Disclaimer: It's fanfic, meaning I don't own anything or make any money off of it. It's a labor of love. Please don't sue me.
This story is rated T. Apart from some language, there's nothing here that wouldn't pass muster on an episode of The Following. If you're old enough to watch the Following, you're old enough to read this. However, it is The Following, so bad things can happen. Expect possible violence, dark themes, angst, and a certain amount of general awfulness. No serial killers, FBI agents, or small furry animals were harmed in the making of this fanfic. And don't try anything you read here at home.
Chapter 3 - Sometimes A Snark Is A Boojum
Mark Gray's Safe House - Three Hours Ago
The trouble started because of three things. First, Mark Gray was hungry, and decided to cook himself a meal. Second, Mark had made an effort to learn the languages of the countries in which he traveled. And third, the dude in the Guy Fawkes T shirt was an asshole.
The safe house felt a bit crowded because Mark had to share it with a couple of Zamir's men. Zamir himself wasn't there, of course, he was too important to be doing the scut work. He'd left two guys to keep an eye on things. Mark wasn't sure how many guys Zamir had all told, but if these two were any indication, he was recruiting from the shallow end of the gene pool. One of them was clean shaven, with short brown hair and a broad, sullen face. It was a face that held some combination of anger and permanent disappointment. He was, when it started, sitting on the living room couch playing a game on his smart phone. He was wearing a black knit shirt with narrow white horizontal stripes and jeans. His name was Gusti .
The other man, Petar, the one in the Guy Fawkes T shirt, was binge watching what looked like a German cop show. He was in his early twenties with short, spiky black hair, a few days growth of stubble, and tinted, thick rimmed glasses. Mark thought he was trying to look like Carlos The Jackal, but mostly he looked like Moe from the Three Stooges if Moe had been a pimp. And he also popped pills.
Mark was making khichri, a spicy Indian dish made with rice and lentils. He put some olive oil in the bottom of the pot, added the ginger, cloves, bay leaf, and half a cinnamon stick, and began frying them. The smell was wonderful, and it would be even better once he'd added the rice, water, and the rest of the spices. The smell would carry through the whole place. Aromatherapy followed by dinner, once he'd got the rice cooked down and added the lentils. He had a bottle of Riesling that he'd been saving. Zamir had told him earlier that day that Mike Weston was definitely in Skopje, and Mark was in a festive mood. After a minute he added the rice and stirred it, getting it thoroughly coated in the hot spicy oil.
His two minders spoke English, but usually didn't speak to each other except in German. Gusti was probably German, but Petar definitely wasn't. He'd heard Petar speaking on the phone, maybe to a girlfriend. He spoke a Balkan language, Mark was pretty sure. Hungarian or Rumanian or something. They spoke German to keep him from understanding what they were saying, and seemed oblivious to the fact they were showing that they couldn't be trusted. Mark, for his part, gave no sign that he's studied some German while hiding there. He wasn't fluent, of course, but he knew the language well enough to know that Petar was telling Gusti that Mark would make someone a good little wife, and he probably missed having a real man around now that his brother was dead. Petar frequently talked shit after popping pills.
Mark had finished adding the water and dry spices, and was just bringing the mixture to a boil when he heard someone come into the kitchen behind him. He turned. Petar. "He's in here playing with himself," Petar said in German. "He misses having his brother to do it for him."
Mark was debating exactly how many of Petar's bones he was going to break when Petar opened the refrigerator and took out Mark's bottle of Riesling. "Put that back," Mark said, in German. "If you want something, ask. And while you're at it, I think an apology is in order."
Petar froze for a moment, and turned, the wine bottle still in his hand, a look of surprise on his face. "You shouldn't mix alcohol with pills," Mark said patiently. "And you shouldn't talk about my brother. Both will get you dead."
"God damn to your mother," Petar replied, in English.
This was unacceptable, so Mark closed the distance in a heartbeat and sucker punched Petar in the face while Petar was trying to bring the bottle up to use as a weapon Mark leaned into the punch, twisting his body to put more weight behind it. Petar's head slammed back against the freezer door. He might have been willing to apologize at that point, but he was too badly dazed and anyway his voice would have sounded odd with a broken nose. The wine bottle dropped, and Mark's next three punches broke his glasses, the bone around his right eye socket, and his teeth. Mark reached over to the kitchen cabinet, pulled the butcher knife from its wooden block and drove it hard and repeatedly into Petar's midsection until Petar slid to the floor with Mark's knife still in his guts.
By now the rice was boiling over, meaning it was ruined and all Mark's work had been for nothing, so when Gusti came through the kitchen door to see what was happening, he was met with a faceful of boiling water, hot oil, and uncooked rice. He was still screaming in agony when Mark brained him with the pot. With dinner ruined, Mark decided he had no choice but to go out to eat. He left the kitchen smelling of fragrant spices and Petar's voided bowels.
II
Marta Pandev's Flat, Two Hours Ago
The call came while Marta was reading a book on her Kindle. She was sitting on her couch, a half eaten bag of unbuttered popcorn on the lamp table next to her. The book was called Ryan Hardy, G-Man, Vigilante, Executioner by a British writer named Nigel Pyke. She'd read a lot about Joe Carroll and Lily Gray so much of this was familiar to her. She'd had a fascination with serial killers well before she met Mark Gray, so she knew a lot about Ryan Hardy even before she met Mark, and Mark himself had told her quite a bit.
