Everything I Die For Read online

  As they exited, through his irrationality, George found himself startled at the sight of five ominous-looking figures in the hallway walking toward him. They were dressed in all black, had masks shrouding their faces, and didn’t look like police officers. In fact, George hadn’t any idea who or what they were. They moved with poise and strength in their step, and at the point of realizing their presence was detected, each of them presented an integrally suppressed Makarov pistol.

  While two figures on either side held the detaining officers at gunpoint, a slightly shorter figure moved forward from the middle and placed a suppressed muzzle directly onto George’s forehead. With a mixed, purring Slovakian intonation, a woman’s voice from behind the mask said, “You can send the bill to Orloff Usenko.”

  Two

  The hotel manager’s eyes went wide, and his head rocked back violently upon impact with the one-hundred-twenty-three-grain copper slug. Both his officer escorts released him and made attempts at unholstering their weapons to defend themselves, only to be dropped with precise, instantaneous suppressed headshots.

  While casually lowering her gun, the masked voluptuous female exclaimed, “Rukhayetesya!” Move!

  The others in her entourage zipped around her and dashed into the room, initiating a shooting spree of monumental proportions. Each shot wildly into the suite with a high-capacity, high-cyclic-rate suppressed submachine gun, which had been suspended from their load-bearing gear by single-point slings. They moved and scattered about the room systematically, striking their marks with chilling accuracy while exhibiting scrupulous levels of discipline. It only took about sixty seconds to completely clear the room and cross out the lives of nearly two dozen police officers, SWAT team members, and detectives.

  One of the masked men, slightly taller and more muscular than the others in his team of assassins, stepped away while the others switched out their subguns’ magazines and congregated near the doorway, surrounding their female counterpart. The tall man took a stroll around the room, stopping at each of the bodies of the previously deceased—those not wearing policeman’s uniforms, SWAT gear, or identifying vests. He shook his head disgustedly at the scene before making his way to the bloodied corpse slumped over in the chair.

  The woman glided to the only officer who’d managed to survive the hit, tilted her masked head and studied him. He’d been shot twice in the chest, his Kevlar vest absorbing most of the damage. Two other bullets had struck him in the upper thigh; one of which appeared to have perforated his femoral artery. He was in the process of bleeding out.

  She aligned her pistol’s sights up with the policeman’s head and kicked his leg, causing him to yelp. She then rotated and cast a stare to the tall man through the slit in her mask. “Tsya svynya vse shche dykhaye.” This pig still breathes.

  “I can hear him,” the tall man replied in a gruff, sinister voice carrying a comparable Slavic accent. He held aloft the stained-red pillow before letting go of it, allowing it to drift down into the dead man’s lap. “Regrettable that Ivan, Anatolly, Pavlo, and Yevhen can no longer do so.” He took his time strolling about the room and eventually made his way over to Lieutenant Hogan. He took a knee and looked the fallen officer over as the female skittered off. “Would you be so kind as to provide me your name, please?”

  The lieutenant hesitated, his anguish preventing an immediate answer. “F-Frank Ho…Frank…Hogan. Lieutenant…Frank…”

  “Your wounds are mortal, Lieutenant Frank. Without medical intervention, you will most likely die from them.” The man removed his mask, exposing a handsome face of somewhat blemished skin. “My name is…Oleksander. And while I realize that may be of no particular importance or interest to you, I provide it as a courtesy, as you have. It is a matter of mutual respect, you see.”

  “W-what do you want?” the lieutenant asked, his voice gurgling.

  Oleksander smiled. “I am glad you asked. Actually, I would like to offer a form of help to you. And I will do so provided…you are able to help me.”

  “How…can I help…you?”

  “The answer to that is simple. You are a policeman. Someone who is…how you say, skilled at finding people?”

  Frank nodded, his body trembling. “Yes, I—”

  “Good. That is very good. Because I am looking for someone—a woman, most likely accompanied by her husband,” Oleksander began. “One never goes anywhere without the other, you see. In light of your profession, you may recognize her, or perhaps even know who she is. If so, it will make breathing much easier for me in the coming months. If you do not, it will make breathing unachievable for you in the coming minutes.”

