rival?
There was only one detective Boyko could possibly have considered a rival during his years of service on the Burgas police force. That officer repeatedly belittled Boyko’s achievements and made much of his failures when they occurred. That heavyset, slimy, undeserving man—he had always held a grudge for Boyko.
“Kamen Petrov!”
Damian leaned forward until the harsh odor of his breath made Boyko reel backward. “You are hardly worthy of serving with the Burgas police. You will soon get what you deserve!”
“I have suspected Kamen of working against me for some time, but I never could have imagined that he would stoop so low as to work with a criminal like you.”
“You still dare to call me a criminal?” Damian said, his voice rising.
One of the thugs moved forward and struck Boyko in the face. The man’s hand connected with skin so numb that the new pain barely registered.
“Kamen,” Boyko mouthed, spitting out blood.
“Damian knows where you are. He knows of your arrival in Sofia.”
“The only person I told about my trip was Kamen,”
His phone call with Milen! There had been no time during the taxi ride to ponder the implications of what Milen had told him, but now it was crystal clear. Kamen had informed the Hunter of Boyko’s movements every step of the way. That bastard!
Damian laughed, seeming to take pleasure both in Boyko’s physical pain and in the detective’s frustrations as he learned at last how he was betrayed. “Well, that information is inconsequential, because the police will arrest you,” Damian said. “No one will believe you if you point your finger at Kamen. It will be your word against his. And anyway, I have prepared something that will be quite effective in putting you behind bars.
“Can you imagine what I have done for you, Detective Stanchev?” he continued. “My lodge is full of papers, many documents—all of them detailing the bribes you took, the crimes you committed. It is appropriate, no? You see, you are not the only one who can plant incriminating evidence in this lodge. When the lodge is searched, the result will be your imprisonment for many years.”
“You seem very pleased with yourself.”
“Oh, I am. An eye for an eye, planted evidence for planted evidence. Everything comes together in a very Biblical sense. But now, I must leave you. I am off to other matters that occupy my time. My men will remain with you and await the arrival of the police. And then they will hand you over. Your freedom has come to an end.”
“You will never get away with this!”
“We shall see.” The Hunter issued last-minute instructions to his men, strode down the corridor, and walked out the door.
After Damian left, his men were visibly more relaxed. They put down their weapons and the heavier of the two plopped onto the leather armchair. He searched through one of the open drawers in Damian’s desk and withdrew a cigar. As Boyko watched, the man made an amateurish attempt to light up, but eventually he acknowledged his incompetence by throwing the unlit smoke into the fireplace. The other guard, taller and—by the looks of his graying sideburns—a bit older, stood nervously by the window, staring into the darkness outside the lodge.
As the thugs made themselves comfortable, Boyko wondered if he had any reasonable chance of escape. His body was incapable of making a run through the woods, and he was unarmed. But what would a dash for freedom actually achieve? It wouldn’t stop the arrival of the police, nor would it deal with the incriminating evidence that the Hunter had planted in the lodge, evidence intending to prove Boyko’s guilt for crimes he had never committed.
His captors were occupied; they barely glanced at him. The older man disappeared for a few minutes. When he came back into Boyko’s sight, he was carrying one of the Hunter’s prized hunting rifles. The man lifted the rifle and aimed it at his partner.
“Stop fooling around. We have to stay alert. When are they coming? Have you checked the radio?”
“That was your job! You go check the radio!”
Let the two men argue among themselves, Boyko thought. His guards were dumb. Surely there must be a way to outsmart them, to enable an escape. But Boyko’s body ached and his one good eye was closing from sheer exhaustion. He needed to lie down, to recuperate from his physical ordeal.
The hunting rifle was put away, and Boyko’s guards became hungry. The older man again disappeared from the room and came back after a while carrying a platter of sandwiches. He held two open bottles of beer and handed one to his associate.
“What about him?”
“I’m not hungry,” Boyko said.
“Suit yourself.”
The men finished their meal and the one in the armchair dozed off. His partner paced the room, circling gingerly around the bear skin rug on the floor, as if the animal were still alive.
There was static in the other room—communication received on an open radio channel.
“You go,” the man in the armchair said. His eyes remained closed.
The pacing thug shrugged his shoulders and left to check the radio. A moment later he came back,
his eyes wide with excitement.
