He stopped to listen. Nothing. No sound at all. He ran deeper into the woods, peering through the trees. His heart pounded like a sledge-hammer, his head beating with every pump of his heart. Perspiration dripped into his eyes. He stopped to listen once again, leaning against a small tree.
Forty yards behind him, he heard the screen door slam open and shut. “What have you done?” he heard Nadine screaming. “You idiot, what have you done?”
“Shut up! Shut up and listen!” Clyde cried out. Nadine fell silent. Clyde peered through the brush.
There it was. A brittle snap from a tree limb. Then the quiet rustle of leaves. He turned to his right and headed up the side of the mountain. She was there. She couldn’t be far. He only had left her for just a few seconds. He ran another twenty yards, then stopped again to listen. Another quick rustle of leaves. He turned and waved his arms, beckoning Nadine to follow, and ran another thirty steps up the hill.
Then he saw her. Forty yards into the forest and directly off to his right. She had crawled up under a thick mulberry bush. She was laying down, her head facing the top of the mountain, her back toward Clyde, her body completely obscured by the leaves. Only her shoes and bare ankles lay exposed on the downhill side of the green, leafy bush. But they were plainly in view. The sweat poured down his back. Glancing around, he looked for Nadine. She wasn’t there.
He lifted his 9mm pistol to the fire position, holding it steady with both hands, his arms fully extended out before him. He carefully aimed, then slowly pulled on the trigger. His hands bounced into the air, still clasped together, as the force of the recoil made its way through his arms.
The silencer uttered a muffled thong. A tiny explosion of dirt and dry leaves bounced into the air, barely twelve inches from Jesse’s exposed feet.
“I see you, Jesse,” Clyde called out.
He raised his pistol and fired off another shot. It too impacted the dirt with a quick and silent thump, just a fraction above Jesse’s ankle. The leaves of the mulberry bush rattled and shivered, but still, Jesse didn’t come out.
“I see your feet.” Clyde took a few steps toward the shaking bush. “I see your feet. You’re too tall to hide them. Now watch as I blow one of them off. You’re not going to run away from me, Jesse. You’ll never run or walk ever again!”
Clyde raised the pistol for the last time. He was completely serious. He would shoot off one of her feet. He was tired of screwing around with the girl. This job was over. He was going to kill her and be done with it. Screw Morozov. Let him take care of his own problems. He had already been paid half of the money. That was enough. This job was done.
He aimed the pistol, placing Jesse’s left ankle in the center of the sights. He held his breath and began to slowly squeeze on the trigger. From under the bush, he could hear Jesse sob.
With a sickening thump, he felt the bullet pass through the back of his left shoulder and out the front side, exploding blood and muscle and cartilage through the air in front of his face. A searing pain and burning sensation cut through his back and made its way up his spine. Every ounce of breath was knocked from his body, and he immediately slumped to the ground, his face mashing into the dry and rotting leaves. He gasped and rolled and cried for breath as the blood spurted from a splintered hole, just half an inch above his left collar bone.
The agent had fired through the trees from just over two hundred yards. But clearly, it was a near perfect shot.
TWENTY-FOUR
Ivan Morozov walked briskly through the parking lot. The hood of his coat was pulled down tight around his face as he sought protection from the bitter cold and freezing rain. He jumped over small puddles of brown water that covered the rutted asphalt, then walked into the Wichita Mall and shook off the sleet from his coat. He stood before the mall directory for only a moment while he searched for his destination, then turned and walked toward a small coffee shop that was located in a deep corner of the food emporium.
He looked around quickly as he entered the restaurant. It was not very crowded. At least not yet. Ten-thirty was too early for the lunch traffic to begin. He ignored the sign that asked him to wait to be seated and walked deliberately back to a corner booth. The man was already waiting.
He didn’t look up as Morozov pushed into the booth, but continued to run dry pieces of toast through the dripping egg yolks, stuffing them into his mouth. Morozov made himself comfortable, then reached over and picked up the newspaper which lay rolled up next to the man’s plate of eggs. As he flipped it open, he was surprised to see that it was two days old.
“You’re a little behind in your reading,” he muttered.
The man stuffed another piece of dripping toast in his mouth. “Been busy,” was all he replied.
Morozov scanned the headline, which was two inches high, bold and black. Headlines like this sold a lot of papers.
RUSSIAN BOMBER SHOT DOWN
U.S. BLAMED FOR AIRCRAFT’S LOSS
The United States Government denied any involvement in yesterday’s apparent downing of a Russian Blackjack bomber, despite Russia’s claim that one of two U.S. Air Force fighters shot down the Tu-160 aircraft twenty miles from the coast of Maine.
The Russian aircraft was flying in international airspace when the incident occurred. Russian president Vladimir Fedotov denounced the downing of his bomber, calling it a “calculated, cowardly, and deliberate act of war.”
Although the U.S. military continues to deny any involvement, the incident has heightened the current crisis to an explosive level. Right wing members of the Russian parliament have demanded an immediate and unconditional apology from the United States. President Fedotov has threatened a retaliatory strike against U.S. military aircraft that are currently operating in the Mediterranean Sea as a part of NATO war game exercises.
“We cannot let such aggression go unpunished,” Fedotov said in a hastily called news conference. “We had an unarmed Russian aircraft, operating in a perfectly legal manner, with no hostile intentions, suddenly shot from the air. It was a completely unprovoked attack. But I will say this. We know now who is an agent for peace, and who is an agent for war. We now have a clearer idea of who is an enemy to the new Russian state. And knowing that, we will respond. Beyond that, I will say no more.”
Morozov scanned the story, then folded the paper and smiled. It was a pleasure to see a plan come together.
Fedotov’s friend looked up from his eggs. He was a large man, middle-aged and serious-looking. His skin was lily white. His eyes were a pale brown, like dry winter leaves, and just as lifeless. They spoke of painful days and long winter nights and were a perfect complement to the cold smirk that marked his face.
Ivan Morozov studied him for a moment, then spoke in a harsh whisper as he looked around the near-empty restaurant.
“What’s the official count on the Nertrav incident?”
The man answered with an expressionless face. “The Ukrainian press is calling it twenty thousand, give or take. Officially, the U.S. Defense Department refuses to say. Liski thinks it is not quite that high, maybe fourteen thousand by the time the Nertrav has run its full course. But really, what does it matter? Ten… fourteen… twenty… what’s the difference? Either way, it had the desired effect.”
Morozov smiled once again. “Hear about Korea?” he asked. The man shook his head.