by Ron Ripley
“As long as I’ve known him,” Frank said, nodding. “And, from the few people I’ve talked to who knew him before, they’ve said the same thing. There’s a gentle side, no doubt, and there have been a handful who have seen it.”
“And you?” Victor asked. “Have you?”
Frank hesitated, then said in a soft voice, “Yeah. I’ve seen it. He hurts inside, but he won’t deal with it. He bottles it up. Typical machismo stuff, you know?”
“Sure,” Victor said. “I’ve seen it. I try not to do it myself.”
Frank chuckled and grinned. “I hear you on that. He’s almost a stereotype of a hardcore Marine. I’ll tell you this, though, just in case you haven’t figured it out. He’s the best-damned man to have around when things go straight to hell. That’s the truth.”
Shane entered the room, carrying a fifth of whiskey.
“No glass?” Frank asked.
“Straight out of the bottle,” Shane said, dropping into his own chair. “I am nothing if not classy.”
“Well, you’re definitely not classy,” Frank said.
“Nope,” Shane agreed. He unscrewed the cap, set it down on the table beside him and said, “Sofie got us the address of this woman, Amy Marin. You’re going to have to commit some crimes to go in there.”
“Yes,” Victor said. “I don’t have a problem with that.”
“I didn’t think you did,” Shane stated simply. He took a drink of whiskey as if it was nothing stronger than water. “I was saying it as a reminder for Frank. He gets a little squeamish at times.”
Frank shot Shane a look that Victor thought would peel paint off the walls.
Shane grinned and gave Victor a wink.
“Anyway,” Shane continued, “I don’t think we have time to run proper recon on this, not with the ghost killing little old ladies the way he is. Frank, I think you should probably subdue Miss Marin when you go in. However you feel best. Victor, that’s going to leave you with the unenviable task of finding the radio and destroying it.”
Victor straightened up. “There, in the apartment?”
“Is there a better place?” Shane asked.
“Well, I remember what happened in the cemetery,” Victor said. “When I destroyed the book, the whole place shook.”
“The only other option,” Shane said, “would be to remove the radio. That leaves us with two problems. The first is containing and transporting it. You would need a large enough, and strong enough box to carry it in. That much lead, or even a box lined with salt, would be too heavy to manage easily.”
“What’s the second problem?” Frank asked.
“Miss Marin,” Shane said, taking another drink. “If she knew what she was purchasing, which it seems she did, then she’s not going to want to let it go. She’s using it to exact some vengeance on the company that let her go. You taking that away from her, well, that’s not going to be a pretty picture.”
“How is that a problem?” Victor asked.
“It’s a problem,” Frank said, “because it may become messy, and messy is never good.”
“I’d as soon put a bullet in the base of her skull,” Shane said, and he held up a hand to forestall Frank’s disagreement. “And I know you don’t want to do that. So, Victor, if you want to remove the radio, you need a way that is going to ensure the safety of everyone involved.”
Victor shook his head. “Alright. We’ll have to take our chances and destroy it in the apartment then.”
“Good,” Shane said, and Victor could see Frank’s shoulders relax. “Come on. I got some stuff together for you.”
The three of the men left the room and made their way through the huge, impressive house to a large kitchen. There, on a massive, country style kitchen table, several items were arranged. Two sets of white cotton gloves, a taser, a pair of iron rings, and a small, two-pound sledgehammer.
“Okay,” Shane said, gesturing towards the arrangement with his mangled hand, “pretty simple, incase you’ve forgotten. Wear the white cotton gloves if you feel the insane urge to touch the damned radio. The taser, my friend, is for you to assist Miss Marin in calming down.”
“Thanks,” Frank said, his voice bitter as he picked the weapon up.
“You’re welcome,” Shane said, chuckling. “The rings are iron, you each get one. Put it on your dominant hand, Victor. That’ll be the hand you’re most likely to punch with, and when Hank in the radio puts on an appearance, you’ll probably lash out with that hand. ”
Shane took a drink, then continued. “This hammer, it’s forged out of iron. The whole shebang. One solid piece made out of old cemetery fencing.”
“The hammer,” Victor said, “that’s for me to use on the radio?”
“What?” Shane said, horrified. “No!”
Surprised, Victor asked, “What do you mean? What am I supposed to use it for?”
“No,” Shane said, grinning, “I’m just kidding. It’s for the radio.”
“I hate you sometimes,” Frank murmured.
“You love me,” Shane said, winking. “Everybody does.”
Chapter 46: Patience
Stefan’s patience had not worn thin.
It had vanished.
Disappeared with the ease of a soft frost in the light of the dawn.
And he was angry.
He could have waited out the stranger in the warehouse. Stefan was certain of it.
But he didn’t want to. He hated being a prisoner in his own sanctuary. It reminded him of his childhood. And of the fear, he had felt when Ariana had kept him pinned down.
He would no longer remain trapped.
From his small weapons cache, he removed the same rifle he had used on Ariana, and he hoped to use it to the same effect. He wouldn’t be so foolish as to believe any sort of faked medical alert once he had the trespasser.
Satisfied that the weapon was as it should be, Stefan went over to the secondary control panel for the interior lights, and threw the switch, plunging the warehouse into darkness.
