Extraction Page 11

  Kyrsten couldn't blame the Russians, really. They were just looking out for their own country’s best interests, but it still left a sour taste in her mouth.

  But John was another matter. Safely anointed by President Barron, John started treating her like the trophy wife she now realized she'd always been. He didn't care what she thought anymore—they still went to the balls and galas, but he no longer doted on her. Despite the millions of people sick with the bioweapon still working its way through Russia, the elite had to have their parties. Everyone was screened at the door and most people wore the useless little paper masks the government issued to the masses as a placebo. It was all so superficial and vain—Kyrsten came to hate every second of it.

  She tried to remember the early days, when she was wide-eyed and took in all the rich glamor and exoticness of Moscow and Russian culture. She was treated as an honored dignitary, the companion of the ambassador. They were a team. Then Ishanka came to her one day, reeking of champagne, and the two of them had a long chat. The truth came out that cold, rainy afternoon, and it lasted well into the next morning. Ishanka had disappeared for a while after that, and no one seemed to know where she went, but Kyrsten knew—the KGB, or whatever the hell they called themselves now—they’d gotten her.

  It was the Russian way.

  Things changed between her and John around the same time she was clued into the truth of her situation. As soon as they’d walk through the doors to the lavish parties, he’d vanish, heading off to be wined and dined by the Moscow elite or the upper echelon of the local international delegations. Kyrsten lately found herself talking to the waitstaff at the embassy, or the Marines, more than her husband.

  And now this.

  Kidnapped by bunch of Russian mafia—she couldn't imagine anybody else with the balls to pull off such an attack. Everyone knew the United States was about ready to instigate an open war with North Korea—or maybe…after the UN peace talks fell apart in Scotland, she wasn't sure what the hell was going on anymore.

  Sweat dribbled down her wrist into an open cut on her hand, and when it stung, she jerked her arm only to find—again—the rope restraints. The whole world seemed to be crashing down around her. Moscow was reeling, just barely recovering from bioweapon flu thanks to a large dose of treatment courses from America…and people were kidnapping an ambassador?

  “Why is this happening?” she moaned.

  “Because they’re trying to get something out of the United States.” He took a deep breath. “It’s our job to figure out what that is and contact Washington.”

  “You mean Denver?”

  John scoffed. “It’ll always be Washington to me, and to anyone who knows anything.”

  Kyrsten took a breath. Just let it go. “So you’re going to play the ambassador card… now?”

  “Why else would they kidnap us?” He snorted. “For you?”

  “Well, why not?” Kyrsten said, trying to keep control of her voice. “I’m the former Chairman of Orbital Dynamics…I’ve still got security clearance and an awful lot of defense industry contacts—”

  John scoffed at the idea. “Please.”

  The wooden door on the far side of the room opened, ending their argument. A wiry, well-groomed man walked bearing a silver serving tray and several drinks nestled among small plates of food. He wore a smile on his creased face that Kyrsten noticed right away didn’t reach his eyes.

  Another man, much larger and more imposing, wearing a black leather jacket, dark slacks, and a scowl to match, followed the first one in, then stood next to the door and crossed his arms. The message was clear—there is no escape.

  Kyrsten quailed. Oh God, what are they going to do?

  “I’m glad you’re awake,” said the man with the serving tray, standing there watching them. “I apologize for the…conditions…” he continued, with a heavy Russian accent. He raised the tray a little. “See—I have brought refreshment.”

  “Who are you?” Kyrsten whispered. John stiffened behind her.

  “Shut up and let me do the talking,” he snapped. He cleared his throat. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, sir?”

  Kyrsten rolled her eyes. Shit, here we go.

  The man with the food kept that unnerving smile, but put the tray down, bending almost double to place it on the floor about three feet away. Kyrsten’s mouth watered at the sight of the little plates of food—she couldn’t identify most of it, but she was pretty sure those were Swedish meatballs, and they looked—and smelled—delicious. Her stomach rumbled and she shrank into herself, trying to hide.

