Blaze (12 page)

The execution did not take long and was not difficult. Putin demanded an explanation for the presence of the brotherhood thugs. Maksim closed the door, smiled, and thanked Putin for his service to Mother Russia. He then politely informed him that his services, and his life for that matter, were no longer needed. Then, in the ultimate gesture of insult, as his thugs held Putin still, he lifted Putin's personal marshal arts swords off the wall. With a sword in each hand, Maksim lunged forward to pierce upward and diagonally through Putin's abdomen, to form the shape of an ‘X' with the swords, as he hoisted Putin off the ground. Putin's weight slowly fell into the swords as he succumbed to his death. He uttered only the word “bastard” as he transitioned into an unknown eternity.

Then, to the shock and repulse of even the onlooking mafia thugs, Maksim stepped forward toward Putin and kneeled in front him. He drew from his coat pocket the glistening, golden skull-shaped mug. He had been waiting for this moment of consummation. He almost giggled at the arrival of the moment. The excitement was not containable. His Scythian ancestors had used the actual skulls of their enemies. Maksim had conceded to the sufficiency of the symbolism of the skull-shaped golden mug. The blood was pouring steadily and with thickness and rapidity. As chaotic as the bloodletting was, channeling a good sufficient stream into the mug was effortless and completed within seconds. Also completed within seconds, was Maksim's taking of the blood-filled mug and gulping it down like a shot of vodka.

He felt the warmth of Putin's blood slide down his throat and he imagined the power his Scythian ancestors must have felt when they drank their enemies blood out of their actual skulls. Maksim had then felt power and dominance like he had dreamed of since he was a young child. His day had come. The Byzantine Empire was on the precipice of re-emergence.

The next day, the Russian media reported Putin's suicide. They had also informed the public of the emergency appointment of Koslov as president by Putin's cabinet. Maksim Koslov wasted no time cleaning up the blood, occupying Putin's office, and placing the golden skull-shaped mug on the shelf. All eighty-nine of the governors Putin appointed throughout Russia had ‘disappeared' over the course of the next three months. The disappearances were not reported in the Russian media, and they barely made the bottom text scrolls on the cable news channels in the west. The majority of the newly appointed governors had long expected their new positions. The fact that many were prominent members of the Russian mafia was barely reported and elicited complacent shrugs from those who did become aware. The new dawn had come, and Russia was indeed hailing it.

The intercom alerted Maksim that it was now 7:00 am and that he'd better proceed to the steam room and the shower to prepare for his 7:30 am meeting. He cursed the interruption of his recollections. He quickly assessed the progress of his painting before he hurried off to the steam room. It was coming along quite nicely. Hell, Hitler's paintings never looked this good. He thought to himself that if he was a better painter than Hitler, it stood to reason that he would indeed also be a better conqueror than Hitler. He washed the paintbrush, took off his robe, and hurried with purpose to the steam room to renew his pores, his mind, and his focus. The day was new, and like Russia's future, full of promise.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

O'CONNER'S IRISH BOXING CLUB, DETROIT, MICHIGAN

F
rom the viewpoint of any unsuspecting outsider who might happen to walk into the back office of O'Conner's Irish Boxing Club at 6:30 am on one fine Thursday morning, it would be instantly thought that Chuck Gallagher was bizarrely intense and intensely bizarre. Chuck was preparing both for his sparring match and subsequent CIA meeting with Blaze McIntyre.

Chuck Gallagher stood behind his stand-up desk in the back office space O'Conner's had made available for both Blaze and Chuck to hammer out their business. To the eye, the damp, cold aesthetic of the gunmetal grey office seemed to visually swallow up his presence in the room. He was wearing athletic shorts that bordered on offensive. They were of the variety that one with a better sense of fashion would avoid. Anyone who harbored a sense of juvenile jocularity would certainly describe them as hoagie huggers.

Chuck Gallagher did not give an aeronautical fornication about fashion, and the notion of sitting down to work was anathema to him. Classical music filled the air as Chuck furiously scribbled notes in preparation to lay out his plan for Blaze's first mission back in the game. His forearms twitched and flexed as he manhandled a number 2 pencil with a hard-nosed, old school tenacity. The sight of Chuck displaying singular focus on the scribing of his notes, while standing with perfect posture in front of his stand-up desk, resembled a distorted, hybrid image of Clint Eastwood, Donald Rumsfeld, Henry Rollins, and the animated character of Mr. Buzz Cut.

Blaze was finishing what was to be the final few minutes of his early morning calm commute. His Cadillac found its way into a prime parking spot at O'Conner's and he sat with the car running for just a minute or so to finish listening to the end of the song “South Australia” by The Pogues. The melodies and words were festive. The tune always helped relax him and take him to his happy place. But now it was time to turn off the good feeling driving music and boot up the good bruising fighting music.

Blaze stretched his legs on the steps that sprawled forth from the side door of O'Conner's. For the most part, Blaze had shaken off the remnants of pain from his injuries. His stubborn commitment to working out against his doctor's directives proved to be a good decision and his strength and endurance were hovering around ninety percent. His hamstrings were a bit tight, but the rest of him felt good and limber and ready to engage. He bent over to tie tight the laces on his Lonsdale sneakers and then headed in to find his old pal Chuck.

