Mark Pryor - Cyberian Affair

Niko grabbed his laptop and sat on the couch. “I’ll check out the video. Call you back later.” He set down his phone and opened the web page on the computer. A short list of two videos appeared—one for the front camera and one for the back. Niko selected the one in the front.

A close-up of someone’s hand appeared, resting on a dark T-shirt. The gruff man’s voice spoke Russian over the muted sound of a car engine. “I got the SIM card.” The image shifted abruptly to the face of a middle-aged, eastern European man with a nose that must have been broken once. “There, I turned it off.” The video moved in a jerk to his lap and remained dark.

Niko knew the phone would never turn off, but the Russian didn’t know.

A different voice asked, “Is the girl still out? Do we have to tie her up?”

“No,” was the answer. “She will stay asleep long enough to get to the house. Then she is Falcon’s problem.”

Falcon ! Sokolov !

The name hit him hard. His worst fears had come true.

Neither Russian spoke for several minutes, then one of them broke the silence. “Pull over here. I’ll ditch the phone.”

It sounded like they pulled onto a gravel road and stopped. The image jumped from a view of the man’s shirt to a car door, which opened. The video moved in a blur, then settled on a glimpse of the night sky before it was blotted out by the heel of a shoe. Then the audio and video ended.

Niko played the second recording—from the back camera. The audio was identical. The video didn’t add anything new—only a stationary image of the inside roof of the car.

He called Smith. “Have you found her?”

“Not yet,” was the response. “The last camera their vehicle passed was at a bank near the mall on Marathon Road. It turned into the Highland Park area. We sent a drone to search from a low altitude. No signal yet. Agents are in the area.”

“They’re taking her to Sokolov,” said Niko. “They called him Sokol —that’s Falcon in Russian and Ukrainian. It was his nickname in Sevastopol. I’m heading to Highland Park.”

“We’ll find her. Stay where you are.”

Niko ended the call and grabbed his Glock. He checked the magazine and picked up extra ammunition.

Then he remembered the interrogating radar unit Miss Q had given him. “It’s best to use the directional antenna,” she had told him. “The signal will be strongest when the antenna is pointed in the direction of the implant.”

Niko rushed to the computer room and tucked everything under his arm before heading to the car.

Vyper awoke slowly, unsure of where she was. She opened her eyes and stared at a sloped, off-white ceiling with a single light bulb hanging from the center. She was lying on a cheap couch with unmatched, fraying cushions. Her sundress was rumpled, riding high on her thighs. One of her legs dangled over the side, her leather wedge shoe secured tightly by the straps.

A man shouted, “Sokol,” in a gruff voice.

Sokolov ! He is here !

She shifted her gaze to the sound, and locked eyes with a short, husky man with closely trimmed hair. He continued shouting at someone in another room, while another voice responded. The language sounded Russian.

Vyper’s mind instinctively blocked out everything around her. She flapped her hands and rocked her head back and forth. It was comforting.

She thought about Niko and smiled. Then she thought about her situation. This was no time to zone out. Niko would expect more of her. She stopped flapping and squeezed her hands into fists.

Krav Maga . What did they teach ?

One technique seemed appropriate right now. Act vulnerable until an opportunity arises .

Vyper could not fight this man while lying on her back. And someone—Sokolov—was just outside the door. For now, she decided to watch and wait for an opening. Then she would have to strike hard—and keep striking. Her shoes might slow her down, or they could be used as weapons. She decided to keep them on.

The room was small. The only furniture besides the couch was a folding chair. Another man walked through the doorway and stopped. It was Sokolov. Vyper recognized his face from the pictures she had seen. He was shorter than Niko had described, but more intimidating. He held a large knife in his hand. His voice was gruff, and his lips curled into a cruel smile. “You are awake, Prixster.” He glanced at the other man and pointed to Vyper.

As Sokolov watched, his assistant grabbed Vyper by the hair and pulled her roughly to her feet.

She tried to get up quickly while keeping her shoes on. Successful, she slumped in a submissive posture before the man she despised.

His assistant stood behind Vyper and grabbed her arms, holding them tightly.

Sokolov walked up to her. His hot breath smelled like rotten fish. His black eyes sent a chill down her spine. “You stole my money.” He brandished his knife before her eyes. The blade was half a foot long, sharp on one edge and serrated on the other. “You will return it to me.”

Vyper resisted the urge to take her mind to a safe place. She had to remain alert and ready. She averted her gaze, feigning submissiveness, and answered in a low voice. “I do not know who you are, or where your money is.”

Sokolov pressed the blade of the knife against Vyper’s cheek, just below her eye. “It would be a shame to cut this pretty face.” He stepped back and looked at her, moving his eyes slowly from head to foot. He ran the point of the knife down to her shoulder. “Pretty dress. Such a pity it covers up a beautiful woman.” He slipped the blade under the spaghetti strap.

Vyper’ first reaction was embarrassment. Her arms were bound, and this evil man planned to cut the straps of her dress. It had a built-in bra, so nothing would cover her once the top slipped down.

Then her mind focused on Krav Maga.

This is my opportunity. He will be distracted.

Sokolov slid the blade along her strap, cutting it and freeing the dress from one shoulder. He smiled and moved the knife to her other strap. When he sliced it, the dress slid to her waist, giving him a clear view of her body.

Now !

Vyper raised one foot and smashed it onto the instep of the man behind her, using all the speed and force she could muster. Her arms slipped free as the man shouted in pain. She raised her knee, threatening a kick to Sokolov’s groin.

He swung both hands down to protect himself, leaving his head vulnerable. Vyper clapped her hands forcefully on both of his ears. Before he reacted, she butted his head with the top of hers, and jumped forward, knocking him over.

As they fell together, she grabbed his head and prepared to smash his skull on the concrete. Before they hit the floor, she felt a sharp pain in her side—the knife.

Niko drove along the narrow streets of Highland Park, shacks and rickety fences on either side. Trash, old tires, and abandoned cars littered empty lots. His radar unit hadn’t shown any sign of a signal.

The phone rang. Smith was on the other end. “Our drone spotted the building.” He gave Niko the GPS coordinates. “It’s a peach-colored shack with an old fishing boat around the back. I’m sending a team. If you get there before they do, wait. Vyper has a better chance if you don’t try to be a hero. I’m dispatching another drone—this one with an infrared camera.”

A few minutes later, Niko approached the building, driving slowly. He checked the radar which consistently indicated the same building.

This is the place. Vyper’s in there.

He parked across the street and walked toward a neighboring building which appeared to be abandoned. From there, he could watch the house. Weeds had taken over the yard, nearly covering the old boat Smith had described.