by Layton Green
Grey stared at him in disbelief.
“I give you my word, in front of all my men.”
Grey looked at Dag’s face and saw no sign of deceit. In fact, he saw a man who truly believed what he preached, consumed by his convictions.
Someone who would keep his word.
Grey glanced at the men in the shadows, none of whom had moved, and then to Klaus, who was watching Grey with an emotionless expression.
Who in the hell was this guy, and why was he dressed up like a Nazi from eighty years ago?
“If I don’t fight?” Grey asked.
Dag cocked his head. “Then I doubt your options will be to your liking. Or to Charlie’s.”
“Let me see her.”
Without turning, Klaus gave an imperious wave, and one of his men hustled out of the crowd holding a cell phone with a generic black casing. The man held up the phone. Grey leaned in and saw a video showing Charlie sitting on the same filthy linoleum floor as before. The date on top was the day’s date, the time an hour earlier. She’s close, Grey thought.
The man pressed play and Grey watched Charlie, who looked bedraggled but unharmed, stare at the camera in sullen silence. After she blinked a few times, the man turned off the video and returned to the crowd.
Grey’s voice was thick. “I want to talk to her.”
“Of course you do,” Dag said. “I assure you her condition is unchanged. What happens next depends on you.”
Grey gritted his teeth. While he believed Charlie was alive and nearby, he didn’t trust Dag, and knew something was wrong with the scenario. He hated to walk away and lose his only link to Charlie, but he decided to hurry down the hill and sneak around to the base of the cable car, then try to follow one of the men.
“Maybe another time,” Grey said, backing away slowly. “When you bring her with you.”
Dag lifted a finger, and the men behind them started to fan out in a wide circle, guns trained on Grey. “I’m afraid there never was an option not to fight,” Dag said, with a cold smile. “Though my offer was sincere.”
Grey’s adrenaline spiked as Klaus stepped in front of Dag. He expected the blond man to pick up a gun or pull a knife, but instead Klaus removed his jacket and raised his fists in a classic boxing stance, leading with his left foot. It was almost comical. He even fought like someone from the 1940s.
With no choice but to fight or let the blond man pummel him, Grey circled as Klaus led with straightforward jabs and tried to land his bigger punches. This was child’s play to Grey, or any jujitsu expert. He should be able to track the punches in and get close enough to quickly end the fight. Lock in a choke or strike the throat or sweep Klaus off his feet.
The problem was, Klaus was fast. Far faster than Grey expected. Faster than anyone Grey had ever fought. As fast as Grey himself.
A right hook almost caught Grey on the chin. He ducked, sidestepped, and regained his stance. Footwork was everything in a fight. So was initiative and having a killer instinct. Grey could tell from Klaus’s flat, focused eyes that timid fighting would not be an issue.
They exchanged a few more punches, absorbing minor blows. Grey knew Klaus was much stronger than he was. This did not alarm him; Grey almost never fought opponents his own size. Jujitsu thrived on exploiting weakness, utilizing leverage and skill.
But Klaus was so strong Grey’s forearms and obliques ached just from blocking his blows. Klaus hit like a fighter twice his size. A four hundred pound bruiser. Good God, the man was powerful!
After another flurry of lightning-fast uppercuts by Klaus, Grey sidestepped and snapped a low roundhouse into the side of his leg. Grey’s lips parted in a grim smile. A solid connection. The biggest downside to boxing versus other martial arts was the limited range of a kick versus a punch. Grey had won entire fights by throwing low kicks until his opponent’s calf or thigh collapsed.
Yet when the kick connected, Klaus didn’t so much as wince. He even managed to land a quick uppercut. Grey staggered back, blinking away the blow and feeling blood drip from his nose.
He couldn’t believe that kick had failed to slow his opponent’s counterattack. A large part of martial arts prowess, and especially jujitsu, was knowing how the human body reacts to pain. Klaus should have faltered, at the very least.
Grey had seen enough. He had wanted to quietly end the fight with a standing submission—a choke or a shoulder lock—but Klaus was proving too formidable. Nor could Grey risk a throat chop that might crush the trachea. He didn’t know how Dag would react to the death of his friend.
