It was a damp October day when my picture landed on the front page of OldonTimes. My name, smeared by the rain across headlines from the business section, reverberated through the walls of every household and commercial establishment within hours. “FROM BEHIND THE SCOPE TO BEHIND BARS: Dmitry Zolnerovich’s last stand.” Goddammit. They say publicity killed the cat. Or was it curiosity? I think both.
Either way, that scope metaphor… It’s been fifteen years since I’ve used one of those! F***ers. Always drama over fact. Tasteful f***ers, but f***ers nonetheless.
A week prior, I had sat awaiting my client at Rosemary Patisserie. The city of Oldongrad offered many lovely bakeshops, but none could rival the divinity of Rosemary’s apple strudel. Like my services, it was to die for.
My guard handed me a black iPhone 6 as an Audi of matching color pulled up to the front gate.
“Maria Schulz.” The voice on the line reported. I looked out the window.
“Understood.” Click.
A dial tone.
“Thanks, Sek,” I handed back the iPhone. “Keep it.”
A modestly clad woman stepped out of the RS6, clutching the collar of her beige winter coat. A veil concealed her auburn hair, and large black shades claimed her irises. She entered the establishment looking down.
I glanced at Sek. He waved her over.
“Madam, please take a seat,” he gestured toward the white wooden chair opposite me, hanging the woman’s coat on a rack by the window. She looked around with hesitancy. Or paranoia. It was a quaint patisserie, but nothing out of the ordinary. It featured checkered tablecloths and rustic wooden tables to match the creaking chairs. The owners tried, haphazardly at best, to pull off an authentic French atmosphere by adorning each wall with a China-made Parisian tapestry and dressing the servers with cheap black berets to complement their Pink Panther French accents. Each of these discoveries startled my timid guest. Typical.
“Strudel?”
She gasped through her nose.
“Maria, darling, don’t be startled.” I bit into the puff pastry. “They’re freshly baked.”
“No, thank you,” she mustered, struggling to hold my gaze.
“Sek, order this young lady a tea and scone. Make it…”
“Raspberry,” she finished.
“Excellent.”
She nodded robotically, still looking around.
“There is a comforting sense of privacy in a sea of strangers, darling.”
I crushed my ending cigarette on a nearby armrest. Her tea came as I looked up. She took a sip.
“I’ll take the case,” I said, lighting a fresh Marlboro. “If you’re willing to take the deal.”
“You want fifty?”
“Sixty five percent. And I need a name.”
She looked around again.
“The name, Maria.” Armrests pressing into my palms, I slid onto the edge of the chair.
“Ni-Nik-Niko—”
“Maria!”
“Nikolai Glazkov!”
F***.
She hunched over, as if trying to hide under her veil. The shop’s other customers chattered on without disturbance, and Maria ultimately noticed the unchanging atmosphere.
I’m all about my clients’ comfort. Truly. “Darling, let’s move this to the car, shall we?”
She nodded.
“Sek, take care of the check and meet me in the Escalade.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. As he helped me into my overcoat, I took a moment to notice how much he had grown. He, whom I found a meek twelve-year-old boy, now holds his head a riveting two meters above ground. Although his black hair and dark complexion make him indistinguishable from his kin, Sek’s vitality and unquenchable thirst for justice set him far apart.
I waited for Maria to enter the Cadillac and took the back seat, opposite her. After selecting a fitting song for the car stereo, I broke the silence: “So Darling,” I began, “what do you expect to get out this?”
“I want the money.” Maria answered more quickly now. She sat up straight, a quivering lower lip the only sign of nervousness.
“And not your son?”
“That brat—” Maria paused. She cleared her throat. “Michael is no son of mine.”
“Curious. Explain.”
