From Russia Without Love (19 page)

He took a brief examination of the compartment, and in the bathtub he found a man’s body, dried streams of blood exiting his nose and ears. Chris felt for a pulse. Dead.

Chris shook his head, and it struck him that the average person would feel horror at such a sight, but his eyes had been forced to see so much worse, each time tearing another piece from the fabric of his spirit. Such experiences were what helped motivate him to get out of the military in the first place, before his spirit was stripped completely. The adrenaline and the brotherhood could no longer bind him to the job—until Hannah had pulled him back in. Now his venom for evil men was full again. He had a mission to finish, and there was no turning back.

He figured he could wait in the bathroom until Xander entered the cabin. Once he was inside, Chris could knock him unconscious and tie him up, but there was no rope in the room. Chris opened a dresser drawer and found the dead man’s T-shirts. Those would work. Expecting each room to have lifejackets for its passengers, Chris was able to locate two in the compartment. He could use them for both Xander and himself. At night, when they neared a port, he could jump ship with his prisoner and swim them to the nearest boat and sail back to Azerbaijan. But it was risky. The water would be cold, and they wouldn’t be able to survive for too terribly long.

As he waited in the bathroom, he took another look at the dead man’s body. Xander probably viewed it with the same cold detachment as Chris did. Maybe Xander was right, Chris’s ability to think like him was what had allowed Chris to find him.

If I were him, what would be my next move?

Xander would need to debrief. Then he’d jock up to do the next mission. For Chris, the debrief would be in Langley; for Xander, the debrief would be in Moscow.

How would I get to Moscow?

Xander could simply take the ship to Moscow and turn himself over to the local authorities there and wait until his superiors bailed him out, but Xander had been under deep cover for so long and he seemed proud of his abilities as a NOC.

I wouldn’t turn myself over to the local yokels. I am a professional.

The PA system came on, and a voice announced the ship was nearing a port, where the
Tchaikovsky
would stop and take on supplies. The supply-port officials would probably have less manpower, training, and equipment to hunt for an illegal immigrant than big-city Moscow officials. By the time the search intensified, Xander would have already hot-wired a car and been on his way north. Then he’d ditch his stolen car in the next town and make sure he was “clean” of surveillance before making the rest of the journey to Moscow.

That’s it. He’ll jump ship here!

Chris rushed out of the room and up the stairs. He knew there was no convenient place to jump from on the middle deck, so he ascended past it to the next deck. There, he left the stairs, ran aft of the lounge, and dodged the other passengers. An imposing shirtless guy walked in the middle of the passageway, oblivious to others around him. As Chris ran by, he clipped the guy’s shoulder, causing him to shout angrily. Chris eventually reached the pool. It was deserted.

Blackness blanketed the moon and stars, and rain diffused the illumination of the artificial land lights, which stretched long reflected limbs across the water. The sound of the ship’s diesel engines churning, the rain pouring down, and the sky rumbling made it impossible to hear whether someone was swimming or not. The Caspian Sea extended like Tyrian ink from a bottle, and twenty-five meters away from the ship, Chris could barely make out what appeared to be splashes characteristic of a swimmer. The identity of the person wasn’t clear, but the swimmer stroked toward shore, unlike someone who might’ve fallen off the ship and wanted to be rescued. The swimmer only had a hundred more meters to swim before reaching the bank, not a difficult swim.

If it’s Xander, he’s getting away.

Chris climbed over the rail and prepared to jump.

If that isn’t Xander, I’m screwed.

The noise of hitting the water seemed so incredibly loud. It was always like that when hunting bad guys: Chris’s own noise was amplified in his mind, and adrenaline heightened his senses. Before becoming a frogman, he wasn’t as comfortable in the water, but through training and experience, it became instinct, allowing him to focus on the mission and nothing else:
get Xander
.