Another problem with the skillset of a boxer was the absence of training on the ground, a place where a jujitsu expert excelled. Grey timed Klaus’s rhythm and, after his next swing, dove into him, planning to wrap him around the waist and take him down.
Somehow Klaus threw his hips back in time to avoid the tackle, and landed a hard elbow on Grey’s back. Aching from the crushing blow, Grey managed to snatch an ankle. He rolled to the side to avoid another blow, then put a foot on Klaus’s knee and pushed it backwards at the same time he jerked on the ankle.
The crowd of men murmured as Klaus crashed to the ground beside Grey. The blond man tried to regain his feet, but Grey put a hand on his face and shoved him down while he scrambled atop him. Knees straddling Klaus’s chest, Grey assumed the dominant mount position, and didn’t waste time. He rocked Klaus with a series of elbows to the head, his legs tucked under his opponent’s thighs to keep him in place.
Klaus bled. He spat out a tooth.
But he didn’t submit.
Grey couldn’t believe his opponent was still conscious. No one could withstand the damage Grey had just dealt. He was going to have to break a bone or put him to sleep to end this fight.
Klaus struggled to get off his back, but Grey was too skilled. He countered every maneuver and set himself up for a choke, crossing his hands and grabbing Klaus by the shirt on both sides of his neck, deep into the collar. The military uniform was made of stiff material and Grey planned to use it to strangle Klaus with a blood choke.
He leaned over Klaus to increase his leverage. When the blond man tried to buck free, Grey head-butted him. The final disadvantage to a boxers’ arsenal, the main one in Grey’s view, was that boxing was a sport and not a street fight. Head-butts and groin shots and eye gouges did not exist in the ring, and always threw boxers off their game.
Grey locked the choke into place, turned his wrists to increase the pressure, and squeezed.
Klaus’s eyes bugged. Grey had a perfect choke in place and his opponent should succumb in seconds. Because both of Grey’s hands were occupied, he knew he was vulnerable to being rolled by a jujitsu opponent of equal skill, but Klaus had shown no knowledge of ground fighting.
Two seconds went by. Klaus fought like a cornered animal but couldn’t get free. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Grey heard mutters from behind, but he couldn’t worry about what happened next. He was fighting for his life. For Charlie’s.
Klaus’s face turned blue. The veins on his neck popped like steel cables. Grey knew he had won. His choke was locked in. Klaus was about to see stars.
And then he did something impossible.
The blond man wormed his palms into a position underneath Grey’s chest, his elbows bent double, and pushed. From flat on his back, with Grey’s entire body weight pressed down on him, Klaus shouldn’t have been able to move Grey an inch. Yet with the strength of his hands alone, he managed to push Grey a foot off him, and then two, and then roll him to the side once his elbows were extended.
Grey was stunned. No human being was that strong. It defied physics. Yet he didn’t have time to marvel. He kept the chokehold and let Klaus assume the superior position. Unless the man didn’t require oxygen to breathe, the choke would still work.
Klaus tried to escape by throwing punches, but Grey knew how to absorb the blows. His consciousness fading, Klaus did something else unexpected. He grabbed Grey by the forearms and tried to pry the c
hoke loose.
Again, this was a desperate move that simply should not have worked. Grey’s forearms were crossed and locked in, his entire body focused on keeping that hold. Yet somehow, with superhuman effort, Klaus relieved enough pressure to breathe, and he sucked in oxygen with huge gasps of air.
By this point, Grey was fatigued. He had lost the chokehold. Klaus picked him up by the collar and slammed him into the ground. Growing desperate, Grey pushed a thumb into Klaus’s eye. It didn’t faze the man. He slammed Grey again, then punched him in the face faster than Grey could react. The world started to go black. Grey tried to wedge his hips and roll Klaus off him but he didn’t have the strength. Klaus hit him again and again—
“Enough!”
The blows stopped. Grey collapsed on his side and lay gasping on the ground.
