by Ed Kovacs
It was finished. Over. He hadn’t seen it coming at all; the marks never do.
What was left? He looked over to the child, Kala. Strange: she was crying, but he didn’t hear a thing. She’d been a sweet little girl and didn’t deserve to have such a sooka, a shluha vokzal’naja, a train station whore, as a mother. She could have killed the child when she fired the pistol! What kind of mother does that? What else could he do but make sure the little girl stayed safe? And she was probably hungry. She liked cakes, the staff had quickly discovered. So maybe he should find her something to eat. But it wasn’t yet six A.M.; what would be open?
He remembered there were many twenty-four-hour cafés in Moscow. In fact, just around the corner—some Internet café with coffee and pastries. It was just over there.
Popov parked right in front of the Internet café and left Kala alone in the idling Mercedes.
* * *
“He left her in the car!” shouted Yulana.
Kit stopped the bike ten feet from the Benz as he watched Viktor through the floor-to-ceiling shopwindows. Yulana spun off the motorcycle and ran to the Mercedes. She threw open the door and pulled Kala into her arms.
Kit waved for her to back off, to take cover, as he painfully eased himself off of the motorcycle.
“We can go!” yelled Yulana.
Kit staggered as he shook his head, his tunnel vision locked on Popov.
“I think he’s had a nervous breakdown,” she said.
“People recover from nervous breakdowns.”
“Please, we can just leave!” she pleaded. She held her daughter in her arms. She’d been reunited with her blessed little girl, but Yulana Petkova was shocked to realize how much she now feared for the life of Kit Bennings.
“Shhhhh,” he said, gesturing for her to back off.
Kit slowly entered the shop, each step an act of mind over matter. He felt like his head was going to explode. Sweat beads carved salty rivulets on his ghostly pallor and his blood-soaked and vomit-encrusted clothing caused smarter customers to quickly exit the crowded shop. Even at this hour, geeks and IT junkies with red eyes and über-white skin in goth/slacker attire sat slumped on chairs and bench seats.
* * *
Popov stood at the counter, his back to the door. Barefoot, uncombed hair, silk pajama pants, silk robe. The clerk had bagged two cakes.
“Four hundred rubles, please.”
He reached for his wallet, but of course there was no wallet. “I seem to have forgotten something,” he said.
But the clerk saw the big gun in his pajama pants.
“It’s okay, just take them!”
Popov nodded; that sounded right. He turned around and saw a bloodied man standing in the doorway. The man looked vaguely familiar.
Yes! He had been one of them! He was one of the men who had come that night and shot dead his twin three-year-old daughters. Popov himself had tracked down and killed four of the attackers, but the fifth man had eluded him all of these years. And now here he was, standing in front of him. This time, Viktor wouldn’t miss.
* * *
Bennings saw the hint of recognition in Popov’s otherwise vacant eyes. The old bull of a Mafia don was moving his hand onto his gun. As Kit stepped forward, the gun came free of Popov’s waist. Kit wrenched it from the Russian’s hands and flung it across the room.
He held Popov with his left hand as he grabbed a tablet computer from a group of slackers and smashed it into Popov’s face, breaking the glass screen. Another slacker hadn’t even noticed all of the commotion, as he mindlessly played a video game on his large smartphone, which was plugged into a socket, charging.
As Popov screamed a howl of rage, Kit grabbed the teenager’s phone and violently shoved it all the way into Popov’s open mouth. He vised his arm around the Russian’s jaw, locking his mouth closed and forcing the phone down his throat. The former KGB strongman’s eyes grew so large they looked ready to burst, and his body violently convulsed as he slowly choked to death, with the phone’s power cord dangling from his lips.
Popov went limp, and his eyes rolled up into his head. Kit dropped him to the tile floor as a dozen strangers watched in awe.
“TMI … too much information.” Kit jerked the power cord from Popov’s mouth and pocketed it.
Barely able to stand, Bennings tossed several thousand rubles onto the counter, dealt out thirty thousand more to the slackers, and then stumbled out.
The cool night air felt good. Kit lurched forward, feeling as physically spent as he could ever recall feeling. But it was over now. He knew an American doctor on Zubovsky Boulevard. He knew he needed medical attention right now. He blinked and looked to the ground, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other.
Just then a yellow golf ball rolled right up to him.
CHAPTER 54
Kit looked up toward the Mercedes, where his eyes locked on a familiar visage. A face he’d last seen behind the controls of a gigantic bulldozer.
Dennis Kedrov, rosy-cheeked and smiling, ran a hand through his blond hair as he held a Makarov 9mm. Mikhail Travkin stood to the side and slightly behind Dennis. Six goons held guns on Yulana, who was holding Kala.
