Zeke nodded, putting the green-colored towel Grace had given him on the ground. He tucked the cloth out of sight, near the base of the hedge. Rico did the same with his.
Zeke flexed his fingers, his eyes like steel. Rico took deep, slow breaths, his chest expanding to double its normal size.
Both men were noticeably nervous, but they looked ready. As ready as two small-town deputy sheriffs could be, given the situation.
Few train for this situation, but Bunker had confidence they would see it through. He needed them to perform on cue; otherwise, their failure would bring a swift halt to his plan. He’d put a significant amount of thought into the steps to come, but mission success relied on a slew of others to do their part.
The best opportunity to strike was now. The winds had picked up in advance of the rumbling storm clouds. The gusts were giving the Aerostat and its cameras fits, its tethers failing to maintain a fixed position. The squall also provided background noise and natural terrain movement. Both would help conceal their location from the approaching soldiers.
Bunker readied a weapon in his right hand as the targets arrived, only a foot beyond the far side of the hedge. He waited for them to reach the midpoint of the blind, then started a finger count in one-second increments.
3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
When the count hit zero, Rico and Zeke stood to attack the two-man patrol who had just passed their location. They approached the men, grabbing their elbows from behind in a pinning, locked-arm maneuver.
Bunker brought the baseball bat around and landed a swift, full swing on the first Russian’s head. The man fell limp in Rico’s arms.
Before the other soldier could react, Bunker spun in one continuous motion, using his inertia as a catapult to deliver the bat in a second strike. Like the first, the Russian took the blow in the head, sending his consciousness into the black.
Zeke and Rico dragged their men behind the bush, covering the wounds with towels to contain the blood.
“Get dressed, quick,” Bunker told the men, keeping watch through the gaps in the greenery.
The sidewalks were clear of activity; so was the street, giving him hope that nobody saw the ambush. He could have taken the Russians down solo with a knife to their throats, but the uniforms would have been useless if covered in blood.
Zeke removed the rifle sling from his man and detached the AK-47 assault rifle. Rico did the same.
Next up, removal of the tactical vests. Each chest rig had four lower pockets designed to hold magazines in pairs—7.62 caliber. The soldiers had loaded heavy with mags. They’d also stuffed the upper pouches with grenades, and one of them carried a radio.
Each Russian also had an eleven-inch, fixed-blade tactical knife and a holstered pistol. Bunker took the semi-auto from Zeke’s man, checked its magazine, then made sure the chamber held a round. The handgun was a GSh-18, fully loaded with 9x19mm Parabellum rounds.
He took the sidearm from Rico’s man as well, stuffing both pistols inside the back of his pants for quick access. He covered the guns with the tail of his shirt for concealment. The remainder of the gear would transfer to Zeke and Rico, completing their transformation from Deputy Sheriffs into Russian soldiers.
Neither of the men carried ID or personal effects. None of that was a surprise. The mythical Russian Occupation Playbook, at least Bunker’s interpretation of it, wouldn’t allow for it.
Their anonymity was Clearwater’s advantage, assuming all went according to plan. The key would be executing the plan quickly, while the occupiers’ belief in their superiority held steady at one hundred percent.
Confidence and arrogance are blood brothers, the line between them thin and exploitable. Too much of either becomes a tactical weakness, leading to what Bunker hoped would transpire next.
CHAPTER 32
Stan Fielding stumbled forward with limp noodles for legs as two men dragged him by his arms. Their boots hit the hard surface with a distinctive, repetitive patter, meticulously tracking time with the precision of a grandfather clock. Or perhaps the taps represented the uniformity of a countdown—his countdown, winding down to the ultimate end.
He could only see black with the hood over his head, but knew he was still inside a building somewhere. Probably heading down a hallway, he figured, based on the echoes of travel landing on his ears.
The blood dripping from his face had slowed, but the swelling hadn’t. Most of the pressure centered around his eyes and nose. Even if the hood wasn’t present, his vision wouldn’t have been much more than a thin strip of light.
The guard who’d inflicted the damage promised Stan a quick, painless death, but only if he’d cooperate and tell them where he’d hidden the female interpreter. The Russians assumed she was dead, beating him even more fiercely with revenge on their minds.
Of course, Stan couldn’t give them the answers they sought. He had nothing to do with her disappearance. Someone had set him up. That much was clear. And now the gallows were calling his name.
His demise would come after they cleared the last door and found the fresh air outside. Then the grass would comfort his bare feet only moments before he was dragged up a series of metal steps to a stage built for intimidation. He’d seen their brutality before, but that was as a spectator. Now he would be the star of the show.
He worried his girls might be in attendance. They were already scared after seeing him led away at gunpoint from the house in which they were born. Witnessing his last breath would traumatize them beyond imagination.
Then again, maybe General Zhukov wasn’t the heartless butcher that seemed to fuel his reputation. It also was possible the guard’s English was in error, misusing the words to describe the Russian commander.
Either way, the beating had left Stan defenseless. He had nothing left. It was time for it to be over, even though he knew what the execution would mean for his girls. He prayed they would forgive him.
