Inside, the room was a mass of charred wood and thick smoke, but the flames seemed to have died down. Looking up, he saw the roof had collapsed here as well. A thick wooden beam lay at an angle, blocking the narrow door of a closet on the west wall.
“Okay kid, stay put. I see the problem.”
Caine kicked at the debris on the floor. He found a loose two-by-four that seemed solid, and jammed it under the collapsed beam at an angle.
“Stand back! This place could collapse any second,” he shouted through the door. Then he pulled back on the two-by-four.
The slab of wood didn’t budge.
Caine coughed as the smoke penetrated his lungs. He planted his feet on the ground, and yanked back again. The fallen beam scraped against the floor, moving a fraction of an inch.
Stinging sweat dripped down his face. He coughed again, and wiped what felt like acid from his eyes. The muscles in his shoulders rippled and bulged beneath the singed fabric of his shirt. He grunted from exertion as he tugged again, using all his dwindling strength.
The beam shifted, and at last fell away from the door. Caine jumped aside as the heavy slab struck the floor. With a loud crack, the weakened floorboards gave way, and the charred beam plummeted to the first floor. A plume of flame exploded up into the room, but it quickly died. Tendrils of the fire below growled and crackled around the hole in the floor, hungry for the fresh oxygen that had been released.
Caine threw open the closet door. Taavi sat hunched in the back, coughing and gasping for breath. He looked up at Caine with wide, frightened eyes.
“Come on kid, we’re getting out of here.” Caine grabbed the boy in his arms, and hefted him off the floor. He coughed and stumbled, but managed to keep his footing. He carried the barely conscious boy out into the hallway. Turning left, he heading for the rear of the building. Through the cloud of smoke and ash, he could make out a dusty widow at the end of the corridor. He quickened his pace, as the heat behind him grew even more intense. The fire was growing. Soon there would be nowhere left to run.
He reached the window. Setting Taavi down, he wrapped the bandana around his fist and struck the glass. It shattered, revealing the metal platform of a fire escape. Taavi coughed and sputtered as Caine lifted him to his feet.
“Move it, Taavi! Almost there!”
The boy opened his eyes, then clutched Caine’s shoulder.
“Whatever you do,” he said, gasping for breath, “do not tell my sister about this… She will kill me!”
Caine lifted the boy over the windowsill. “Deal. Now get down there. I’ll follow you out.”
The boy nodded, and began to descend the metal ladder.
Caine sucked in the fresh air, and waited until Taavi was halfway down. Then he leaned forward, preparing to climb after him.
He felt a vice-like grip on his shoulder. An arm wrapped around his throat, and pulled him back into the lethal blaze. He drove his right elbow back, and felt it connect with soft flesh. Whoever had grabbed him grunted, and released the hold on his throat. Caine spun around, throwing up his left arm to break the attacker’s grasp. He knocked away the hand that gripped his shoulder, and squinted in the hazy air.
The figure before him wore a baggy orange jumpsuit. A black visor hid his face, and the hose of an oxygen tank trailed over his shoulder. A yellow metal helmet protected his head.
Pattaya Fire brigade, Caine thought. They finally made it.
Then he noticed what the figure clutched in his hand.
Instead of a fire ax, which was strapped to his back, the firefighter held a slim black pistol.
Caine pivoted sideways as the man fired. The gun made a muted coughing sound, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. Caine saw a tiny metal sliver embed itself into the wall next to him.
The gun was an air pistol. Whoever this man was, he wanted to take him alive.
Caine dipped his shoulders low and lunged forward. Reaching out with his left hand, he wrapped his fingers around the wrist of the man’s shooting arm. With his free hand, he tore the visor off his target’s face, revealing Caucasian features behind the opaque plastic covering.
Who are these guys?
Had the CIA finally caught up with him after all this time? If not them, who? FBI? INTERPOL?
He ignored the questions flooding his mind and kept moving, kept attacking. Unlike his opponent, Caine had no oxygen supply or protective gear. He knew that every second he spent in the fire, he grew weaker.