Chuck emerged from his office just as Blaze set foot inside the gym. Blaze could hear the classical music from Chuck's office fill the air.

“You old Spartan bastard. Up early this morning to greet the sun and spit in its eye?” Blaze was shadow boxing as he greeted his mentor and friend.

Chuck laughed. “Damn right you pansy bastard. I don't even need an alarm clock to rise and shine like your weak generation. Did you get turned down by your old lady last night, cuz you sure don't look ready to fight to me?” Gallagher was prepared, at least in the caverns of his own mind, with a firm capital P.

“Oh, I'm ready. I'll tell you what I'm not ready for though, and no human in their right mind should be ready for, and that's the ungodly sight of that banana hammock you call gym shorts wrapped around your sorry loins. No one needs to see form-fitting junk garments on an artifact like you.”

Chuck had no idea as to what was the issue with his shorts. He had been wearing these shorts for over thirty years and was not about to stop now.
How does Blaze even move in those baggy shorts? Damn things hang down past his knees.
“Go warm up for a few minutes you Irish swindler and I'll be out before you know it to knock the potatoes out of that thick head of yours.”

A quick two to three minute warm up was all that Blaze reckoned Gallagher would afford him. With his iPod ear buds securely in his ears, Blaze pressed shuffle on his collection of albums by the New York Hardcore band known as Madball. The music was heavy and hard. The persistent underlying grooves coupled perfectly with boxing rhythms. The lyrics to the songs injected an urgency and strength within Blaze. The track
Adapt and Overcome
filled his ears. The song spoke of fighting all odds and improvising in tricky life situations. It typified Blaze's mentality. Blaze felt strong today and his feet were obeying his mind's wishes. He was ready for a damn good sparring match.

The two men wasted no time. Both were already gloved up. They walked to the ring as they continued to verbally abuse each other. Chuck was first to wiggle his body through the ropes and into the ring. He bounced on his toes and jabbed at the air as he continued spouting threats.

“You better get used to getting beaten, pushed around, and sent home dizzy. This here sparring match will be only the beginning. I got a hell of a mission for you this time, pally. Of course, no pressure—the cornerstone of western civilization is the only thing that hangs in the balance.”

Blaze lifted the rope and swung his body underneath. Once in the ring, he immediately began shadow boxing with a feisty bravado.

“Thanks for the heads up. Let me go change my underwear and I'll be right back to oblige you in this match.” Blaze laughed.

“If I thought you were actually kidding, I'd afford you a laugh.” Gallagher was clearly done with the talking and ready for the hitting.

“Save the laughs for me after I leave you bleeding on the mat.” Blaze was ready to get this show on.

“Enough of the chatter there cupcake, let's do this.”

Blaze wore baggy Under Armor gym shorts. Gallagher was, of course, wearing something verging on disgusting and quasi-pornographic.

The sparring started off uneventful and heated up slowly as Chuck and Blaze warmed up. A few minutes in, Blaze began breaking a sweat. His sweaty muscles and tattoos glistened under the overhead lights.

Gallagher appeared as if he was going to loose his breath, and his step, early on. But it was a false hope for Blaze. Chuck exploited every mistake his opponent made and he got several sequences of good shots in on Blaze. Blaze took the punches and absorbed their shockwaves while focusing on holding his ground, waiting out Chuck's energy reserves, and planning his own succession of hurting bombs to lay on his old friend and mentor.

But Gallagher kept at it and managed to land several more shots in quick succession. Blaze felt twitches of stinging pain that apparently still lay await deep in his bones. It was the ten percent of him not yet pruned for re-emergence into physical training. He fought through it to the endorphins rush that so defined the pattern of his life—pain births struggle, which then yields perseverance and forward movement.

It was about twenty minutes in. Blaze's feet tapped with perfect synch. He spotted Chuck yield to a momentary pause. With the speed of mythically enhanced lightening, Blaze landed two strong body blows and one triumphant headshot. Sweat leapt from Chuck's forehead like ocean waves catapulted from a tsunami. He winced with pain and then smiled with a sick look of sadistic pleasure. A small stream of blood trickled from his mouth. Chuck nodded to Blaze. He was done for the day.

“Alright, you got me this morning, you muscle bound Mick, “ snarled Gallagher.

“Your damn right I did you old Mick bastard. Just a foretaste of what is coming for America's enemies.” The sparring match was now serving as a foundational pow-wow to psych up each man in their coming challenges.

“We're going to need a whole lot more than your measly fists to neutralize them.” Gallagher was now exhausted.

“Let's go get some coffee and talk about that.” Blaze was eager to get talking about the heart of the matter—his comeback op.

“Roger that.”

The two men walked about a half of a block to their destination.

