A/N: It's been a little longer than I liked, but I want to push the plot forward another step. It looks as if some of you have been reading this through and for that alone I am appreciative. I hope you're enjoying it! This chapter might under a revision or two because I'm not entirely happy with the disjointed feeling.
I used Sicario's "The Beast" for writing this gem. Lovely soundtrack indeed.
Chapter 23: Loose Ends
Somewhere in Russia.
The room reeked of fear.
It wasn't anything describable, not amongst the heavy iron laden steam or the musky concrete walls. It was merely a presence in the air that made the hair stand up on the back of your neck and your heart quicken. There was also the unmistakable stench of perspiration, piss, and other unmentionables that lingered heavy on Yaridovich's sensitive palate, warranting another cigarette to suppress the offensive odors.
The brief spark and tempered flame of the zippo illuminated the sharp features on the Russian's face, the yellow flame giving a fleeting warmth to his icy green eyes. A second later, all that remained was the glowering end of the cigarette and silhouetted profile as he leaned against the damp wall, patiently biding his time.
Four captives were lined up on their knees in the middle of dimly lit room, wrists and ankles bound in chains with wet canvas hoods clinging over their faces. One of them shuddered as a muffled sob dared escape into silent air, only answered by the slow methodical steps of the guards who kept a vigilant patrol. Beyond their small holding cell of a room, a flurry of industrial noises was echoing far from outside, large rock trucks tooling back and forth, sputtering front end loaders smashing their buckets, and the droning roar of the wash plant and crusher at the beating heart of the facility.
A phone chimed inside Yaridovich's pocket. Yevgeny casually flipped through several messages on the cheap mobile device, attaching several photographs to the newly drafted text. Send. He took out his lighter and flicked the polished lid open and shut repeatedly in a drawn-out cadence, the iconic clink adding to the tension. A small green bar ticked across the top of the dialog box as the outbound message uploaded to the servers.
One of the prisoners muttered defiantly in a foreign tongue, instantly catching the middle-aged Russian's ear with his unruly comment.
"Excuse me?" Yevgeny politely snarled. He left his perch against the wall and sauntered over, snapping the lighter open and closed in time with his steps. His fellow comrades quickly moved aside to the corners of the room and let their boss through. Yaridovich sized up his quarry with a honed, cunning look, slipping out of his heavy long coat and casting it aside on an old desk that sat idle in the corner.
As he stood, Yevgeny held an impressive build for his tall frame, his powerful movements reminiscent of his former strict training now permissive from years of freelancing as he once referred to it. The rumor that had been circulating claimed Yaridovich had hailed from a decorated career as a GRU operative in the Third Directorate and Fifth Directorate of the USSR. After the Soviet dissolution in the 90's, he had fallen into with the Russian Bratva where he quickly put his specialized skills to use, earning him a credible reputation for his reliability and apathetic temperament.
In the wake of the rising Ultranationalists movement, the Bratva and Ultranationalist were at war with one another, as conflict of interests grew over territory rights, narcotics, weapons smuggling and human trafficking. It had escalated from targeted assassination of gang leaders within each organization, to full-scaled shoot outs in broad daylight as the faltering Russian Federation government collapsed and Imran Zakhaev rose to power. In a particular skirmish along the borderlands of Donetsk, Ukraine, a charged demonstration of activists had gathered to demand their country's complete succession from Russian influence after the collapse of the Federation, trying to evade a tyrannical takeover.
The political rally had turned riot when both administrations took their warfare into the streets, killing and injuring hundreds of bystanders as Ultranationalist militia overpowered and overrun the untrained Bratva foot soldiers. The majority of the Bratva men were excellent in their roles as mafia strong-arms, but they lacked the discipline and execution of military training that Zakhaev's followers possessed. It was there, amongst the outright slaughter of his fellow brothers that Yaridovich had taken a gut full of lead before being captured and drug before Zahkhaev's protégé Vladimir Makarov.