  The lieutenant nodded his head, fear coating his eyes.

  Oleksander held up a photograph of an attractive, olive-skinned woman with long chestnut brown hair. “There. This is the one. Are you able to see her?”

  The officer nodded, squinting his eyes.

  “And…do you recognize her?”

  After a long moment, the lieutenant reluctantly shook his head.

  Oleksander frowned and his brows lifted. “I see. That is a shame…for both of us. Though, mostly for you.”

  “I-I have a family.”

  “I, too, have a family, Lieutenant Frank.”

  “Please…don’t kill me.”

  “What is this? And now you choose to weep? Why? Is it because you are fearful of death?” Oleksander laughed. “Lieutenant, grown men such as us should never fear death—especially our own, as it is inevitable. We all die. No one can escape his or her fate. Like it or not, death comes for us all. For some, it just comes sooner than for others.”

  The officer turned his head away and Oleksander noticed immediately. He looked up just as his female counterpart rejoined him, already in the process of removing her mask. She exposed two blueish-gray eyes as ropes of glossy light-blond hair descended upon her shoulders.

  Oleksander smiled at her before continuing. “Almost takes your breath away, doesn’t she? A truly exquisite rarity. Sonya is native to the Volyn oblast…and is quite possibly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen or known. I should have made her my bride decades ago.” He lifted a hand and took hold of Sonya’s rather calloused yet well-manicured fingers. “Such is life, I presume,” he continued. “Both her heart and body belong to Orloff. He is my cousin, you see. He has tasked me with watching over her, making me solely responsible for her safety.” He shot the policeman a glance. “Ironically though, I assure you, she has no need for it. Sonya is a survivor and a warrior. She handles her welfare well enough on her own.” A pause. “Are you able to see the…mutilation to her face?”

  The lieutenant squinted, then nodded through frantic gasps for air.

  “For Sonya, it is a ruthless aide-mémoire. The one we seek bestowed her with it long ago at the onset of their…vocations. She and Sonya were friends, you see. Associates.” He observed the well-proportioned siren of a woman from the corner of his eye. “Sestry.” Sisters.

  “Ha! Suka nikoly ne bula moyeyu sestroyu,” the woman growled. The bitch was never my sister.

  Oleksander’s brows danced. “Ah, yes. There is no love lost between the two. She betrayed Sonya and murdered my uncle in cold blood. He was to become her test’—excuse me, father-in-law.” He smiled at the fading officer. “I know I am telling you things that do not matter to you. I mean, what is the difference? You will just…take them with you to the grave, in a manner of speaking.” He leaned in closer and went eye to eye with his prey. “For what it is worth, know that it was not me who chose this outcome for you. It was selected a long time ago, on the day you were brought into this despicable world.”

  Oleksander placed a hand over the lieutenant’s mouth and brought the other rigidly down across his throat, crushing his larynx. Less than a minute later, the officer asphyxiated and expired. His killer simply stood, brushed some debris from his trousers, and resumed surveying the scene.

  Sonya surveyed him, and soon, one of her delicate eyebrows shot up.
She moved closer and looked upon him mockingly. “Poetychnyy.” Poetic.

  “Sonya,” Oleksander responded irritably. “Anhliysʹka!” English!

  Sonya’s other brow lifted, creating a matching pair. “Sorry.” She nearly giggled. “I did not know the use of our native language would be upsetting.”

  “It isn’t. But we are in America now. We must try to blend in.”

  Sonya scoffed. “Exiting your lips now are the words of my husband. Perhaps it would be a good idea to mislay the midnight black…kostyumy, then. Or perhaps conserve them for something other than work in broad fucking daylight.”

  “An opportunity presented itself. We moved on it.”

  “Yes, yes. Doing so stupidly.”