The cold water attacked Chris’s senses, but he knew if he swam fast, his body would warm up. While the swimmer stroked freestyle, splashing toward land, Chris swam a combat sidestroke, making no splashes. The petrol in the water fumed so deep and thick in the back of his nostrils he almost choked on it—but if he held his face above water, his hips would sink as if he were swimming uphill, so he stuck his face in it and maintained his horizontal balance. Chris stretched his body out to increase his length, make longer strokes, and swim faster, and he cranked his hips and utilized his core muscles to rotate his body in the water, boosting his engine. He was gaining on the swimmer.

A ship’s horn sounded, startling him, and an announcement came over the PA. “Man overboard!” It came from the cruise ship. “Man overboard!”

Before Chris could close the distance between him and the swimmer, the swimmer reached shore and climbed out of the water, silhouetting himself against the smattering of blurred lights behind him. It was Xander. Chris imagined being the water and avoided thinking directly about Xander, so as to not trigger any sixth sense in him. Then the man disappeared over the seawall.

Chris reached the shore and slinked over the seawall, as well, and into the mud on the other side, but Xander was already gone. Lying in the muck, Chris observed his surroundings. No one moved on him, so he assumed he hadn’t been spotted. He rose to a crouch and stalked through a parking lot looking for his target.

The sound of glass shattering cracked through the night air. Maybe someone was shooting at him through a window, but Chris wasn’t hit and there was no sonic snap of a round passing near him. The noise came from the parking lot ahead, and Chris noticed a small fleet of white trucks. An engine started up, and Chris hurried in the direction of the engine’s sound, but he was too late. The truck was driving away.

Chris rushed to the row of white vehicles, where
Caspian Shipping
was written on the sides and backs of the trucks. He took the shim out of his pocket and inserted it into the keyhole of the driver’s door but he couldn’t unlock it. So, taking a cue from Xander, he searched for something solid to break the window with. As he was searching, he noticed a compass on a dash inside another white truck and decided he wanted that truck instead, so when he found a massive rock on the ground, he used it to bust through the passenger’s-side window. Then he unlocked the door, climbed in over the glass, and sat in the driver’s seat. He tried the shim again, this time in the ignition, but he couldn’t start the vehicle. He wielded the rock like a caveman and busted the ignition cover. After hot-wiring the vehicle, he sped off to find Xander.

As Chris gained ground, the rain flowed through the broken passenger window, and he turned on the windshield wipers. He wished he had a GPS to help him locate a main road leading to Moscow. Although he could read Russian, there were no signs indicating the direction of a major street. He followed what seemed to be a main road leading north, but it terminated in a dead end and he had to backtrack. He followed the street until it veered west, away from the Caspian Sea. Then he turned onto another road leading north. As the windshield wipers beat a monotonous rhythm, he felt contained in a maze of little roads as he tried to navigate his way through a small village.

When he came to a body of water, he had no idea where he was. His compass indicated he was traveling north, but with the moon and stars being obscured by the rainclouds as they were, he couldn’t use celestial navigation to confirm its accuracy. All he knew was that he was getting deeper into Russia. If his luck didn’t change soon, he might have to abort the mission. He prayed he’d know where to go, but he didn’t feel like he received an answer. He felt like he was on his own.

Just because he felt disoriented in a strange land didn’t automatically mean the compass was wrong, so he decided to trust it some more and started driving west. The body of water ended as Chris continued to follow the road, but he ran into another dead end, so he had to turn and resume his northerly trek. In spite of the confusing array of streets and waterways, he finally ran into Route E119, which he hoped would go all the way to Moscow.

Although it was possible Xander had stayed put, he’d stolen a vehicle, and it was more likely that he was headed to Moscow. Xander knew customs officials and local law enforcement would be looking for the “man overboard,” so he was probably headed north for the first big town, where he could ditch his stolen vehicle and find his connecting transportation to Moscow. Chris was lagging and had lost more time navigating his way through the small village, so now he had to play catch up. He pressed harder on the gas pedal, pushing the truck faster.

