Lethal Savage

by Dave Edlund

  The remaining three guards jumped to action. Peter fired at the first guard to face him. The buckshot hit the man in the chest, but he stayed on his feet. He pumped the action and pulled the trigger again. Click! He dropped the empty weapon, his hand going for the FN shotgun hanging from his shoulder. He was swiveling the weapon up when another guard raised his pistol. He had the drop on Peter, and he fired.

  Peter was pushed back as if a massive fist had punched him in the chest. At first, he couldn’t breathe and was gasping for air, but then his rhythm started to return. He was still bringing up the shotgun when two more rounds hit his chest simultaneously, forcing the air out of his lungs with an audible grunt. He’d never felt such a powerful blow to his body, imagining it was like a 200-pound man jumping on his chest.

  Staggering, and trying to stay on his feet, he got the FN to hip level. The three guards seemed to come to the realization at the same time that Peter was wearing body armor. They were adjusting their aim upward when Diesel took off like a rocket. The sudden blur of motion distracted all of the men. One managed to lower his sights and squeeze off a single round at the charging canine, but it missed and then Diesel was on him. Jaws latched onto his gun arm and began lacerating flesh like it was tissue paper.

  The momentary distraction was enough time for Peter to level his gun and fire. The first slug blew through the chest of the middle guard. He was still falling backwards when Peter nudged the muzzle and sent another armor-piercing slug into the belly of the guard on the left. He fired a second round into the man’s chest, ending his fight.

  That left one guard struggling against the powerful pit bull. It was a chaotic fight, intense and vicious. Driven by an instinctive desire to protect one of his pack, Diesel was ablaze with bestial fury. With jaws clamped like a vise, his head thrashed back and forth in a frenzied whiplash. Blood flowed freely from the ever-opening wound. As muscle tore and tendons severed, the guard lost control of his hand and the pistol thudded to the floor. Panic over-rode his sense of pain. He was desperately attempting to pry the dog away, his free hand grasping a fistful of lose skin on the hound’s neck. But it was no use.

  Peter raised the shotgun, aimed the sights on the struggling guard, and fired. The slug struck the man just above the bridge of his nose. The result was grisly, leaving little of his face that could be recognized as human.

  The pilots at the flight control station had ejected from their chairs and hugged the floor as soon as the gunfire started. Although they were both armed, neither wanted to jump into the fight. Perhaps because they’d seen nearly all their comrades be killed or wounded—perhaps because they were here to be pilots, not soldiers. Whatever the reason, it mattered little to Peter.

  He aimed the FN shotgun at the two prone figures. “Gently, unholster those sidearms and throw them toward me.” They complied without hesitation, taking extra care to be slow, deliberate, and above all, non-threatening.

  “Diesel, come!” Peter commanded. Then he pointed to the two pilots on the floor, a man and a woman. “Guard!”

  With no other immediate threats, Peter gazed around the space. No one was there other than the pilots on the floor.

  “Are you two flying the drone?”

  “Yes,” the woman replied. “I’m the pilot, responsible for flight control.”

  “What’s your name?” Peter asked.

  “Abresch,” the pilot replied.

  “And your partner, Ms. Abresch—what is his job?”

  “He’s the co-pilot, and in charge of the dispersion once the drone reaches the designated target.”

  Peter walked closer to the flight control consoles, looking over the multiple monitors. “How long until the drone reaches the Hayden Bridge water intake?”

  “Several minutes; three, maybe four. The count-down timer is located between the two keyboards.”

  Peter’s eyes quickly found the digital display. It read 3:17. “What happens when the drone reaches the target?”

  “It’s flying on autopilot right now. Once it’s over the water supply, I have to take control of the flight, managing altitude and speed, taking into consideration local windspeed and direction. Then the co-pilot will initiate the release of the virus. It’s a powder that needs to be dispensed at a calculated rate.”

  “That’s a lot of data to collect and numbers to crunch. Is that why there’s enough computing power in this building to send a satellite into orbit?”