This part is always my least favorite. Maria told me what felt like the Schulz Family Saga Part 3: Breaking Assets, i.e. her ugly divorce. The son in question, Michael, was her husband’s fourteen-year-old from a previous marriage who was allegedly kidnapped by the Bratva outside of the city. The police report revealed eyewitness sightings of a young, raven-haired boy in Michael’s signature red hoodie entering a black SUV. And somehow, Nikolai Glazkov was linked to the kidnapping. That f***er would team up with anyone, even the f***ing Bratva, to get what he wants! But I digress. One day, Michael did not come home. That was the day Maria’s husband received a box in the mail.
“Do you have the contents of the box, Darling?”
“Exhibit b in my file.”
I opened the folder to reveal a tattered piece of red cloth that said:
C o n s i d e r     t h i s     a      w a r n i n g.
A clipped black ponytail lay neatly folded in the remains of a cut-up red hoodie.
Ouch, right? But classy as f***, I’ll give him that.
From the rest of her story, I could gather that the husband went nuts searching for his son. Six long months wallowing in his sorrows and spending his fortune (f***er had more cash than Guam!) on finding his son. Six months, until Glazkov sent an ultimatum: the unconditional transfer of all assets in exchange for the boy. Maria flipped a s***. But before Mr. Schulz could make up his mind, she found his body in her car on the way back from signing the divorce papers.
“For sixty-five, I’ll see what I can do,” I said when Maria finished. Sek escorted the client to her car and returned to sit beside me. He passed me the flask for my ritual afternoon drink.
“You’re a smart lad, Sekander,” I eventually remarked. “Why did the bastard kill Mr. Schultz?”
“As you often say, sir, ‘dead man can’t report a robbery.’”
“So you think the money is wired?”
“I will find out at once.”
By the time the driver dropped us off at my manor, dim lights illuminated the cobblestone streets, and the sun had long slipped into the dark horizon. A weak shade of yellow diluted the purple sky behind the cityscape that stood before me. I noticed my gaze grow upward from the road, across the buildings, and into the blinding starlight. Wheels roared through the suburb, lights turned off in windows, a plane flew by…
Sek said I woke up screaming throughout the night. It’s not an unusual phenomenon. He could always tell when a flashback would strike—whether it came to me in a dream, or ripped me from my consciousness as it had done that night. Either way, I don’t remember getting into my bed. He must have brought me in.
* * * * *
“The coordinates, Slav. I need coordinates!”
“32.34° N. 62.12°E. Launch the missile! LAUNCH!”
I entered the coordinates for the military base. Commence. Commence. First step of operation. Launch. Each pilot activated the sound-resistant function on his headset. We assumed launching position and began the countdown.
“Fire.” Six simultaneous strikes could be heard from within a three mile radius. “The base is destroyed. The next step will be on land.”
* * * * *
Whoever says war is fun is either an American politician or peaked his experience with it in Call of Duty. While most of us enlist out of a guiding duty to serve our country, some do it for the thrill and the power to decide other people’s fate with the pull of a trigger. I’m sure you’re familiar with PTSD. Mine’s supposed to be gone by now, but for those of us who had a moral compass going into war, the flashbacks are present as ever.
The following morning, Sek put me on the line with his cousin. The call confirmed my suspicion. Glazkov moves fast.
“The balance is wired,” Sek translated for his cousin.
“Sonovabitch…” I huffed through my nose. F***er. F***er. So many questions. Where were Schultz’s accounts? How did the S.B. get the money out?
“The account is offshore,” Sek continued, “in Cyprus.”
“Motherf*****.”
“But we tracked the wire.”
Oh. My boys move faster.
Glazkov was efficient. I’ll give him that. But neither he nor even Bratva could withstand a brotherhood forged by salvaged blood; nothing supersedes the oath of a true warrior.
“Do you need us on the ground boss?” Sek translated.
“Naturally. Sek, track the wire’s original destination and tell them where to go. Oh, and raid the arsenal. Bratva never shows up unarmed.”
* * * * *
Arms. We were supposed to be looking for arms. Civilians in the town were hiding arms. Or soldiers. Planes landed on the airfield two kilometers away from the Afghan base, and we continued on foot to the residential part of Farah. Show no mercy, breathe no fear. These were the only things we knew. Special forces, spetsnaz. Deployed with one goal: to pillage.
