Mark Pryor - Cyberian Affair

“Wait.” Marko grabbed Niko’s arm. “Do you have plans this evening?”

“Plans?” He shrugged. “I guess not. Not since Joey…”

Marko nodded. “Would you like to join me for a beer or two at Alpha World? Happy hour starts in ten minutes. I’m a regular there on Mondays.”

An evening with Joey had always been fun—two young studs on the move. But no matter how much Niko admired Marko, they were from different generations. The idea of a night at a brewpub with the “old man” promised to be awkward.

He looked down at his feet. “I don’t know…”

“C’mon, you need a night out.”

It did sound tempting. “Any hot women there?”

“All the time. Maybe you can hook up.” Marko smiled. “I know this isn’t like a night out with Joey, but I don’t think you’ve been out with friends even once since he died.”

“Murdered, you mean. Damn it, Marko, you know it wasn’t a mugging.”

“You’re right, but there isn’t much we can do about it. I guess you need more time.”

Niko was disappointed with himself. He was alienating his friends, and it wasn’t good for his own health. He hurried to catch up with Marko. “On second thought, Alpha World sounds good. Okay, I’ll meet you there.”

When Marko left, Niko grabbed his laptop and coat, and handed them to the security guard. After a quick check, the guard motioned him to pass.

Niko ventured out into the cold and walked across the lot to his blue Camaro. He turned the key, hoping the engine would turn over. Need a new battery . When it finally started, he turned on the heater, and crossed his arms. With his hands in his armpits he waited until the heater warmed the car and the defroster cleared the windshield. The Alpha World brewpub was on the other side of VA-625.

Gotta move to Florida .

Niko spotted Marko’s Porsche, parked two spaces from the door of the pub. No more spots up front, so he parked around the side. The frigid air hit him when he opened the car door and walked to the front of the building.

When the sliding glass doors opened, warm air and the inviting aroma of pizza and beer washed across his face. He didn’t see Marko at any of the tables, so Niko headed toward the bar. Working his way through the crowd, he spotted the back of a tall man with a beer in his hand.

There he is .

Marko turned suddenly and glared at an old woman standing behind him. They had a short exchange before the woman shook her head and walked unsteadily away.

Niko waved. “Leave any beer for me?”

Nodding, Marko grabbed a pint glass filled with black liquid from the bar and handed it to him. “I know you prefer it warm. This is their imperial stout.”

The hop aroma was inviting. He smiled at Marko and took a sip. “Very good.” He pointed to an open table with short benches on each side. “Let’s grab a seat.”

Marko sat down and stuck out his left leg to inspect it. He lifted the pant leg and looked at his calf.

Niko tried to see what he was looking at. “What’s wrong? Something happen?”

“I don’t know. An old lady bumped into me and I felt something sharp. She apologized, but my leg still hurts.” He shook his head. “No blood, though.”

“I saw her behind you at the bar. She appeared tipsy.” Niko looked around. “But I don’t see her now.”

“The hell with my leg.” Marko sat up straight. “They’re tapping a special cask-conditioned double IPA at seven o’clock. You’ll love it.”

They talked about beer, football, and women. When Niko bought the next round, he changed the subject to Joey. “The cops are full of shit. It was a professional hit.”

Marko’s eyes scanned the room, his head barely moving, speaking in a faint voice. “You think Joey might have told someone what we did?”

Ever since the murder, Niko had pondered the same question. “He knew better. Sometimes he drank too much and bragged a bit. But, shit, not about that. No way.”

Even though the room was cool, sweat formed on Marko’s brow. He wiped it off and leaned forward. “I’ve had my suspicions about Joey’s death, too. Maybe we’re being paranoid, but if the Russians got Joey, they’ll come for us.”

“I know about Russian assassinations—like the Bulgarian writer in London. Someone stuck him in the leg with poison. Used an umbrella.”

“That was the Soviet Union,” said Marko. “Fucking KGB. You weren’t even born then.”

“Soviets, Russians. All the same. They’re ruthless.”

Marko wiped more sweat from his forehead. He lifted his leg onto the bench and looked at his calf. A circular area about an inch in diameter appeared pinker than the skin around it. He poked at the center.

“Are you okay? You don’t suppose—”

“Shit! The old woman.” Marko clutched his chest “My heart. It’s too fast. Call 9-1-1.” He handed his phone to Niko, then lowered his leg and laid his head on the table. “Use my phone, not yours.”

“Your heart?” Niko reached for the cell. It slipped from his fingers and dropped to the floor.

Calm down .

He picked it up and punched in the number, speaking as soon as an operator answered. “This is a medical emergency. I’m at Alpha World Brewpub in Ashburn. My friend… I think it’s a heart attack.”

Marko waved his hand and spoke, his voice weak. “Hang up.”

Niko ignored him.

“Hang up,” Marko demanded.

Niko ended the call. “What’s wrong? They had more questions. They’ll call back.”

Shaking his head, Marko whispered, “First Joey, now me. You’re next. The ambulance will come. Turn off my phone. Leave now. Go deep.”

Go deep?

All of Niko’s training kicked in. Focus ! Extreme measures were required when clandestine operations went bad. That’s when you go deep. Disappear. No phone. No credit cards. No car. No home.

He turned off the phone and took Marko’s hand. “You’re not going to die. I won’t let you.”

A young man in a jogging suit rushed over and looked at Marko. “Is he okay?”

“It’s his heart. I called 9-1-1.” Niko struggled to remember what he knew about heart attacks. “Do you have any aspirin?”

The man rushed back to his table. A woman rummaged through her purse.

Marko grabbed Niko by the shirt and pulled him close. “Get out of here now! Go deep. Call the emergency number from a burner phone.” His eyes fluttered. “Use the pass phrases.”

Niko had memorized the number. It was part of his training. Also, the two-part pass phrase: I’m calling from Provo … I’m The Pythia .

The man returned with pills. Marko chewed and swallowed them, then lay down on the bench in obvious pain.

At the sound of a siren, Niko turned toward the door. “It’s coming! You’ll be fine, Marko. You’ll be fine.”

Through the glass doors, he watched the ambulance arrive. Two people in blue uniforms jumped out. They opened the back of the ambulance, removed a stretcher, tossed a red duffel bag onto it, and rushed inside.

Marko spoke in a weak, yet forceful voice. “Go! Now! Don’t try to contact me—or the hospital.” He turned his head and threw up.

Niko stepped out of the way to make room for the emergency responders. More people gathered, all of them staring at Marko except for one middle-aged man who seemed interested in Niko. Russian ? He had a squarish face and a long, bulbous Slavic nose.

Can’t stay here.

The Slavic man stood at the back of the crowd. His eyes shifted away when Niko spotted him.

Time to go deep. Niko ran out the door, straight for his Camaro. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Slavic man running outside with a phone to his ear.