Anatoli Rubinski’s latest volunteer sat droopy eyed on the sofa. If he didn’t know better, the Chechen would have assumed she was an overworked mid-level manager at some thankless job in the commercial district. He did know better though. He knew she was under the magical spell of his homemade voodoo.
The Chechen sat on a dusty recliner in a dusty living room staring with pride at his volunteer. He had no idea who she was or what her life was like. All he knew about her was that she was in the right place when they needed someone and an easy target walking alone in the dark.
He was supposed to use members of the hapless One Front for the People, but the Chechen grew tired of tracking them down after the second volunteer. The first two were easy enough, but how to convince more actual volunteers when they knew what was coming. He didn’t bother trying to convince anyone anymore. He’d use whoever was at hand; had done so for the last nine volunteers and no one was the wiser. The police were still chasing OFP all over the city.
Other than where he found his volunteers, he’d done everything according to plan. He had made his calls to the police. He had written and recorded the messages for the media. He and his men had remained unseen by the police. Even with the drooling mishap and the subsequent remote detonation, he still felt confident the police had no idea what was going on.
He wondered what the cops were getting from those people. Would one of them take credit for being part of it all? That would take some of the heat off his team. If some half-wit wannabe terrorist claimed to take credit for it all for a moment of glory… he caught himself. There is no heat, he thought. No one knew where they were or who they were. Moreover, no one knew Anatoli Rubinski was in the country… or alive. The world thought he was dead, which was the way he had wanted it to be.
How many more attacks would there be before the job was done?
Much like he did on all of his jobs, he grew bored; it was beginning to lose the luster of a challenge. He was anxious to move onto the next thing, whatever that was. Retirement was not out of the question; he had retired once before. Prison may not be most people’s idea of retirement, but to him it wasn’t so bad. Three hot meals a day, a private room, and a reputation that made it so he got whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. The bars and walls kept his enemies outside and the enemies inside with him were kept under control by the guards on his payroll.
Ultimately, however, he grew bored there too. That was years ago, and he wouldn’t mind going back to prison, just not in America. He’d have to go overseas to some backwater country where people were more susceptible to corruption.
“Boss,” said a man from the hall behind him in a thick, eastern European accent. “Ze west is ready. Should ve geet her suited op?”
“Yes.” The Chechen stood. To the volunteer he said, “Stand up.” The volunteer stood. “Follow me.” The volunteer fell into step behind them as the two men walked toward a bedroom down the main hallway of the apartment.
A crash through the front door piqued every nerve in the Chechen’s body. He spun toward the sound whilst dashing to find cover. He saw Lev getting to his feet in the door’s threshold. The man panted and his feet slipped on the hard floor; he made several attempts to right himself, finally holding himself upright on the kitchen counter.
The Chechen took two quick strides toward Lev and, with iron hands, steadied him. Lev’s eyes bulged. He continued to pant.
“What the hell is going on?” The Chechen had the man by the shoulders, holding him inches from his own nose. “What has happened?”
“Zey are coming,” Lev said in a desperate whisper. “Zey have found us. Comink here. Now. Right now.”