Pyke's book painted Ryan as lawless and murderous, and claimed he had, in effect, run an execution squad. It was pretty sensationalistic, claiming that Ryan had gone far beyond even the methods that the FBI had resorted to in the1930s. He claimed that Ryan Hardy was a serial killer with a badge, and predicted that eventually, Ryan's killings would get out of control and escalate to a point that the Government would be driven to take official notice. The book had been condemned by the FBI and by Hardy himself, but Marta thought that Pyke was probably right.
And that made her wish she could meet Ryan Hardy.
The sound of a ringtone distracted her. She looked at her phone. Dusko. She put down her Kindle and answered it.
"Is Gray with you?" Dusko asked, without preliminary.
"No, you didn't want us seeing each other until.."
"Has he called?" Dusko interrupted.
"No. What's this about?"
"That lunatic has killed one of Zamir's men and injured another. Some sort of argument that got out of hand. He's left the safe house, and they have no idea where he is. Zamir is furious. Call Gray at once."
"Will he hurt Mark?"
"I have no idea, but I'm quite certain he'll hurt you. I have to go meet Weston and this CIA agent, Kirkland . You keep trying to reach Gray. If you find him, call me. Go to him. See if you can talk him down. If we can find him, maybe we can salvage this. Save our lives, and his. Do you understand? If Zamir finds Mark before you do, I don't know what will happen."
"I'll call him."
She disconnected, and began frantically dialing Mark Gray.
His phone rang five times, and she was expecting to get his voice mail when he finally answered. "Marta? Is that you?"
"Yes. Are you OK? What happened? They said..."
"He was being a dick," Mark interrupted. " He had it coming, They both did. He insulted me, my family...They think I'm stupid. They don't know that I understand what they're saying. That I learn some languages. They think they can use me, and laugh at me, and steal from me."
"Dusko called me. He's going to meet Mike Weston alone. He told me that if I don't find you, Zamir will kill me."
"I can protect you."
"No, Mark. You can't. Not from Zamir. I know you're strong, and I love you for saying that, but Zamir is an animal. And he has connections. Please. You have to tell me where you are."
"So you can tell them where I am?"
"No," she said. "So I can be with you. Please. We can talk to Zamir. Make him understand. I know you had reasons for what you did, but Zamir is not the FBI. These people don't have rules."
"Neither does the FBI," Mark replied. "They just pretend to. Rules are for those shows on TV, with the cops and the lawyers and the forensics experts, and they wrap it all up by the end of the episode. In real life the only difference between Zamir and the FBI is that Zamir hasn't got a badge."
"Tell me where you are."
"I went out for a cheeseburger. That guy ruined my dinner. I'm at Club Plevna."
"Stay there. I'm on my way."
III.
Ryan tapped on the open door to Gina's office. He could see that she was on the phone, and she held up a hand and mouthed "wait". A minute or so passed while Gina argued about her budget request with Nick Donovan, explaining that these things are not just made out of air and water, and yes, she knew she was asking for a three percent increase, but how the hell did he expect her to get these people off the streets?
At last, she put the phone down. "I know that look", she said. "And it does not bode well."
Ryan stepped into her office. Look? OK, maybe he was grinning just a little.
"You've been asking for more personnel," He said.
"I have."
"Well, as you know, they finally graduated a new class from Quantico."
"And?"
"And Max graduated top of her class."
"Max? As in your niece?"
"Uh huh."
"I didn't know she'd applied," Gina said absent mindedly, as she read over her notes. "Tell her I said congratulations."
"She asked for an assignment to the West Coast, but she's changed her mind. I called Dan Shelby in Washington, and he says he can get her assigned here. Subject to your approval."
"My approval?"
"Yeah"
Gina looked up at Ryan as if he owed her money and was explaining why he couldn't pay. "So I should approve of having someone here who will go along with absolutely anything you say."
"She's really good," Ryan said, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. "She's got a lot of computer skills, we need that. "
"We need someone with computer skills, or you need someone willing to cover for you?"
"Yes."
"I'll put her with Sloane."
"There's a lot I could teach her," Ryan said.
"That's why I'm putting her with Sloane. Is she here?"
"She flew in with me from Virginia. She's at home, unpacking."
"So she'll be here tomorrow?"
"Yeah"
"Good. I'll warn Sloane. Where are we on the murder of those two stock analysts?"
"I'm talking to a CI later this evening. Kelso."
"All right, then. Keep me posted."
'"I will," Ryan said. And thanks."
He left, and returned to his desk to check his emails and finish up some paperwork before heading home for the day. He was about to leave when his phone buzzed for attention. He took it out of his pocket. Call from...
"Mike?" he said, as he connected.
"Hey Ryan. Remember me?"
"Vaguely. It has been a while. How are you? Where are you?"
" I'm in Skopje, Macedonia."
"I don't even know where that is."
"You get on the A4 highway from Paris and hang a right at Romania."
"Is that Paris, France, or Paris, Texas?"
"It's the one with the Eiffel Tower," Mike replied.
"OK, so it is in Texas. So let me guess. You're in trouble. You lost your wallet, there's an unpaid bar tab, and you need me to wire you money."
"Actually, believe it or not, I am calling about money."