***
When the lights went out, Bontoc got to his feet. His eyes adjusted as he listened for the sounds of Korzh.
A moment later, he heard them, the soft whisper of a door opening, shoes upon the worn concrete floor of the warehouse. Smiling, he slid his knife out of its sheath, the metal of the blade a flat black that had no reflection, even in the strongest of light. He felt his heartrate increase, the pumping of adrenaline into his system.
Smiling, Bontoc stepped out into the pure darkness and listened. Off to his right, he heard the faintest of footsteps, and he knew that his prey wouldn’t be easy.
He was thrilled at the idea of it, and he slipped forward, pausing every few steps to listen and to adjust his course. His nose wrinkled at the scent of gun-oil, but he knew not to be tricked. Ivan Denisovich had spoken of his son’s ability to kill, and Bontoc suspected the younger Korzh was quite adept at it.
Stefan Korzh shifted his direction again, and so too did Bontoc.
***
Within several minutes, Stefan realized the man had the ability to track him. There was an uncomfortable prickling on the back of his neck; an early warning system that he had learned to acknowledge when he was young. It had always served him well, and he did not doubt its veracity now.
He tried to think of what the man could possibly hone in on.
My footsteps, Stefan thought, and after only the slightest hesitation, he dropped down and untied his shoes. He left them on the floor, and when he did so, he thought he heard a sound behind him.
Silently, he turned, bringing the rifle up to his shoulder and straining to see and hear in the darkness. With his senses fully alert and the blood pounding in his veins, Stefan inhaled the heady scent of the lubricant he used to keep the weapon clean.
Can he smell this? Stefan wondered suddenly.
Then he thought about the man he had seen in the footage. A tall, dark-skinned man with graceful movements, a man who had managed to hide beside the r
oad. Someone who had hidden while Stefan walked near him.
That man, Stefan realized, was a hunter.
Every aspect of the stranger screamed it. He wouldn’t fumble about in the dark warehouse, searching for Stefan and leaving himself open.
No, Stefan thought. He’ll find me. And he’ll do it as easily as if we were in the daylight.
Placing the rifle on the floor, Stefan removed the firing pin, the simple piece of metal that would strike the bullet’s casing and launch the round down the length of the barrel. Without it, the weapon was nothing more than a piece of well-crafted metal. Holding onto it, he slid his knife out of his pocket and stripped his clothes off. He left them in a pile on top of the rifle, then he hurled the firing pin as far as he could into the darkness. When he heard it strike the floor, the sound of it sharp and abrasive in the stillness, he flicked open the blade of his knife and moved off at a careful walk.
***
Bontoc paused at the sound of something metallic striking the floor in the distance. He knew Korzh was using it to cover his movement, so he waited until the echo died before he tried to move again.
Bontoc heard nothing.
He tilted his head up slightly, sniffed, and detected the odor of the gun-oil. It was fainter than before, almost as if it was being smothered.
He is smart, Bontoc said, almost purring. He knows I can smell it and he’s trying to hide it. Did he wrap it in a shirt?
He felt a smile spread across his face, and when he didn’t hear Stefan’s shoes on the floor, Bontoc focused on the weapon. His long legs carried him swiftly across the warehouse, his steps so light they didn’t make a sound.
The scent grew stronger, and he knew he was almost upon it.
He slowed his pace down, wary of giving himself away. Bontoc reminded himself of the danger Korzh presented, and he approached the man with far more caution than he normally would a target.
The smell of the weapon was almost overpowering, and Bontoc raised his knife for the strike when his foot struck something soft on the floor. He crouched down to examine the item, and he felt a blow strike his right shoulder.
A heartbeat later, metal ground against the bone, and he knew he had been stabbed.
With a grunt he twisted, and sank even lower, trying to use his body weight to rip the knife out of Korzh’s hand, but to no avail.
The other man knew the trick, and he had the blade out and gone in an instant.
Warm blood pulsed out of the wound and Bontoc searched the darkness for Korzh. The stench of the iron in his own blood smothered his sense of smell, and the thrumming of his heart dampened his ability to hear.
Exerting a tremendous effort, Bontoc forced his heart to slow and switched his own knife from his right hand to his left. He was not nearly as skilled with the weapon in his weak hand, but it would still serve him better than the damaged right arm.
He resisted the temptation to taunt Korzh.
The man might react poorly to it, or as Bontoc feared, the man might not react at all, and the sound of his voice would give Korzh plenty of opportunities to pinpoint his location.
Using his injured hand, Bontoc reached out and felt around on the floor. He found what felt like clothes, and the cool metal of a gun barrel.
He’s fighting me naked, Bontoc realized, understanding why he hadn’t heard the man. And he left the weapon as bait. It will be useless. Stripped of some key element.
I’ve underestimated him, he thought, and a chill rippled through him.
Leaving the clothes where they lay, he took a cautious step back.
He heard the whistle of the knife through the air and spun to the right. The blade nicked the side of his face, leaving a streak of pain and fresh blood.
Anger began to build up, and he squelched it, knowing it would serve no purpose.