_______

A
bolt of lightning struck less than a klick away, and Chris was driving directly into the storm. Carefully watching the road in front of his headlights, he drove as swiftly as he dared on the slick dark asphalt, somehow managing to keep himself between the ditches. He had to find Xander, and fast. As Chris rounded a curve, he nearly rear-ended a white truck with its lights turned off.

Jackpot
.

The road became straight again, and Chris accelerated, moving alongside the other truck, and got visual confirmation it was indeed Xander inside. Chris backed off a bit and used his bumper to tap Xander’s vehicle behind the back wheel. Then he pressed down on the gas pedal and turned the wheel hard into Xander’s truck, causing it to lose traction. Chris steered clear as Xander lost control and skidded off the road into a ditch. Chris was still going fast, so he passed him and circled back. Xander was attempting to drive out of the ditch when he returned, but he’d only managed to entrench his vehicle more.

Lightning struck, closer this time, flooding the forest with light. Xander leaped from his truck and ran into the woods. Chris pulled over beside the road, disconnected the ignition, jumped out, and gave chase. He ran for all he was worth, and then he ran faster still. A blinding flash of lightning struck, followed by a
crack
that sounded like a tree splitting open, and something heavy hit the forest floor with a loud
thud
.

The lightning will probably kill me before Xander does.

Branches whipped Chris’s face and the uneven ground made him stumble, but he didn’t let the obstacles slow him down. He ran until his lungs burned and his thighs ached, but Xander picked up his pace, too.

Chris wanted to avoid tall trees that would serve as a lightning rod and rebound the lightning out of the trunk and hit him. He glanced up, but all the trees were tall, and it would be impossible to avoid them.

The woods became thicker and darker as he ran, and Xander disappeared until a brilliant white flash of lightning spotlighted him. The forest thinned out into a clearing where a dacha—a Russian country home—stood. Chris thought he saw Xander enter it, and he ran across the clearing and attempted to open the door, but it was locked. He kicked it open and rushed inside. As he searched the living room for Xander, he also looked for any weapons of opportunity. When he passed through the kitchen, lightning struck again, and he spotted an ax embedded in a tree stump outside.

There’s a weapon of opportunity if I ever saw one.

A creaking noise came from one of the rooms down the hall. Chris checked the first room but only found a bed and a dresser—the closet was empty, too. He checked the rest of the dacha, only to find that no one was home.

Maybe the house is settling
, he reasoned.

He exited the dacha through the back door. The sound of movement in the leaves came from around the house, and Chris followed the noise. A rat. When he turned the corner of the building again, he saw the tree stump, but the ax was gone. His stomach dropped.

A jagged streak of light descended from the sky, branching out toward the earth. Its white branches sprouted more branches, smiting a nearby tree and causing an explosion at the trunk. Chris had been under effective mortar attack before, but this lightning strike gave him pause to check if he’d pissed himself. Just then, he heard a noise behind him. He spun around to see Xander standing there wielding the ax.

“I did not realize you were alone,” Xander said.

Chris said nothing.

“You do not know when to give up, do you?”

Chris remained quiet. He hoped to grab Xander’s arm before he could swing the ax, but he swung before Chris could move in to grapple. Chris stepped back instead, the blade just missing him. Xander was too quick.

Chris positioned himself next to a tree, and when Xander swung again, Chris stepped outside of the swing. Xander missed, and the ax imbedded itself in the trunk. Before Xander could pull the ax loose, Chris kicked him in the crotch. Xander lifted to his toes with a grunt. Then Chris swung at his enemy’s solar plexus, but Xander released his grip on the ax, leaving it in the tree, and stepped back. Chris’s punch missed. He had put so much oomph into it, though, that he overextended himself. Xander blew at Chris like a squall, exploiting his awkward positioning, and iron-fisted him in the side of the gut. Chris’s air caught, breath ceasing to come as the wind was knocked out of him.

“Prepare to join Michael Winthrop,” Xander said.

