Do Or Die (Surreal Blue Rogue Agent 1) (3 page)

Viktor,
already adept at masking his emotions, easily hid his annoyance at the fact
that Adrianna’s explicit location was divulged to Lincoln so quickly. Viktor
wondered at Xin’s mounting challenge to his authority at every turn. This
further shrank the time available to him to manage his deliverables – Audrianna
to Dr. Eli by dusk.

“We
have a decisive lock on her GIS coordinates.” Lincoln looked at Viktor. “Would
you like to lead the SWAT team?”

Lincoln
had to hand it to Viktor; he appeared genuinely puzzled by the question.

 “Me?”
Viktor replied.

“Given
your former profession, I thought you would rather like to handle the
undertaking yourself.”

Viktor
blinked, aghast. “As an actuary?”

Lincoln
sighed. “Are you willing to keep up the pretense, even now, though your wife’s
life is on the line?”

Viktor
sighed in response to Lincoln’s clipped tone.  He laid a reassuring palm on his
shoulder.  The men were nearly equal in height; Lincoln had only two inches
over Viktor. Viktor looked squarely into Lincoln’s eyes and said quietly, “I
trust you,” before he grabbed his briefcase and headed towards the door.

Leaving
the job of finding his wife in the hands of his U.S. Army-trained aides, Viktor
headed towards the elevator. Trinidad was a small island, and he had no time to
lose to arrive at the coordinates before Lincoln and his team. Audrianna’s
security team was highly trained in combat, a daring mash-up of ex-Marines,
Interpol agents, and volatile assassins. They had no doubt taken the kidnapping
as an affront to their very existence.  Yet Viktor’s training was undoubtedly
of a more lethal vein than any human could dare measure against. Audrianna was
his
wife. He would make sure the person who had taken her drew his last breath the
very second he laid his hands on him.

Viktor
related to his secretary that she was to remain on call until further notice.
He reached the elevator, pressed the button and waited. He then slowly turned
to his right to face the approaching auburn-haired man. Viktor’s brow furrowed
as he sought to recall the young man’s name. Viktor extended his arm and
grasped the callused hand the man extended. “Brighton,” Viktor inclined his
head, “Darksmith.”

The
man had a somber, disquiet disposition about him that left others unsettled in
his presence. Viktor had remained unperturbed by him.

“Sir,”
Brighton addressed him as he reached for the case held by his apprentice, who stood
beside him. “Your “Hell’s Embrace” as per your request.” 

Viktor
stayed the man’s hand by gently tapping it with his index finger. He waved his
finger negatively. “No, no.” Viktor spoke softly. “Not here, we’re too
overexposed.”

Viktor
turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. Lincoln and Mat drew close, the
doors to the elevator opened and Viktor entered. Three young women of African
descent dressed in white tube tops, black leather jackets, and leather pants
stood waiting his arrival in the elevator. Viktor sighed in exasperation. His
silver-lined suit should have been enough to deter them from following him.

The trio
of werewolves was a part of Audrianna’s pack; they protected Audrianna on
occasions, and one of their own had been the only casualty in the attack. He
had hoped to not have to bring them with him, he had never agreed to them being
a part of her entourage. But he was not in the mood to turn them away. 

They
all wore their natural hair in a corkscrew hairstyle that massed at the
shoulder. One’s complexion was a fairer shade of almond brown than the others.
The ultimate goal was to be a decoy for Audrianna in case of an attack such as
the one that occurred last night. But all that had resulted in is the death of
one, and the kidnapping of his wife. Revenge must be at the forefront of their
minds.

Their
expressions gave away no measure of discomfort as he turned to the elevator’s
opening and beckoned Darksmith and the young boy inside.

The
doors to the elevator were about to close when an index finger slid through the
cracked opening. With the strength of his artificial index finger Lincoln
forcefully, and easily, slid the doors back into its slit. Lincoln looked down
at Viktor.

“You’re
not heading to command center?”

