Plague of Coins (The Judas Chronicles #1) (13 page)

Arming myself with a Glock, machete, and a Bushmaster ACR—my weapons of choice—I set out on foot while I plotted my course of action. From the sound of things, I would certainly encounter someone working for Petr Stanislav within the next fifteen to twenty minutes, whether that was his mercenaries on patrol, his scientists using their FGRs to dismantle a mountainside, or the Russians’ actual ‘home away from home’. Any of the three would do, though I doubted I’d actually find the Soviet camp this close to the fusion ‘blasting zone’.

I jogged quietly around the bend, while hearing and feeling another rumble through the ground beneath my feet. I also heard truck sounds in the distance that were getting closer. Bracing myself for the sound of human voices, I searched the hilltops for lookouts or snipers.

While scanning the areas above me, I damned near missed seeing a smoldering vehicle just ahead of me, sitting in the middle of the road and right before the next bend. Impossible to tell what make or model it was, I could tell the automobile had been fairly new. Silver paint along the back panel had escaped the intense heat and flames, which consumed the rest of the vehicle body.

My heart raced.

All evidence said the vehicle had once been a car of choice. One that fit certain specifications—
my
specs—for what I liked to travel in when serving my country overseas. When I reached the burning wreckage, the circular hood ornament was still intact, though blackened from the fire that probably died over an hour before.

The car looked as if a grenade, or more likely, a launched missile from a mercenary’s shoulder had destroyed it. Survivors were unlikely.

The Mercedes that had transported my precious son and the girl whose charms he couldn’t resist was now a burning mass of metal, glass, and toxic fumes from melted upholstery.

There was no chance for survivors...no chance for either of them.

Chapter 12

I wasn’t sure what to do next. Normally, that’s not an issue for me.... But, presented with the likelihood that my son was dead nearly paralyzed my mind. My initial thoughts muddled, the only thing I could discern was an urgent need to check the vehicle for bone fragments—praying to God Almighty I didn’t find any. The intense heat had destroyed all other evidence of Alistair’s and Amy’s presence. Shielding my eyes from the early afternoon sunlight, I peered into where the front seats once were. Smoldering gray ashes sat in twin piles. Were they made up of charred human remains or merely the stuffing from a pair of bucket seats?

I dug my hands into the closest pile, where glowing embers burned away the outer flesh from my fingers. Gruesome, I know, but even before I had fully withdrawn them from the vehicle’s marred interior, my hands had almost finished their healing. The searing pain nearly gone, all that needed to reappear were the fingernails and soft hair across the backs of my knuckles. An amazing transformation, I’m sure, but one that brought only meager solace. No bone fragments negated the likelihood that Amy and Alistair were present in the vehicle when it was attacked. That could be good news. However, the absence of physical evidence didn’t prove they survived either.

It certainly changed my game plan, though, since as long as there was a chance they survived this attack there was also a shot for me to rescue them. But I’d have to be extremely careful in my approach. If these were the same Soviets I had crossed paths with in the past, they were a ruthless bunch. I sent a silent, fervent prayer heavenward that my boy would pull off his ruse as an archaeologist well, and buy me enough time to find him and Amy. As for Ms. Golden Eagle, I knew her thirst for answers and a deep desire for revenge would sustain her far longer than Alistair.

It became more difficult to avoid detection as I moved past the Soviet engineering team currently boring holes into the earth’s crust with their fusion devices. I tried to keep hidden from anyone’s direct view, but it was damned near impossible once the evergreen trees disappeared. At least it afforded me a better view of Stanislav’s operation.

After climbing up a hillside, I crouched behind a pair of large boulders. Forcing myself to use every precaution and keep my slight movements deliberate, I finally gained the vantage point I desired.

Gigantic trucks, with wheels significantly taller than any man in the area were parked in front of the mountainside. Equally enormous guns set atop each truck—at least that’s what they initially looked like. Yet, when a thick stream of intense blue light emanated from the truck closest to me, I immediately recognized that thing on top of it was the so called ‘fusion generator/reconfiguration beam’. But these FGRs were several hundred times bigger than the test versions I envisioned from Cedric’s description.

The mountainside shook furiously, knocking me to the ground. But not before I witnessed part of the rock surface closest to me suddenly disappear into a massive indentation forming within the mountain. Incredible enough, what happened next was even more so.

Suddenly, the mountain opened up. The earth’s crust melted away as if sucked into some invisible vacuum, leaving deep passageways exposed. Like the broken geodes Alistair collected as a kid in Scotland, the crystallized veins of gem material ranging from amethyst to lighter versions of quartz and perhaps much more valuable minerals glistened in the afternoon sunlight.

The loosened ground under my feet began to give way, forcing me to cling to the base of the boulder I had hid behind. I pulled myself back up, praying that my presence remained undetected. Meanwhile, a team of men and women dressed in khaki jumpsuits and hardhats approached the wound in the earth, carrying rifle-sized electronic sensors directed toward the chasm just created. I wasn’t close enough to fully perceive the design of these sensors, but the group—whom I determined must all be employed by Petr Stanislav—shook their heads wearily. Despite being an enormous windfall for the unscrupulous Russians, it wasn’t what they sought. They were looking for something else of value that wasn’t there.

Were they, in fact, searching for the Garden of Eden?

“No frigging way,” I whispered to myself, shaking my head at the idea’s absurdity.

It seemed even more ludicrous than it had before. I’m not sure why this would be any harder for me to accept than my own fate of walking the earth forever. One reality is hardly sillier than the other. Right? Besides, if a nut like Petr Stanislav believed the place existed, then everyone working for him should be on the same page. It certainly made me consider how many others shared the bottom of the Baltic Sea with Amy Golden Eagle’s parents.