“The police! They are entering the estate through the back gate, just like Damian said.”
“What did you expect? The gate was left open on purpose. Of course, they will come in that way,” his partner said calmly as he stood up from the chair. He went to look out the window, but saw nothing. “Our guests will be here very shortly. And then all of this will be over.”
Boyko exhaled slowly, tried to disregard the pain racking his body. How could he challenge the story line Damian had planted in their minds? Boyko realized he had a better chance of convincing his former colleagues once they arrived. If they only would believe him.
“It is not too late for you to do the right thing,” he said, attracting his guards’ attention. “You are being used by Damian. Tell the police the truth and you will be free men.”
“What kind of nonsense is that?” the first guard said with a laugh. “The truth is you are a corrupt police officer and you deserve to sit in prison.” He again took up his position by a window.
“Get down!” his associate barked, drawing his gun.
“Why are you taking that out? We are not supposed to fire at the police.”
“I just want to be ready.”
“We are ready. Our job is to welcome the police and hand over their corrupt colleague. No need to draw our guns.”
“It is always best to be ready for any eventuality,” his comrade said. “I do not want to fall into any traps. Maybe this is an ambush!”
“An ambush? What the hell are you talking about?”
“That is exactly what it is!” Boyko said, causing the two guards to regard him warily. “Damian has set you up. Do you really think he wants you to deal peacefully with the police? The police will arrest not only me, but the two of you as well. You will be considered accomplices to my crimes.”
“What the hell?”
“How convenient it was for your boss to have left the lodge, leaving the two of you to deal with the police,” Boyko continued, feeling he was on a roll. “He no longer needs your services, so he left you here. The two of you will be arrested.”
“That is ridiculous,” the doubtful guard said. But, like his partner, he took out his gun. He, too, stared out the window, listening carefully for signs of the approaching police force.
“Boyko.”
Boyko stiffened at the sound of his name; surprisingly it came from outside the lodge. And it sounded strange. Amplified. Relayed through some sort of audio device. It grabbed his attention and renewed his spirit.
“Boyko, are you in there?”
The words were in English, and they were spoken by a woman. Despite the slight distortion, he recognized the voice. It was a woman who Boyko knew very well, a woman whom he had been thinking of frequently during this trying ordeal. A woman whom he cared for deeply.
Ayala!
“I see something!” one of the guards exclaimed. “The police are here. They’ve come for us as well!”
“It is an ambush!” his colleague cried. “We are surrounded!”
Boyko took advantage of the situation and struggled to his feet. His entire body ached but he forced himself forward, grabbing the guard by the shoulder and spinning him around. Caught unprepared, and with his gun still pointed out the window, the man stared at Boyko with wild eyes.
Boyko gathered all his strength and landed a punch in the man’s gut. It wasn’t a particularly strong blow, but to his captor it came totally unexpected. Boyko followed through with an uppercut to the jaw. Another jab to the stomach and the man’s gun fell to the floor. A follow-up blow sent the man reeling.
“This is for what Damian did to me,” Boyko snapped as he kicked the fallen man. “This is for his stupid hunting game, for humiliating me.” He lashed out again. “This is my payback for what he’s done!”
But for Boyko, this payback was insufficient, for he had been wronged by two despicable men. “And this is for that dirty underminer Kamen,” Boyko cried as he kicked out again and again. “That scumbag, that bastard!”
The other guard! Before he knew it, Boyko was attacked from behind. He was pulled back as the man’s grasp tightened around his throat. Boyko gasped, tried to break free. He twisted his body, but his strength was giving out. He choked back the rising vomit. His vision clouded. He was about to black out.
A sudden barrage of bullets slammed into the lodge’s walls and the man released Boyko and instead turned to help his colleague. Boyko’s knees buckled and he fell to the floor. His head was pounding, almost drowning out the gunfire directed at the lodge. With glazed eyes, he could barely focus on the two guards as they lifted their guns and fired into the darkness.
54
Tracer bullets streaked over her head, slamming into wood. Return fire came rapidly in the opposite direction. A pause, followed by three shots in rapid succession. A boom sounded somewhere off in the distance. Seconds later, a shell burst into intense light high above, illuminating the entire lodge and the surrounding trees. Ayala dove for cover.