“Sorry.
We’re heading up. Prior engagement.” Viktor flicked Lincoln’s finger from the
open door, but his finger only moved because Lincoln moved it, not because
Viktor could. Lincoln folded his arms and watched as the doors began to close,
not before Brighton gave a half-hearted wave delivered with an expectant
expression in Lincoln’s direction.

Lincoln
gave Brighton a brief, non-committal smile before the doors shut.

Mat
turned to Lincoln and leered at him. He lifted his curled fingers and gave him
the fig sign
, wriggling his thumb beneath
his index finger. Only a decades-long friendship kept Mat from landing in a
world of hurt by offending the towering Lincoln Huntington with his brash teasing.

Lincoln,
in response, flipped Mat his middle finger.  His eyes silently told Mat, “Go
fuck yourself.”

Viktor
led the Darksmith and his apprentice through the double doors of the top floor,
past the portraits of former Ministers of Finance who had reined over the
national Ministry of the preceding years. He led them to the second conference
room, which had the title “Scarlet Ibis” engraved over the double doors.

Viktor
barged into the room unceremoniously. They had booked the room for a meeting
and had assured the building’s caterers that they would provide their own
helpers. They would remain undisturbed until the watchman made his patrol later
that night.

Viktor
surveyed the board. His manservant Grigori, a pale figure with a bushy beard
and mustache and an aristocratic nose, stood on the far side of the room facing
the expansive windows. His attention had been drawn to the darkening skies.
“Striking view, isn’t it.” His gaze never wavered; his reflection in the glass
was a clear mimicry. “Like having a clear view of what is to come.” Grigori
turned to face Viktor.

He
sniffed Viktor’s collar, his brows shot up, Grigori snickered at the scent of
silver that lined Viktor’s waistcoat and jacket that assailed him, “ a
tad…immature?” Grigori lent accusingly.

Viktor’s
attention had already been caught by the sight of the other young boy in the room.
He sat on a chair in the corner. Nikolai, sullen, looked out at the same intense
weather. The dark clouds rolling in from the horizon were nearly upon the
shoreline. The deep-barreled rumbling and flashes of lightning promised a dire
circumstance to the evening. Viktor sighed, annoyed. He drew himself up beside
Grigori. “What the hell Grigori, this is not a family affair!” he ground out
quietly.

Grigori
looked at him, unfazed by his master’s aura of malice. “I am not to leave young
master unattended. He is quite traumatized by the events that occurred last
night – you should have a word...” Viktor walked away from him.

Had
Viktor paid attention to what he had said? Grigori scowled as he watched Viktor
grab the weapon that had wanted repair. Grigori’s attention, too, had been
stirred by the remarkable aesthetics of the club. Hell’s Embrace, Viktor’s superior
weapon, had been chipped badly during his last battle.

The
club was about two and a half feet in height, its weight – hefty. Though as a
man of strong build Viktor felt no extremity in wielding it. The wood the club
was made of was jagged, but smooth to the touch, as though chiseled from a tree
trunk and then sandpapered with exquisite care. Its crown was encrusted with
clear, hard crystals and black moon rock. Spikes adorned its circular rim.

Viktor
waved his arm in a clean, effortless downward motion.
Whoosh
; the sound
sliced the air. The top of the club sparkled like stars in the night sky, as
though with energy born from the swift movement. Viktor was visibly
appreciative of the weapon. He brought the club to lay across his palm. Sighing,
he walked across to Nikolai.

The
boy’s puffy eyes and red nose were marked signs that he had been crying. Viktor
spoke resoundingly in his native language. “You see this club. I’m going to
find the man who took your mother, and I’m going to use this club to beat him
within an inch of his life…” He looked down, dead straight into the boy’s
unwavering stare. “Then I’m going to kill him.” The exchange seemed to cheer
Nikolai up, because a slow smile dared to grace his lips.

“Fantastic,”
Grigori thought, pulling out his ringing cell phone. “At least they seem to
speak each other’s language.”

“I
trust the club is to your liking.” Brighton would rather take his leave now and
make an early flight out of the country. This stop was one of four for the
evening, his obligation to the Maxcks were purely sentimental.