"OK, so it's not a bar tab. They screw up your expenses? It's happened to me enough times."
"I've got a line on Mark Gray. There's a bank account I need to trace, but I can't contact anyone at the embassy right now. I've been ordered to stay away."
"Why?"
"All I can say right now is that there's a CI who may know where Mark is. I'm working with some people, but I have to keep a low profile, and the embassy is too public. But in the meantime, I still need to trace this account, because I think Mark's using it."
Ryan put Mike on speaker and reached for a pen and a memo pad. "Go," he said.
"Ok, the money was paid from the Grisons Kantonal Bank in Switzerland, account number 505270004 to the Strumica Komercijalni...
"Whoa," Ryan interrupted. "You're gonna have to spell all that out. Slowly."
Ryan carefully copied down the account numbers and the Macedonian words with their bizarre spellings. "Ok, got it," he said, when he was finished.
"It's late here and they'll be closed. It'll have to wait for tomorrow."
"OK," Ryan said. "I'll get on it. Or maybe I'll put Max on it."
"Max?"
"Yeah. She's in the Bureau now. She graduated from Quantico this morning."
"I didn't even know she'd applied," Mike said.
"That's what happens when you don't keep in touch. Apparently she applied back in 2012, and just never got around to telling us."
"Where's she been assigned?"
"Right here in River City. She starts tomorrow."
"I can't believe she never told me. Why didn't she tell me?"
Ryan hesitated for a moment, torn between wanting to tell Mike and fearing Max's reaction if he did. "I think she was afraid of being rejected, and she didn't want us to know about it." Do I tell him the rest? "Also, I think she was afraid that maybe you'd be on the next plane overseas if she left for six months."
Silence on the other end of the line.
"You still there?" Ryan asked.
"Yeah. Crap. I'm just trying to take it in. Well, uh, congratulations when you see her, and...I didn't want to hurt her. You know that, right? I just...I had to find Mark."
"I know. I told you because she's gonna be here when you get home. I just thought you should know. When are you coming home, by the way?"
"Well maybe I'm finally close to getting him. Between this CI and this bank account...maybe I'm coming home soon."
"It'll be good to see you again. I'll call you as soon as I have anything. It's good to hear from you. You be careful, OK?"
"I will. It's good to hear your voice again, too. And thanks."
IV
Mike put the phone down on the tiny night stand by the bed. And sat there for a moment, remembering, wanting, and thinking that if he had bought that bottle of whiskey he'd be drinking himself into a stupor.
She hadn't told him. Or Ryan. At first because she'd been afraid of failing, and then because she'd been afraid he'd leave. She'd dreamed of being an FBI agent, and she'd been ready to give it up for him.
And he'd left her anyway.
He stared at the phone for a moment , brought up the screen, and pushed the icon for Contacts. He scrolled through the list, until he came to Max Hardy, and his finger hovered over the green call icon.
Just press it and call her. And tell her what? Congratulations, and I'm sorry I left, but I still can't come home. No. And besides, if this really panned out, then maybe he'd have Mark in a couple of days. And then it would be a different conversation. I've done it, and I'm coming home.
But what if she won't have me back?
Ok, so he'd call her in a few days. When it was over. When Mark was dead, and both of them were safe. They wouldn't have to look over their shoulders. He'd told himself that he was doing this in part for her. He'd tell her that. Maybe it would sound more convincing to her than it did to him.
Scratch that. If he couldn't convince himself, then no way would he get Max to buy it.
So just get Mark Gray. And call her as soon as it was over, and then go home. Maybe even to Max, and the life he'd had.
He undressed, turned down the covers, and lay down on the hard mattress. He'd go through the motions of trying to sleep. Soon it would all be over, finally. A few days at the most, and then maybe he could have a life with a future.
V
Club Plevna
Now
She'd been to Club Plevna with Mark before, but they'd never taken a victim there. They'd planned to, but it just hadn't happened. For whatever reason they hadn't managed to isolate a victim. That was the real trick, Mark had explained. Isolate them, get them away from other people, and you could do anything. If you weren't sure you could isolate them, if you weren't sure you had them isolated and beyond help, the safest thing to do was nothing. A big part of it was looking like someone it was safe to be alone with. She could understand, really, what had made him so successful. Mark was intense, but in a romantic, and not a creepy way. You wanted to be with him, even when you knew that you probably shouldn't be. She tried to look calm as she walked in and headed for the tables near the back where she and Mark and hung out earlier. It seemed the likeliest place to start looking.
He was there, at a table alone, an empty lowball glass full of ice by his right hand. From the slightly dazed look on his face, this probably wasn't the first glass he'd emptied. "Are you all right?" she asked.
"Never better."
She sat down next to him.
"What happened?"
"That asshole Petar was high and running his mouth. I shut it for him. They always spoke in German because they didn't think I could understand. You said Dusko could be trusted."
"He can be, I do trust him. But those were Zamir's men."
"Well guess who introduced me to Zamir."
"I said that Dusko knew people. He went to meet Weston tonight. He'll be dead soon, and this will be over. Please. Come with me."
" When I'm finished."
"With what?"
"A little something to take the edge off. This," he said, indicating the empty glass, "isn't doing it."
She smiled. "We never really got round to it the last time we were here."