If they were hoping for some sort of confession on the whereabouts of the last Bratva leadership, they never got one from Yevgeny. It was his resolve under duress that gave him a second chance under Makarov's terms, the two ex-militants sharing an unrequited bond from their former lives of service to Spetsnaz and mother county. With a brief exchanged of words and a handshake behind closed doors, Yevgeny had cemented his place within the future Inner Circle's ranks. His reluctance to divulge any information on his past to the other Ultranationalists had garnered mistrust and resentment through the ranks over the years, but Makarov had dismissed any and all allegations against Yaridovich as he proved his steadfast loyalty with each and every orchestrated attack on the world.
Yevgeny carefully eyed the row of captives, studying each one of them as he circled around several times. It was dead silent again save for the whimpers and heavy breathing.
Without warning he drew his pistol and shot the second prisoner in the lineup, spattering blood on the adjacent and eliciting sharp screams of terror from the survivors. Yevgeny took the cigarette away long enough spit on the floor, cleaning the flecks of spray from his lips and rubbing his right ear to help alleviate the sharp ringing. The male victim's body continued to writhe and convulse on the floor, his bound limbs straining against the chains as they went rigid, knocking into the female prisoner that was next to him. Yevgeny leaned in close to her face from behind, giving a slight tug at the dirty white fabric to taunt her.
"Oh, was that him?" his tone mocking.
The high-pitched wail confirmed his suspicions as he moved away from her, resuming his ambling stalk around the small room. He took several drags as he moved in a counterclockwise circuit, contemplating his next move. It was moments like these where Yevgeny took special pride in his work. A good knife needed to be kept sharp, and he was never opposed to honing his skills when it came to making people talk. Yevgeny lifted his trusted SR-1 again, arching between its next potential victim in complete silence. His pale green eyes shifted to the unwavering prisoner on the far end. The standard issue pistol had remained with long after his years of service, the lip of the barrel stripped of all bluing and the matte finish of the slide a testament of time. However, he was anything but a sentimental man.
Two shots rang out and a second casualty hit the floor with a heavy thud, sputtering and gurgling coming from inside the canvas hood as the chest wounds sucked in air with each flailing gasp. The remaining female on the end screamed and struggled against her bindings, falling over into the spreading warm pool of blood and gritty floor. He deftly slipped the pistol into its holster for safe keeping before he stepped over the still upright prisoner, pulling off the hood so the Korean male could see the unfolding horror with his own eyes as his cohorts were being methodically murdered. Yevgeny stood in front of him long enough to make solid eye contact.
"That's better isn't it?" The Russian gave a snide remark, letting his words register as the Korean youth glared through him.
"You're a smart boy. I know you understood my conditions when I hired you."
Yevgeny went to the distressed female on the floor and grabbed the tail ends of black hair that stuck out from under the fabric cover, pulling her back up onto her knees solely by the distressed ponytail. She sobbed as the hood was slowly drawn from over her face, the black of her mascara smudged around her eyes and a fresh blood stain against her cheek. Yevgeny straddled her chained legs, gently brushing the hair from her face almost tenderly as he continued to talk to the male youth.
"I told you to it was supposed to be quiet. Instead you all decided to take matters into your own hands and change our plans. Now here I am, cleaning up your mess."
The Russian's cold fingers coiled around the female's petite throat, slowly tightening as he continued to stroke her black hair neatly back from her brow.
"This is what happens when you fail to recognize the importance of details. The methodology. I had everything laid out perfectly. You all had a job to do."
His hand tightened enough to make the young woman begin to cough, sheer panic setting in. The second she tried to struggle he let his fingers dig into her skin, effectively quenching any sounds she tried to make.
"I want you watch. I want you to understand that your actions have consequences." One of Yevgeny's associate came from behind and held the man's face to watch the life be snuffed from his partner before his eyes. The pistol placed at the back of his head made sure he was compliant. Within several minutes the young Korean woman's wheezes were stifled by a wet choking sound, fighting until the last of her conscious slipped under. He held her for a moment longer, waiting until her limbs went lax and her head slumped in his grip. Yevgeny let her drop unceremoniously to the floor, her skull bouncing against the concrete with her dark eyes staring out into nothingness.
"I know you rather liked her a lot." Yevgeny remarked, interlocking his fingers and stretching them out with several alleviated cracks.
"I liked her a lot. She was committed to our cause. But something changed, didn't it?" At that point, he stepped over her lifeless form and made his way back around toward the remaining survivor.
