Chasing the Captain

by Terry Shepherd

  The gun blast made The Captain flinch. Glass across from his seat shattered, and a body vaulted into the carriage. He recognized the face and ran toward the rear of the train.

  Despite her desire to kill Vladimir Prokofiev, Jess entertained the idea of bringing him in alive. Her single combat with Vega in the Colorado River had revealed the unexpected emptiness of revenge. And perhaps what was in The Captain’s brain would be valuable to Director Gerhardt and his team of inquisitors in London.

  She thought of all of this as she sprinted behind her quarry. His legs were shorter, which made him a faster runner. But Jess knew there would be another station ahead, and the train was only so long.

  Their own single combat was inevitable.

  “We’re not going to the Embassy?”

  Ali knew her directions from studying the maps. The SUV’s abrupt turn to the right confused her.

  “You’re getting out of the country now,” Michael said. “Armed, no passports, no visas. If you’re caught, you’ll end up in some gulag for the rest of your lives.”

  “I suddenly prefer the peaceful life of a detective inspector in London,” Lee said.

  “There are fresh clothes and documents in the back of the vehicle,” Michael said as the young Marine who knew about M-80s and revenge accelerated toward the airport. “You’ll have to change on the fly. I hope you’re not modest.”

  “You better hope the authorities haven’t connected any dots,” Ali barked as she ripped off her Kevlar. “Or we’ll all be shot.”

  Michael was glued to his cell phone. “Okay, guys. Let me out at the Metro stop up ahead. Time to go rescue the love of my life.”

  Ali guffawed. “Watch yourself, cowboy. Or you’ll be the one to need rescuing.”

  The length of the Metro train turned out to be longer than Jess had calculated. She also expected it to stop, but the carriages only slowed as they lumbered through what looked like a deserted station.

  Prokofiev still had about a thirty-foot lead, giving him valuable seconds to press the emergency release for the rear car door.

  As it slid open, Jess dove to tackle him.

  The detective and her prey tumbled out of the train and onto the tracks next to the abandoned Troitse-Lykovo Metro Station. Originally meant to be a fully functional terminal, they altered construction plans when the structure above was deemed a historic landmark. Jess and The Captain found themselves between the rails, next to the twenty-six-meter platform, the shortest in the Moscow Metro System.

  The fall knocked the wind out of both adversaries but only for a moment. Jess was first on her feet. Shaking the cobwebs from her consciousness, she reached for the revolver beneath her belt when she felt the upper-cut.

  The gun flew from her hand and bounced out of the field of play. The Captain’s powerful fist sent her reeling within inches of the dangerous yellow third rail and its deadly eight hundred twenty-five volts of direct current.

  Jess found her footing and grabbed a turpentine can painters had left on the platform, smashing it against The Captain’s face. The chemical drenched him. She could see tears form in his burning eyes. The stench from the fumes permeated the tunnel.

  It did nothing to diminish Prokofiev’s fury.

  A flailing backspin kick caught Jess in the face, and she went down again.

  She knew that The Captain would press his advantage. He was on top of Jess in an instant. His thick fists were again encircling her throat. “This is the last time you will interfere with my plans,” he snarled.

  Jess could feel her consciousness slipping away. The lack of oxygen sapped her strength. As the veil of death descended, she again heard her father’s voice, talking to a sixteen-year-old girl about to go on her first date.

  “A man’s weakness is between his legs. If you ever feel in danger, kick him so hard that he will remember it for the rest of his life.”

  With the last of her strength, she thrust a knee upward. The Captain screamed. His hands let go, and he tried to stand, but the shock of the blow put him off balance. He stumbled, catching a heel in the station side rail. He tumbled toward the platform. His head scored a direct hit on the yellow power conduit.