"We never really did." He leaned closer . Between the music and the loud voices, whispering was impossible in here, but with their heads close together, so was eavesdropping. "So, read the room. What are looking for?"
"Someone we can isolate." Good. Keep him engaged. Maybe a kill will calm him down.
"Right. And who's easier?"
"Men. They will trust another man more easily than a woman will."
"And a woman?"
"Will more easily trust a couple."
"So...maybe a woman this time. Pick her out."
Marta smiled, hoping to reassure him. Best to go along, she thought. A kill might make him a bit more...what was the word she was looking for...malleable. No, scratch that. He would never be that. Mellow. It might put him in a better frame of mind, and it would be easier to talk him down from his next outrageous act.
Besides, maybe she'd enjoy taking a woman. Watch him work on her. Perhaps even make the kill herself.
She rose, and began walking around, scanning the crowd, looking for a likely prospect. A group of women wouldn't do, of course, since the victim's friends would remember her. A woman with a man was possible, but only if they weren't really couple, and they separated enough for the predators to to isolate her. A woman alone would be best.
She saw a busty girl with short dark hair wearing shorts and a tight top walking by...no. She was coming back from the ladies room to rejoin muscular man with a dark beard wearing jeans and an untucked tropical print shirt. She was about to walk towards the entrance to see who might be coming in when she spotted a woman who seemed to be looking around the room as I searching for someone. She was wearing a lambskin motorcycle jacketwith a T shirt underneath and jeans. Trainers on her feet. She was, Marta realized, beautiful, about 5' 7", brunette, with olive skin and a slightly exotic look that made her think she might be of Balkan extraction. Magyar, perhaps or Romani. As she watched, a man with a short stubbly beard wearing a knit shirt approached and began speaking to her. Marta couldn't hear what was being said, but whatever it was, the woman didn't seem to appreciate it.
Knit shirt said something and grabbed her by the wrist, apparently trying to pull her towards the bar. The woman suddenly jerked her wrist out of knit shirts grasp. This time, Marta could make out the words "I said excuse me."
Marta, seeing her chance, stepped forward. "She's with me," she said to knit shirt, who retreated, saying something in German. As he did so.
"Come on," Marta said. She began walking towards Mark's table. The woman followed, seemingly glad to be rid of knit shirt.
"I'm Marta."
"Eliza", the woman said in an American accent.
"You're American aren't you?"
"Yes."
"I have an American friend. Someone I'd like you meet."
"Sure," Eliza said, glancing back to make sure that knit shirt wasn't following.
Marta stopped in front of Mark's table. Mark, who had contemplating the empty lowball glass with it's melting ice looked up appreciatively at Eliza.
"Eliza," Marta said, "This is Luke."
VI
The place smelled of dust. It hadn't been entirely unused during her time at Quantico. She'd come home to visit Ryan over the 4th of July. They'd celebrated Ryan's birthday a few days early, and Jenny had come as well. But that was the last time she'd been here, and the last time it had been cleaned. She'd gotten rid of all the perishable food before leaving for Virginia, but that meant that there wasn't a lot of food in the place, so she'd have to eat out tonight, and some grocery shopping was definitely in order.
She was unpacking when she got the text from Ryan. He couldn't go with her that evening, he was meeting a CI. She texted Sierra Cowen, whom she had been partnered with for a time in the NYPD before she made detective. Sierra was working that evening, and she informed Max that Jim Woloszyn was also. She tried Lindy Knapp, but she had a date, and Rachel Guella was out of town.
Oh well. I can get a start on my housecleaning, get a suit laid out for tomorrow when I need to make a good first impression, and maybe get some food into the place.
So she'd grocery shopped, done some laundry, vacuumed, gotten take out at a Japanese place, and was feeling proud of herself for having gotten so much done. She settled down in front of the TV set and tried to binge watch Game of Thrones. It helped to have the TV on just to have some noise in the apartment, although somehow her heart wasn't in it. She decided to try turning in a little early, since she wanted to be at her best tomorrow. Ryan said that Gina would want someone with her qualifications, but Max found herself wondering how Gina would feel about someone with her history. She'd followed Ryan down some strictly unauthorized paths when she was in the NYPD, and for all Gina knew, she might again. I will if he asks me, because if I'm not there he'll go down that very same path alone.
She put on a big T shirt and laid down to try to sleep, but sleep wouldn't come. She lay on her side, her thoughts spinning in circles. She'd wanted to join the Bureau and she didn't regret it, but she'd left her support network from the NYPD behind, and she didn't have one for the FBI yet, Ryan excepted. So here she was, alone in a way that she hadn't been in a long time.
You go away, and it's not the same when you get back.
That made her think of Mike. He'd gone away. And when he came back? If he came back...If he came back would things be the same? Could they?
Stupid question. He's not coming back until he finds Mark Gray, or Moby Dick, or whatever. But if he walked through that door right now, would you take him back?
Yes.
She realized she was cold. Crap. She couldn't sleep cold. It was because she had wadded the covers up and was hugging them close. OK, stop it, this isn't working.
She got up, went to the kitchen, and took down the bottle of Belvedere from the cabinet. She poured herself a double shot. She just needed something to turn down the volume of her thoughts for a little while, just to help her sleep.
Just for tonight.
VII
"I thought we'd help you out," Marta said. "That guy looked like a pest."
"He was," Eliza replied..
