Christopher Reich - The First Billion

The first room offered a cot, a table, and a wooden bucket. The second was less accommodating. A peek inside revealed a sturdy wooden chair with broad, flat armrests and a stiff back bolted to a concrete floor. He’d seen chairs like it before, but usually they had straps for your arms and legs and came with a metal bowl and a few electrodes to clamp on your freshly shaven head. The floor was stained black and sloped toward a drain in its center.

“Jett… oh, Jesus, no.” Cate’s gait faltered, and Gavallan rushed to support her. “Go,” he said, propelling her forward. Sensing he had a moment, he put his mouth to her ear. “Hit the floor when I tell you.”

“What?” Cate asked, brow knitted.

Seeing Ivan’s eyes on them, Gavallan backed off and didn’t answer.

Ivan opened the door to the room at the far end of the corridor. “Come,” he said, motioning them closer.

Cate ventured a look behind her and Gavallan nodded for her to go on, his eyes gifting her with the confidence he was lacking. She stepped into the room and, moving to the left, disappeared from Gavallan’s sight. A last check over his shoulder showed Boris hovering near the front door, distracted, barking instructions to Tatiana and her suitors.

There were two cots placed against opposite walls with a window in between them. Cate stood to his left, arms crossed over her chest. She was nervous, her sea green eyes flicking this way and that.

“Which one is mine?” Gavallan asked, pointing at the beds. His body had gone rigid; his hands itched for action. His jaw still tingled from Boris’s punch, and fighting blood stirred inside him. Ivan stood in front of him, the Uzi pushed back to his side, his forearm resting on top of it.

“Ex-cuze me, I no—” he began to answer, his fractured English bringing an ugly grin to his lips.

But by then Gavallan was already moving.

Shoving Cate’s overnight bag into Ivan’s stomach, he drove the white-haired Russian into the far wall. While one hand blocked the Uzi’s rise, the other dropped the bag and freed the shank from his pants. With curt, vicious thrusts, he rammed the blade into Ivan’s neck, once, twice, then brought his arm around in a windmill and stabbed the Russian in the back. His actions were savage, feral, unthinking. Ivan fought to push his attacker away, to bring up the Uzi, but his efforts were divided, unfocused. Hugging him close, Gavallan shoved home the shank. The Russian’s back arched in spasm. His fingers left Gavallan and grasped at his ruined throat, but the only sound he could produce was the clotted cough of a man choking to death on his own blood. His body shuddered, then was still.

“Ivan!”

Boris’s strident voice echoed through the cabin as his footsteps pounded down the hallway. Gavallan freed the submachine gun from Ivan’s shoulder and let the corpse fall to the floor. “Down,” he yelled to Cate as he darted to the doorway and his thumb kicked off the safety. He ducked a head into the corridor and a chunk of wood exploded from the door frame, accompanied by the ear-numbing blast of a large-bore handgun.

Blindly, Gavallan stuck the Uzi into the corridor and fired. Three short bursts. Left. Right. Then left again. He could hear the bullets strike Boris, three fastballs thudding into a catcher’s mitt. His steps slowed violently and the Russian collapsed to the floor.

Gavallan peered into the hall. Boris was on his stomach, one hand patting the ground as if he were a wrestler signaling his surrender. The pistol lay a few inches away. Gavallan fired a quick burst and Boris’s skull disintegrated, freckling the walls with gore.

“The others are coming,” Cate shouted. “Hurry!”

“Get the gun and stay here,” Gavallan instructed her.

With a leap, he cleared Boris and made for the open front door. Running, he glanced out the window. The two drivers were rushing the cabin. Tatiana was nowhere to be seen. Stopping short, he fired through the glass in a wide arc. His goal wasn’t to kill but to halt Kirov’s soldiers’ advance. Both men dived headlong to the ground and, as if trained for this exact scenario, began crawling in different directions. The nearer sought refuge in the lee of the landing. The other skidded backward on his hands and knees toward the automobiles.

You can only get one, a voice whispered in Gavallan’s head.

Steadying himself, he took aim and fired. A short burst, five bullets max. The black suit approaching the cabin stopped moving. Gavallan fired again. Filaments from the man’s jacket flittered into the air where the bullets struck.

“Cate,” he yelled, “get on your hands and knees and crawl to me.”

Gavallan had slammed the front door and was running from window to window, scouring the woods for sign of Tatiana’s platinum hair, her blue jeans running among the trees. He didn’t see her anywhere. Fire broke out from the front of the house. Bullets thudded into the cabin, then found the windows. Glass shattered and tinkled to the floor, sending him tumbling to the floor. Lifting his head above the windowsill, he saw their driver firing his Uzi over the Suburban’s hood. It’s a feint, Gavallan decided. He’s keeping us pinned down for the girl. For Tatiana.

“Take the Uzi,” he said to Cate, trading her the machine gun for Boris’s.44 automag. “If he tries to leave the car, fire.” He showed her how to hold the gun at arm’s length and helped fashion her finger around the trigger. “Just short bursts. Fire; let go. Fire; let go. You don’t have many bullets left.”

Cate accepted the weapon, tried to get a feel of its heft. “Short bursts,” she said, her eyes keen.

“Yeah, and keep looking every now and again. He may try to rush you.”

“And you?”

Gavallan had remembered the woodpile twenty five feet from the cabin and the boarded-up entry to the storm cellar next to it. He’d already located the stairs to the cabin’s cellar. The only question was whether there was a passageway leading between the two. Given the severity of Russian winters, he was counting on it. “I’ve got to check on something. I’ll be right back.”

Mindful that speed was a factor, he moved off before she could protest. The automag leading the charge, he crashed down the stairs to the cellar. The room was dank and dark. He scurried along the walls, his hand checking the concrete for a door. He found nothing. He took a step backward, puzzled, and a hollow thud greeted his footfall. He was standing on a trapdoor.

Falling to his knee, he slipped two fingers into the rusty pull ring and yanked open the door. Stairs led to an abyss. Slowly, he descended them, one by one, and when he reached the bottom, he stopped. The room was pitch dark. He waved a hand in front of his face. Nothing. He listened. Nothing.

But what did you expect to hear over the hobnailed beating of your own heart? a voice chided him.

Hurry, he commanded himself. Cate is alone. And then, more frighteningly: You could be wrong. Tatiana may know another way into the house.

Groping the wall, he set out, holding the gun in front of him as he would have a flashlight. He calculated that twenty paces would take him to the storm cellar. Water dripped from the ceiling. Instinctively, he lowered his head. Something damp and sticky danced across his face. Grimacing, he swiped it away.

Ten paces.

“Jett! Come here! Now!”

Gavallan spun his head in the direction of her voice. He retreated a step. It was the driver. He’d gotten bored and was mounting his own lonely charge. Just then, the door to the storm cellar opened and sunshine flooded the passage. Gavallan froze, squinting to adjust to the light. A black cowboy boot landed on the stairs forty feet in front of him.

“Jett!” Cate’s voice came again.