But the town was empty of threats. Each mud brick house the same: two families, minimal living space, no running water. Little girls frolicking around bare market stands, led away from us by adults avoiding our gaze. They knew what was coming before we did. Each house: empty. No guns, no fugitives, not even dishware that could pose a threat to the Red Army. But that same night, we got an order from the general: burn it to the ground.
“Men, in your places.” We met no resistance. The forces assembled in a V, grenade launchers forming the sides, my sniper rifle the tip. “Three…”
Some townspeople went about their day, ignoring the inevitable. A young boy of about twelve approached. I placed my finger on the trigger. “Two…”
He stopped directly in front of my gun, one of the little girls from before peering out from behind his leg as he stood, hands on hips. “?? ????? ? ????? ?? ?? ??? ,” he said. I later learned that his words meant: I want to be the first to die.
* * * * *
I answered my phone to Sek’s report. “We have the warehouse surrounded, Sir. Your second unit will escort you inside, on your signal.” I tossed my phone to the nearest guard.
“Are you ready, sir?” Sek asked.
“I’ve waited fifteen years. I think I’m ready.”
In retrospect, perhaps it could have been rather selfish to use Maria’s case to get to Glazkov. Perhaps, it was exactly what he wanted. Just like the soldier who craves adrenaline in war, I thirsted for justice; for vengeance. Otherwise, my job description was anything but philanthropic, although that was how it began. We find a wrong, and we right it—for a hefty price. I know what you’re thinking: us and what army?
* * * * *
“One…” I pushed into the trigger. My eyesight blurred. I couldn’t focus. Then it hit me, as if a comrade from behind had opened fire straight into my skull. My men and I were targeting innocent civilians. “Cease fire!” I shouted.
There were echoes and whispers throughout the V.
“I said, CEASE FIRE!” I stood up from my stool and jogged over to the boy before my gun. “What’s your name lad?” I asked slowly.
“Sekander Mangal… sir.”
* * * * *
“Sir,” Sek shook me awake. “Sir, we are approaching the warehouse.”
He passed me a pill.
“This is to ensure your consciousness for the evening.”
“Thank you, boy.”
“There is no need, sir. You spared my life, placing your own in danger, and for that—”
“You are forever in my debt. I know, Sek. And that’s true for your cousins and the rest of your village.”
He bowed his head.
“But you… your loyalty goes beyond your oath. You, Sek… in many ways, you’ve shown me—” I turned away from him to face the car window and mumbled, “what it’s like to have a son.”
I couldn’t see his facial expression, but I felt it break from its usual, unaffected form, to one revealing some deeper emotion. I turned back to face my boy.
“I want to be sure that if anything happens to me tonight, anything, that you’ll be okay.”
“Sir, if an opportunity arises, I will lay down my life for you!”
“No, you will not!” As the car came to a halt, I gathered my things and placed my hand on the door handle. “That was a direct order.”
There was something to be said for the danger I was putting myself in. With eighty thousand troops, I seldom had a need or desire to accompany them to the extraction point. A confrontation in my field, Doctor, is like the climax of a M. Poirot mystery—except in real life, the villain isn’t the vindictive judge or the billionaire’s maid. In real life, life herself makes the villain, demolishing the writer’s subtle intricacies and purposeful explanations.
We walked into the warehouse, Sek and I, following a blueprint to the boiler room.
“How did this come about?” I asked Sek, motioning to the blueprint.
“My cousin had successfully liberated it from one of the general’s men.”
I chuckled. Like I’d said, my boys were always one step ahead. But Glazkov still knew of our arrival. How could he not?
Sek kicked down the door below the rusty water pipes. I activated two fire-proof kevlar vests from my iPhone. Our friend G had a thing for fire, and ours were the last lives I was willing to risk. As expected, the general sat atop an elevated platform above what looked like a laboratory space. Workers and soldiers alike surrounded the white-haired rat, awaiting orders. He sat reclining, joining his hands in a slow clap.
“Fifteen years. To think, that’s how long you could bear to stay away.”