"Have a seat," Marta offered. "Join us."
"Thanks," Eliza said. She sat down, noticing as she did so that Mark, who had looked distracted earlier was suddenly much more attentive. He was, she realized, looking at her like a cat who has suddenly noticed the presence of a mouse. The knuckles of his right hand, which was near the empty glass, had been barked up and were bleeding slightly.
"Thanks for the help," Eliza said to Marta. "People can be so rude."
"Don't mention it," Marta replied. "That guy was a tourist. German, I think. They aren't so bad. At least they don't usually run in feral packs, like some. What part of America are you from?"
"New York City," Eliza said.
"I've been there," Mark offered. "It's a wonderful city. Pure entertainment. But after a while, I just had to get away."
"I know just what you mean," Eliza said.
"Are you here on business or pleasure/" Mark asked.
"A little of both, actually. I'm in human resources. I had some meetings, and I thought I'd take the opportunity to see the sights. I'm having an amazing time here. I've met the most interesting people."
The music was starting up. Mark rose, and held out his had to Eliza. "C'mon," he said. "Let's dance."
Eliza looked uncertainly at Marta. "It's OK," Marta said. "Enjoy yourself."
Eliza rose, and took Mark's offered hand. She didn't recognize the music, but it had a pulse pounding beat and a slightly Goth feel to it. Mark, she realized, was an excellent dancer. His moves weren't fancy. He was rocking side to side, his arms alternating between opening and closing, raising the roof, and rolling the dice. But he moved with power and grace, and she realized that he was really into the music, and the moves. And he was into her. He never took his eyes off her, and he looked feral and predatory.
She knew that look well, because she was a predator herself.
It occurred to Eliza that she hadn't exactly dressed for clubbing, that she hadn't exactly expected to find herself dancing with Mark Gray, that if they started grinding he just might notice the nine millimeter inside her waistband, that Mark was on the hunt, and that she had just become his intended prey. Two predators on the hunt. How had Lewis Carroll put it? If the snark you were hunting was a boojum, then you would vanish away, and never be met with again.
The question is, who's the snark, and who's the boojum?
No matter, at least not here in a public place. Besides, it was kind of nice to think that a predator like Mark thought she was worth preying on, and there was always the thrill of knowing that you were hunting something that could hunt you back. She'd hunted and killed often enough, but she had never deliberately sought out other hunters as her prey. She could understand now why men hunted lions, cape buffalo, and other dangerous game. Mark was a killer among killers. Was she up to the challenge?
Careful. Keep focus. You're not here to take him as a trophy. Or jump into bed with him. Either could be a thrill. But this is business. As Dad used to say, the mission comes first.
The music ended, and they returned to their table to find Marta sipping on a tumbler of something clear and fizzy on the rocks with a wedge of lime floating in it.
"Marta," Mark said, "Didn't you say that your friend Dusko was having a party tonight?"
"Yes," Marta replied. "I was planning to go. He said you also were invited."
"Who's Dusko?" Eliza asked.
"This guy we know," Mark explained. "He's an investment banker. His throws a hell of a party. You wanted to meet people while you were here. Well, everyone who's anyone in Skopje will be there."
The sensible thing, Eliza realized, would be to make her excuses and get the hell out. The beast was hungry tonight, and if she stuck around she was likely to end up as the main course. But here Mark was. Her plan had been to contact Marta, and she had. Well, she could try to contact Marta again, later, when Mark wasn't around. Except that might not be so easy to do if they were close. Plus she was pressed for time. Even if she managed to isolate Marta later, she'd basically have to make her pitch cold. If she showed fear, she might lose credibility. So maybe she needed to make a last minute change of plans. Instead of pitching Marta, pitch Mark himself face to face. Tell him that Marta and Dusko were selling him out. She'd be exposing herself, and probably condemning Marta to a messy and painful death. But she'd have what she came for.
Holy hell, I'm actually going to do this.
"Let's go," Eliza said.
VIII
They stepped out into the pleasantly cool night air, past a line of people, mostly guys, waiting to get in. Eliza was debating offering to drive. If she was behind the wheel, it would give them a incentive not to point a weapon at her or try anything involving chloroform or a taser. But as they walked past the line of people, Marta pointed down the street. "I'm parked down there," she said. Eliza glanced ahead, and saw that she was pointing at a small parking lot on the left, sandwiched between a blocky gray concrete apartment building and a brick building four stories high that looked like offices.
"I came by cab," Eliza replied. In fact, her Audi was not far away, but maybe it would be best if they didn't know what she was driving. No need to show them a license tag that might be traced back to her. It was a risk either way, but maybe Mark would be more relaxed and likely to listen in Marta's car.
The lot was full, with every car watched over by a parking meter, ticking down the minutes until it had to be moved. Marta was walking towards a blue Ford Focus at the back of the lot, with faced the rear of a another multistory brick building. Marta produced her fob, and the lights flashed on her car as the doors unlocked. Eliza was about to suggest that she get in the back when she heard a voice behind her.
"Mister Gray. I am very disappointed in you."
Mark and Marta both turned as though startled. Eliza turned as well, but noticed as she did so that the alley at the back corner of the lot was disgorging serious looking men in jeans and loose fitting jackets. There were more serious looking men getting out a car parked at the other end of the lot near the street. , and they were walking towards her to back up the man who had spoken, a man with short blond hair, about 5' 6".