  Oleksander strolled away, brushing her off. “Look at this—just look at it.” He sighed in despair. “This is a catastrophe! My cousin will take my head for this.”

  “Oleks…”

  “Don’t Oleks me. Four men…all accounted for, all discovered to be dead. Leaving two unaccounted for and most likely presumed dead.”

  Sonya rolled her eyes dismissively. “Oleks, please calm yourself.”

  “Calm myself? Are we even in the same room? How exactly should I find calm in this, Sonya?”

  “By listening to me,” she cooed. “By concentrating on my voice. Orloff will no doubt be upset, we know this. But his dissatisfaction will extend to all of us, even to me. You are family—his cousin. And the men he sent here with us were not his best, and he knew that.” A pause. “I told him who we were up against, and he decided this outcome…and because of this, it simply cannot be your fault. It is Orloff’s fault. It is…my husband’s fault.”

  Oleksander didn’t seem convinced. “That is nice, Sonya. Very pleasant. That is very good…justification. At least you believe it to be true.”

  “I believe it to be true because it is true. Do not worry about it, Oleks.” She sent along a casual grin. “This search has been ongoing for many months, and my husband is growing weary of finding little results. Up until today, we had no solid proof of anything. Now, we know they are here in America, and that has been easily confirmed by what we have encountered here. No one else could have done this so effortlessly. Orloff will be angered by this, but he will find comfort knowing we have narrowed down the location of our target.”

  “I…suppose.”

  “He cannot harm you here, Oleks. And once we return home, I won’t allow him to.”

  “You won’t?”

  Sonya shuffled over to him, reached for his waist, and aggressively pulled his body to hers. “No. I won’t. But I may inflict some…harm of my own.” She moved her hand from his hip to the back of his neck, then kissed him passionately for several long seconds.

  Oleksander fought against her, pushing Sonya off as a distressed look befell him. “Sonya, enough! What is wrong with you, woman? There are eyes everywhere…are you trying to get me killed?”

  Sonya took a few steps back and coiled up, smiling and giggling at his response. “I was only attempting to soothe you. My touch has always had a calming effect on you. I think you forget…just how well I know you…and how well we know each other.”

  “Knew each other,” Oleksander corrected. “And I never forget. Likewise, I have not forgotten the person who chose you as his own. Orloff and I share the same blood. If he were ever to discover what is between us, he would—”

  “Stop,” Sonya urged, a single rigid finger extended. “You concentrate on our quest and let me worry about my husband. Concern yourself only with the…suka zradnyk we seek.” She gestured to the scene surrounding them. “Speaking of which, we should consider taking our leave. Doing so will allow Igor and Yurii to perform some housekeeping.” She eyeballed the room skeptically. “Some…much-needed housekeeping.”

  Oleksander took a final look around the suite, taking all the disarray, death, and destruction in. Finally, he sighed and nodded. “You are right. I will have Mustafa bring the car.”

  Three

  CIA Dock ‘C’ Annex. Reston, Virginia

  Nihayat al’ayam plus 1 day, 7 hours

  Special Agent Dan Prosser opened the interrogation room door and strode to a stainless-steel table bolted to the floor in the center. On the opposite side sat his suspect, a middle-aged man of Slavic descent with thinning sandy blond hair and a patchy beard to match. His skin was overlaid in tattoos from his well-developed forearms to his waist, and he had several fresh abrasions and bruises evident on his neck and face. He’d been entangled in a scuffle and had fallen prey to a superior opponent just before Prosser had come across him the previous day.

  Prosser slid the only chair not secured to the floor away from the table and took a seat in it, placing a brown, waxed leather document folder on the table. He studied the suspect a moment before casually crossing his legs and placing both hands on his knee, interlacing his fingers. “So, think you might be ready to talk yet?” he asked. “Or is more time required?”

  The man didn’t move. He only stared Prosser down with a set of dim, contemptuous eyes. He displayed no discernable emotion, though his body language was flaunting an overall absence of concern. He couldn’t care less where he was or who was sitting across from him, inciting him to speak.

