The Russian (Federal Hellions Book 2)

by Gray Gardner

  “That was me,” whispered Ferguson.

  “Then I come back to my senses and fling my backpack over my shoulders, running again for the front door. He tells me to wait, that he only wants to protect me. I try to keep running, but my traitor saddle shoes only permit me to slide into the closet door as I’m reaching for the front door handle. Then, of course, the front door flies open and as I lay in a tangled mess on the floor everyone is there, and in much better position than me.

  “I keep assuring them that I don’t have any diary. They keep assuring me that I need to stop crying because they’re here to protect me. I’m scared. Protect me from what? From who? No one tells me. They’re taking me from my house now. We get into a big black car and ride in silence. I can’t think of anything to say. I think maybe I’m going to the station, or into witness protection. We arrive at the airport and I am surprised by what they say next.”

  Chairs and the floor creaked as everyone leaned forward.

  “What happened at the airport, Baylor?” the hypnotist asked.

  “They drag me onto a small jet and tell me we’re going to America.”

  Me, Myself, and Spies

  Baylor Burton, November, Age 18

  My knee was bloody. The top of my dirty white sock was now stained because of it. The palms of my hands were scraped, and I felt a little woozy from not having eaten a morsel since lunch yesterday. But enough bitching.

  The Atlantic was hidden beneath a stratum of clouds as I looked out of the small window of the jet, but I knew it was there. It was the only certainty I had anymore. Aunt Nina wouldn’t be at home whenever I returned to London and there was no one waiting for me in America when we would arrive there in a few hours. What we would do once we got there, I didn’t know. I carefully glanced around the twenty- seat jet.

  The old, fat one was reviewing some kind of file with the young woman. Chilton and Reddy, an odd pair but probably pretty good at their jobs, since otherwise, they wouldn’t have been assigned to Nina Bronstein’s case. Nina Bronstein, prominent member of British society, murdered in cold blood alongside seven hundred other innocents.

  The young, hot one who had an air like James Bond was trying to concentrate on balancing a phone and writing something on his yellow legal pad. He caught me watching him and I quickly turned my eyes to the Irish one.

  Agent Dustin, sitting alone, which I’m sure was not at all uncommon for him, stroking his chin and thinking. About what? Undeniably it was something having to do with ruining my pathetic life. I narrowed my eyes as I looked across at him. He’d spanked me, the bastard, and he looked just crazy enough to try it again.

  “Hungry?”

  I snapped out of my glare and looked up at the hot one, standing next to my seat innocently with an apple. I didn’t know what to do exactly.

  “If you’re hungry,” he said, fighting a smile, “you should take it.”

  Nodding like an idiot, I slowly took it and kept staring up at him.

  “May I sit?” he asked, sitting in the tan leather seat next to me and sighing. “Look, I know you must be scared. But don’t be. We’re here to help you.”

  I bit into the crisp apple and continued to look at him. Why was he being so nice? Did they not just abduct me from my home? Wasn’t all they wanted that stupid diary they kept talking about? I devoured the apple in only a few bites.

  “We called your school and told them you’d be absent this week,” he finally said, looking me over in my now dirty school uniform. The white shirt and socks now dingy and stained and the thick navy wool crusty with mud and pieces of grass from my lawn.

  I frowned as I thought about all of that make-up work. He looked annoyed.

  “Do you even realize how jeopardized your life is right now? How close you came to dying?”

  This time I spoke. “Of course I realize how close I am to death!” I shouted, gripping the arm rest between us and leaning forward. Everyone on the plane stared. “I should! It’s been surrounding me for the past six months! I couldn’t escape it if I tried! And every time I think things may be getting back to normal my efforts are thwarted by yet another commencement of hostilities!”

  The muffled engines were the only sounds in the cabin.

  “And where the hell are you damned Limeys taking me, anyway?” I demanded to know, throwing my arms in the air and looking around.

  “Ferguson,” Chilton nodded from his seat at a polished table in the front. “You can tell her what happened yesterday, but that’s it.”

  “I know what happened yesterday,” I huffed, leaning back and folding my arms across my chest. “Home invasion.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that if we know where you live, maybe the people who are trying to kill you know where you live, too?”

  I peered up at Ferguson and caught my breath in my throat. I knew someone was trying to kill me. They’d gotten the rest of my bloodline. It was only a matter of time before they found me. But why?

  “What did I do?” I quietly asked, looking helplessly at him.

  He shook his head as he answered, “You exist.”

  Well, that would create a little problem, seeing as I didn’t plan on ceasing to exist anytime soon. I stiffened as Ferguson leaned in.

  “Well, the Red Patriots of the People are this rogue Russian group who’d like to see a Stalinist Russia return. You see, even though they both share a negative connotation, pure communism and communism under Stalin are completely different…”

  “I know what communism is!” I snapped. “I’m a daughter of communism! Literally!”

  “Right,” he nodded, closing his eyes and trying to regain his composure. “Well, we’re pretty sure that they were following you yesterday, because there was a pile of cigarette butts under an awning across the street from your house, and we lifted some prints from your back door that match a known member of the group.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Did that mean that they were in my house? What did they want?