I was so focused on Gray and Marta I never noticed they were there. Well, Dad always said I'd come to bad end. Her hands were at her sides.. She reached into the left hand pocket of her jeans and pulled out her cell phone.
"Don't try it," the blond man said to her sharply. He pointed at her phone, and someone came up from behind her and relived her of it.
Ok, so they have my phone, so maybe they won't frisk me and find the gun.
"They started it," Mark said. His hand was inching towards the pocket of his slacks.
"And I will finish it if you try anything," the man said. "Please keep your hands where we can see them. The two of you will come with us."
"You'll kill us anyway, Zamir" Mark said. But I'm pretty sure I can take you with me."
"Mark, no," Marta pleaded. "Let's just go with him." She turned to the blonde man. "Zamir, please," she said. In Russian. "Talk to Dusko, I told him..."
"I know what you told him," Zamir replied. Also in Russian.
Eliza remained silent, not wanting to call attention to herself. She looked at Zamir. He had three men behind him. She might get two or three of them with the CZ before one of the men behind her shot her in the back.
"Please listen to her, Mister Gray," the Zamir said in English. "If you come with us, you will live. But I will not hesitate to kill all of you here."
"Please," Marta said.
Yes, please, Eliza thought. Before someone sees and he decides to do the lot of us right here.
"OK" Mark said.
"Who is this?" Zamir asked, nodding at Eliza.
"Someone we picked up," Marta offered.
"Get rid of her," Zamir said.
She could sense movement behind her. Decision time. Fight it out here, and die, or be taken to a secondary location and killed. If she took a bullet here, in the middle of the city, someone would at least hear the shots. If she got taken somewhere, there would be no one to hear the shots, or the screams., or whatever. But at least there might be some chance...
"Please don't," Eliza said. "I haven't done anything. I don't know who you are. I won't tell anyone. Please let me go..."
She was seized from behind by two sets of powerful hands. Her wrists were pulled behind her. Cuffs were snapped on, and tightened uncomfortably. She was turned around to face a dark colored Passat parked next to Marta's Focus. The trunk was opening, and hands were shoving her towards it. She was just starting another rendition of "Please don't" when tape was slapped across her mouth, and she was shoved forward, hard. As she was shoved into the trunk, they doubled her over, and the butt of the CZ jammed painfully into her midriff. She grunted at the pain wondering of they had actually shoved her hard enough to have internal injuries from her own gun. She landed on her face, and felt her legs being lifted inside, and the trunk slammed shut.
IX
They had split Mark and Marta up. Marta was in the back seat of the car that had been parked near the street, a Ford Mondeo. She sat next to Zamir, with two of his men in front.
"How did you find us?" she asked.
"Dusko called me as soon as you called him. Don't look so surprised. Dusko is a practical man, he has to be." He studied her for a moment. "It was Petar's fault. I would have killed him, if Gray hadn't saved me the trouble. In a way, he did me a good turn. I should have rid myself of Petar long ago."
"Are you going to kill us?" she asked.
"No. I still need Mark Gray. And I need you to help control him."
"And after?"
"And after, I really won't care where you go or what you do. You can spend the rest of your lives picking up women in nightclubs and luring them to their deaths. What can you do to me? Go to the Americans and tell them you helped arrange the death of one of their agents because you needed the money, and you wanted to help your serial killer boyfriend? I'm sure they'll lend a sympathetic ear."
"Will you hurt him?"
"Of course. Not too badly, but enough to make the point."
"If you hurt him, he'll stop trusting me. He'll think I betrayed him. Everyone else has."
Zamir looked at her through narrowed eyes. "You really do care about him. Well, there's no accounting for taste. You can keep him under control?"
"He's not someone you can just control. Not everyone is a puppet on your string."
"So I need to hurt him, then. It will be a very precise kind of beating. Repeated blows to exactly the same spot on the head with a sock filled with sand. After a few hours, they will betray the whole world to make it stop."
"Just let me talk to him. Please."
Zamir sat in silence for a moment. "All right. Poor Gusti will be disappointed, but I'll give you a chance. I hope for both of your sakes that you don't let me down the way Mark did."
X
The inside of the trunk was cramped, stifling, and filthy. Eliza lay on her side with her hands cuffed behind her. She could feel a lot of dirt and grit pressed against her cheek. The car was making frequent starts and stops. They must still be in the city. She wondered where she was being taken. Someplace where screaming wouldn't matter. Someplace where her body would never be found.
All she'd wanted was a list of Strauss's students that she could use as assassins, and here she was in the deepest of deep shit. Marta had spoken in Russian to keep Mark from understanding what was said, namely that she'd told Dusko something that Mark wasn't supposed to know. But Marta didn't know that Eliza's father was Russian, and that she'd spoken the language since childhood.
Her grandfather had escaped from Russia when her father, Pyotr Getman, was only eight years old. Young Pyotr had Americanized his name to Peter and married an American woman. He'd also risen in the US Army to the rank of Colonel. After he retired, he'd founded ZR Security Ops, the private military contracting company that Eliza had inherited.
So Marta had told Dusko something that Mark wasn't supposed to know. What? Probably where Mark was. She had no idea what Zamir's beef with Mark Gray was about, but it was pretty clear that whatever was happening, Zamir was in it along with Dusko and Marta, and whatever the game was, Mark Gray was likely to come up a loser.