  The Captain’s body completed the circuit. It stiffened as the electricity coursed from head to toe. Blood vessels ruptured. He froze in mid-scream. Red rivulets flowed from terrified eyes. A flame spurted from the connection point on The Captain’s skull, igniting the turpentine fumes. All that was mortal of Vladimir Prokofiev was consumed in smoke and fire, leaving a charred human hulk that no doctor or dentist would ever decipher.

  Jess’s mind flickered back to Nashville’s death chamber and the innocent man who had suffered a similar fate. But once again, there was no victory in vengeance. The Captain’s death couldn’t bring Vincent and Marie Culpado back to life. Nor could it resurrect Jess’s father. Her only consolation was that each had made their own bargain with fate. Nothing she did could protect them.

  In the end, we alone are responsible for the choices that lead us toward destiny.

  She thought about the grief counselor’s callous admonition that, “We can never go back to what was. We can build a life with what remains.”

  There were footsteps in the stairwell. Jess limped toward the revolver as the crescendo of sound grew. Despite the pain, she spread her legs into a shooting stance, raising the weapon into firing position.

  “Jessica?” Michael Wright was smart enough to call her name before popping his head from behind the safety of the thick tiled stairwell.

  Jess rolled her eyes and lowered the gun. “Jesus, Michael, I almost shot your ass.”

  Michael studied Jessica’s bruised and battered body. He noted the short bursts of breath and exhaustion in her eyes.

  He broke into a grin, shaking his head as he noted the smoke rising from the blackened corpse that had once been Vladimir Prokofiev. “You, my love, are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

  Jessica exhaled, rolling her eyes. “Men. Let’s get the hell out of here before I throw up.”

  75

  Sheremetyevo—A.S. Pushkin international airport, Moscow

  The American Ambassador met the two travelers as the Embassy SUV pulled up to the airport. Two men in Marine flight suits stood on either side of the diplomat. Armed Russian security guards stood at a distance, watching.

  “Ladies!” he said with amplified enthusiasm. “I’m so glad I could be here to see you off. Are you ready for some adventure?”

  Alexandra Clark and Liyanna Evans could have passed for two embassy staffers. The pantsuits they wore fit perfectly. Matching backpacks were filled with a second set of civilian clothing, hiking maps, and a few gift-wrapped trinkets.

  The bruises on Ali’s face were the only thing that drew unwanted attention.

  The ambassador put a hand on her shoulder. “When you return from vacation, I want to hear more about that nasty fall. They did not make those steps at the museum for stiletto shoes, young lady.”

  Ali shot a glance at Lee. “But it was so worth it, sir. I wish you could have seen what we’ve seen during our time in Moscow.”

  The ambassador stifled a chuckle. “Perhaps I will.”

  He turned to the two Marine pilots. “Now, gentlemen, do you think you can still fly that helicopter after all the free time you’ve had since the end of the air show?”

  A Marine who had the bearing of a flight captain saluted. “Yes, sir, she’s all fueled up and ready.” He turned to the women. “Ladies. Let’s move through passport control and board. We are approaching departure time.”

  “What happened to your face?”

  The muscular Russian at passport control frowned at the black and blue marks on the American woman’s forehead and neck. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t place it.

  “I’m such a ditz!” she said, “I wore high heels to the museum and fell down those one hundred and eighteen steps when we left. My mother is going to give me the dickens when I ge
t home.”

  The Russian studied her passport, “Rachel Hermann. Jewish?” The tone in his voice was not flattering.

  “Kosher in every way, sir.” Ali slipped her arm around Lee’s back. “All are welcome in the Land of the Free. We have weekly presentations at the American Center if you would like to learn more about our inclusive culture.”

  The Russian handed the woman her passport and shook his head. “I’ve been to one. Unimpressive.”

  “Excuse me, ladies,” the man in the Marine flight suit said. “We have an aircraft carrier to meet in the Baltic, and we’ll need to depart on time if we’re to catch her.”

  The Russian waved them through, and the four travelers walked toward the metal detectors. His mind returned to the report about an explosion near the river. He knew the address and wondered if the woman they assigned him to abduct and deliver was inside the building when it went up.