  Abresch hesitated before answering. “Yeah, sort of.”

  “Sort of? I want straight answers, Ms. Abresch. It’s been a very long day and I’m very tired. I’ve been kidnapped, shot at, and nearly executed. And it is not even time for lunch yet. Don’t test my patience.”

  “Okay, okay. You’re right. There’s a lot of meteorological data to collect and that feeds into calculations that determine the altitude, direction, and speed to fly the drone. But…” The pilot paused.

  “Go on,” Peter urged.

  “This center is linked to all the other launch locations. The drones, all of them, will be flown and operated from here.”

  “There are other locations?”

  “Yes, across the country. Drones will be launching against dozens of municipal water systems.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Peter checked the timer again—2:14. “What happens if your co-pilot doesn’t activate the release of the virus?”

  “There’s a failsafe. If the dispensing is not activated, or there is a mechanical failure, the aircraft will automatically return to the launch point. But it doesn’t have enough fuel—hydrogen—to make it back here.”

  “When it runs out of fuel, will it crash and spill the powdered agent?”

  “No. A second failsafe. When the fuel level reaches critical, the onboard computer will find the nearest landing zone on its programmed course, and touch down. The onboard battery will power a transmitter for three hours, enough time to retrieve the aircraft.”

  “Good. Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Abresch. You two are done working for today.”

  “Are you going to shoot us?” Abresch asked, her voice quivering.

  “Not if I don’t have to.”

  Peter rotated his head, taking in the flight control center. There were two other stations. “Where are the other pilots?” he asked.

  “They left when the shooting began,” Abresch said. “They went down in the elevator.”

  They could be rounded up later, Peter reasoned. Right now, he had more important concerns. “The woman. Where is she?” he demanded.

  Before the pilot could answer, the elevator doors opened. Danya was standing rigidly, Ming was behind her holding a gun to her head. “I think I have someone you care about,” Ming said.

  Chapter 49

  South of Eugene, Oregon

  March 29

  Peter spun to face the voice, one he knew too well. The muzzle of the shotgun moved with his eyes, and now Ming was staring into the gapping maw. Danya’s hands were bound behind her back,

  “Drop your weapons,” Ming ordered.

  “Nope. Not gonna happen,” Peter replied.

  “Do it, or I will kill her.”

  Peter starred back in defiance. “She means nothing to me.”

  “Oh, I think she does. Why else would she risk her life to save yours?”

  “She’s an assassin, probably here to kill me and collect your bounty.”

  “If that is true, then shoot her yourself. You’ll have a clear shot at me, too.”

  Several tense seconds passed. Ming had called Peter’s bluff. But he wasn’t going to drop his weapon either.

  “It’s a standoff, Ming. I can stay here all day. I’ve got nowhere to go.”

  Ming shrugged. “Me too. Besides, in a few minutes, my drone will be over the Hayden Bridge water intake and it will dispense the virus. We can celebrate together.”

  “Your flight team is under my custody. They won’t be able to activate the release command.”

  “I see your
point. Call your dog off.”

  “And why would I want to do that?” Diesel was still focused on the pilot and co-pilot lying face down on the floor.

  “I see your dog is very obedient. Undoubtedly your partner. Am I correct?” It was a rhetorical question, and Ming didn’t wait for a reply. “I have read that the bond between man and dog can be very strong. Maybe I will shoot the animal first and then the woman.”

  “The last person who shot my dog is dead,” Peter replied.

  “I could aim for his head. But no, that would be too quick. The bullet proof vest is clever, makes it difficult to find a vulnerability. Oh, I will aim for the dog’s unprotected rear quarters. The bullet will do severe damage to muscle and bone, I’d imagine destroy the intestines too. Death will be slow and very painful.”

  Peter’s mind was spinning. He had too many points of vulnerability to cover them all. None of his options were acceptable—he could shoot Ming, and likely kill Danya in the process; he could allow the flight team to resume their job, but that would result in the virus being released over the water supply; he could continue to have Diesel hold Abresch and the co-pilot, but Ming could inflict a horrible and fatal gunshot wound to his best friend.