Except for his labored breathing, Klaus betrayed no sign of having been in a fight. He didn’t rub his battered neck or hold his injured eye. He simply retreated behind Dag and stood in place.
Dag squatted next to Grey on the balls of his feet. The big man’s expensive cologne, combined with the head blows, induced a bout of nausea in Grey.
“I’m impressed,” Dag said. “No one has lasted half this long against Klaus, nor injured him. You are truly a remarkable man.”
“What is he?” Grey managed to gasp. “He’s not normal.”
Dag’s soft, mysterious smile chilled Grey. “Charlie and I are going on a trip tonight. Somewhere far, far away.”
Grey struggled to a knee, his head spinning so badly he had to stop moving.
Dag offered him a bottle of water. Grey refused, though he needed it desperately.
“I understand,” Dag said. “You’re a proud warrior. This was not an attempt to embarrass or dishonor you, just a demonstration of who we are. Of what we will accomplish. Of what you could be. I said that I wanted something from you. You and your associate, Professor Radek, are at the forefront of an investigation that is contrary to our interests. I understand that Interpol and other police agencies are involved, that matters have progressed, and I also understand that you cannot simply call it off. But,” he wagged a finger, “you can derail it from the inside.”
Grey’s vision wouldn’t clear, and he knew he had a concussion. He wiped sweat and blood from his eyes and tried to concentrate.
“I took Charlie knowing you and I would have this very conversation. I waited long enough to impart the futility of trying to locate me. I am leaving you both alive to ensure you take steps to impact the investigation.” Dag pushed to his feet. “So. You will do whatever it takes. If you fail, I’m afraid you know what will happen.”
“If I agree to this,” Grey said, fighting back nausea as the night sky continued to revolve, “when do I get her back? How?”
“You’ll know,” Dag said, his voice low and chilling, “when we have won. And you have my word she’ll be returned.”
“They won’t listen to me,” Grey said. “I need more time.”
Dag waved a hand. One of the soldiers ran over, brandishing a syringe bearing a long needle. He jabbed before Grey could react. The pain of the injection felt distant, muted.
The big leader leaned down and gave Grey an affectionate squeeze on his shoulder. “Think about my other offer. It will stand. Imagine Klaus with the benefit of your training, and you with Klaus’s . . . enhancements.” He straightened. “I know how your mind will work. What you will want to do. Trust me when I say that you will never find her on your own.”
As Dag and his men retreated, fading into the darkness of the mountain, a feeling of gooey warmth poured through Grey’s veins and into his limbs. The sky seemed to lighten for an instant, as if the night had caught fire, and then despite his best efforts, Grey’s eyes fluttered shut.
Voices murmuring nearby. Light searing Grey’s eyes as they opened. A chill had seeped into his bones and left him shaking on the cold ground.
When he blinked and sat up, groaning at the pounding in his head, he noticed a small crowd of hikers gathered around him. A family of five with a dog. The dog was calm, but the father had his arms out, backing his children away from Grey.
It took Grey a moment to remember, and then it all came crashing back. “I’m okay,” he said, pushing to his feet and feeling for his phone. They had taken it but left his wallet. “I’m fine.”
“Do you need help?” the father asked, clearly thinking Grey was a homeless person who had, for some unknown reason, collapsed atop Stone Mountain. “Should I call an ambulance?”
“Your phone,” Grey muttered, stumbling towards the father as the dog bared its teeth. “I need your phone.”
Later that morning, Grey hovered over a coffee at a diner on the way back to Atlanta. Little by little, aided by large doses of caffeine and Ibuprofen, his strength had returned. He guessed Dag’s men had given him a strong sedative, enough to knock him out for a few hours.
Which meant they were confident in their escape.
The first thing Grey did was call Lieutenant Palmer to tell him exactly what had happened. “Keep it quiet,” Grey said, “but send men to every airport in the area. I think they’re leaving the country.”
The lieutenant had agreed, but he had informed Grey that Atlanta was surrounded by millions of acres of forest that concealed dozens of illegal airstrips for human traffickers and drug dealers.