  The stranger brushed his hands off and placed them in his pockets, staring down at her husband. “My name is Yevgeny Mikhailovich, and I know exactly what I did—I kidnapped the American Ambassador to Russia.” He raised an eyebrow, waiting for a response.

  Kyrsten felt her husband’s anger radiate through his body. What do you know? Who is he? I recognize the name…I’ve heard it somewhere…

  “I can tell by the fear in your eyes you know who I am. Good, that will let us dispense with the pleasantries and get down to tacking brass.”

  “Brass tacks,” John corrected.

  Kyrsten rolled her eyes, annoyance with her husband overcoming her fear for a moment. You just can’t help yourself, can you?

  Mikhailovich stared at John for a long, long moment.

  Her husband cleared his throat. “I…” he began. He coughed and tried again. She felt him shake his head. “I’m not going to negotiate with you.”

  Mikhailovich laughed. He looked over his shoulder, said something to the guard, who cracked a reluctant smile. Turning back to John, he clapped his hands. “You are funny,” he said, pointing at John. “I like that.” The used-car salesman’s smile vanished. “You are also in no position to negotiate with me, or anyone,” he said, his eyes shifting to land on Kyrsten. The look made her skin crawl.

  She felt John shift behind her, looking over his shoulder. “You want her, is that it? My wife?”

  Mikhailovich leered at her. “I already have her.” He spread his hands and affected a posture of supplication. “Tsk. Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink or eat?” He gestured at the tray. “I brought—”

  “No thank you,” Kyrsten said, trying to muster as much strength into her voice as possible. She jutted out her chin and glared at him.

  Mikhailovich turned back to her husband. “I see why you like her. She has spirit. This is good.” He busied himself with the food and started eating, chewing loudly. “Very good,” he said around a mouthful. “Come. Have some.”

  Kyrsten’s stomach betrayed her again.

  He grinned. “Are you sure you don’t want any?” When she made no answer, he shrugged. “Your loss.” He offered the plate to John. “Mr. Ambassador, would you like some? Oh…my mistake, your hands are tied.”

  If Kyrsten had hoped he’d untie them so they can eat, she was disappointed. Mikhailovich stood and walked toward the fireplace, munching away. Her eyes darted to bits of pastry that fell from his mouth and landed on the floor. She licked her lips, careful to make sure he didn’t see.

  "Well, what is it you do want from me?" John demanded.

  Mikhailovich considered the fire for a moment, then turned to face them. "I want the nuclear launch codes."

  Kirsten felt her husband stiffen behind her. There was a long moment where the only sound in the room was the crackling fire and the beating of her own heart.

  "I…I'm an ambassador, Mr. Mikhailovich. I-I'm not with the military…"

  Though he had moved around behind her, Kyrsten still heard the smile in Mikhailovich’s voice. "I know. I want you to tell me the codes, anyway."

  "What? Didn’t you hear me? I don't know the codes!"

  Kyrsten heard someone snap their fingers. The man standing guard by the door stepped away from the wall and walked over, flexing his thick hands into massive fists. He cracked his knuckles, disappeared behind her, and her husband had time to utter a
quick protest. The sound of flesh hitting flesh reached her at the same moment the force of the impact vibrated through the chairs into her back. She felt her husband shudder with the blow. It made her want to throw up.

  The goon punched John four or five times, and Kyrsten flinched and cried with each strike. When the man stepped back, his brutish fists were stained red with John’s blood. He flexed his fingers and walked back to his spot by the door, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame as if nothing had happened.

  Behind her, her husband whimpered. "I…I-I don't know the codes…why are you doing this?" he begged, his words slurred with what sounded like a swollen lip.

  "Leave him alone!" Kyrsten cried out in impotent rage.

  "I'll get to you in a moment, lyubovnika," Mikhailovich crooned, stepping back into the circle of light cast by the fireplace. The stark shadows across his skull made him look wolfish.

  "Do I have your attention yet, Mr. Ambassador?"

