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ZAKHAR WAITED IN THE Olander whore’s apartment until midnight. By then his vexation was beyond his control. He slammed the apartment door behind him and stalked the few blocks to his rental car.
Thinking only of his frustration and how he would spring his next trap on the woman, he wasn’t paying as close attention to his surroundings as he should have—but then he’d been trained as a soldier, a bodyguard, and the occasional assassin. Not a covert operator.
“FBI! Put your hands on the car roof! NOW!”
Five agents, their blue vests stamped with “FBI,” descended on Zakhar. Within seconds, they had cuffed him and emptied his pockets.
“What is this for?” he demanded in heavily accented English. “I am American citizen. I have passport—you see? I have passport!”
“An American? Yeah, an’ I’m from New Zealand.” The female senior agent possessed the unmistakable inflections of the South Bronx—a far cry from a Kiwi accent. “You’re under arrest for at least a hunnerd counts of possession of child pornography. I say a hunnerd, but we ain’t finished countin’ yet.”
She held up his laptop. “Don’t fret none, pal—we’ll get the charges right. We got a lot more in the queue than just porn, ’cording to my boss.”
“Lies! All lies!” Zakhar shouted.
The senior agent slanted her eyes toward him, and her sly smile widened. “Oh? Then, how ’bout this? Murder of two law enforcement officers, murder of a civilian, attempted murder, murder for hire, grand theft auto, impersonating an officer of the law, and—topping the hit parade—espionage. Any of that ring a bell? Sure, ya did a lotta that in Canada, but not to worry. The US’ll turn ya over to the Canuck feds—eventually. ’Course, we’ll carve our pound of flesh outta ya first. It’ll be years b’fore it’s their turn.”
She laughed. “Huh! B’lieve I hear the sound of a couple of back-t’-back life sentences, whatta ya think?”
To her subordinates she growled, “Do the world a solid and haul this trash outta here.”
HIS SECURITY SYSTEM’S strobing lights warned Syla of the intrusion. He stared at the monitors—at the swarm of armed FBI agents lining up to breach his hiding place.
A raid. A federal one.
Syla was as stunned and surprised at what was unfolding as Zakhar had been at his arrest, but at least Syla wasn’t going to be caught flat-footed! No, the location of his office high up in the mob warehouse would delay the feds long enough for Syla to implement his contingency plans.
Syla burst into a flurry of keystrokes, bringing up the window to a program that would wipe his hard drives, browser history, and online profiles multiple times. Nothing could stop it. Even if they shut down his machines, the program would resume upon reboot. But before he initiated the “wipe,” he executed a specially prepared series of events, setting in motion the contingency plan that would be most personally gratifying.
Because Syla knew who had sent the feds. At least his payback would ensure that she never saw daylight again.
“Vyper, you’re finished,” Syla sneered. “Next time, don’t play with the big boys.”
He laughed. “Oh, wait! There won’t be a ‘next time!’”
With one eye on the monitors, half his attention focused on the FBI tactical team as they began their breach, Syla initiated his system-wide wipe. It started as he expected—but then . . .
Then things went very badly awry.
In the center of every single one of his eighteen monitors, a dot of light appeared. The dots flickered, grew larger, expanded, and unfurled into the red-and-white maple-leaf flag of Canada. Across all of Syla’s twelve screens, the Canadian flag waved gently to a triumphant, full-blast, orchestral rendition of . . .
O Canada!
Our home and native land
True patriot love
in all thy sons command!
Syla hit Escape, then the enter and delete keys. He pressed Alt+Tab. He pounded Ctrl+Alt+Delete again and again. He tried in vain to “get behind” the anthem, to find his program window and execute the destruct sequence, but the “O Canada” bomb had locked him out. Even as the boots of federal agents pounded their way up four flights of stairs to the top of the warehouse, Syla fought to override the virus, but could not.
“FBI! Freeze! Get on the ground!”
Syla ignored their commands. He stared at his monitors—an entire wall of them—all flying the red-and-white flag of Canada. The anthem ended with a triumphant,
O Canada!
We stand on guard
FOR THEE!
