Secrets & Lies

by Lauren Landish

  I nod, chilled. Fine, my options are now down to one. Keep him talking, and when Peter shows up, keep him talking. They stop talking, and I die. I think, and try another tactic. It's disgusting, I hate myself for even thinking about it, but it might help. “And I assume that includes defiling my body?”

  “You are very beautiful, Andrea. Honestly, it pains me slightly to think that we wouldn’t be able to have a repeat performance. You seem like you would make a good woman. I have read your file, you are quite remarkable.”

  “That sounds like admiration,” I reply, thrusting out my breasts slightly. Okay, so I've only got small handfuls. Still, he seems to like what he sees and I need time. “Are you getting a soft spot for me? Or maybe a hard spot?”

  Vadim chuckles and shakes his head. “I said I will regret not being able to get to know you better. But that doesn’t mean I will not also enjoy my work with you. I will, however, grant you an honor that I do not offer lightly.”

  “And what is that?” I ask, just trying to keep him talking.

  “There is a very small difference, sometimes as small as a hair's breadth, between a painful cut, a crippling cut, and a killing cut. You have a warrior's spirit, and I respect that. So, when the time comes... I will make sure my knife cuts just a bit too deeply before I take my liberties with your body. You will not feel that indignity.”

  “A cold comfort. I guess I would expect nothing more.”

  “From a sociopath,” Vadim says, twirling his knife over his knuckles. He notices my expression, and gives me a measured look, his smile not disappearing but becoming a bit... more intelligent, perhaps? “You seem surprised that I embrace that label?”

  “I am,” I agree. “I thought most people with abnormal minds hate being labeled that way.”

  “It just depends on the label, does it not?” Vadim asks conversationally, like talking about death and killing and necrophilia is normal everyday conversation. It's chilling, and I feel dirty, but I keep plowing on, keeping him talking. “If I were labeled a genius, or even a savant, you would expect me to embrace it. For me, being labeled by doctors as a sociopath just means that I am a genius, just in a way that the rest of the world does not accept as a proper way of being a genius. For, to be honest, am I not a true maestro of violence, especially with the knife?”

  “That you seem to be,” I admit. “Do you think you're the best in the world?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Orloff replies, his smile never faltering. “I must admit, your brother and his wife fought well. There was a good chance I could have been injured.”

  “Could you have done it straight up? The smoke grenade, things like that, they gave you an advantage.”

  Vadim shrugs, unconcerned. “My work does not concern itself with being fair. But as a mental exercise? I would have liked to have a chance to spar with both Nathan and with Katrina. Such a beautiful name, Katrina. Russian, almost. She fought with skill, despite her obvious disadvantage of having to try and coordinate with your brother. But Nathan... yes, I do believe in his prime, I would have had my hands full.”

  “How did you beat him, anyway? You said you killed him.”

  Vadim smiled. “The edge of my knife was coated with poison.”

  “Dirty.”

  “He was strong. I normally look down on you Americans, but him... he was a true man.”

  We go silent for a while, and I'm lost in my thoughts. I know I should keep him talking, but it’s hard to keep up a conversation with a man this disgusting, even when I know my life may depend on it. Finally, despair starts to set in, and I look up at Vadim, who's looking at me with interest in his eyes. “What?”

  “You are truly beautiful, even as you accept your fate. I do regret not meeting you earlier, Andrea.”

  I nod, but I can't smile, even a fake one. “I have only one regret.”

  “What is that?”

  I shrug, and look down. “I didn't get to find out if I love him.”

  “That is something to regret,” Orloff agrees, a note of melancholy in his voice. “If you wish, I can pass along the message afterward. After Peter gets here and I get my money, I will have the free time.”

  “You nearly killed him today, I don't think he wants a visit from you,” I reply, and Vadim tilts his head, curious. “The man with Nathan Black.”

  “Brave, but stupid. Fought like a pussy with his stupid gun. You could have done better,” Orloff says with a harsh laugh, pissing me off.

  “Fuck you, Russian. I hope Carson shoots your balls off.”