  Through the sobs and choking, she heard her husband mutter, "Yes..."

  "Good. Now, if you'd be so kind as to tell me the launch codes?"

  Kyrsten’s chair rocked back and forth as John flailed and thrashed against his restraints. "I already told you! I don't know the fucking codes! Why are you doing this?"

  This time the snap of Mikhailovich’s fingers sounded like a gunshot.

  "No, no-no-no! Please!" John pleaded, as the giant by the door walked over once more, massaging the knuckles of his right fist.

  "No!"

  Thwack. The chair shuddered. Kyrsten closed her eyes and cried.

  "Please…" John whimpered.

  Thwack.

  "I—"

  Thwack.

  The beating continued: that awful thwack, followed by the chair shuddering as her husband absorbed blow after blow.

  When at last the monstrous thug moved back to his position by the door, Kyrsten listened in horror to the rattling, gurgling breathing of her husband. "John?" she asked, her voice quivering. When she got no response other than that irregular wheezing, she tugged on the restraints holding her arms to the chair. “John!"

  Turning her glare toward Mikhailovich, she snarled. "You son of a bitch!"

  "Oh don't worry, Sasha is one of the best—your husband is in no danger of dying, I assure you."

  “Damn you!" Kyrsten shrieked, straining against the ropes that held her prisoner. She ignored the pain in her wrists and ankles and clenched her jaw, willing the ropes to break.

  "You see this?" Mikhailovich asked suddenly, leaning down in front of her and holding a wicked-looking syringe for her to inspect. She recoiled from the sight, pulling as far away as she could, until her head bumped against the unyielding bulk of her husband.

  "Have no fear, lyubovnika, I have no intention of using this on you. This is a powerful stimulant. Your husband is merely unconscious.” He tapped the syringe against the side his head. “Once this gets into his bloodstream, I assure you, he will wake. Although he may wish he hadn't."

  "Why are you doing this?" she wailed, through tears and sobs.

  "Why do any of us do anything?" Mikhailovich said philosophically, stepping back and raising the needle to inspect in the firelight. He tapped the side and satisfied with whatever he saw, pushed the plunger little. Through tears, Kyrsten saw a sprinkle of glitter cascade from the tip of the needle as the liquid inside caught the firelight.

  "Why do I do this?” Mikhailovich asked. “Money and power. With either one of them, a man can acquire anything he desires in life. With both, a man can keep anything he desires in life."

  "What…what?" Kyrsten asked.

  She heard a grunt of pain behind her and felt the chair move. “John?" she whispered, afraid to say his name any louder.

  Her husband screamed, suddenly alert. "Don't hurt me!" he said through slurred speech. It sounded like his mouth was halfway swollen shut. He started crying, blubbering his words in an incoherent mess.

  “Sssh," Mikhailovhich said. "Settle down now…there, that's it…"

  Her husband coughed. "Please…please stop…I don't have what you want…"

  A light turned on somewhere behind her, illuminating the room. The shadow created by the chairs stretched across the floor toward the door. Kyrsten craned her neck trying to see where the light had come from. Suddenly, Mikhailovich stepped into her vision again, holding a cell phone with it’s flash on, the light shining bright in her eyes.

  "Tell me your name for the record," he said, his voice sweet as honey.

  Oh, my God…he's going to kill us. "Help!" she shrieked. “Help us!”

  Mikhailovich laughed. "Good! Good, that's very good! Keep it up! That will add just the kind of flavor we want…" Ignoring her continued protests and screams for help, he walked around, the light passing out of her range of vision.

  "What is your name," he asked John, his voice serious and hard.

  "My name?" John sputtered and coughed. A glob of something wet splattered against the floor. Kyrsten closed her eyes again, willing it to be over.

  “John Marquadt…United States Ambassador to Russia."

  Kyrsten clenched her fists until her fingernails bit into her palms. She'd never truly loved her husband—not in a soulmate kind of way—but he was her husband. And besides the fact that he had introduced her to a whole new society that her inherited fortune hadn't been able to provide, she’d taken him for granted. He was an ambassador—nobody kidnapped or harassed ambassadors. Everyone rational enough to put their own shoes on knew that ambassadors held no real power—other than an open phone line to their government.