  76

  The American Embassy—Moscow

  Tom Anastos was sitting up. The Embassy physician stood by, stunned and confused. Nobody recovered from Novichok poisoning that quickly.

  Anastos wasn’t about to tell him about the searing pain that still wracked his body, the effort it still took to breathe, and the heart palpitations that would set off looks of concern at every physical examination he would have for the rest of his life.

  The morning sun streamed through the windows. It truly felt like a new day dawning.

  Tom Anastos would prevail. He always had, since that day on the ice. And he always would.

  “Can the patient have visitors?”

  Tom recognized the feminine voice and grinned as Michael and Jessica entered his makeshift hospital room.

  “Well,” Jessica said, putting her hands on her hips, “I guess you’re harder to kill than Jack Crawford thought.”

  Tom’s voice still bore the weight of the proximity with which he had come to death. “That was Crawford’s idea?”

  Jessica nodded. “Yeah. I was hoping to keep him alive so you could have the pleasure of returning the favor, but The Captain shot him dead before I could intervene.”

  Anastos considered the detective. Freshly showered and dressed in casual clothing, she was a beauty. But he knew her story. Behind the mask was a survivor. It was likely her quick thinking that had saved his life. And Tom Anastos always paid his debts.

  “I guess that makes two things I owe you for,” he said.

  Jessica looked perplexed.

  “You diagnosed the poison on the spot. That probably helped me live to fight another day. And I know that, in your own way, you contributed to the retribution that Mr. Crawford so richly deserved. How can I return the favor?”

  Jessica approached the bed, kissing the commander on the forehead. “Unnecessary. My playtime is over. There’s a small-time crime boss still running around in Illinois, and I’m ready to go hook him up to some steel bracelets.”

  Agent Michael Wright held up a hand. “That might not be as easy as you think, Jessica. Director Taylor tells me that Crouch bolted for Brazil. He’s working on citizenship there, and they never extradite their own.”

  Jessica kept her gaze on the commander. “Well then. Perhaps a trip south is in order. We Latinas can handle Portuguese with ease.” She looked at her iWatch. “Gotta go, Commander. It’s gonna take two weeks and some diplomatic tap dancing to get out of this damn country. Thanks for everything.”

  This time she kissed Anastos on the mouth, a long probing kiss that reminded him of a fitness fanatic he knew back in London. He would have to do something about that relationship when he got home.

  Anastos could sense that the kiss had its intended effect on Michael Wright. His face said he didn’t like it one bit.

  Jess whispered in Tom Anastos’s ear. It was purposely loud enough for Michael to hear. “I know you were always looking out for my best interests.”

  Tom Anastos nodded as she backed away, waving as her exquisite form bounced ahead of Michael and toward her future.

  “I always will,” he called after her, idea forming in his mind.

  77

  Guilin—China: Two Weeks Later

  The Group of Three sat together in the lobby of the Banyan Tree, Guilin’s most sought-after five-star hotel. The low mountains of Yangzhou looked like black soap bubbles, cast against the orange sunset in the west.

  Whenever the group met there, the resort canceled all other bookings. Only the massive security detail inhabited the sumptuous accommodations. The resort, set in a rural area of China, was easy to guard. It was a coveted assignment.

  News channels from around the world whispered on the large screens placed with Feng Shui care in the lobby. But the three men barely paid attention.

  To an untrained eye, they looked like tourists, casually dressed, cocktails in hand.

  The Chinese oligarch host sighed. He thought about his comments to the governors at the G8 summit. Today’s news reported the American economy would, in fact, exceed expectations this year.

  “Another failure for Prokofiev,” he murmured.

  “His last,” the Russian grunted.

  The Indian billionaire took off his Ray-Ban sunglasses, folding them behind the top button of a Hawaiian shirt that would have better suited a Western tourist than a short, thin businessman.