  Orloff laughs, leaning back. “I doubt it.”

  A knock comes at the door, and Orloff looks over, surprised. “You are a good conversationalist, I didn’t hear Peter approach. Well, it is time. It's been a pleasure getting to know you, Andrea DeLaCoeur.”

  Orloff turns away from me, and I tense. I've got only one chance, even if it's only a chance in a million. I can't see the door very well from here, but I can see when Orloff reaches for the handle, and I get ready. When he opens the door, that's my chance.

  Chapter 20

  Carson

  I park the borrowed Honda a quarter mile away from the location of Nathan's tracker, making sure that I've got his phone with me. I've been driving down this lonely dirt road for five minutes already, and I can see what Orloff is working with, if that's who I'm tracking. Isolated, private, and alone. It's the perfect area to kill someone.

  I'm going to stop it, I swear to God. I get out of the car and double check my pistol. There's fifteen rounds in the magazine, and I jack the slide, loading the first round into the chamber. I'm ready, or at least as ready as I can be.

  I head down the road, keeping Nathan's phone in front of me. I'm glad that I took the five minutes to stop and get a charger since even after driving for nearly thirty minutes the battery isn't close to being even halfway charged. There's no way I could have kept the charge going this whole time if I hadn't had the phone plugged in while I drove.

  I want to run, but I can't trust I'm going to find it easy as I get closer, and I can't go rushing in blindly. I don't even have backup this time, but instead I have to depend on myself. Seeing the stupidity of what I'm doing, I mutter to myself. “Great fucking idea, Carson. Sure Katrina, I want you to stay behind and protect an underground hospital that nobody knows about instead of covering my ass. Great fucking idea.”

  I shake my head and keep walking, sticking to the side of the road where I can melt into the treeline if I have to. There isn't a lot of cover, honestly. While we're not in the swamps or marshes, we're also not in the deep woods area either. If I had to call it anything, I'd call it scrub. The trees are shorter, stunted pines and other types that barely make good firewood for barbecue. Still, I'm not a woodsman, I'm not into hunting, and am in no way prepared to try and move silently between the trees like some sort of ninja.

  I get to a point about fifty yards from the tracker and slow down even more, forcing myself not to rush despite the urge. I can't save Andrea if I'm dead before even getting her free. Afterward... well, that won't matter as long as she gets away freely.

  I see the trees thinning even more, and up ahead, an open dirt lot. It looks like this used to maybe be the spot where someone parked a mobile home, or maybe a hunting trailer, and in the middle of it, maybe slightly off to the left of the small clearing, is a motorhome with a black four door sedan parked about ten yards away. It's not that big, definitely not one of those forty foot long custom jobs, but one of the smaller types that you build onto a truck frame. It gives me an opening, I think.

  The front of the truck only has a small, maybe four inch window that hangs over the cab of the truck portion, and no view to the inside of the area. I circle around the clearing quickly, getting to that spot, and then walking quickly but quietly. Unless Orloff is hanging out in the storage spot, or maybe it's a tiny bed, up in that overhang, nobody can see me approach.

  I get to the side of the motorhome and stop, checking carefully. There's a
bigger window, but it's on the other side of the door, and the window on this side is smaller and higher off the ground. I half-squat and walk, stopping under the window.

  Inside, I hear someone talking. Orloff. “If you wish, I can pass along the message afterward. After Peter gets here and I get my money, I will have the free time.”

  Andrea's voice replies, and it's nearly the sweetest sound I've ever heard in my life. She's alive, and from the sound of it, unhurt and a bit pissed off. “You nearly killed him today, I don't think he wants a visit from you. The man with Nathan Black.”

  “Brave, but stupid. Fought like a pussy with his stupid gun. You could have done better,” Orloff replies with a laugh, and my hand tightens on my Glock. He's right, Andrea could do a lot better than me. But that doesn't matter, because I'm here. A scrap of song comes to my head, a little cadence that Nathan would do when he was out jogging with Maverick around the property the few times he was there as he exercised, I think it's an old military running song. I ain't the killer, I'm the killer man's son, but I'll do the killin' till the killer man comes.