Kit’s finger found the P90’s trigger; he quickly pivoted the subgun from the oversized shoulder rig. He stood ready to shoot, although he swayed slightly, fighting mightily to stay conscious. Kit had killed Travkin’s uncle, Viktor Popov, just moments ago with his bare hands. And Travkin had to have witnessed that through the huge café windows. Meaning this was now a blood feud for both sides.
Bennings felt cold, very cold, in the brisk Moscow air of an early spring morning. He knew he could kill Travkin, and maybe the blond guy before he’d be shot down dead by the goons. Fair enough.
Travkin took a small, slow step forward, with his arms out to his sides. “A lot of blood was tragically shed tonight. With Viktor Popov’s untimely passing, we could easily be persuaded to wipe the slate clean. With you and your government.”
“You’re Mikhail Travkin, Popov’s nephew.”
“Correct.”
Kit’s eyes panned from Mikhail to Dennis. He quickly calculated the brand-new dynamic that equaled the new leaders of Popov’s kingdom. Business was business, after all. “You were the number-two guy, but now you’re number one.” He looked at Dennis. “And you’re the new number two.”
“Correct again.”
“Did either of you have anything to do with what happened to my mother and sister?”
“Quite the contrary. We were against involving you at all, Major Bennings. My uncle was his own worst enemy and would not listen to reason.”
“Where is my sister?”
“You haven’t heard?” asked Dennis surprised. “She was rescued by police detectives in Las Vegas.”
Kit was unable to hide the look of hope that crossed his face. Could it be true?
“Both of her captors were killed,” said Dennis.
“Friends of yours?” asked Kit pointedly.
“You know how it is. Sometimes you have to work with people you don’t really like.”
“May I?” asked Travkin, gesturing that he wanted to reach into his pocket.
Kit nodded his assent, and Travkin produced a smartphone. His fingers flew like hyped-up digits on the touch screen. He then slowly bent down, placed the smartphone on the ground, and kicked it over to Bennings.
Pain ripped through his torso as Kit slowly, carefully stooped down and picked up the phone. Sweat dripped from his chin as his head spun. It was all he could do, it took every last ounce of his strength and mental capacity to stand up and hold the phone at eye level so he could glance at the screen showing the Los Angeles Times online news story about Staci, while still keeping his sight picture on Travkin’s chest.
He lowered the phone.
“Looks like the slate is already clean.”
“And your government?”
“I’m sure they’re anxious to close the book on this whole episod
e. I won’t advise them otherwise.”
Bennings looked at the two men for a long moment. Who would make the first move?
Travkin gestured, and the goons lowered their guns. They backed away from Yulana and Kala and moved toward a waiting limo.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Smiling, Dennis put away his pistol. He and Travkin crossed to the limousine, got in, and drove away.
Yulana ran to Kit while she held Kala. Bennings holstered his weapon and started to collapse, when she grabbed him and held him upright.
“Can you drive, Mrs. Bennings?” he said, barely audible.
“With pleasure, my husband.”
CHAPTER 55
DCI John Stout had to eat it. Not only was the loss of Herb Sinclair a gut punch to CIA’s SAD operational capabilities in Russia, but his man had been a traitor. In addition to the Sinclair fiasco, the magnitude of the economic and intelligence disaster that had been avoided put a lot of juice from Wall Street and D.C. into Kit Bennings’s corner, so neither the national security adviser, the secretary of the army, nor Stout and his CIA could touch Bennings and his merry band of marauders. And the president had personally ordered Stout to attend the secret ceremony now unfolding at a nondescript government office on K Street.
Kit Bennings, Yulana and Kala Petkova, Buzz Van Wyke, Angel Perez, Jen Huffman, Staci Bennings, and Detectives Bobby Chan and Ron Franklin also attended, in addition to Secretary of Defense Bartok and Secretary of State Margarite Padilla.
Bennings’s uniform looked slightly bulky from all the bandages he was wearing underneath it.
Since Buzz Van Wyke was a CIA contract employee, John Stout presented him with the Intelligence Medal of Merit, one of the higher awards the agency can give. But Buzz knew that due to the politics of the affair, his days of contract employment for the CIA were over … at least as long as Stout was DCI.
Angel Perez and Jen Huffman, both active-duty military members of the Activity, were awarded army Distinguished Service Medals, promoted one rank, and issued 100 percent permanent disability retirements, effective immediately. Of course, there was nothing wrong with either of them; this was the government’s way of nicely getting rid of them while at the same time giving them some financial largesse.
Newly promoted Lt. Col. Kitman Bennings was also awarded a handful of medals, including the Homeland Security Distinguished Service Medal. And he was also to be medically retired from the army. Tomorrow. Like with Perez and Huffman, the discharge would be honorable and there would be a substantial financial payout. They were all being “fired” under the best possible terms, but they were still being fired.
The earlier words of the president’s chief of staff, Donna Ibrahim, had been utterly prescient as to how to handle the whole affair.