There are times when a person welcomes death, even when it’s the worst possible outcome for those he cherishes above all others.
Once you’re broken beyond repair, even the love of family can’t save you from the despair that breeds within.
It consumes you, taking you deeper inside the blackest of shadows inhabiting your heart. Eventually, the malignancy swallows you whole, draining every ounce of humanity remaining.
Stan turned all his thoughts to Beth and Barb, hoping to etch their faces into his memory. He didn’t know if his consciousness would transcend time and space, traveling with him on his journey to the next plane of existence. But he had to try. Otherwise, what was the point of struggling for one last breath?
He wished he were a stronger man like his longtime pal, Burt Lowenstein, mechanic by day, stubborn asshole by night. A man who knew how to take the pain and fight back, even when all hope was lost.
That’s what he needed right now, to be like Burt.
But who was he kidding? He was a complete phony. A coward. He only associated with men like Burt to raise his standing on the streets.
Stan’s one regret would be giving up when his girls needed him most. Soon, they’d become orphans. If only his wife Ambrosia hadn’t fallen asleep at the wheel. Then she wouldn’t have driven off the Mason Bridge in the dead of winter.
* * *
Bunker gave the encrypted radio from Tuttle’s place to Zeke before hoisting the female corpse over his shoulder. He centered her weight before testing the stability of his carry hold with a bounce of his legs.
Grace’s clothes were a close match to Valentina’s size, leading him to believe they would effectively conceal the Russian’s injuries. Of course, he was assuming the bandages underneath would contain the blood.
He wished they had a black-colored wig to conceal the interpreter’s blond hair. It was the lone piece of the costume missing. Hopefully the makeshift ensemble would keep the curious unaware, giving him a chance to get into position.
“You guys ready?” Bunker asked Zeke and Rico.
They both nodded, looking officially Russian in their stolen uniforms and gear.
“What if someone asks us a question?” Zeke asked, stuffing the radio into one of the empty pockets on his chest rig.
“Yeah, it’s not like either of us speaks Russian,” Rico added.
“Just nod and keep walking.”
That directive didn’t seem to sit well with Zeke, his forehead pinching. “What if that’s the wrong answer?”
Bunker didn’t have time for sudden doubt. “Trust me, just act like you’re too busy to interact. If it escalates, then follow my lead.”
“You mean kill them.”
“If that’s what it takes, then yes. But I doubt it’s going to come to that. Not with this body over my shoulder. Anyone who approaches would be focused on her and assume you are escorting me under armed guard. Just keep your rifles on me and it’ll all work out.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Relax; this is why we’re taking the back way around. Most of their manpower should focused on the proceedings in the square. All we need to do is get this body to the back of the church. I’ll do the rest.”
Zeke nodded. “I wish I could be there to see the looks on their faces.”
“Me too,” Rico quipped.
“Well, boys, we’ve all got our jobs to do,” Bunker said, turning his focus to Grace. Jean shorts man was standing with her, looking like a male version of Daisy Duke. “And ladies.”
Grace smiled.
Paulo didn’t, answering in a less than manly voice. “Sure, take a shot. Everyone else does.”
“Just trying to lighten the mood. Don’t take it personally,” Bunker said.
“How else am I supposed to take it?”
“Just . . . forget it,” Bunker said with a stammer. “It’s not important.”
Paulo turned to the side and struck a pose. “I don’t know about you, but I like these shorts. They look good on me.”
Bunker ignored the man, locking eyes with Grace. “When you see my ugly mug, that’s the signal. Make sure you get everyone’s attention.”
Grace wrapped an arm around Paulo. “We’ll be ready.”
“Are you sure Russell is up to the task?” Bunker asked Zeke.
“Yep. He used to play minor league ball, so his aim should be right on target.”
“It better be, or else this will be the shortest uprising in the history of the world.”
* * *
Bunker waited in the rain for Zeke to open the back door of the church, then followed Rico inside with the dead Russian draped over his shoulder. Water dripped from his clothes and from hers, landing on the marble floor. “Like I said, nothing to worry about. They can’t be everywhere all the time, especially in a working city like this. That’s why they used the neck injections to elevate their perceived control.”
“Glad you were right,” Zeke said, stepping in last. He, too, was soaking wet from the rainstorm passing through the area. “Though I did think that last patrol was going to change direction. Made my heart skip a few beats.”
“That’s the beauty of small unit tactics. It’s a lot easier to blend in than most people think, as long as you keep your cool and never lose your shit. Most low-level soldiers are conditioned to look for the obvious signs of trouble. And by that, I mean big ticket items. Tanks, armed insurgents, weapons fire, RPGs, suspicious vehicles, and of course, the expected face and movements of the enemy. You guys looked the part, so they never questioned it.”
“Just doing our thang,” Rico said with attitude.
“I’m sure the rain helped convince them to keep walking, too,” Zeke said.
“Exactly. You two are just part of one big happy Russian Army.”
“Yeah, a wet army,” Rico said, shaking water off his clothes.
Zeke looked pleased, taking Tuttle’s radio from the pocket on his vest and giving it to Bunker. “It’s brilliant, actually. Hiding in plain sight like that.”