“Yaroslav Bodnar, AKA, Syla, you are under arrest for violations under 18 U.S.C. section 2251, the Sexual Exploitation of Children act, the production of child pornography, 18 U.S.C. section 2251A, the Selling and Buying of Children, and 18 U.S.C. section 2252, activities relating to material involving the sexual exploitation of minors, the possession, distribution, and receipt of child pornography. Further charges are pending. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one . . .”
As the agents pushed him to the floor and the last echoes of the song faded, the maple leaf also faded. Syla cranked his neck to keep his eyes on his monitors. Out of the dissolving center of the flag, the fanged head of a venomous serpent emerged.
Grinning.
Smirking.
Winking.
The agents who cuffed Syla and dragged him from his lair were forced to endure his shrieks of outrage as they echoed far down the stairs and into the night.
“Gaaahhh! Gaaahhhh!”
TUESDAY MORNING, VYPER sauntered through the RCMP’s front entrance doors as usual. She was still sniggering over the traps she’d set for Zakhar and Syla, giggling over the FBI reports she’d perused early this morning after hacking their system—the scintillating descriptions of their arrests and the lovely vast array of charges pending against them.
Well, I provided the American feds with sufficient evidence, didn’t I?
She stepped into the RCMP lobby. That was as far as she got.
Armed RCMP security officers swarmed her from every direction, shouting instructions.
She dropped her backpack and sank to her knees as ordered. An officer pulled her wrists to her back and cuffed them. Then they got her on her feet and marched her into the commissioner’s office.
The commissioner was waiting for them, her outrage splashed in bright spots upon both cheeks. Vyper had not met the woman personally—before today.
She shrugged. Probably not the best first impression.
“Would it surprise you, Miss Benoit, to know that we received credible intel late last night asserting that you, our very own cyber security specialist, were running your own little cyber enterprise from this RCMP facility? And would it surprise you to know that, in fact, we have found evidence to support such an accusation? An accusation of treason?”
Vyper swapped her wad of three chewed sticks of Black Jack from one side of her mouth to the other. “My wallet. Back pock—”
“Don’t you dare talk to me with that foul, disgusting gob in your mouth!” the commissioner shouted.
An officer lifted a wastebasket and held it under Vyper’s mouth. She rolled the sizable wad to the front of her mouth, spit the gum into the basket, and tried again.
“I beg your pardon. My wallet. Back pocket. There’s a phone number.”
They universally ignored her.
“You will be formally charged this morning under section 46 of the Criminal Code, high treason.”
“You’re making a mistake, Commissioner.”
“Get her out of here.”
About the time two officers took hold of Vyper’s arms to “perp walk” her from the commissioner’s office, the commissioner’s secretary opened the office door.
“Excuse me, Commissioner?”
“This is not the time, Ms. Terry.”
Someone behind the secretary edged her out of the way and pushed himself into the room.
The commissioner eyed the man. “And you are?”
“Bernard Dupont, Canadian Security Intelligence Service. My card.”
“We were, of course, about to call and inform your offices of the security breach.”
“Were you? Ah, me. Would that you had called us before you made such a spectacle of Miss Benoit’s arrest.”
The commissioner bristled. “How I run my organization is not your business, Mr. Dupont.”
“I understand, but . . . if I may suggest that you excuse these officers from the room while we talk?”
Something in Dupont’s manner made the commissioner reconsider. “Give us the room. And take that person with you.”
“No. You will uncuff Miss Benoit and leave her with us.”
“No! I must protest—”
Dupont gestured to the officers. “Get out.”
As the commissioner’s office door closed on the officers’ departing backs, Dupont said, “You see, Commissioner, we placed Miss Benoit with you quite intentionally. She is one of ours.”
“What?”
“Our agent. Embedded here. Within the walls of the RCMP. Doing what she does best. We allow her free rein to run her “little enterprises,” and we don’t care a whit if she amasses extra cash or even a fortune on the side, because she has proven herself more than loyal.”
He pointed at Vyper. “Through her machinations and her rightfully earned hacker rep, she provides us access to those entities, both foreign and domestic, who plot against us and our allies.”
