Authors: Aiden James
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.
It added credibility to the premise I’d actually been out of commission the past three days. I noticed then that Alistair bore more bruises than Amy, and I was greatly alarmed by the angry red ring around his neck. Obvious ligature marks, he looked at me with pleading eyes. It broke my heart to see him like this, and I silently lamented that I allowed us to get suckered into this assignment. Despite the terrible torture and discomfort he had already endured, I could tell he was fighting to hold his even-keeled disposition together. Probably the same thing was true for Amy, whose shivering body revealed the dire distress she hid admirably beneath her defiant countenance.
Yet, I doubt she even understood how little the Russian agents in the room cared about hers or Alistair’s courage one way or another.
“No, you
only
are the squatters, as we have already made legitimate claims with the Iranian government,” said Viktor, stepping back toward me from the others.
Time had been kind to the former chief adversary for the KGB. Although more than a dozen years had passed since we last faced off, he still carried the same virile air. His slicked back blonde hair bore just a slight hint of gray along the temples, and his steel blue eyes gleamed with the same malice I remembered. If not for the chiseled bone structure in his face that had held up remarkably well since our last encounter, there would be no hiding the monster that lurked within.
“If the Iranian people knew what you guys were up to, I doubt your claims would remain legitimate for long.” I hoped my bravado and intense dislike of this man didn’t translate to a quick demise for the two kids under my care and supervision. “That’s the problem with you and any other Soviet—once an arrogant jackass, then always an arrogant jackass.”
Yes, I was definitely stoking the fire here—which might seem in direct contradiction to what I just advised about my concern about our future. Yet, two members of this group—the youngest male and the lone female—had just moved over to the table and picked up a pair of branding irons and placed them into the burning hearth. I didn’t have to look over at Alistair and Amy to know they were terrified.... I felt their rising panic as it radiated toward me. Being ‘contraire’ was the only thing I could think of to buy us more time...more time to think up a better plan.
“You are quite
incorrect!”
said a booming voice from behind me. “I would say that being an ‘arrogant jackass’ is an American trait—an
exclusive
American quality!”
I couldn’t turn my head far enough to see who it was, but a moment later an immense human being appeared beside my chair. Petr Stanislav’s hulking frame loomed above me. Even uglier than the photograph Michael Lavoie had shown to me, his image must have been retouched. Or, more than likely, there was a much greater distance between his hideous mug and the camera lens when the picture was taken as compared to my unfortunate eyes right then. Not even the Amosu beige casual suit he wore could save him.
He bent down toward me, his big bushy head of reddish blonde hair encroaching into my personal space. His breath smelled like a sour outhouse, and the joyless mirth in his eyes told me that he greatly relished my discomfort by his presence. The antitheses to Viktor’s deadly charms, though both were venomous vipers at heart.
“Why else would you so foolishly come here?” he continued. “You, who are supposed to be such a great American spy, and yet failed miserably in carrying out a simple surveillance... Not to mention your CIA’s inept plan for your father, Alistair, and Stephen Golden Eagle’s daughter to infiltrate our operation. You are
all
arrogant jackasses!”
His deep voice rumbled with delight. I guess it didn’t take much to amuse this abhorrent giant. At least that was my initial impression, until he grew serious, eyeing me with ever-deepening contempt.
“Well, then, humor me big guy.” I leaned away from him to avoid the halitosis fumes. “What else could we have done, since you’ve done a poor job of keeping things secret? Very soon, the entire free world will know what you and your buddies have been up to around here!”
Not a guarantee, but chances of our Russian captors keeping satellite images secret were becoming increasingly difficult. One good network hacker is all it would take, and then the outer space images of a mountainside disappearing on earth could go viral on the internet in under a day.
The surprised look I received from Petr Stanislav confirmed my assertion’s accuracy.
“You could have simply cancelled, and not come out here!” Sneering, he turned away and moved over to the table, where he picked up a long serrated knife. “I would gladly tell you more about what all of this means for our future—the improved lot of my Soviet brethren as well as the overdue demise for your American government—but I have already grown weary of your presence!”
He chuckled as he returned his gaze to me, and this time the heavy soulless timber from his throat sent an icy chill up and down my spine.
At first I had nothing more to say...no more clever replies. But then I thought about the brethren he referred to—the peaceful Russian populace who are as kind and noble as any other people I’ve ever encountered. Except for their KGB faction.
“Okay, lay it on me, then,” I said brazenly. “I’d love to hear the tale of how what you’re doing here in Iran will actually benefit your Russian brothers and sisters.”
He glared in response, but that was it. Stanislav had already made up his mind. With no appeals left, it was time for a miracle. Viktor’s added snicker further heightened my dread.
“I have run out of patience with you. So, we shall leave your fate to Vera and Nicholas.” Stanislav moved past me and motioned for the rest of his team to follow him out of the building. The two assistants he referred to grabbed a fiery branding iron apiece and approached me from either side. “Have fun Mr. Barrow. The rest of your life is now in the hands of my most ruthless subordinates. That should give you something to think about while they sear the very flesh from your bones!”
“Bye-bye, William!” crooned Viktor, his tone rapturous. Honestly, I expected a little more respect from him, but I guess some wounds from long ago were still fresh. “Maybe we’ll meet again, eh? Perhaps eventually in the afterlife?”
Not if I can help it, you sorry sack of shit!
It was the last calm thought I had before Vera and Nicolas reached my chair.
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Plague of Coins
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About the Author
Aiden James resides in Tennessee with his lovely wife, Fiona, their two sons, Christopher and Tyler, and a feisty terrier named Gypsy. An avid researcher of all things paranormal, he still spends time visiting haunted locales throughout the Deep South. Please visit his website:
http://www.aidenjamesfiction.com