  Prosser hesitated, then said, “I’ll infer from your lack of response, you remain either unready or undecided. Truth is, it doesn’t matter which. I’ve been in this position a time or two before, and in most cases, all that’s needed is time. Time for you to think through your difficulties, which are slowly but surely amassing. I have all the time in the world, but something tells me the same can’t be said in your case.”

  Prosser leaned forward and unsnapped the folder, then removed a small stack of random documents and facedown photographs. “I suppose you might be wondering how long I plan to detain you. It might even be why you’ve chosen to be uncooperative. Maybe you believe there’s some time limit or statute of limitations we must adhere to. Well, there isn’t.” He paused. “Fact of the matter is, I can hold you here indefinitely—meaning as long as I goddamn want to.”

  The man didn’t offer an immediate response. He yawned and rolled his eyes sluggishly and began single-handedly cracking his knuckles. “You should let me go,” he rattled off in a sluggish Eastern European accent.

  Prosser’s eyes widened. “What’s this? He speaks? Our detainee possesses a voice with which to converse? Well, color me surprised. I wasn’t expecting you to crack this quickly. I should jot this down; this is a record for me…quite a breakthrough.”

  “No one has cracked anything, nor have any records been broken.” The man leaned over the table, pausing momentarily. “And here is your only breakthrough. You should let me go.”

  “But you just got here. Are the accommodations we’ve provided not suitable? Perhaps you’re thirsty or maybe even hungry…I can have fresh coffee brought in for you. We have some flavorsome, espresso dark-roast in the lounge.” Prosser gestured to the man’s injuries. “If you like, I can have one of our medically trained staff members look after those cuts and bruises.”

  “Ni.”

  Prosser twitched. “Ni?”

  “No.”

  “No? No to what? The coffee? Shame…it’s really quite good.”

  “No. To everything.”

  “Everything? Come on,” Prosser mused. “Certainly there must be something you require. Something I’ve failed to mention?”

  “I require nothing.”

  “Are you in any pain? I’m estimating you probably are, from the looks of you. Whoever you got yourself entangled with really beat the snot out of you.”

  The suspect expelled a lurid sigh. It was his only response.

  “Look, I realize this isn’t where you want to be,” Prosser said, spouting a sigh to match. “I get it, trust me. No man awakens from unconsciousness expecting to find himself in a place like this. But if my team and I hadn’t intervened on your behalf, it’s hard to say where you might’ve awoken—if at all
. You’re lucky we found you.”

  The suspect again failed to provide a comeback.

  “I know you want to leave,” said Prosser. “And I don’t blame you. I’d like to help make that happen for you, but for the moment, my hands are tied. Not so much in the same way as yours, but figuratively speaking. I simply cannot approve your release, not until we—”

  “Approval is immaterial,” the man growled.

  “Okay, then tell me. What is material?”

  He took in a short breath. “Compliance.” A pause. “And you should let me go.”

  “Yes, yes, you’ve said that.” Prosser rolled his lips. “Okay, perhaps then we’ll focus on this ‘letting you go’ concept for the moment, since you’re so staunchly glued to it. Why, exactly…should I?”

  The man’s eyebrows bounced. “Because you should.” He sent Prosser a near-frostbitten stare.

  “I see. I’m certain though, there must be a reason or rationalization as to why. Might it be because of who you are or perhaps rumored to be? Are you someone I should fear? A dangerous person?”

  The man turned his head away, opting not to respond.

  “Okay, maybe it’s not you. Maybe it’s who you work for.”

  It took a moment, but the tattooed man peered over at Prosser from the corner of his right eye.

  Prosser slapped the table lightly. “Ha! There we go. That got your attention.” He slid his chair closer to the table. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  The man looked away, sending his frigid stare to the wall, to what he assumed was a two-way mirror.

  The special agent pursed his lips. “Look, just like I said earlier on, I have all the time in the world. And, whoever it is you work for—no matter how dangerous he or she might allegedly be, they’ll never find you here.”