Yevgeny plucked the expiring cigarette from his mouth, making a point to snuff the stub out on the prisoner's shoulder before flicking it to the floor. He stood there in silence for a long moment, studying his next victim's face in search of wavering resolve. The Korean male refused to cow under Russian's steely gaze. They both knew he wasn't leaving this room alive.
Yaridovich grabbed the young man by the forelock and delivered a devastating punch in one swift movement, followed by the thumping impact of a second blow and the crunch of bone. With curt command, one of his subordinates retrieved a pair of pliers from inside his coat and handed them off to his boss, the pitted steel glinting in the low light. Yevgenvy kept a firm grip on his victim's hair as the grooved surface of the pliers clamped onto a bottom row tooth.
"I expect some answers, boy."
Several hours later…
"It is done, my lady." Yevgeny replied as he stood on the precipice, his breath coming heavy in the received as the bitter cold wind ripped across the open quarry. The gusts stirred up fine dust from the tires and black soot from the rock truck's stacks as the machines drove from mine pits to crusher plant on the far end. His eyes were fixed on the pile of dismembered bodies as they quickly sunk below the grey surface of the concrete slurry as it poured out of the booms. Before she could say a word, he abruptly ended the call and dropped the phone into the pit, watching it disappear into the foundation of the dam.
Day 72, Sunday, February 26, 2017
"Jesus fucking Christ." Chad grumbled under his breath, hands knotted behind his head as he rocked back on his heels. The whole crew was piled into the rec room of C-Wing, transfixed on the television as the news headlines scrolled past on the bottom of the screen. To anyone else, the caption would have been vaguely regarded with no real comprehension on the significance of the situation. To us though, it meant someone was about to get royally fucked.
"Well, it was nice knowing ya mates." J.J. gave a mock sendoff salute to the room, followed promptly by a swig of his drink.
We had missed the initial breaking news report because we had all been caught up in a good game of pool and heckling one another, catching only the last 3 seconds as they announced that South Korea's well-loved democratic leader, Kung Shin -the full brother to the North Korean dictator Kung Lin- had been hospitalized after a botched assassination attempt was made. The news anchor only stated he had been listed in critical condition with no details on the nature of the attack.
Despite the vast differences in running their neighboring countries, historically the Kung brothers were very close, being on good terms with one another in both their public and private lives. They had managed to stay out of the Third World War, both vowing isolationism while the rest of the world was torn apart by Makarov's plunge into chaos. An attack on one would surely result in the other responding, though Kung Shin would likely try to find resolution through negotiations, and Kung Lin would not hesitate to answer with sheer use of his military's power.
I had always tried to stay out of the messy details of politics. Though I guess picking a career in the military was probably the most counter-intuitive choice, huh? I believed in supporting your beliefs and standing up for what was right. When I had first enlisted, I had been blinded by my own naivety and the charisma of the recruiters. Like it were some higher calling back then. I did my due diligence, I performed well, and always pushed myself further. All that combined with my otherwise clean record of service had prompted my selection into the SAS. That's where I really caught a glimpse of just how appalling the real world actually was…
"It doesn't mean nothin' just yet." Stratton piped up, his good nature and youth buoying his endless optimism. I remember being like that, not so long ago. But after everything I had served through, lived through, seen with my own eyes, and survived…well, it left this bitter feeling inside that I found myself struggling to fend off with every passing day.
"Chance, how many times you get hit in the block-head of yours mate?" Lattimer snorted, setting his arms akimbo. Even for a short fellow, he had a powerful no-nonsense presence about him.
"J.J.'s right, we're about to get royally fucked in our arses when that crazy fuck starts running his mouth."
"Yeah but for all y'all know he could've orchestrated the whole thing." Chance countered, remaining hopeful.
"Well nothin's for certain. Not 'til we find out more. Which, I'm guessing we won't know shit so long as we're all stuck on this rock here." J.J. stared at the television, gathering his thoughts.
"Something doesn't feel right. Mark my words."
A/N: Hope you all enjoyed the latest installment. Please leave a comment or review and let me know what you all think so far! Thanks again!