Winding his right arm back, he snapped an open palm strike into his opponent’s exposed face. As the man’s head snapped back, Caine locked his left arm in a two-handed grip and spun him around. A quick stomp to the instep brought his opponent to his knees.
Caine coughed and stumbled in the caustic air, but he kept his grip on the arm tight. The man screamed, as the muscles in his shoulder stretched to the snapping point.
“Who are you?” Caine shouted. “Who do you work for?”
Before the man could answer, Caine heard loud, crashing footsteps from down the hall. He looked up and saw two more men dressed in the same fire-fighting gear surging towards him.
Twin darts streaked past his face, missing his neck by a few inches.
Caine let go of his opponent's arm. He ducked down, and grabbed the fire ax strapped to the man’s back. Wrenching it free, he wound his arm back, and hurled it toward the new attackers.
The weapon spun through the air. As the other man raised his pistol to fire, the heavy metal blade buried itself in his chest with a wet thud. The man screamed, and stumbled backwards. He fell, striking the landing of the collapsed staircase. The brittle, charred wood gave way beneath him, and he plunged through the flames into the inferno below.
Before Caine could savor his victory, another fit of choking wracked his body. He heaved over, gasping for breath. His vision grew hazy. The man on the ground staggered to his feet.
“Sukin syn!” he hissed. He pulled his visor and oxygen mask back over his face, and stepped towards Caine.
Russian, Caine thought. Called me a son of a bitch… Probably rules out the CIA.
He forced himself to stand up. The firefighter swung a right hook at Caine. He blocked it, but the effort left him reeling. He stumbled and fell to his hands and knees. The smoke, the heat… it was all too much. He couldn’t breath, couldn’t see…
He felt the heavy rubber sole of the man's boot slam into his gut. What little air he had left exploded from his lungs. He fell to the floor, clawing at the charred wood beneath his fingers.
He felt more hands grab him, flip him over. Something pressed against his neck.
Not a dart… injector. He heard the hiss of compressed air. They had drugged him.
He looked up, and saw the shattered window above.
Taavi… at least he got away. At least he’s safe.
As the narcotic coursed through his veins, he was comforted by the thought that he would die alone. The ghosts of his bloody past would claim only him.
Not Taavi. Not Naiyana.
Not Rebecca…
The image of the window faded, replaced by an orange, flickering blur. He closed his eyes, and let himself fall into the darkness.
Chapter Five
The heavy wooden door of the bar swung open, and a gust of freezing wind blasted through the doorway. The men inside — the bar was populated only by men — looked up, as the thick slab of wood slammed against the wall. The crowd’s eyes were dark and sullen, their jaws clenched in frowns and grimaces.
A small television hung above the bar counter. The droning of the Russian newscaster on the screen was the only sound in the room. No music played. All chatter had ceased.
A tall, healthy looking young man stood in the open doorway. His eyes were pale blue and his skin fair, flushed red from the cold outside. A thick wool cap covered his hair, but a few blond locks fell down in front of his eyes.
A military issue backpack hung from his shoulders, and he held a large canvas duffel b
ag in his right hand. The bag was almost as big as he was, and the fabric stretched under the weight of whatever was inside.
He turned and closed the door behind him, silencing the howling wind outside. Then he glanced around the bar, an eager but determined look on his face.
He caught the eye of the bartender. The man's craggy features looked as gnarled and aged as the filthy bar counter he hunched over. He swished a dirty gray rag around the inside of a glass mug, and glared at the newcomer in silence. Then he tilted his head, and nodded towards another door at the back of the room.
The young man adjusted his pack, and headed towards the rear door. The other men in the bar turned away from him. They did not look up to meet his gaze as he walked past.
Everyone in the bar knew that those who met in the back room were not men to get involved with. They were not lumberjacks or truck drivers or fur trappers. They were not like the others who lived in the small town.
The men who met in the back all had a certain look in their eye. Even this man, youthful and vibrant as he was, carried that touch of darkness in his fervent stare.