In his heart, Grey knew the lieutenant was right, and that they had almost no chance of thwarting Dag’s escape. In fact, Grey was so convinced of the futility of this effort that he didn’t bother following up himself.
Instead he ordered his fourth cup of coffee and finished his eggs, bacon, and hash browns, all while he thought about Charlie.
Grey, too, had been homeless at sixteen. He had never inquired about Charlie’s particular circumstances, because it didn’t matter. A homeless child was a failure of family and community, of humanity itself. Grey knew all too well what a despondent existence it was, and how afraid she must be. How alone.
There was no one coming for her, and she knew that.
No one but him.
Grey wasn’t going to sabotage the Interpol investigation. He didn’t trust Dag, and as much as he loved Charlie, he would never imperil one innocent life to save another. He wasn’t an ends justify the means kind of guy.
But what he was going to do was go after her.
He knew Dag was right. Grey would never find Charlie on his own. He needed help, but not the kind of assistance the law could provide. Not phone calls from Interpol or visits from FBI agents with playbooks of rules to follow.
No, Grey didn’t want the police. Dag was going dark, Grey could feel it. On to his next recruitment or back to wherever he had come from. Disappearing into a netherworld of international crime and forged documents and twisted ideologies. Maybe Grey could find him with enough time and investigative prowess—but not in time to help Charlie.
No, what Grey needed was a particular kind of help. Someone who lived and worked off the grid. Someone with his hands in the dirt and contacts in all the wrong places.
What Grey needed was help without a conscience.
And he knew just the man.
-25-
Viktor woke to a spray of sunbeams muscling through the blinds. It took him a moment to realize where he was, and then the chaos of the night before came crashing home. The bed sagged under his weight as he sat, causing him to remember his very unusual decision not to stay at his bed and breakfast.
For some reason, the lumpy pillow and short bed and lack of five-star amenities hadn’t bothered him at all.
As if on cue, there was a knock at the door, and Naomi called out, “Coffee and toast.”
He dressed and found Naomi studying a calendar of the Greek Islands in the kitchen, wearing a high-waisted pantsuit that accentuated the long lines of her body. She indicated two mugs near the coffeepot. “Sugar and cream?”
“If you have them, yes.”
Her sleep-filled eyes, the colo
r of a stormy sea, took in his appearance. “Do you always wear your tie and cufflinks to breakfast?”
Viktor glanced down. “Ah, yes. I suppose I do.”
“I appreciate a man of habit.”
“You do?”
She smiled and prepared his coffee.
They dined on the rooftop patio as birdsong filled the morning air and the vast fields of crinkly fynbos, pink and green and yellow, glowed neon in the sun. Despite the grim mood, they kept the conversation light, and Naomi squeezed Viktor’s hand just before he left. A wordless admonition to watch his back.
Viktor’s head swam with questions on the drive to the Cape Peninsula, the claw-shaped spit of land stretching from Table Mountain to the Cape of Good Hope. Near Stellenbosch, instead of veering towards Cape Town, his driver took the coast road towards the home of Dr. Ehlers, the retired neurosurgeon Viktor had contacted.
Along False Bay, beneath a range of granite peaks sloping to the sea, a succession of seaside towns dotted the shoreline like a string of pastel pearls. Outside Viktor’s window, the shimmery blue sky and high dunes trapped in mist felt dreamlike, ephemeral. Though the beauty of the drive stunned him, Viktor’s mind was elsewhere. That morning, four new cities had reported cases of the virus: London, Johannesburg, Berlin, Detroit. No one knew how it was spreading. The symptoms progressed incredibly fast and resulted in death in a matter of days. The concurrent onset of mental confusion made it impossible to question the infected.
So far, none of the victims was white. A pharmacist from Mumbai died from the disease on a London subway, injuring four people before hemorrhaging to death on the floor. A Detroit bus driver attacked a group of children at an inner city playground, before an onlooker gunned him down.
The CDC held a news conference and confirmed a virus was to blame. While they had not discussed the possibility of a manufactured agent in public, the symptoms were so unusual it seemed to Viktor the only plausible explanation.