Bunker appreciated the compliment but chose not to respond with a customary “thank you.” He adjusted Valentina’s body to reduce the pressure on his lower back. There wasn’t much to her, but carrying weight over distance has a cumulative effect, especially when it’s sopping wet. “Where’s the staircase?”
Rico pointed. “Near the end of the hall. Second door past the drinking fountain. Can’t miss it. Just look for the rope hanging down.”
Bunker gave him a silent look that questioned the facts.
Rico nodded with confidence. “When I was younger, I spent a lot of time helping the pastor during Mass. My favorite job was ringing the bell before service.”
“Who are you kidding?” Zeke asked Rico, flashing him a sarcastic look.
“What do you mean?”
“You were never an altar boy.”
“Yes, I was. Right after grade school.”
“Maybe for a weekend, that’s it.”
“Still.”
Zeke looked at Bunker, shaking his head. “The only reason he knows about the stairs is because we used to climb them on Friday nights after football. It was the perfect place to get high. The only other person who ever went up was the maintenance guy. But that was rare.”
Bunker didn’t care why they knew what they knew, just that they did. “I’ll take it from here, gentlemen. You guys get into position. Make sure Russell has a clean approach.”
Rico put out his wet hand and held it. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Bunker.”
Bunker took his hand and shook it, sending water into the air. “Likewise. I know we got off on the wrong foot earlier, but I appreciate you guys keeping the faith.”
“Not a problem. Just doing our job.”
“As Americans,” Zeke added, shaking Bunker’s hand as well.
“If all goes according to plan, I’ll be back sometime tomorrow. Make sure you’re ready like we talked about.”
“How will we know if it’s you?”
“You’ll know. I’ll either be driving one of their vehicles or hanging from a noose.”
CHAPTER 33
Bunker finished the climb, then slid the body from his shoulder. He put Valentina at the base of the four-foot-tall safety wall that surrounded the highest point in the bell tower. He propped up the corpse in a modified sitting position, with the woman’s wet hair hanging loose to one side.
The church bell was quiet, waiting for the next Sunday, when it would ring into service at the hands of some overly attentive altar boy. Thank goodness Mass was a few days off; otherwise, he’d probably lose his hearing when the dangling rope was assigned to active duty.
Bunker checked his watch to confirm the time—he was right on schedule. He peered over the wooden railing, keeping his profile low.
The buzz of the crowd was louder than he expected, given the steady pound of rain. Most of the town folk were facing the stage in silence, though a few were grouped together and chatting away as if nothing was wrong.
He’d seen it all before—everyday people becoming immune to the horrors of occupation. Even a bloody, senseless execution can harden one’s soul. Usually after it becomes a regular occurrence.
From what Zeke and Grace had told him, Stan Fielding’s death wouldn’t be the first. Nor would it be the last, unless he could put an end to the occupation.
Bunker had hoped for more time to perfect his plan, but time wasn’t cooperating. Neither were the circumstances. Valentina’s body presented a unique and sudden opportunity, one which he needed to take advantage of. To do so, his inner beast would have to be summoned, exposing all that he was to those around him.
He estimated there were at least two hundred civilians in the square below. However, there was room for more. None of them had umbrellas. He wasn’t surprised. The Russians wouldn’t allow them for security reasons.
A high percentage of the crowd was men, yet at least a dozen women were in attendance as well. The only children he could see were on the stage—two redheaded girls—under guard
and drenched. He couldn’t see their faces, but he assumed they were Stan Fielding’s twins, Barb and Beth.
As expected, several hundred troops had been deployed, most of them covering the perimeter of the square. The soldiers were well-armed and standing with purpose, their heads on a swivel. Some wore rain gear, others not; all of them certainly miserable, given the weather conditions.
A Russian-made T-72 tank had been positioned to his left, not far from the secondary checkpoint he’d avoided earlier. It wasn’t surrounded by infantry for support, nor would it be much use in the tight quarters of an urban setting. Bunker figured it was on display simply as a show of force. In fact, he’d lay odds the tank was without its customary three-man crew.
Four squads of soldiers stood in a tight skirmish line across the front of the sprawling stage. Yet they were not his primary concern. The four-man security team covering the center of the platform was his focal point. Their rifles were aimed at a kneeling prisoner who wore a black hood.
Bunker assumed it was Fielding. The condemned man appeared calm, but it was impossible to know for sure from this distance. Bunker could only imagine what the Russians had done to Stan in order to extract information about the missing interpreter—the same female whose lifeless body was lying in the bell tower next to him.
If Fielding was innocent as Grace had claimed, then he couldn’t have told the Russians what they wanted to know. It also meant Fielding was in rough shape under that hood, lucky to be alive.
Since the scheduled time of the execution hadn’t arrived, nor had Fielding been shot, Bunker figured the men on the stage weren’t the executioners. This rain-filled pageantry was simply a preamble to the main event. Something to increase the tension.
Bunker checked his watch once more. It was time to get in character and prep the body. He started with Valentina’s borrowed smock and shirt, then took off her pants and shoes, leaving her naked, except for a smattering of bandages.
Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 4 and 5) Page 27