He punched at Chris’s head, and Chris ducked, averting the blow. But Xander’s other fist was too speedy, and the follow-up smashed Chris in the face, throwing him to the ground. It hit him with such devastating impact that he struggled to lift his body from the dirt. It rained so heavily that he didn’t know if the stream running down his face was water or blood.

Xander retrieved the ax, his dripping hands clenched tightly around the handle. “You Americans are no match for Mother Russia. That is why you could not save Michael. You cannot even save yourself.”

“I agree with one thing you said,” Chris said.

Xander moved in closer with the ax. “What is that?”

“I don’t know when to give up.” Chris scrambled to his feet, but he staggered from the cast-iron aftereffect of Xander’s punch. His body reacted slower than he intended. He didn’t know whether he was about to throw up or pass out.

Xander’s shoulders and arms moved back, body coiled as he lifted the ax and prepared to deal the final blow. Lightning flashed. Rain poured down Xander’s face, and his eyes filled with insane rage.

Chris needed to move out of the way, but something was wrong, as if there was a disconnect between his brain and body. And there wasn’t enough time for the effect to wear off.

This is the end.

Crack!
Lightning struck the tree next to Xander. Then his countenance changed as if an artillery shell had struck him. In the next instant, something struck Chris, too. His skin clenched his bones. The noise was so deafening he thought his head had exploded. His body felt like it had been hit by flaming shrapnel, knocking him off his feet, and his vision whited out.

The outline of trees appeared on a blank white canvas and the morning aquamarine of the sky seeped through. The lightning and rain had stopped. In fact, all sound was gone. Chris had lost his hearing, but he was thankful he could still see. He smacked his lips at the strange metal taste in his mouth.

Nearby, a gray squirrel sat up on the ground, watching him with big black eyes. Then there was a faint sound of birds chirping. At first, he thought he’d imagined the sound, but it became louder, and he thanked God his hearing was returning. The air smelled fresh, and the forest was peaceful.

Chris fought to sit up. He noticed one shoe had a hole in the sole, probably where the lightning had entered from the ground. His other shoe was missing, and there was a charred hole in the bottom of his sock. He looked around and spotted his missing shoe, crawled over to it, and noticed it had a hole in the bottom, too. The lightning had entered one foot, traveled through his body, and exited his other foot, taking his shoe off with it.

Groggily, and without thinking, he put his shoe on. His legs were unsteady as he stood. He wobbled a little and put a hand out, leaning against the tree nearest him. Its bark seemed to be intact, confirming that the lightning current had traveled from the bottom of the tree trunk over the surface of the ground, rather than exiting the tree’s side. Then he saw the ax in the dirt and picked it up. At first, the ax felt heavy, but as his strength came back, it became lighter.

Off to the side, Xander sat stock-still with his eyes open, as if paralyzed. His hair looked wiry, and his clothes were charred. One of his shoes and a sock were missing, and the bottom of his naked foot was fried.

“I need an ambulance,” Xander said with a moan, battling to breathe and slurring his words. “Get me an ambulance!” He drooled out of one corner of his mouth.

Chris’s hate for Xander bubbled inside him. Reverend Luther said hate could destroy a pastor quicker than most anything. He tried to heed the reverend’s warning and took even sips of air into his lungs. With Xander already incapacitated by the lightning strike, he wasn’t an immediate threat, he reminded himself. Killing him would be akin to cold-blooded murder, especially for a pastor. Even so, Chris was madder than hell.

Xander seemed to read his eyes. “You cannot kill me here,” he said quietly, “not in my own country.”

Chris had let the anger boil up until he was so full of it that all he could do now was explode. He moved into position and raised the ax high in the air.

“You cannot do this to me,” Xander objected, “not in my own—”

Before Xander finished, Chris brought down the ax with a mighty swing, stopping Xander midsentence. The ax split a fallen tree trunk.

Chris’s dark side chided him for not killing Xander right then and there, but he loved God more than he hated Xander. It was a small price to pay for giving his soul to a greater good.