“They’d be pinning an inmate number on you if you hadn’t come through. You know that, don’t you?” asked Padilla softly as she pinned a State Department medal onto Kit’s uniform.
“I think there’s more honor among the thieves in the prison system than the thieves here in D.C.,” said Kit with a straight face.
Padilla looked shocked for a moment, then said, “I think you’re probably right.” She straightened the medal, then looked him in the eye. “You were right about some other things, too. I was very angry with those things you said to me on the phone. But the more I thought about it … Let’s just say that in life, teachers can be found in unlikely places at inconvenient times. You taught me something important, and I won’t forget it.”
Kit smiled. He extended his hand, but instead, Padilla embraced him in a hug and gave him the kind of pats on the back you give someone for a job well done.
Kit saluted and turned away from Padilla. He drilled his eyes into the CIA director’s. Bennings understood very well that going rogue could not be tolerated by the government, but the punishment didn’t have to include assassination. Or jail time for Buzz, Angel, and Jen, as Stout had requested. Kit’s friends were elite special operators, and simply losing their careers was a terribly harsh punishment. Kit knew that a man like Stout would continue to secretly wield his enormous power to exact vengeance on him and the others … unless the DCI was put in check. Which is why Bennings crossed to the director and extended his hand.
As a politician, Stout extended his hand expecting a handshake; as a man who had killed many with his bare hands, Kit locked the DCI into a painful grasp, causing Stout to wince.
“Nineteen twenty-one Third Street, Arlington, unit three-two-two. She’s only twenty-three, and those kinds of extramarital affairs don’t track well with the president’s female supporters.”
“What are you—?”
“Don’t deny it, Stout. I have evidence. And I’m not even mentioning the secret bank accounts overseas. ‘The nation’s top spy’? Yeah, right. You’re just a party hatchet man good at covering up a lot of dirty laundry. Send any more shooters after me, and I will reduce you to a dung stain. Pull the slightest crap against me, my team, or my family … well, you get the idea.”
Bennings gave an extra hard squeeze to Stout’s hand, creating the distinct sound of bones snapping, as Stout’s knees buckled and the man let out a cry of pain. He released the DCI with a shove and then crossed over to his group.
“Friend of yours?” asked Staci, who had her good arm as far around Bobby Chan’s substantial waist as it would go, which wasn’t very far. Her other wrist was still in a cast, and so was her injured knee.
Staci had essentially swapped fiancés. Blanchard, whose business in Tokyo had been too important for him to cut short, had been unceremoniously dumped by her when he eventually got back to Chino Hills.
Chan, on the other hand, had stayed glued to her from the moment he carried her out of the fleabag flophouse on West Tropicana. The chemistry between two people can’t be analyzed in a lab; Staci and Bobby had the kind of personal love chemistry that can be so elusive in life. It was fun just watching them.
“Just had to work out a little business understanding with Mr. Stout, there,” said Kit as he slipped off the silver chain around his neck that held the key given to him by his father. He held it out for Staci.
“Time for you to take this, Sister.”
Staci limped over to him and put her big brother in a bear hug. She then took the necklace and pendant and draped them back over Kit’s head. “And let you shirk your responsibilities? No way.”
Before Kit could protest, Bobby Chan cut in. “Kit, don’t get me wrong, the ceremony was nice and all that, but this place has the charm of a quarantine ward at a tropical disease hospital. Can we go somewhere and get some chow? And maybe a beer and a shot?”
“Vodka?” asked Yulana, who was holding Kala’s hand, trying to keep her from running off.
Kit eased an arm around his wife and exchanged smiles with Buzz, Angel, and Jen. “You know, Sis, I’m glad I didn’t get to rescue you, and that Detective Chan got the honor instead. Because he’s going to fit into the family, just fine.”
And with that, they departed.
* * *
“When should I make the approach?”
“Before he leaves D.C.,” said Margarite Padilla to the man in the ten-thousand-dollar Armani suit.
“What if Bennings says no?”
“Would you say no to what we, I mean, what you are offering him and his team?”
“Would I say no? Of course I would, because I’m not crazy. Did you see what he just did?! He broke the DCI’s hand!”
“Bennings will take the offer. It’s a special operator’s dream come true. Our only problem is, which assignment do we give him and his team first?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ED KOVACS is the author of the critically acclaimed Cliff St. James series. Using various pen names, he has worked professionally around the world as a screenwriter (eight of his screenplays have been produced), television writer, journalist, comedy writer, and media consultant. He is a member of the Association of Former Intelligence Officers,
the American Legion Post 299, the International Thriller Writers, and the Mystery Writers of America. Visit his Web site at www.edkovacs.com. You can sign up for email updates here.
ALSO BY ED KOVACS
Unseen Forces
Storm Damage
Good Junk
Burnt Black
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Epigraphs
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