  “What?”

  “They believe, as do we, that a diary exists, passed from Lenin to Trotsky to one of his children. We believe it holds a secret. A secret so significant that it’s worth killing hundreds of innocent people just to get it.”

  I found myself leaning over the arm rest, this time in anticipation. “What kind of secret?”

  “The location of a massive treasury, the key to world domination, a how-to on successful communism. We’re not really sure,” he said, shaking his head.

  Wow. I really wished that one of my family members would have entrusted me with the knowledge of said diary. As it was, I had no recollection of its existence. My father and Aunt Nina were both writers, so I’d always seen them writing in something, but neither of them had told me about a super-secret diary. Had they really not trusted me?

  “Wait,” I grimaced. “Hold on. If they think that I know where the diary is, then why would they want to kill me?”

  “I’m pretty sure that until this week, they thought you were already dead. We think you know where the diary is. Of course, now that they know you’re alive, they’ll want to find you and get you tell them. Then they’ll kill you.”

  Awesome.

  “You see, your grandfather, while a communist, represented the intellectual revolution. That’s why Stalin had him assassinated. Stalin just wanted absolute power and a blind following. I think the RPP have to symbolically dispose of Trotsky’s bloodline to really get their movement going. Don’t ask me why,” Ferguson sighed, glancing over at my horrified face. He quickly added, “Oh, but don’t worry. We’re here to protect you.”

  I stared at him as I finally squeaked out, “H-how?”

  “We’re going to find the diary and whatever is in it first,” he grinned confidently.

  I swallowed and nodded, not too sure if that was ever really going to happen. Ferguson seemed nice enough, though, and his dark eyes were really trustworthy, so I guessed they had a plan that rested on something other than the idea that I
knew of this secret.

  “So I’m marked for death,” I sighed, not comfortable with the idea. It was a little Shakespearean, sure, but it didn’t mean the words weren’t true. “How about you?”

  “What about me?” he asked, looking curiously at me.

  “How long have you been a detective?”

  “Oh,” he grinned. “I’m actually not a detective.”

  “MI6?” I asked, thinking of 007. Old James Bond movies were a favorite past time for Russell and me. I mean, he couldn’t watch them, but he could do a mean Sean Connery.

  “No,” he shook his head, looking around the cabin. What, was he not allowed to tell me who he was.

  “CIA?” I asked in a whisper, leaning towards him.

  To my surprise, he leaned towards me, his cologne or aftershave or something smelling really good, and replied, “Yes. But if you tell anyone, I’ll have to kill you.”

  I leaned back and fumbled with my reply. “F-fair enough.”

  He winked and stood up, returning to his seat and leaving me in state of panic and euphoria. Something about him was irresistible, but I was a little frightened of him, too. Agent Dustin was peering at me from his seat, popping his knuckles, so I leaned back and waited. At least I could take comfort in the fact that we were going back to America. I hadn’t been back since the day of my parents’ funeral.

  We landed on a private airstrip near what I could only assume was New York City since I saw a nest of recognizable tall buildings in the hazy distance. I turned to Ferguson as we exited the plane and headed towards a caravan of black Suburbans and Hummers.

  “Long Island?” I guessed, running my thumbs up and down the nylon straps of my backpack.

  The wet, chilly breeze blew his hair out of its neat part as he turned and smirked down at me, grabbing my lapels and pulling my coat tighter around my body. “Not quite.”

  The Hamptons. I peered out of the heavily tinted windows as we drove through the thick trees, vineyards, and small towns. This could have been much worse, I thought, as we pulled onto a small paved drive that wound like a ribbon through dense vegetation.

  We pulled up to a clearing and found a gorgeous white clapboard home that could easily have been over 10,000 square feet. Behind it, the ocean crashed into a sandy beach. Definitely could have been worse.

  The thick morning dew and coastline humidity clung to my face as I exited the suburban. The air was salty, fresh and terrible. It took me back to that day on the ferry. I wiped the back of my hand across my eyes and held my backpack straps as I walked onward and past Ferguson, who had paused to see if there was anything wrong with me.

  My shoes slapped up the wooden steps and across the large wraparound porch as the warmth from inside welcomed me. The frowning men in black suits posted around the door seemed to share a different sentiment.

  “Where are we again?” I asked, turning back to Ferguson as he bumped into me and hurried me inside.

  “We’re meeting one of the country’s foremost Soviet historians and also someone who could benefit greatly from having a serious bit of leverage against the Russians,” Ferguson replied, taking off my backpack and my coat, and if I wasn’t mistaken, trying to smooth my hair out a little bit.

  “What, like a professor and a senator?” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth, suddenly noticing the impending silence in the large family room.

  “He used to be both of those things, actually,” Ferguson nodded. Then he turned and stood up straighter, adjusting his dark blue tie. His slight awkwardness implied to me that he was still young and a novice at all things CIA.

