Chasing the Captain

by Terry Shepherd

  Ali could see the Marine’s cheek twitch. She imagined this was what passed for an emotional reaction in his mind.

  “I thought about asking my dad to intervene but knew that would only make things worse. I needed to make the other kids understand I was not someone to be fucked with.”

  He punctuated the last sentence by pounding a fist on the SUV’s dashboard.

  “We lived in South Carolina. Fireworks are legal there. The really good ones that make a lot of noise. I broke into my piggy bank and took what amounted to my life savings and bought a big box of M-80s.”

  The Marine glanced into the mirror to see if this registered with his passengers. It didn’t.

  “M-80s are basically micro sticks of dynamite. One in every eight kids back home lost fingers to those little jewels. And I had enough to blow up a good-sized building.”

  Mireles swung the SUV off the highway and onto a dirt road. “We avoid the checkpoints this way. Sorry in advance about the bumpy ride.”

  He returned to his story.

  “Anyway, this gang had a clubhouse. It was a trashed house trailer at an automotive graveyard. You know, the place where you search for junk parts for your car? They slowly built up a mound of abandoned iron and rubber that hid the place pretty well from view. I think the owner knew they were there but decided it was better to placate the little hornets than to rile them up.

  “I was certain that this was where they took my stuff. And I hatched a plan. I started blabbing around the school that I just got a super rare Batman comic worth over a hundred bucks from some poor sucker who didn’t know its value in a trade. I sprinkled the story with complaints about how we still didn’t have AC and how grateful I was that I could leave my windows open. And damn! That day I had forgotten to hide it, and it was just sitting on my bed, asking to be stolen.

  “‘You should have kept your mouth shut,’ one girl told me that afternoon. ‘I heard Donnie say that the gang is heading to your house after school to steal your comic book.’

  “That was music to my young ears. I told her I had chess club after school. And, of course, she told the other boys about it. That gave me the opening I needed.”

  Another right turn and the SUV was back on the blacktop, weaving through the matrix of streets toward the target.

  “I took my box of fireworks to the junkyard, and damn if there was not a single soul at their clubhouse. Yup, my comic books were there. I dumped my M-80s inside the box. Then I tied everything together, so the stuff connected to a single long fuse. I lit the sucker and ran for my life.

  “I still remember the sight. The whole place went up like you see in the cartoons, car parts flying every which way. The concussion broke windows for a block on all sides of the junkyard, and the poor owner’s house was on fire.”

  The driver turned to look at his passengers for a split second. “I made sure nobody was around before I lit the damn thing.

  “You know how people love to watch dumpster fires. The boys heard the explosion and came back to see their headquarters and everything they had ever stolen going up in flames. The firetrucks came. So did the cops. And the owner of the place was quick to point out every one of those little shits and signed a complaint for trespassing, theft, you name it.

  “Of course, they thought about me and came looking. But I had a few allies who had suffered the bullies’ wrath, and when the cops arrived at the school, they all swore that I was there playing chess the whole time.”

  Ali was growing impatient. They were nearing their target. “Is there a point to this reminiscence, sir?”

  “A diversion, ma’am. You need something to draw Comrade Prokofiev’s men away from him.”

  The Marine’s face broke into a grin. “And that, my dears, is something I can help you with.”

  73

  Govyadiny Moscava—Moscow

  So, this was it. The Captain wanted her to see what else he could take away from her before he took her life.

  Rage flowed through every pore of Jessica Ramirez’s body. Everything, every plan, every instinct had gone horribly wrong. First her father, then her best friend, and now the man that might well have been the love of her life.

  That box in her mind where she shoved a lifetime of suffering was bursting at the seams. The little girl in Jess wanted to let it blow open. Crying felt good back then. It was a healthy release. Jess knew the reason women lived longer than men was because culture dictated that it was okay to cry.

  Women cried. Got their shit together and kept on living the realities of second-class citizens. Jess had fought that stereotype her entire life. Men, like her father, had to sublimate it all. Never show weakness or get exploited. All of that repression eventually had to find an outlet. Heart attacks and alcoholism were the most common in the cop ranks. But suicide statistics were also on the rise.

  Jess always wondered what could possess a person to end it all. Despite her training and her reflexive ability to talk anyone off the ledge, she could never fathom going willingly into the darkness.

  Until now.

  “Oh.” The Captain raised a finger as if he had forgotten something trivial. “One more thing, Detective. I have associates in Cancun. I expect news shortly about the fates of three women there who you know well.”

  Jess saw Crawford’s eyebrows raise. She couldn’t tell if it was surprise or admiration for how Prokofiev had carefully played his systematic destruction of everything Jess held dear.

  “You bastard,” Jess growled. “Does it feel good to step on one small fish who destroyed your big plans in New York?”

  The bravado tied a string around the edges of that bulging box of PTSD in her head.

  “And Vega. That was a good recruit. Sure, she had some skills, but all it took was a couple of undergrad gamers and a small-town computer nerd cop to smash your big plan to bits.”

  She noticed the tiniest flinch on The Captain’s face after that last remark.