  "Now, Mr. Ambassador—I want you to hold very still for this—let me just zoom in and get a picture…"

  Kyrsten heard the cell phone snap a picture, and flinched.

  "There! Thank you very much. Now back to my question…"

  Her husband moaned behind her. "Please…I've already told you…"

  "What are the nuclear launch codes?" Mikhailovich asked, slowly enunciating each word.

  "I don't know!" her husband cried. "Why won't you believe me?"

  Mikhailovich snapped his fingers again. Kyrsten's eyes widened as she watched the big man step away from the door frame again.

  "No!" John wailed.

  "Let me just get into a good position here, Sasha, I don't want to miss anything…"

  Kyrsten waited through the interminable pause as her husband cried for mercy and the light on Mikhailovich’s phone moved to a different position. Her husband screamed one more time, the sound cut off abruptly when the thug landed his first earth-shaking punch.

  Kyrsten let her head hang to her chest, sobbing, praying, and crying all the same time. Behind her, blow after blow rained down on her blubbering, wretch of a husband.

  And over it all, Mikhailovich’s maniacal laughter filled the room—and Kyrsten’s heart swelled with rage.

  17

  Huntress

  Dublin, Ireland

  Danika leaned back in her balcony chair, overlooking an almost empty city center. Dublin had been one of the hardest cities hit when the bioweapon was unleashed in the UK—almost 80% of the people living in the ancient Viking town had perished. Ireland itself, still with a large rural population, fared far better than its major coastal cities.

  The survivors had skipped out for the rolling green hills if nothing more than to escape the smell. Danika wrinkled her nose as she logged into her encrypted laptop and connected with Oakrock servers using the viral pathway she’d established when she’d last contacted Braaten.

  She didn’t especially enjoying using his grief over Brenda to keep his connection stable long enough for her to install the virus on his AR glasses, but the needs justified the ends sometimes.

  This was one of those times.

  A lone emergency vehicle’s undulating wail echoed off the empty buildings that lined the street she’d been squatting along for the past 24 hours. Getting into Ireland had been harder than she’d thought—the government,
or what was left of it, was running scared and had locked down the Emerald Isle’s borders with an iron fist.

  But such things rarely stopped someone trained by the Council. Danika had parachuted in from off shore and coasted to the rocky cliffs in the west. From there, she’d simply stolen a car and headed for Dublin, about the safest place for someone wanting to stay hidden.

  No one in their right mind would attempt to look for someone in what had come to be known as Ireland’s city of the dead. Thousands of bodies lay where they’d fallen or been dumped almost a year before. A wave of government workers had been infected and died after they were sent in to do the initial clean up. Even after the treatments from America had eradicated the weaponized flu virus, people still took their lives into their hands when they visited Dublin, either from the virus—lingering in corpses rotting in the streets—or from the survivors, who despite the government airlifting supplies and urging them to flee, remained in their home city.

  The law was a concept that only existed outside Dublin. Inside the city, survival of the fittest provided the only real order. Gangs—greatly reduced in number—ruled the streets and the national government was content to let things lie for a while. It was still too risky a nut to crack.

  This combination of lawlessness and apparent danger to the public made Dublin the perfect hideout for Danika, who had already been innoculated against the virus the previous year.

  She sighed, waiting for the handoff program to do its thing, and sipped from a bottle of clean, pure water she’d taken off the body of a young man who’d been stupid enough to pull a gun on her. She glanced at the gun in question, now on the concrete slab balcony next to her. It was a cheap Chinese imitation piece of shit and probably would have malfunctioned if the moron had pulled the trigger anyway, but it still irked her that she’d been forced to kill the fool in the first place. She was in a hurry to figure out what Jayne was up to and dealing with idiots who though they were invincible because they had a gun tucked into their boxer shorts…