Before she could do anything to help Mark Gray, if that was even possible, she had to help herself. If that was even possible. The one advantage she had was that they hadn't frisked her before they tossed her in the trunk. She had a gun, if she could get to it. She was facing towards the front of the car. She had to get her hands in front of her, and roll over, so that she could fight for her life when that trunk finally opened.
She had to get her hands over her ankles. It would be a tight squeeze in this trunk. She brought her knees up to her chest. She pushed first her right foot, then her left between her bound wrists. She rolled onto her side facing the rear of the car, lifted up her T shirt, and pulled the CZ from its holster.
XI
The car headed out of the city, and onto a dark empty country road. Their destination was a quarry where they could dispose of the woman in the trunk.
"I still can't believe Zamir let that guy live," the driver said.
"He won't for long," his companion replied. "You turn up here on the right."
"I know. Well, look at it this way. We have to get rid of her, but we get to enjoy her first."
"You mean I get to enjoy her first," the man in the passenger seat pointed out.
"I think not," the driver said.
"And what makes you think you are going first?"
"Because," he said with a grin, "I am strong enough to dig two holes. One for her, and one for you." He looked over at his passenger, and found him scowling. "Don't worry," he said. "There will still be a little something left of her." He turned to the right, towards the quarry.
XII
They were parked beneath a clear sky lit by a Moon that was just past full. There were no lights anywhere nearby. The quarry was located at the end of a dead end road. Just north of the quarry, they could see the woods where they would dispose of their victim. They parked near a corrugated metal shed and got out. They walked to the back of the car, and the driver pressed the button on his fob to unlock the trunk. His companion had a pocket LED flashlight in his left hand. He raised the lid of he trunk with his right hand and pointed the beam inside to reveal a woman pointing a small semiautomatic. She fired four shots at the man holding the flashlight, and he pitched backwards and lay still.
The startled driver dropped the fob in his hand to reach for his gun. Two shots, two blinding muzzle flashes in the darkness, and he could hear the crack of bullets whizzing past his head. The woman must have been blinded by the LED light in her eyes. The driver swept his loose jacket back and broke his gun out of the holster when her third bullet shattered his collarbone. He dropped the gun and staggered backwards. Her next two shots came a couple of seconds later. She must have taken a moment to get a good aim, because these two hit his chest dead center.
XIII.
Eliza hauled herself painfully up out of the trunk. She saw the men lying on the ground in the Moonlight. She kicked the dropped pistol away from the fallen driver, and picked up the LED light. She looked at the men. The man who had held the flashlight had taken a head shot and was clearly dead. His companion, nearby, had a chest wound, and blood was spreading across his dark gray shirt. He was still alive, but probably not for much longer. "You should have frisked me," she said. She raised the CZ and put two insurance rounds into his head.
Finding the handcuff keys would take time, and time was precious, but maybe there was a quicker way to get them off. Eliza got in the back seat, found the seat belt, slipped the tongue of it between the double bows of the left handcuff, and twisted it for all she was worth. The handcuff popped open. She repeated the procedure with the right cuff, and she was free.*
Eliza quickly found the discarded fob lying on the ground. Seconds counted now. No telling who might have heard the shots. She wiped the CZ and the spare magazine for prints and threw them away. She didn't want to have them on her if she got pulled. She quickly went through the pockets of the man who'd taken her phone and retrieved it. She got in the car and breathed a sigh of relief when she found that they'd left the keys in it, and there was a GPS. She had no idea where she was, but could find her way. She started the engine, and headed for Skopje.
XIV
She ditched the car she was driving a couple of blocks from where she had parked her Audi, and walked from there. After that, it was back to the hotel. She ordered a club sandwich from room service along with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. While waiting for it to arrive she stripped off her filthy clothes and changed into a robe. When the sandwich arrived, she wolfed it down and poured herself a double Scotch.
Zamir. She'd heard the name. She'd read it in the news, and in intelligence reports. Zamir Tolka. Currently the most wanted terrorist in Europe. He was Albanian by birth. Politically he was something of a cipher, and if he had any religious beliefs at all, he'd managed to keep it a secret. He was an anarchist to the extent that he was anything. She hadn't gotten a good enough look at him to be sure, but if it was him...What the hell was he doing with Mark Gray? Gray was wanted by the FBI. Dusko Ivanovich had ratted on Mark, so the FBI sends Mike Weston. And Dusko is working hand in glove with Zamir.
So Mike Weston was a dead man.
She realized that she wasn't going to be able to untangle this tonight. She finished her Scotch, and stood under a hot shower for a good long time. After that she had another Scotch, and then crawled under the covers. The last thing she thought before she drifted off to sleep was that Lewis Carroll was right. Sometimes a snark was a boojum, and those guys who had taken her would never be met with again.
XV
They returned to the safe house to find that although Gusti was suffering from a lump on the head and facial burns, Zamir had put him to work cleaning up the kitchen. Apparently Zamir was unhappy with him for losing Mark. At least the boiling water had missed his eyes.
Mark and Marta retreated to mark's bedroom upstairs. "Are you all right?" she asked. She wanted to put her arms around him, she was so happy to see him alive, but he would not have permitted it.