  Focus, Jess. You’re buying time for the good guys to get here… if there are any good guys left.

  Jess widened her gaze to include Jack Crawford.

  “What is it with guys like you? Were you abused children? Didn’t get enough love from daddy? Something to prove to the schoolyard bullies and a world that constantly reminds you how weak you truly are?”

  Her eyes drilled into Crawford’s. “De Triste. Italian for ‘a man of sadness.’ More likely a man of weakness. What true Italian would betray his wife’s trust to the point where she wants to send him to jail?”

  Jess bit off each word. She spat them at Crawford and The Captain. “You two aren’t heroes. You’re not even men. Your people don’t respect you. The thin threads of fear you use to control them will snap the moment they can betray you.”

  The slap across the face that Jess expected came, but not from Crawford. It was Prokofiev. His palm was a large, callused piece of plywood connected to a tiny body.

  Jess’s head snapped to the left as the blow came. She could feel the tiny necklace jump. “Small man syndrome,” Jess growled. “Does hitting a girl make you feel powerful?” The sting felt good. Jess had long since learned to transform the daily slights and outright hatred she received from her fellow officers into the fuel that fired her desire to win.

  She’d delayed whatever The Captain had planned for her. Could she keep it up?

  The tall American smiled at the hostess. “How many?” she asked in flawless English.

  “There will be two of us. I’m meeting someone. Is it possible to sit near the cooking area? She likes the show.”

  The hostess nodded. Her customer knew she could tell he was with the Embassy. That was good. She would assume he had real money. And the Americans tipped well.

  Lance Corporal Todd Mireles settled into a booth with a perfect view of the proceedings. A burly waitress materialized. Her command of his language wasn’t as good. “A drink for the gentleman while he waits for his companion?” she asked.

  The Marine could easi
ly make out the print of a handgun behind her apron. Her smile seemed genuine. Her eyes told a different story. She was assessing the threat.

  “Kvasya, please,” he said, ordering the oldest and most famous Russian cocktail. Thirty-five milliliters of kvass, ten milliliters of vodka and five milliliters of cinnamon syrup. Even for a man who preferred a Dos Equis, this was a treat. “And one for my lady. I expect her momentarily.”

  The waitress nodded. She would report his presence to her boss.

  Despite Ali’s protests, Liyanna Evans had won the argument. Alexandra’s bruised face would attract attention, even in the low light of the restaurant. Sure, Lee was black and black people were still relatively rare in Moscow. But the American Embassy was like everything else back home. Diversity and inclusion were part of the culture at every American outpost. She would draw stares, but everyone would conclude that she fit the profile.

  Lee waved at her date, gesturing to the hostess that she knew where to go. The woman behind the podium smiled, gesturing toward the man seated and smiling by the open kitchen.

  “Don’t you look lovely, Ms. Evans,” Mireles said. “Where on earth did you find that beautiful coat?”

  Lee grinned at the Marine who knew about M-80s and diversions.

  “Oh… It’s just something I found lying around,” Lee answered, fingering the full-length garment that fully obscured her black-ops uniform. She picked up the cocktail and leaned in for a toast. “Did you have to kill the guy to get it?”

  Mireles shook his head. “Not quite. He’ll wake up with quite the headache. Did Officer Clark disconnect the fire control systems in the alley?”

  Lee nodded as glasses clinked, and she took a sip of the drink. “What made you change your mind? For a soldier who follows orders, you’re a little too deeply involved in this diversion thing?”

  “The guy with your FBI friend out back? He’s my gunnery sergeant. I guess he must have gotten new orders.”

  MI6—London

  Two thousand eight hundred seventy-seven miles away, CJ Riemer grinned at the blue flat screen on the wall of his lab at MI6.

  “Got it all. Every last data byte is locked in our own little secure sandbox for future analysis… And I made one tiny modification.”

  Andy Milluzzi cocked his head. “Which is?”

  CJ twirled a finger, pointing at a set of numbers on the screen. “I changed a few IP addresses and injected a couple of new commands into the system. If The Captain pulls the trigger, he’ll get a little surprise.”

  Govyadiny Moscava—Moscow

  Lee drained the Kvasya with a second gulp.

  “Let’s not keep Detective Ramirez waiting,” she said.

  The Marine produced a classic Zippo. He held it out of sight next to the long granite island that separated the diners from the culinary show on the other side. “I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my life,” he said, “but there’s no telling when you might need a reliable flame to light a fuse.”

  His thumb twirled the black flint wheel, creating a spark that ignited the lighter-fluid-soaked wick. “I’ll miss this old girl. She’s the longest relationship I’ve ever had.”

  Lance Corporal Todd Mireles winked at Lee. “Showtime?”

  Lee liked this guy. She hoped he wouldn’t be dead in the next few minutes.

  “Showtime,” she repeated.

  The Marine tossed the flaming lighter toward the deep fryer and studied the two men guarding the door at the back of the restaurant.

  Behind that door, Vladimir Prokofiev approached his prey. “In time, science provides an antidote to every poison, a worm that can defang any technology.”