“Ah
yes, heavier than I am used to…” Viktor kept admiring his piece.

“That
may be ‘cause of the added inner component you requested.” Brighton pointed at
the weapon in Viktor’s hand. “Dead center, as per your instructions.”

“Hmm…”
Viktor folded his arms. Still holding the weapon, he brought his other hand
upward to stroke his chin using his thumb and index finger. “Brighton…” He
paused. “After this…we need to have a word.”

“Viktor,”
Grigori addressed him from behind. “That was your master interrogator. He is
stuck on the highway, he will be another twenty minutes. Brian is just now
drawing that symbol you’re so fond of on the roof top, and Kelly should make it
in time for the transportation ritual…”

“We
have no time,” Viktor said decisively. Lincoln was probably on his way to
Audrianna now, the epic Lincoln Huntington was sure not to wait for backup,
thought Viktor. Aside from the urgency of the matter of his wife’s kidnapping,
Viktor was not yet sure if she was being held for ransom or for another reason
altogether too sinister to comprehend.

“I’ll
protect you.”

His
boastful words came back to haunt him now; he closed his eyes to the vivid
memory.
“Marry me, I’ll protect you.”
He had promised her.  

Viktor
walked over to the long window, surveying the black man on the roof of the
other building. He was barely out of sight, using the paintbrush in his hand to
quickly fashion the Star of David on the roof. “Spare me…” Viktor breathed. He
extended his arm in a swooping arc; Hell’s Embrace glowed, emitting a soft hum.
“I’ll grab Kelly – Darksmith, how good are you tactically, in the field?”

“I’m
no fighter.” Brighton was quick to reveal with raised brows.

“But
you are armed,” Viktor stated.

Brighton
gave no answer.

“Viktor.”
Grigori approached him as Viktor made a mental check of everyone aligned with
him: the three wolves, Darksmith, Kelly in transit. “You mean to transport
these four men, and yourself, plus one in transit without knowing precisely
where he is and without a proper marker to keep your locations in check – have
you ever done it before?”

Viktor
kept his eyes trained on the toe of his grey, Versace, patent leather dress
shoe and the inane thought flitted through his mind that he hoped the
decorative lines of the shoe would not dizzy him. “I’m doing it now.” Viktor
did not look up. “Everyone, stand where you are and do not move a muscle, do
not even blink – and if you can help it, do not even breathe.” Viktor flexed
his arm, gripping the club’s handle. He could hear the sound of metal clang as
he was deftly in tune with his instrument of destruction. Only Viktor could
hear it, only he could see the vibration of the ground, the heartbeat of each
man he was to bring with him on his journey. There was the harsh sound of metal
dragging slowly against steel as though a clammy echo of a creaking door had
been opened, and then Viktor saw nothing but the black.

They
were gone. Grigori looked at his charge, sitting in the ergonomic chair,
staring at him questioningly.
And who is this kid?
Grigori thought to
himself as he stared at the young apprentice of Darksmith.
Ahh yes, Grigori
Rasputin: healer, supreme master of the mystic arts - errant babysitter
.
Grigori thought wryly.

He
clapped his hands together and wore an effectively bright smile commanding the
attention of both children. “Okay,” he rubbed his hands together, speaking
lively. “Who is up for some chocolate ice cream and some cake?”

Kelly
sat in the convertible. His red BMW drew stares from the locals, as it was
clearly expensive. They must wonder who he was, but Kelly was not concerned
about the attention he drew to himself. Dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, black
overcoat, and slacks, he sat in the driver’s seat checking his emails on his
smart phone – in that instant he felt an oppressive hand placed firmly on his
shoulder,  making him gasp. He whipped his head to see who could have possibly
caught him, Kelly Payne, off-guard. His eyes met blackness.

Kelly
started. His feet were no longer neatly tucked into the driver’s seat of his
newly-refurbished car, but planted on a hard unseen ground. Kelly fell
backward, and his derrière hit asphalt. He cursed. “Damn it Viktor, some
professional courtesy is not only welcome,” Kelly said, picking himself up and
dusting himself off, “It is advised.”