The commissioner’s mouth tightened as Dupont continued.
“Cyberattacks? Financial attacks? Terror-directed attacks? Any or all of them? We’re an equal-opportunity Canadian security agency, Commissioner, meaning our only objective is to protect Canada. To ensure that end, we don’t care how the job gets done as long as it gets done. Do you understand me? We. Don’t. Care. We will do whatever we must and use whatever resources come to hand.
“As regards to Miss Benoit? In the ongoing cyberwar, she is our number-one huntress, a force to be reckoned with, utterly deadly to our enemies. Therefore, concerning her? I assure you, we most certainly do care.”
The commissioner’s eyes strayed to her employee. Vyper unwrapped a stick of gum. She fed it slowly—leisurely—into her mouth. Then, just as deliberately, she breathed on her nails and polished them on her shirt.
The commissioner pulled herself up straight. “But . . . but . . . be that as it may, I don’t see how we can, given the circumstances, put her back into her position. So many of our people—”
“My point, precisely. Her cover is well and truly blown, thank you very much. The Prime Minister, I’m sorry to say, will find your actions quite regrettable.”
The commissioner sank into her chair. “I-I’m—”
“Because of the mess you have created, we must now assign Miss Benoit elsewhere. Fortunately, the Americans have requested her services, and as it suits our purposes to remove her from the Canadian spotlight you have so inconsiderately placed her in, we shall grant their request.”
He turned on his heel. “Come along, Thérèse. I hear the American’s have big plans for you.”
Vyper smirked as she rambled along after him.
America? Cool.
And Syla thought he was crashing my career? Ha!
Think again, loser.
The End
Laynie, Quincy Tobin—and perhaps Vyper?—will return in Laynie Portland, Renegade Spy. As you might imagine, her adjustment to her new situation proves difficult.
Although Director Wolfe brings Laynie “in from the cold” to a place of relative safety, she will remain free only if she meets Wolfe’s three conditions. She must accept the new identity he gives her, and she must meet with an agency “shrink” to address the emotional damage caused by her years undercover. This counselor, handpicked by Wolfe, will evaluate Laynie and determine if she is fit to participate in his secret task force. Moreover, Laynie must remain in Wolfe’s witness protection program. The program will hide Laynie from those who are hunting her, but it will also greatly curtail her freedom.
But nothing goes as Laynie hopes. The rules grind and grate on her. They shackle her choices and constrict her movements. She feels controlled and manipulated. Her clashes with bureaucratic culture only serve to tighten the restrictions and send her spiraling downward, out of control.
Meanwhile, in the background, dark forces are at work, forces that compel Laynie to disobey directives in order to save a life. Rather than proving her value to Wolfe’s satisfaction, Laynie’s risky exploit marks her as a faithless renegade, a rebel whose insubordination may earn her harsh, ruinous consequences.
Laynie must fight to earn her place on the task force—even as unfolding events expose a looming danger. Wolfe’s task force has a leak . . . one that threatens them all.
By the way, if you have not read the full, inspiring tale of the Thoresen family—a story that spans generations and concludes with Kari and Laynie finding each other—you will uncover all the answers to your questions in my series, A Prairie Heritage. Without cost to you, read the first three, full-length books of this series on Kindle, Nook, Apple Books, or Kobo in the single volume, A Prairie Heritage, The Early Years. Interested in my other books? Page ahead to see a complete list of them.
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Thank you. I appreciate your readership and the fellowship we share in Christ Jesus, our Lord.
Many hugs,
—Vikki Kestell, Author of Faith-Filled Fiction™
Author’s Notes
The Soviet Union officially dissolved on December 26, 1991. Its former Soviet republics became independent nations, including Russia, which emerged as the Russian Federation.
In 1995, the FSK, Russia’s Federal Counterintelligence Service and heir to the KGB, became the FSB, the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, by order of President Boris Yeltsin.
The referenced UNL dormitories, Burr and Fedde Hall, where Max and his friends played paintball, were in use when Laynie visited the agriculture college in Retired Spy. They were demolished in 2017.