As the shooting continued, she found herself lying flat on the ground, a short distance from the steps leading up to the solid wooden door at the main entrance. She was out in the open, a prime target for the gunmen inside. When there was another lull in the gunfire, she eased herself around until she faced away from the building. She began to crawl.
Shouting came from the woods. A scream. Someone had been hit.
Ayala inched forward on the rough gravel, disregarding the smell and smoke of the gunfight raging above her body. Her knee was scraped, and she had banged her elbow, but the pain was minor. She continued to distance herself from the lodge.
A vehicle was parked at the edge of the path; reaching it was her immediate goal. She crawled ahead, the forward motion crucial to her survival. Additional shots. Bullets struck the path in quick succession, kicking up tiny clouds of dust at her sides. She made her way onward.
Orders were barked out, leading to tense moments of deadly silence. Shifting branches, signs of movement among the trees. The police were regrouping, or possibly retreating. Had they failed in their initial assault on Damian’s hideout? Had they lost their advantage in the firefight? What did they plan to do next?
Ayala crawled forward a few feet. Hearing a noise off to her left, she lay down flat on the ground again and covered her head. Silence. Too quiet. She sensed something was going to happen. She couldn’t stay here. She needed to move. Now!
She darted forward, her body bent low to create as small a target as possible. She reached out, touched the side door of a car, and dropped to her knees to take cover. She slumped to a sitting position, gasping for breath, amazed she had survived her foolhardy dash for safety.
Tears formed in her eyes. What am I doing here? she wondered. This was much more than she had bargained for. She had invited herself into a violent confrontation between police and gangsters which had nothing to do with her. Her departure from Sofia without informing her uncle had been a reckless decision. And, as a result of her impulsive actions, she had ended up in the middle of nowhere with her life at stake. This was all a terrible, deadly mistake.
She was facing away from the lodge, looking toward the darkness where the police were entrenched in cover. Leaning back against the vehicle’s tire, Ayala realized she was entirely on her own. The night was completely still. She felt the penetrating October chill; the breeze whipped her hair in front of her eyes. She pulled her jacket tight.
Stay put, she told herself. Stay calm. As if that was possible under the circumstances. Would the police again attempt to storm the wooden building? Who had been injured in the gunfire? Were the gunmen inside still alive? Where was Boyko? Was he all right?
Stay calm, stay calm!
An owl hooted high in the trees. Branches swayed in the breeze, rustling and shaking. Leaves fell from above, scattering on the ground. Something moved through the bushes to her left, but perhaps it was only her imagination. The sky above was black emptiness. She lea
ned back against the tire, barely breathing. It was quiet, too quiet. Something was about to happen. She tensed, ready to run if necessary.
A loud noise broke the silence—the firing of a large weapon, possibly a rocket of some kind. Seconds later, a projectile slammed into the front of the lodge. The structure burst into flames, its wooden walls crumbling like partitions made of bamboo. Thick smoke filled the air.
Bullets again whizzed overhead. The windshield of the car against which Ayala was resting shattered into flying fragments of glass. A bullet punctured one of the tires. Ayala lay prone on the ground, covering her head with her hands. After a few moments, there was a lull in the shooting. She eased her body forward until she could observe the lodge’s entrance from her vantage point. Deep orange flames burst from one of the front windows; dark smoke poured out into the night. The front door was slightly askew. Was someone attempting to open it, to escape from the inferno within? As she stared at the door, it opened a bit more. No, she wasn’t imagining it. The inside of the doorframe was tinged in dark orange, the opening offered a partial view of the raging fire. And, a man was coming out!
He emerged from the lodge, painfully shoving the door open as if it was weighted down with bricks. Finally, he managed to squeeze through. He was obviously in pain, and it appeared to be from much more than just fire damage or smoke inhalation. From a distance, Ayala could see the man grimace, nearly doubling over from his injuries. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t initially place him. His face was black, his features unclear. The distance to the lodge’s entrance was substantial, yet she thought she recognized this man.
Boyko?
The man stepped through the doorway, but the effort for him was too great. He tripped on the steps and fell, landing face down on the gravel. He didn’t move. Possibly, he wasn’t conscious.
Ayala got onto her hands and knees and crawled to the front of the car protecting her. Another illuminating flare lit up the sky, giving her a clear view of the man lying near the lodge’s entrance. It had to be him!