  “The Americans are more resourceful than we expected,” he said. “When their children can neutralize weaponized technology, that bodes well for their future.”

  “Perhaps stability is the best policy,” said the host. His compatriots nodded in affirmation. “For now…”

  As he said the words, the power at the resort flickered. When the half-dozen flat screens came back on, they broadcast a single image. It was a video of Whitney Houston singing the final stanza of the American National Anthem at the 1991 Super Bowl.

  “Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave? O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

  “MI6,” the Russian scowled.

  The Indian smiled. “Well played, CJ. Well played.”

  78

  Rio De Janeiro—Brazil: The Next Day

  The Hilton Rio de Janeiro Copacabana, Crouch concluded, wasn’t an awful place to hide out until his Brazilian Citizenship and protection from extradition back to the United States came through.

  He didn’t have his usual bodyguards, but the small-time, Midwestern crime lord felt safe and sound. As far as anyone knew, he was still somewhere in Illinois. And he still had soldiers there, sworn to do his bidding. It would be a matter of time until they carried out his orders regarding Detectives Harrison and Ramirez and that damned district attorney.

  Crouch surveyed the target-rich environment at the hotel pool. Which beautiful young lady would be his guest for dinner and rough sex tonight?

  Damn, he wanted a cigarette. They only allowed vaping at the pool, and his nicotine addiction was strangling him. Perhaps that was what drew his attention to the sun-drenched man, stretched out on the reclining chair next to his.

  Mirrored sunglasses hid the guy’s eyes. He was probably counting the number of boob jobs languishing in the sunshine. A broad hat protected his head from the sunshine, almost covering his face. A thin white bathrobe, surfer swim trunks, and flip-flops completed the ensemble of someone who was clearly another American tourist.

  But what held Crouch’s attention was the vaporizer the man was inhaling. The bouquet was irresistible. Crouch’s keen sense of smell detected menthol, cinnamon, and a hint of THC in the blend.

  “Smells great,” Crouch said to his neighbor.

  “The best,” the man said, not moving a muscle, except to take another long pull off the vape pen.

  “No cigs allowed out here,” Crouch griped. “I guess I have to find a smoke shop and get me one of those.”

  The other man snaked a hand into the pocket of his robe. “Your lucky day. My wife was supposed to join me down here. But she decided to go spend my money instead. This is hers. Loaded and ready. It wo
uld make her angry if I gave it away.”

  The man held out an identical vaporizer, exhaling another bouquet of nicotine toward Crouch’s flaring nostrils.

  “You sure it won’t get you in trouble?” Crouch didn’t care. But decorum required one more question.

  The man was still motionless. Relaxed. It must be the THC. “It absolutely will, which is why I make the offer.”

  Crouch proffered a hand, and the man passed the vape over. “They say this stuff can kill you,” the man said, at last turning his mirrored sunglasses toward his neighbor. “But sometimes a short life is better than a long life.”

  Crouch thought about the many lives he had shortened. He adjusted the pen and inhaled its contents. The mixture of nicotine and the active ingredient in cannabis gave him a warm glow.

  Crouch held up his cocktail. “Here’s to a short life.”

  The man in the reflective glasses smiled, taking another pull off his pen. “To a short life.”

  Crouch wanted more. He sucked on the vaporizer, again and again, slowly feeling a nap coming on. His arms felt limp, and Crouch found it harder and harder to inhale the mixture.

  The other man stood and surveyed his neighbor’s diminishing breath sounds. “Perhaps a snooze before I pick out a babe for tonight,” Crouch slurred. “Maybe I’ll see you at the bar.”

  The vape pen fell from Crouch’s hand. The gentle rhythm of his heartbeat against his carotid artery slowed.

  His neighbor pocketed the device, turning toward the hotel.

  “No, Mr. Crouch. You won’t.”

  Commander Thomas Anastos felt the vibration and scanned the screen on his cell phone.