After all this time, I still couldn’t stand his screechy voice—like a walrus giving birth to farm equipment.
“No response? Certainly you recognize the man you disobeyed, all those years ago—no? Maybe this will help!” He spoke this with his hands over his mouth, imitating radio static. “Is this what it sounded like when you got the signal? Huh? Well maybe this one will be clearer: KILL THEM.”
Sek and I exchanged looks; I wondered how many of the fifteen years it had taken Glazkov to prepare that speech.
“You haven’t changed one bit, general.” I pressed the alarm button on my iPhone, and the windows that had lined the warehouse ceiling imploded with SWAT-like agility.
“BOSS. TAKE COVER. Sir,” a voice came thundering from my earpiece. I pulled Sek down to the floor, pulling a revolver from my belt strap.
“Who are your friends, maggot?” The general called out. “Those little Afghans whose measly lives you spared? Now your little slave army. Much better life.”
The fight went on for a while, between my soldiers and his. We certainly had the numbers. But what granted them victory was the element of surprise. Amidst open fire from both sides, a new fighter emerged from the opponents’ reinforcements with a semi-automatic and a… red hood. Michael. Behind him, two small crews of teen soldiers stood with rifles almost longer than their legs. Michael’s brows were lowered; he squinted in our direction, weapon at waist-level. The other boys wore cold, blank expressions that stared off into space. F***. My units were on direct orders not to shoot children.
“Startled?” Glazkov needed to shut his trap. “Despite popular belief, Michael here enlisted willingly. Mikey’s a true patriot. He understands that national, intellectual advancements are worth their price.”
Collecting myself, I opened my mouth to speak. “You can’t trade lives for papers, Glazkov! That’s why it never worked. Not even the most cruelly trained soldier is inhumane enough to level an entire village for a piece of paper! And now you’re using the f***ing mafia? You really are a desperate piece of scum.”
“Paper? Is that what they told you?” He stood up from his pedestal, picking up a wooden, red cane. He leaned on it with each step, making his way down a conveniently located ramp to take his place between the groups of children. “Humanity. Such a burden. You can’t take the king without sacrificing a few pawns.”
“And who was the king, Glazkov? In your sick, twisted world, what do you gain from taking down a few Afghan ‘pawns’? Those people were harmless.”
“Affirmative, just like their neighbors in Lashkar Gah. But no matter, if you had any respect for your government, you’d understand. Oh. Dmitry… Dimochka my dear hypocrite. Leveling the homes of eighty thousand people is a sin, but conscripting them to do your dirty work… isn’t? Even before the wall came down, we all served our own, capitalistic self-interest. And now, I needed land that someone else happened to live on. Which I will get, thanks to your unquenchable desire to kill me. Unlike your sergeant days, I knew that you’d show up on time.” He spoke into his jacket collar. “Now.”
We heard a crash through three of the walls that enclosed the warehouse. Militia. Flashing lights. The perfect time to slip into a flashback. F***ing pills kept me awake.
I get to this point in my story and make a long pause.
“And then what happened?” Dr. Petrov asks.
“You know the rest, Doctor. I’m stuck in the slammer for twenty days, awaiting a trial that should be my sociopathic general’s. But I am the one charged with deserting an army of f***ing killers and interfering with a f***ing government plan that was killing thousands of f***ing civilians. Because that,” I grab the armrests of my chair, “is how the law does justice.”
“And that was your excuse?”
“Excuse for what, Doctor?” I hear a soft, repeating noise in the background, but can’t make out what it is.
“For taking the law into your own hands.”
“When a nation’s covert affairs general is a dipshit who gives orders sans morality, there is no law to take.” The noise continues. Is that…ticking?
“What about your wife and kids back home, how did they—”
BOOM. The wall bursts inward, interrupting Dr. Petrov’s question. I quickly recognize those explosives.
A familiar voice emerges from the dust. “Follow me, before it’s too late. Sir.” Sek gives me a hand up from my chair, and we run out of the smoke-filled building.