  There was no good answer. It was the Devil’s dilemma—being forced to select from three options, knowing that whichever he chose would result in harm to innocents.

  “What will it be, Mr. Savage? Or shall I choose for you?”

  As seconds ticked by, Peter’s pulse pounded in his head. Finally, he relented.

  “Diesel,” Peter said. “Come. Sit.” The canine followed his master’s order and sat by his feet.

  “Excellent choice,” Ming gloated. “Abresch! You two return to your station.”

  “Don’t do it, Abresch,” Peter said, but his weapon remained aimed at Ming.

  “Seems you have another quandary, Mr. Savage. If you turn your gun to the flight team, you will be open to my aim.” He chuckled, like he was sharing an inside joke. “I should warn you, I am a very good shot.”

  Peter’s eyes shifted toward the flight control console. One monitor displayed a track progressively closing on a circle that he presumed was the municipal water supply. The timer read 1:39.

  The two-man flight team hadn’t moved, frozen in indecision. Ming shouted, “Abresch! Return to your post and complete your mission.” The pilot and co-pilot snapped to their feet and occupied their stations.

  “Shoot him,” Danya said. Ming pressed the pistol barrel tighter into her head. “Don’t worry about me. Just kill this bastard.”

  “She has a point. You could shoot through her into me. Take us both out. If she really is just an assassin, like you claim, then you would be well advised to kill us both. Go on, what are you waiting for?”

  Ming read the indecision in Peter’s eyes. “Or maybe you were bluffing, and this woman does mean something to you.”

  Peter’s grip on the shotgun tightened, but he knew the illusion of the standoff was merely that. He couldn’t kill Danya in order to stop Ming.

  “You see,” Ming said. “I know you well. As I said, I did my homework. You are a man of honor, and as such you will not sacrifice an innocent to kill me. That is your weakness.”

  Peter recognized the truth in Ming’s words. With no other rational choice, he lay the shotgun down.

  “Now the pistols.”

  He drew each slowly and tossed it aside.

  Ming’s chuckle grew into full laughter, mocking Peter. He was defeated, at Simon Ming’s mercy. But he didn’t expect mercy—he expected a bullet. Death didn’t concern him; he didn’t fear dying. He’d faced death before, and somehow luck had always intervened on his behalf. But now, he felt sadness and regret.

  Sad that he could not save Danya, who had risked so much to save his life. Sad that Diesel would also likely be killed. Two friends who had come through on his behalf, asking nothing in return–and yet they were going to pay with their lives.

  Regret that their sacrifices would be in vain. Both his friends would surely be shot dead moments after Ming put a bullet in Peter’s head. And no good would have come from their loss; nothing would have changed. The outcome would still be a poisoned water supply, the psychopath’s plan still in motion.

  “You win, Ming. Let her go. You have me.”

  “Yes, I do have you. And her, and your dog. And I—”

  Danya rammed her head back into Ming’s face, bloodying his nose and launching a bolt of pain that caused him to release his grip on her and lower the pistol. His hand reflexively rose to his broken nose.

  She turned and dropped onto her back. Demonstrating the flexibility of an Olympic gymnast, she bent at the waist until her knees were almost touching her nose, stifling a cry as the thigh muscles around the bullet wound were stretched. Refusing to yield to the pain, she swiftly worked her cuffed hands around her legs.

  Ming’s eyes were watering profusely, blurring his vision, but he’d recovered from the blow and was raising his weapon, searching for a target.

  “Danya!” Peter shouted as he whipped the tomahawk from his belt behind his back and tossed it to her. She grabbed it with both hands and swung. The steel spike pierced Ming’s shoulder.

  He screamed in pain, but Danya wasn’t done. She yanked the metal away and rotated the handle so that the cutting blade was facing her enemy.

  His eyes were filled with loathing and pain-fueled rage. Hatred drove him on despite his wounds. His gun hand swung toward Danya.