With the clock ticking on my kid’s survival chances, I moved to my hideout’s other side. The ground was more stable, and the view conducive to what I needed. I could see the Russian’s camp, less than half a mile away. Tall, slender junipers grew along a shallow stream, with rows of white tents lined along either side of the stream. Just beyond the tents sat a cluster of trailers arranged in a circle—the likely home base for this operation.

What I wouldn’t have given right then for a pair of binoculars. Sunglasses too. I didn’t recall seeing either important item listed with our itinerary the night before. With all of the excitement going on, I completely forgot about what was missing from the list. I should’ve stopped and purchased both items on my way out of Tehran that morning. At the time, I was in a frantic rush to catch my two problem children before something terrible happened—like their automobile being destroyed by a launched rocket.

While thinking about this, I noticed a number of mercenary soldiers crawling around the perimeter below my observation point. Suddenly several of them pointed to my hideout, though I was careful to remain out of their line of sight. Something else had tipped them to my presence.

I needed to find a new hideout, and quickly. But before I could even start looking for a new location, a sharp shooting pain erupted from the base of my neck. It was too late to run...too late to do anything.

By the time I turned around to see what had hit me, I had already begun to black out. Black military boots and the butt from an AN-94 rifle were the last things I saw.

Chapter 13

When I regained consciousness I couldn’t move. Rope-bound to a wooden chair, my arms and hands were pulled tightly behind me. Only my head, lower legs, and my feet were free. Obviously, someone intended for me to stay put when I came to. Feeling disoriented, my head throbbed like a mother. I tried to recall the unclear events that had brought me to this point.

Something about a dangerous secret mission, a burned-out car, and the Garden of Eden. That last part seemed to energize my recovery, and as the fog cleared from my mind I steadily remembered everything.

“So, William Barrow, we meet again,” said a middle-aged man from behind me.

The voice was mellow and yet at the same time ice cold. Like fine German ale kept in a freezer...undrinkable. Likewise, I pictured the owner of the voice to be just as disagreeable. But the man wasn’t German, the accent was too thick....Russian. And the familiarity was profound...both with this asshole knowing my name and my own recognizance of his unsavory persona.

“Viktor?” I said, weakly. My mouth and throat felt as dry as sandpaper, like I hadn’t drunk anything for several days. “Where in the hell am I?”

“How easily you remember me, William.” The man’s mellowness gave way to a frigid influx of disdain. He stepped around me and moved over to where a group of five other men and a woman stood near the door, his boot heels clicking softly upon the linoleum covered floor. “It appears I might not have wasted my time waiting for you to wake up these past two days.”

Huh?

Once he moved past me, I fully confirmed it was Viktor. Viktor Kaslow, ex Lieutenant Colonel in the Soviet Union’s army from twenty-five years ago, and captain for one of Moscow’s most feared KGB death squads even after the Cold War ended. This man was among the Soviet’s most feared assassins, garnering that reputation based upon his supreme passion for his vocation.

“You are in some trouble, my friend. We caught you and your father, Alistair, trespassing. As well as the archaeologist’s daughter. But have no worries, William. After you and my subordinates get acquainted, all three of you shall exit this world promptly and join your less fortunate CIA predecessors in the afterlife.”

They—the Russians—had awaited my arrival. Viktor’s words alone confirmed that, but also a quick glance around the room affirmed the same conclusion. This had to be one of the trailers I spotted from my higher vantage point earlier. A double-wide large enough to fit several oversized pieces of furniture, including a large mahogany desk that sat close to the only door in the room. Both windows—each on opposite walls—were covered with thick draperies, making it impossible to tell whether it was morning or night.

Other furniture included a long table that sat next to a suspended fireplace. Despite the oppressive heat outside and an inefficient air conditioner wall unit, small flames danced within the hearth. A row of shiny sharp cutlery, specially designed for either surgery or torture, was laid out upon a blood-spotted white sheet that haphazardly covered the table.

Oh joy! ...Such fun and games to look forward to!

“I take it that a plea of neutrality—that neither you nor we own the land we’re squatting upon will make a difference?” I countered, my tone upbeat despite my growing unease.

For the other men and the woman eyeing me coldly, I’m sure they found the smirk on my face especially annoying. But then, none of them had ever witnessed the Amazing Willie Boy Barrow regenerating lost digits from fingers, toes, and genitalia. Such antics have brought several prominent members of the Spanish Inquisition to their knees in past centuries. It could very well be where the whole ‘Father of Vampires’ legend originated from. Either that, or maybe witnessing a lopped off arm or hand reappear after the initial blood geyser was what gave birth to the happy horseshit about being the very first ‘real’ blood drinker.

Viktor had never witnessed that side of me, though. Not even when he gashed me pretty good back in 1993, when we squared off in Algeria.

Thinking about this infused my smirk, until I noticed my son and Amy Golden Eagle bound similar to me. Secured to wooden chairs pushed against the wall to my right, both looked haggard and sported red welts upon their faces and arms. Their clothes were soiled from dirt and sweat, and Amy’s blouse had been torn open. I couldn’t tell if that was a sign of sexual assault, or if it was an initial threat to slice open a sensitive region of her body to gain proprietary info concerning her CIA contacts and such. The lack of blood on her blouse negated the latter notion, at least for now, though I did see a few red lines just below her chin that indicated knife cuts. From the array of deadly toys laid out on the nearby table, I could tell it wouldn’t be long before a full menu of entrées like that were served up for me.