Those who lived in this small mountain town had enough darkness, enough cold and pain in their lives. They had no desire to invite more of the same. So they looked down into their glasses, contemplating their stale beer or cheap vodka as they contemplated anything: with indifference. Or they just stared out the window, at the endless white expanse and the ghostly, snow covered trees.
The newcomer took one last look around the silent bar, then opened the door in the back and stepped through.
Once the door had closed, a low, quiet chatter arose among the men in the bar. It was not cheerful, but it held some semblance of life. Just enough to forget the men in the back, and the long, dark shadows they cast.
A cloud of cigarette smoke hovered near the ceiling of the back room. The young man wrinkled his nose as the harsh, stale odor flooded his nostrils. He shut the door behind him, and set his bag on the ground.
Commander Zasko sat facing the door. He sat with four other men around a large wood table, the surface of which lay hidden beneath a collage of maps, papers, and aerial photographs.
Zasko and his men all wore identical combat gear. A mottled gray and white camouflage pattern covered their heavy parkas and jumpsuits. The tactical gear was military issue, but they displayed no unit insignias or any other official markings.
The young man was not surprised. He knew this was not an official mission.
The other men were all smoking cigarettes and drinking vodka. They laughed and talked among themselves as they methodically cleaned and checked their weapons.
Zasko looked up as the man entered the room. He leaned back in his chair, and floorboards creaked in protest as his muscular body shifted. Despite the cold, his jumpsuit was unzipped to his waist, exposing a hairy, muscular chest. A metal pendant lay nestled in the thick, coarse fur that covered his upper body. It was the head of a wolf, hanging from a dull metal chain around his neck.
Zasko took a long puff from a hand rolled cigarette, then stabbed it out in a filthy cracked ash tray. His dark, penetrating eyes stayed focused on the newcomer.
“You must be Yuri, eh? You are late.” His voice was low and deep, like the purr of a big cat. He filled a small glass with vodka from an unmarked bottle on the table.
The young man nodded. “Da, the truck missed the bar. I had to backtrack several kilometers to find this place.”
Zasko pushed the glass across the table towards the man called Yuri. Then he tipped the bottle, and began filling the glasses of the other men at the table.
“I know your commander, Vasily. He speaks well of you. Says you are the best shot in FSB Alpha unit. You were awarded the Cross of St George and the Medal of Suvorov, back to back.”
Yuri picked up the glass, but did not drink.
Zasko smiled, and raised his glass in the air. “Salud,” he said, and drank the vodka in one gulp.
Yuri followed, and set the glass down on the table.
Zasko licked his lips. “Well?”
Yuri shrugged. “This is true. I am fully rated on the Orsis T-5000, VSS Vintorez, Dragunov, of course—”
One of the others, a bear-like man with a shaved head and grey goatee, chuckled. “All these medals, and before he is out of diapers. Remarkable achievement.”
The other men laughed. Zasko smiled.
“That’s enough, Boris,” he said as he refilled his glass. The men’s laughter died down. The big man, Boris, glowered at Yuri for a second, then turned away and tossed his shot of vodka down his throat.
“Now then,” Zasko continued. “What about hand-to-hand? Can you fight up close, without a weapon?”
“I have trained all my life in sambo. Do you wish to test me?” he asked, his eyes shifting from Zasko’s smiling face to Boris.
Zasko sipped his vodka. “Boris, you practice sambo, ne tak li?”
Boris stood up, and cracked his knuckles. He stood in front of Yuri and looked down at him. “You practice your whole life, little man?” The huge figure sneered. “How you find time for this between nursing at your mother’s tits?”
Boris stood a foot taller than Yuri, and his girth made the younger man look like a small child. Yuri looked him up and down, then turned towards Zasko. “How far do you want this to go?”
Zasko slid a large, serrated knife from a leather sheath that hung at his waist. He spun the knife on the table, watching the sharp tip drill into the splintering wood.
“You go until I tell you to stop.”
“I am Spetsnaz GRU, little man,” Boris snarled. “We feed little FSB boys like you to our dogs.”