"Yeah, I'm OK. What did you say to Zamir?"
"That Dusko would kill him if he hurt us."
"Dusko doesn't give a rat's ass what happens to either one of us and you know it. And Zamir is way out of his league. You told him where I was, didn't you?"
She nodded silently. "I'm sorry," she said. "I told Dusko that I had found you. I was going to talk to you. Try to get you to come back. I didn't know he'd call Zamir. I swear, I didn't plan any of this. I'm sorry I ever got us into this. I wanted you to be safe. I wanted us to be together. I..."
Mark's right hand flashed out like a snake striking at its prey and seized her by the throat. "I should kill you. You stab me in the back and then they put you in here to spy on me." His hand began to tighten.
She tried to speak, but it required air, which she didn't have. He released her, and shoved her backwards, so that she fell onto his bed. He turned and walked to the window, staring into the darkness outside.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she sobbed. "I wanted to find a way we could be together. I love you."
He turned and stared at her for a moment, fury still in his eyes. He shook his head sadly. "You're a user. Like Dusko. You use people."
"Listen to me. You can make it through this. You can kill Weston. You can have your revenge. You can survive. You don't have to love me, and I wouldn't blame you for hating me. But you have to make it through this. Finish it. But whatever you do, don't do anything else to anger him. Because then he's likely to kill you, and Weston wins."
He looked around the room as if looking for something random to smash. After a moment he seemed to calm down. "OK. We get through this. I kill Weston. But I don't think they're planning to let us live. But that doesn't really matter anyway. As long as Weston is dead, it doesn't make any difference what happens after that."
XVI
Zamir had returned to his flat and had gone to bed when he was woken out of a sound sleep by a phone call. He checked his phone. One of the men he'd left at the safe house.
"Don't tell me the bastard has started more trouble," he said when he picked up the phone.
"He hasn't," the man on the other end replied. "But the men you sent to take care of that woman haven't come back."
"Maybe they're just enjoying themselves."
"It's been four hours. We tried calling them, but they don't answer."
"Check their flat. Make sure there's nothing incriminating in case their bodies are found by the police. I'll call you early."
"I'll get on it."
Zamir tried, but he couldn't get back to sleep. He spent the rest of the night tossing, turning, and wondering who this woman was and what the hell had gone wrong now.
XVII
Eliza's alarm woke her from a dream she couldn't quite remember, and she padded across the room to turn the hellish thing off. She slipped on a robe, and ordered breakfast from room service. The French toast had been made with sticky buns, and flavored with cinnamon and nutmeg. She had quite an appetite. Yesterday had been spent on the go, with little time for meals. Time to carbo load for the day ahead. And she felt exultant. She had survived, so eat well, because eating is a symbol of the continuation of life.
When she had cleaned her plate, she stood by the window, a second cup of coffee in her hand, looking out over the Vardar river, contemplating her next move.
When she'd gotten into this, she hadn't known anything close to the truth. The truth was that she was in over her head. She was faced with an unknown number of heavily armed, ruthless, fanatical killers. The only sensible thing to do now was to call Kaminsky, tell him to make sure Juliana's body was never found, get her ass on the next plane home, and leave Mark Gray and Mike Weston both to die screaming.
But this plan, although attractive, had certain serious flaws in it. First, she wouldn't get the decryption key for that book. Having her own shadow army of untraceable, unstoppable assassins would be both useful and cool, and she hated to give up on the idea.
Second, there would be the question of Dr. Strauss. His master plan to escape from prison would have failed. Sorry about that, Doc. Sucks about you dying in prison, but you know how it is. He'd be disappointed. Maybe even disappointed enough to turn State's evidence and rat on the Organization. Then she'd find herself hunted by literally everyone. The FBI, the CIA, Interpol, and maybe even the Organization, which would be upset that she had let things get out of hand.
And finally, there was the knowledge that if she quit now, she'd have backed down in the face of Zamir Tolka and his bully boys. And that just wouldn't do. Because there might be several hunters in this game, but there was no question in her mind who the top predator was. And there shouldn't be any question in anyone else's mind either.
She put down her coffee cup and picked up her phone. "It's Eliza," she said. "I want to talk to Dragon. Yeah, I'll hold."
Musical Interlude - Living In The Storm by The Pretty Reckless
And from Club Plevna Cabaret Fortune Teller by Audra
===================Chapter Notes =====================
* Handcuffs have a shackle arm, a curved piece of steel which has a sawtooth edge on it, and a double bow, which consists of two curved pieces side by side. The shackle arm is the part that snaps into the lock. It has a sawtooth edge so that the tightness can be adjusted for the wrist of the person being restrained. The shackle arm is held to the double bow by a boss rivet that acts as a hinge. Eliza popped the boss rivet. This won't work on all handcuffs, but it works on a lot of them. Search engine if you are interested.
A couple of side notes. Macedonian cursing is pretty vile, even by American standards. Petar's insult, not uncommon in Macedonia, has been watered down a bit for ratings.
Mike said in S3E1 that he had heard Max had joined the FBI. He never said how. It might have been reported in the media given that Team Hardy was famous, but then he would likely have said that he had seen it in the news or read it. Shaving with Occam's razor, if he was told by someone while he was overseas it was most likely someone who knew him and who also knew Max. The simplest explanation is that he got it from Ryan.
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