  His eyes were ice cold, his face expressionless. “The way to be sure you have destroyed the threat is to do it with your own hands.”

  The Captain produced a revolver. It was a twin of the gargantuan RSH-12 Jess used to shoot out the helicopter turbines in the skies over London.

  The Captain placed the long barrel of the gun against Jess’s temple. “Your usefulness is at an end,” he whispered. Spinning around, Prokofiev aimed the weapon at Jack Crawford’s chest. “Say hello to your wife, Signor De Triste.”

  The concussion from the revolver deafened Jess. Crawford didn’t have time to react before the slug pierced the upper right quadrant of his chest, mushrooming on entry, ripping a heart--long devoid of compassion-apart.

  Giovanni de Triste pressed his hands against the wound. His eyes widened as the oxygenated blood no longer flowed to his brain. The man Jess knew as Jack Crawford fell backward. He was dead before he hit the floor.

  The Captain put the smoking weapon on the small circular table module that was the control center for his server farm, returning his focus to Jess.

  The powerful hand that slapped Jess’s face had a brother. Jess could feel thick fingers encircle her neck.

  “The best revenge is suffocation,” Prokofiev said, slowly tightening his vise-like grasp. “The best death is dispatched with bare hands.”

  Alarms wailed in the restaurant. The door to the server room opened, and a bodyguard shouted something in Russian.

  “Ogon!”

  Even without knowing a word of the language, Jess could smell the translation.

  “Fire!”

  74

  I almost shot your ass.

  Alexandra Clark pressed open the restaurant door, firing at anyone who remotely looked like they were carrying a weapon.

  Lee took out the waitress and the bartenders, ducking as the two bodyguards by the rear door to Prokofiev’s lair unloaded their clips in her direction.

  The Marine’s aim had the practiced reflexiveness of a professional. He double-tapped the two guards. Lee noted his surprise to discover that neither wore bulletproof vests.

  The flames from the burning fryer oil licked the ceiling tiles. Without the automated extinguishers, the entire building was at risk of becoming an inferno.

  Diners surged toward the exits. Ali could feel the sting return to her injured shoulder. Spinning around to find the threat, she saw the diminutive hostess standing in a firing stance, a tiny semi-auto in her hand.

  “Everywhere I go, there are guns,” Ali exclaimed, shooting the attractive brunette between the eyes.

  She was grateful for the small caliber of the weapon and the hostess’s poor aim. The slug only grazed her shoulder. She was still in the fight.

  The C5 plastic explosive that Michael Wright attached to the back door of Govyadiny Moscava detonated. The concussion echoed down the alleyway.

  Michael and his Marine partner shouldered through the door and ran down the hallway toward the gunfire at the front of the building.

  Michael found Lee and Ali undoing the leather straps from around Jessica’s arms and legs. At that moment, he wanted only to embrace Jessica and never let her go.

  But Jessica was already on the run toward a hole in the ground surrounded by uprooted computer-floor tiles. “He’s down there,” she shouted as she disappeared into the escape hatch.

  Michael wanted to follow. Ali stopped him.

  “We don’t know how much time we have, Michael. Help us rig this server room for demolition.”

  Michael hesitated.

  “Let her do this,” Ali commanded, pulling Gerhardt’s suicide detonator from behind her Kevlar. “It has to be her.”

  Jessica Ramirez slid down the long steel ladder that seemed to have no end. The darkness that enveloped her slowly merged into light as a cement platform came into view below.

  Jess found herself at one end of a long subway platform. A nearly deserted metro train was pulling out of the station. Inside, she could see the dark countenance of Vladimir Prokofiev staring back at her.

  Jess ran to the far end of the platform, launching her body toward the last car. She snagged a handrail and hung on as the train gained speed.

  Before wrapping her other arm around the support, she felt for the reassuring bulk of the RSH-12 pressed between her belt and her back. It surprised her
that her abductor did not take it with him.

  Never leave your weapon unattended, Captain. Bad things can happen.

  The door to the last car was locked. Not a soul was inside. No amount of effort on Jess’s part could budge the damn thing.

  Jess mentally computed the distance from her location to the car that held her target. She climbed toward the roof of the train and began crawling forward.

  Govyadiny Moscava erupted in a brilliant red mushroom cloud. Ali and Lee watched the drive-in movie scene through the back window of the Embassy’s Chevrolet SUV as the heat consumed several other parked cars nearby. “That’s the last time I use my personal vehicle at work,” the gunnery sergeant muttered as his UAZ Hunter exploded.

  Michael Wright grinned. “You needed an upgrade, anyway. I’ll speak to my superiors about it. You only have to do one more thing for me to earn it.”

  The senior Marine waited for orders. “The Metro runs under that building,” Michael said. “Where is the next stop?”

  Vladimir Prokofiev was already planning his next project. He may have lost this server farm, but he could build others. The software lived in the cloud. Perhaps his servers should, too. Much harder to disable and easy to move if discovered.

  The Group of Three would not be pleased with this second failure. But The Captain was more than just a survivor. He was a visionary. Every attempt bracketed his fire. The next time, he would hit the target.