It was a mom and pop corner coffee shop in downtown Detroit. The walls were painted with bright oranges, yellows and mocha browns. The décor dripped with uber eco-conscious modernity. Abstract art, with vague earthy aesthetics, adorned the walls. The tables were full with a collection of patrons who appeared to be the quintessential sampling of the great unwashed. Right beside where Blaze and Chuck stood in line, a twenty-something white guy with dreadlocks and a Che tee shirt spouted off about W's blunders. His corduroy-wearing girlfriend nodded between sips of what appeared to be a mocha cappuccino.

The line moved a bit and they were able to better see the menu. Chuck squinted with frustration as he read it. Blaze just shook his head and waved his hand in the air dismissing the menu. Chuck Gallagher and Blaze McIntyre just wanted a damn cup of coffee. Instead, they were inundated with a myriad of fanciful options to enjoy their needed caffeine fix.

The line moved again and it was Blaze and Chuck's turn to order. Blaze looked up at the menu again as the young, cute female clerk awaited his order. He pointed at the menu again and waved his hand in rejection.

“I don't speak French. I just want a large cup. I don't know what all these things are on this cockamamie menu. I just want a regular cup of coffee. You know, the brown kind.” Blaze was all together perplexed and frustrated with the unnecessary maze that was the menu options at this modern coffee house.

The cute twenty-something girl with a streak of red dye down the one side of her brown hair looked at Blaze and smiled. She then glanced at Chuck. She eyeballed him from his head right down to his gym shorts. She restrained herself from launching an outburst of all out laughing mockery. Her face showed how she felt. Tough old bastards like Chuck cared not. The girl responded to Blaze's menu rebuttal, “Well, yes, I suppose I could find a way to get you simply a large cup of brown coffee. You sure you don't want any whip cream or anything?”

“It's 9:30 am, ma'am. I don't eat desert that early.” Blaze figured his logic was common on this matter.

“Okay, and just so you know, we don't have any senior citizen discounts so I apologize to your friend, but he'll have to pay full price for his cup,” She winked at Chuck—it was an obvious, irreverent jab.

Chuck uttered a light growl as Blaze burst out into laughter. The young girl smiled big and winked again at the old dinosaur.

The two men sat down at a small table with their cups of joe. Neither took cream or sugar. Piping hot, black and straight down the gullet as God intended.

“So did you break it to the old lady?”

“Sure did. And for the record, Diem is still young and vital. I'm her old man, she ain't my old lady.” Setting the record straight, as Blaze should.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Alright Prince Charming, so what did she say.” Gallagher just wanted to cut the crap and cut to the chase.

“It was a tough conversation as you can imagine. My having been out of harm's way recently has been the fulfillment of all her prayers in years gone by. She's the mother hen. She wants a stable and full household. She fears she'll be a widow. She fears Shane and Dennis will end up fatherless. She also admitted that she recognized the crumbling that has been going on inside of me. She couldn't deny the reality that every day that I pretended to be a good civilian, a piece of me died.”

“You think she'll really be able to handle it?” Gallagher was hoping this all was a real green light.

“I wasn't sure at first. But since I broke the news to her, she's been nothing but supportive and understanding. She knows who I am. You can take the boy out of war, but you can't take the war out of the boy.”

Gallagher nodded his head in agreement, fully understanding the truths that Blaze was speaking. “Well Blaze, the timing indeed seems providential from where I'm sitting. These nut bags in Iran are on the cusp of having full-on global leverage with high flying nukes and a butt load of messianic ill intent.” “So this mission…it's got to do with the Iranians? Figures.” Blaze had assumed that given the climate, any mission he'd be embarking on now would likely somehow involve the Iranians.

“You're damn right. They're the unnamed, ignored boogey man of the last two decades. You're up to speed on this Samani fruit, right? He's ten times worse than Ahmadinejad. And ten fold more pissed off.”

“Yeah, I know all about him. So what are we looking at here.” Blaze wanted the skinny.

“We need to find a way to disable, or severely retard, the progress and processes at Natanz, Esfahan, and Bushehr. These are three of the most important nuke plants. We don't really know how far along they are in having operational nukes, but if they've progressed the way they have in the realm of long-range intercontinental ballistic missiles, we're in for a world of hurt.” Gallagher was now intensely looking Blaze straight in the eyes.

“How the hell are we going to infiltrate these plants, let alone dismantle the operations?” The task, at first listen, seemed entirely overwhelming to Blaze.

“I'm assembling a team and have concocted some possible approaches. We already have a source inside Natanz and close to the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. His name is Arash Jafari. He's a Persian national who has been working with us. He was working hand in hand with Reza Kahlili before Reza defected back to the US. Arash is still fully secure and undetected. He'll be our starting point.”

“What other grunts do you have in mind?”

“Well, for one of them, I'm in the processing of pulling some strings to bust him out of the joint.” Gallagher began chuckling.

“Wait…what? The joint? The only other valuable grunt I can think of who would be crazy enough to somehow be doing time in prison would be Zack Batt. You're not serious, are you?” Blaze loved working with Zack, but knew full well the escapades and shenanigans that colored Zack's personal life.

“Dead serious.”