  Goddamned right. Andrea sounds more pissed too, and in her words I can hear her hope, which touches me even as it hardens my heart. “Fuck you, Russian. I hope Carson shoots your balls off.”

  Orloff laughs, and I check the safety on my pistol. One chance. “I doubt it.”

  So Orloff expects Peter DeLaCoeur to visit? Excellent, it gives me an opening. I study the door for a second, and am glad again that Orloff chose a motorhome. It's got advantages for sure, including the fact that it's mobile, but you can't see shit from inside, except through a couple of medium-sized windows that I've avoided. The door itself doesn't even have a window at all. I ready my Glock and reach up, knocking on the door before stepping back and taking a two handed shooter's stance. Aim center of mass, and remember that he's going to be higher up than I am...

  The door handle rotates, and the door opens. “Peter, you are...” Orloff says, before his eyes take in that it's not Peter DeLaCoeur standing in front of him.

  “Surprise,” I say even as I pull the trigger on my pistol, the first round catching Orloff in his upper chest with the way he's bent over. I fire again and again, seven shots in total, all of them in his upper body. He staggers, falling out of the motorhome, but doesn't go all the way down, instead going to a knee.

  “Ouch,” Orloff says, and I swear in his voice he's laughing. “That hurt, American.”

  I notice that he's wearing something that looks like a warm-up jacket, and I belatedly realize he's got on some sort of body armor. I adjust my aim for his head, but he's moving already, rolling toward me, a knife in his hand and I jump, diving over him and rolling along the grass and dirt for my life.

  “Stupid American,” Orloff says as he turns, quick as a snake, but I've got a few feet on him. “Did you think I trusted the son of a bitch Peter? Not a lot of padding, too heavy, but the plates are just fine.”

  Orloff charges in just as I fire again, my round going harmlessly over his shoulder, and he tackles me to the dirt. I see his knife coming for my face, and I grab blindly, just trying to stop the fall of the executioner's blade.

  I'm lucky, my left hand grabs his wrist and I push him to the side, the knife burying itself in the dirt a fraction of an inch from my ear. “That's it, Yankee,” Orloff says, his left hand cracking me blindly in the right eye and making my head ring again. Any more days like this and I'm going to end up punchy. “Make it fun.”

  I'm bucking my hips, trying to throw this son of a bitch off of me, but he's got balance and position. Desperate, I think of my pistol, and jam the barrel against his left thigh, pulling the trigger twice. His jacket may be armored, but his leg sure as fuck isn't, and he screams, giving me enough space to buck him off. Still, he's fast, and before I can get to my feet he's already tackled me again, his weight driving me into the dirt.

  “No more games, now you die,” Orloff says, but suddenly I hear a musical crash and explosion, and pieces of glass fall on the ground around me. Orloff's weight is off my back, and I scramble up, seeing Andrea standing there, the handle of what looks like a drinking pitcher in her hand.

  “You son of a bitch!” Andrea screams, lashing out at the groaning Orloff with her right leg. It's a mistake as soon as she does it, I know it but I don't have time to say anything. Orloff's played possum before, he's too good at it, and as Andrea's foot makes contact with his ribs he rolls with it, grabbing her leg and pulling her down onto the ground with her.

  I don't have a shot, but at least he’s dropped his knife as he rolls, Andrea trying to fight, and I look for a way to hit him, to do something. His leg comes toward me and I stomp him in the calf, trying to grab Andrea. I get her arm, but Orloff holds on, my pull bringing both of them up and sending me staggering when my grip on her fingers slip. I turn around, bringing my Glock up, but he's got her in a choke hold again, a straight razor somehow in his hands and at her throat.

  “Don't move, American. Or else she dies now.”

  Andrea's eyes are wide with terror as he strokes the razor down her cheek, not cutting but still scaring the hell out of her. “Carson?”

  “It's okay, Andrea. Don't move,” I say, feeling a sense of icy calm drop over me. “What do you want, Orloff?”