Blind rage, hasty thinking, anything other than cool determination would cost him his life. And even then, Bontoc accepted the fact that it might not be enough.
He might well die on the floor of the warehouse, bleeding out onto the old concrete floor.
Or worse, he might not die, and Korzh would take him prisoner.
And the man would not make the same mistake twice, of that Bontoc was sure.
He also held no illusions about his ability to refrain from talking under torture. All men gave information, eventually. Some of it truthful, some of it false.
Bontoc had no desire to find out which it would be for him.
He let his understanding of the situation wash over him, and then he tucked it away. It was of no more importance.
A soft hiss broke the silence and instead of moving away, he lashed out with his knife and was satisfied when the weapon made contact.
It was slight, but he had drawn blood. Of that, he was certain.
The air was disturbed again and Bontoc stepped toward it. He sensed the arm coming towards him, and he raised his wounded right arm, snarling, as Korzh’s forearm smashed into his ribs. But as quick as Korzh was, the man wasn’t fast enough to pull his arm away.
Bontoc trapped the man against his body, and brought his own knife down in a stab. A grunt of pain told him that he had struck at least a glancing blow, and he managed to strike out twice more before Korzh freed himself.
Bontoc dropped down and rolled away to the right, then scrambled back to his feet. He listened and heard only silence.
He took the opportunity to take several steps back. At some point, he would reach a wall or a support beam. The warehouse was large, but it was not so big that he could not escape.
Not if he kept his wits about him.
There was a flutter, and Bontoc lunged towards it, realizing too late that the sound he heard was fabric.
Even as his blade cleaved through the unknown article of clothing that Korzh had thrown at him, Bontoc felt the bite of the other man’s blade along his back. A long, agonizing line was drawn from side to side, and he felt the skin pull apart, neatly severed. The pain was revolting, and blood spilled freely down his lower back, soaking into his clothes.
Shaking the article of clothing off his knife, Bontoc came to a sharp and difficult conclusion.
He was already weakened from the blood loss, and if he lingered any more, then he would be incapable of defending himself, and the other man would be able to do whatever he wished.
The first round went to Korzh, and while it was a bitter pill to swallow, it was the truth.
Without waiting to consider any other options, Bontoc sprinted forward. He had long legs and adrenaline, and he kept himself in excellent condition in order to run down his prey.
Now he ran to prevent himself from becoming the same.
From behind him, he heard a muttered curse and the slap of bare feet on the floor.
As he drew closer to a wall, Bontoc saw the faint outline of a door, and he aimed for it.
Bracing himself for the pain the impact would cause, he slammed into it with his left shoulder. The blow knocked the knife from his hand, and for a frightening second the door held.
Then the old lock broke, and the weakened metal door sprang open.
Bontoc rolled, let out a cry, and leaped to his feet. He could feel pebbles and sand in his wounds, and the pain caused him to stagger. But he caught himself within seconds and sprinted towards the fence. He heard the door bang behind him, yet he didn’t bother looking back.
He was too far for a knife throw to be successful, and he knew the pavement would be too much for Korzh to sprint across barefoot.
Bontoc focused on the fence, and he let nothing interfere with his focus.
***
Stefan shivered in the door, his body reacting to the sudden adrenaline dump and the cold in the air. He stood with his knife in his hand, blood dripping from his wounds. They were shallow, for the most part, but they bled freely. In silence, he watched the trespasser run.
There was a good deal of blood on the pavement where the man had rolled, but Stefan had seen men and women suffer wors
e and live.
He had suffered worse and lived.
In less than a minute, the trespasser reached the fence and scaled it easily, despite the wounds Stefan had inflicted.
He nodded, impressed. The man was, in every respect, a worthy adversary.
It would make killing him all the more enjoyable.
Turning around, Stefan picked up the knife the man had dropped and examined it. The weapon was finely crafted, and he didn’t particularly mind having been cut with it.
Especially since he would use it to remove the trespasser’s own heart with the blade.
Chapter 47: Ready and Willing
“You can’t,” the nurse said.
Tom looked at the man and watched, satisfied as the well-meaning nurse stepped back.
“Don’t tell me I can’t,” Tom said, and he went back to awkwardly pulling on his boot. “I’m going home. Have the doctor write me the necessary prescriptions, please.”
“Listen to me,” the nurse said, “you need to stay here, where we can monitor your progress. If you go out now, you’re opening yourself up to infection. Serious infection.”
“If I get an infection, will I know it?” Tom asked, nodding with satisfaction as he got the first boot on.
“Of course,” the man said.
“Then I should be all set,” Tom replied. “I’ll go to the emergency room if I get sick. I’ll go and get a prosthetic, or a hook or something when it’s time. Right now, though, I need to go home.”
The nurse shook his head angrily and stormed out of the room.
Tom felt a small twinge of regret at speaking to the man in such a manner, but it was only a small twinge. He had a lot to do, and being in the hospital wasn’t on the list.
Tom managed to get the other boot on and sat back on the bed, noticing the perspiration that had gathered on the back of his neck.
He picked up his water with his only hand, took a drink and waited. If the nurse didn’t return soon enough, then Tom would go out into the hallway and see what the issue was.