  I tried to look through the line of detectives and agents in front of me as someone walked into the room from another part of the large house. It was some kind of diplomat and he wanted to know what I knew, I was certain. I quickly devised a way to tell them something plausible so that I could get out of there and back to my life. I was actually succeeding at my new school, and I was anxious to return and finish the year out.

  “Smile and behave, it’s the president,” Ferguson said through his teeth as he and the others stepped aside.

  I smirked. It was a president? Probably the head of some weapons defense unit who wanted me to tell them dirty Russian secrets so that they could get a leg up on the competition. Or maybe it was just the president of the area’s homeowner’s association.

  “This cute little thing is what all the hubbub is about?” the president asked, voice booming across the noiseless home as he approached. His light hair and sharp features were incontrovertible evidence of who he was, as was his commanding voice.

  “Oh shit,” I choked, looking up at the imposing figure standing over me. I couldn’t help myself.

  Everyone was shocked into an even deeper silence.

  “Like I said. Cute,” he laughed, looking around and patting Chilton on the shoulder like they were old friends. Then he held out his hand to me. “Marty Austin.”

  I was staring like an idiot at his face, then turned my glance down to his hand and carefully reached out to shake it. His touch was electric.

  “M-Mister President,” I stuttered, not able to say anything else. It was really him. I didn’t even start to wonder why I’d been brought to him until he put his hand on my back and led me to one of his enormous dark couches surrounding a crackling fire. People scattered as he and I sat across from each other.

  He looked around and smiled over at me. “It’s my wife’s family’s vacation home, don’t worry. I didn’t use your tax dollars to buy it.”

  I gave a half smile and continued gaping at him as a Secret Service agent dumped another log into the fireplace on my right and a lady in a suit set a tray on the coffee table between us.

  “Coffee or tea?” he asked, holding out his hand across the blonde wood coffee table.

  My heart finally stopped pounding in my ears and I turned my glance down to the tray. “Uh, tea, please.”

  “You’ve been in London too long,” he grinned, pouring me a cup. How did he know I was an American living in London? How had he even heard of me?

  “Y-Yes sir. Those blokes have a certain charm,” I stammered, earning a chuckle. I wondered what I was doing there again as I sipped the tea. Ugh. Earl Grey.

  The President of the United States of America was staring at me. He almost looked like he pitied me. I cleared my throat.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but…why am I here?” I timidly asked, as our audience lined the walls and stared across at us in the center of the room.

  He leaned over on his knees and folded his hands as he replied, “I know you’ve been through a lot, and I’m very sorry for that.”

  “Th-thanks.”

  “But, Baylor, I really need your help.”

  The most powerful man in the world needed my help? I shook my head as I looked at him. What could I possibly do to help Martin Austin?

  “Sir, I’ve told the investigators that I don’t remember much from the ferry attack, and I don’t know who my parents’ enemies were. I’m sorry but I don’t know much of anything that could be helpful.”

  “Do you know who your grandfather was?” he asked, excitement behind his eyes. He was a historian, all right. I’d seen that look before. My family had “fans,” after all.

  “Of course,” I choked, hoping this wasn’t going in the direction I thought it was.

  He shook his head and sighed, “You are the only remaining descendant of Leon Trotsky. The man helped usher communism into one of the world’s most powerful countries. You know something.”

  That was awfully accusatory. I looked around the room for Ferguson but when I found him he just raised his brow and jerked his head back at the President. I chewed my lip and looked back over. What should I say?

  “It’s, it’s not that I don’t want to help you, sir. I really can’t,” I apologized, squeezing my navy plaid skirt in my sweaty fingers.

  “I think you know more than you think,” he grinned, leaning back and crossing his legs. He look
ed relaxed. Meanwhile, I was about to keel over and die of humiliation. The President wanted my help and I couldn’t help him. Inadequate wasn’t even close to how I felt.

  “Sir, she seems to disagree that a diary exists,” Chilton stated, from somewhere behind me.

  President Austin nodded and tapped the arm of the couch with his left hand. “All evidence points to the fact that Lenin and Trotsky kept very detailed notes in a single leather bound book. It’s in pictures we’ve found, in accounts of meetings and rallies we’ve read about, and the last person seen with it was your grandfather.”

  For God’s sake, and he thought that an eighteen-year-old American girl would be trusted with it? I sighed heavily and looked down at my hands.

  “Perhaps his assassin stole it?”

  “Unlikely,” Austin shook his head. “Or someone from the RPP would have made a move in all these years. No, no, most likely it’s in your possession and you don’t even know it. Do you have keys to safety deposit boxes or anything of the sort? Left to you by either your parents or your Aunt?”

  “No,” I replied remorsefully. “My dad was so old when I was in high school, he kept all of his assets liquid so that they would easily transfer to my mother—and to me.”

  President Austin glanced up at Chilton, who rustled around and finally appeared on my right, sitting on the limestone hearth and practically stabbing me with his eyes. Oh God. They thought I was lying to them.

  “Baylor, it is of the utmost importance that we locate this diary. You’ve been watching the news. The Russians are rebuilding their armies and we have every reason to believe they will turn hostile in the next few years. If they suddenly get access to whatever is written in there, well, they’ll be unstoppable.”