  She drove the blade forward, slashing through his sternum. The steel sliced into his heart. A new wave of burning pain wracked his body, seizing his chest. The intensity was unlike anything he’d ever felt. All his muscles cramped. He couldn’t even breathe.

  Danya rotated the handle like it was a lever, tearing Ming’s heart open and splitting his chest. His eyes, wide and filled with shock and disbelief, locked onto hers. She extracted the tomahawk and allowed his dead body to fall backwards with a satisfying thump.

  Chapter 50

  South of Eugene, Oregon

  March 29

  As Danya steadied the blood-coated blade between her feet and cut the plastic ties binding her hands, Peter retrieved the FN shotgun. “You two better move out of the way,” he said as he swung the muzzle at the flight control console. Abresch and the co-pilot dove for the floor just ahead of the first shot.

  The count-down timer read 0:29.

  Peter fired the shotgun into the computers and electronic equipment. The next shell loaded even before he recovered from the recoil. He fired again… and again… and again, until the magazine was empty. Then he reloaded from the bandoleer hanging across his chest and continued the onslaught, sending a violent barrage of slugs and buckshot into the equipment. Sparks emanated from some of the many ragged holes. The monitors were all smashed, and the timer was frozen at 0:02.

  Diesel eyed the pilots suspiciously. A deep, guttural growl was sufficient to send Abresch and her partner to their knees with their hands on their heads.

  “Easy, Diesel,” Peter said. He faced Danya. “You okay?”

  She tilted her head to the side. “That was close.”

  “It’s not over. Law enforcement should be on the way.”

  Danya contemplated the meaning of Peter’s warning. “Detective Colson doesn’t have jurisdiction here. And the Eugene police can’t be trusted.”

  “If she managed to pull it off, it will be federal agents. You should go. Slip out while you can. I’ll cover for you.”

  “You’d do that? Even with our history?”

  Peter cracked a sly grin and handed over the FN shotgun. “Yeah. Exactly because of our history.”

  She returned the grin. “Thanks for returning my tomahawk and shotgun.”

  “Thanks for bringing Diesel. How’d you do that? I’m surprised he’d go with you.”

  “Kate made it clear the choice was up to him. I don’t know why he came along, but he did.”

  Peter rubbed Diesel’s he
ad. This was just another example confirming his belief that Diesel was keenly in tune with him, and that he understood people at some basic level, maybe body language or pheromones. He didn’t know. But somehow Diesel, more often than not, got the message.

  “You know,” Danya continued, “you need to let go and move on. Kate won’t wait forever.”

  It was a subject that Peter considered off limits. He rarely discussed his relationship with Kate even with his best friends and children. For Danya, almost a stranger, to bring it up caught Peter off guard. And it stung.

  “When did you become an expert on relationships? Seems to me you have plenty of personal baggage of your own.”

  “I do. That’s why I know what I’m talking about. Look, you can’t change the past any more than I can, any more than anyone can. We all make choices. Some are good, some aren’t. Sometimes life deals us a crappy hand. Regardless, you have to move on. Accept the past. Learn from it. But above all, don’t give up on life.”

  “Spoken with conviction.”

  “In case you haven’t figured it out already, I’m really good at killing people. But when it comes to relationships, I get an F. You don’t want to make the mistakes I have.”

  Peter nodded. Her words carried a lot of weight, and he vowed to seriously consider them. “What are you going to do?”

  “What I’ve been doing since we first met on Broken Top. Fly below everyone’s radar, stay on the move.” She shrugged. “It was the choice I made when I aborted the mission and stopped reporting to my superior.”

  “And if you’d completed your mission?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You’d be dead, and I’d probably still be working for Mossad. But I chose otherwise. No regrets. None.”

  “Can’t your government just accept that you no longer work for them?”

  She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “I wish it was that simple. But the truth is that no one quits Mossad. There is a price on my head. Alive is better so I can be interrogated, but dead will suffice.”