The big man lunged forward, his thick, meaty fist exploding towards Yuri’s face.
The smaller man sprang into action. He sidestepped the powerful blow, and reached across his body, knocking Boris’s arm wide with his left hand.
As the giant struggled to recover, Yuri curled the fingers of his other hand into a hook. He raked them across Boris’s eyes. The larger man screamed in pain and rage, but Yuri did not stop attacking.
Grabbing Boris’s wrist in his right hand, he bent the man’s arm backwards. With a quick pivot, he sent him tumbling to the floor.
The floorboards shook and rattled as Boris crashed to the ground. Yuri dropped down a split second later, driving his knee into the larger man’s elbow. There was an audible crack as the joint shattered from the force of the blow.
Boris howled in pain. Yuri looked up at Zasko. The commander squinted, and his nostrils flared, but he said nothing. The other men at the table exchanged nervous glances.
Yuri grabbed Boris’s arm, and yanked it upwards. The injured man struggled to lift his body up from the floor in a vain effort to lessen the pressure on his trapped limb.
Yuri struck again, stepping in front of the bigger man and dropping to the ground. He crushed the man’s neck in the bend between his calf and thigh as he continued to pull back on the arm. There was a loud pop as Boris’s left shoulder dislocated.
He howled again, and began tapping the floor with his injured right hand.
“Pozhaluysta! Please, you win! I said you win, enough!”
Again Yuri looked up to Zasko. The younger man clenched his jaw and stared into his commander’s eyes. Zasko shook his head, and smiled. He stood up, and stepped over the two entangled men. He looked down at Boris and sighed.
“There was a girl. Katya. You remember her Boris, don’t you? After our last hunt, you acted… inappropriately.”
“Da, da, I remember," the big man cried. Spittle hung from his lips and pooled on the floor. “I’m sorry, I had to… I thought it was okay, just once!”
“I understand,” Zasko continued. “She was beautiful, and we all have our urges, of course. But the man who owns this bar, the man who allows us to meet here? He provides us anonymity, a safe haven for these unsanctioned activities of ours. Katya was his niece. You knew this. I told you to stay away from her. But you touch
ed her. You damaged her, Boris.”
“It won’t happen again, commander. I swear!”
Zasko eyed the knife in his hands. He spun the blade in a circle, balancing it against the rough skin of his palm. He knelt down next to Boris. The big man’s face was beet red, and droplets of sweat trickled down his forehead. His eyes bulged.
Yuri tightened his grip, but above his clenched jaw, his frowning eyes betrayed his uncertainty. "Commander, I—”
Zasko’s nostrils flared as he inhaled a deep breath. “What is that smell, Boris? Have you pissed yourself?”
“Prosti. I’m sorry, I swear, I—”
“These people here, they are sheep. But what you did brings attention to us. To our activities here in town. And worst of all, to our employer. That is something I can not allow.”
The man struggled to speak, gasping for breath in the powerful hold. Yuri released the man’s arm and stood up. Boris gulped air as he staggered to his feet.
“He’s had enough, I think,” Yuri said in a quiet voice.
Zasko stared at the young man. His eyes were wide, his pupils dark and dilated. They gave his stare a wild, hypnotic pull. His mouth hung open, revealing the tips of his sharp white teeth.
“It seems our new member has chosen to show you mercy, Boris. Lucky day for you. But you must realize, there is no longer a place for you here.”
The big man nodded, still gasping for breath, the flush receding from his face and neck. “Khorosho, fine. I leave now.” He turned and shuffled towards the door.
A loud crack snapped through the room. The coiled black leather of a whip appeared in Zasko’s free hand. The long leather braid cut through the air faster than the eye could see, and wrapped around Boris’s neck like a constrictor snake.
The big man’s hands shot to his throat, his eyes bulging as a weak gasp hissed from his lungs.
Zasko spun the leather cord around his body and twisted his waist. The momentum yanked Boris forward. He struggled to free himself from the whip's stranglehold, as he stumbled towards the commander.
Cold Kill Page 3