  “Peter will be here soon. In the meantime, why not play a little game?”

  Chapter 21

  Andrea

  A game. This sociopathic fucker wants to play a game? I'm too terrified to move though, and I can feel the edge of Orloff's razor pressed against my throat, not enough to cut, but I can feel the scrape with every heaving breath.

  “What sort of game are you talking about?” Carson asks, his pistol not moving at all. Looking at it, I mentally kick myself. Orloff left my pistol on the kitchenette counter, and I should have grabbed it. Instead, I grabbed the empty water pitcher by the sink and charged like a damn fool, panicked when I saw him on top of Carson, the knife that he had in his hand most likely poisoned like he'd done to Nathan.

  Well, at least I got one good shot in, although how I didn't knock him out I have no damn clue. Guess I can console myself with that thought after this asshole slices my throat from side to side.

  “I love to have talking games,” Orloff says, and I can hear the smile in this asshole's voice. “In prison, we didn't have a lot of things to entertain ourselves. We worked, and for entertainment we talked. The guards didn’t allow us to have radios or other distractions, so we talked when we could.”

  “Should have spent the time educating yourself,” Carson replies, his voice level and calm. It's reassuring, and I believe him when he says that he's got it under control. “Could have made something of yourself.”

  “But I have. Prison taught me a very lucrative job skill,” Orloff replies with a laugh. “I've made millions of dollars plying my trade, and even before the chump change I get from this job, I will have enough to be a very, very rich man.”

  “You could have been more than this though,” Carson says, and Orloff laughs. “What?”

  “I like who I am, Yankee. By the way, what is your name?”

  “Carson Sands. It's my house that you fucked up earlier today.”

  Orloff takes a step, and we're circling, every step Orloff takes to his left mirrored by Carson. “I could have done worse. However, that artist... your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t want to leave her homeless. I limited the damage. A fresh coat of paint, a new window and some wall patch, and you’ll be able to live there again,” Orloff replies. “So tell me, Carson Sands, what is it that makes you tick?”

  “I don't know what you mean,” Carson says, and Orloff chuckles.

  “Andrea, is this the man you were telling me about earlier, the one you didn't have a chance to say something important to. It seems that fate has delivered that chance to you. As I said, you fought with passion and honor, and I still appreciate your verbal castration of Peter. So... here is your chance,”
Orloff says, teasing us both. “I suggest you take the opportunity.”

  “Andrea?” Carson says, and for the first time the barrel of his pistol wavers slightly. “What's this asshole talking about?”

  “He asked me if I had any regrets about dying,” I explain, letting my arms drop. “I told him I had one. I regret not knowing if we had a future.”

  “Andrea,” Carson says, his gun barrel steadying. “Now, my dove, I want you to live. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I immediately reply. I can see it in his eyes, the knowledge that I trust him with my life, now and forever. He understands, oh thank God, he understands!

  Orloff, on the other hand, doesn't. “You're both going to die, Carson Sands. It’s a shame Peter will not give me more money for your corpse as well.”

  “Too bad,” Carson says. His eyes find mine, and I can see what he wants to tell me. Am I ready? He doesn't even need to ask, I trust him with my life already, and he nods slightly before his eyes fix on Orloff again. “Now!”

  There's advantages to being only a few inches over five feet tall. Right now, the only thing I'm happy for is that as I twist my head away from Orloff's razor, is that the man is about eight inches taller than me. With his hurt leg bleeding, he's not squatting down as deep behind me, and there's just enough relaxation in his arm that while his razor cuts, it's not deep.

  I hear two pops, a lot less than I thought there'd be after the echoing crashes of the pistol shots inside the house earlier today or even when Carson shot him a few minutes ago. Still, a red rain splatters down on me and Orloff's body goes limp, falling backward as Carson fires again. I tumble to the dirt, and Carson's there, helping me up. “Andrea... are you all right?”

  He stands me up, his eyes going to my neck. “We've got to stop...”

  “I'm okay,” I reply, holding my hand to my neck. “It's not deep.”