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Dragov made his way to the hotel where he and Kathy had stayed. He found a message for him there telling him to wait by the phone, that was all, it specified no time. Dragov sat in the hotel lobby as hour after hour dragged by, waiting for them to contact him. On the surface, he seemed ice-calm but his mind was in a state of chaos.
After the death of his wife and child in Tashkent, he had sworn that he would never let himself care about anyone so deeply again, but now he was aching for Kathy. He heard the porter calling his name and he quickly crossed to the phone booth by the reception desk.
"It is Kazakov here," the voice said and it was clear that he had enjoyed making Dragov sweat.471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtAq1tNRGzI
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Seamus Flynn sat in the kitchen of a house on the outskirts of Los Angeles. He was leaning back in his chair with his legs resting on the table.
"Ahhh," he said, "those were the days before the bastard British were hunting me. I may not have been much to look at but I had a way with the women then. It was these hands." He held out his hands. For all his ugly, squat appearance and apelike long arms, Flynn's hands were indeed beautiful, with the long, powerful sensuous fingers that should have belonged to an artist or a musician. "I could do wonders with these hands," he said proudly, "but the real secret is to treat a woman like a filly. You hold them tight between your knees now and ease them into the bit." Flynn barked out a laugh, pleased with the image that he had created in the mind of the boy across the table from him.
They heard a noise in the room above, the sound of a struggle, and the crash of broken crockery.
"What's that?" Flynn said sharply.
"It's nothing," the cold-eyed youth answered uncomfortably. "Just Siobahn taking the girl up some food."
"That's what he's doing, is it?" Flynn snapped. He swung his feet off the table and went up the stairs. He paused outside the door for a moment, listening to the noise, and then he twisted the handle and kicked the door, sending it crashing open. The sallow-faced youth called Siobahn, startled by the noise, lost his grip on Kathy for a moment and she broke away from him.
"Just what d'ye think you're doin'?" Flynn demanded menacingly.
The youth was terrified of Flynn, of the power coiled in his squat body and the sadistic, violent streak that he knew was in the man.
"Oh, nothing," he stammered. "Just bringing...."
"Get your ass outta here, you bloody bastard!" Flynn cursed him, cutting him short. "If someone's to have her it's grown men, not boys. Get out, I say!" he spat and the youth fled.
"Don't you ever let that boy come in here again," Kathy said urgently.
She was standing silhouetted in the light streaming in from the high barred window, her hair and clothes disheveled. Flynn watched her, his hot little eyes burning away her clothes. He kicked the door closed and came slowly towards her, then he stopped.
"That's as far as I go," he said. His voice had gone silky soft and cruel, savoring her impending humiliation. "Now you come to me, m'lovely, come," he commanded her.
He knew that he had more than enough physical power to take her, but that wasn't enough, he wanted to break her will, to make her come meekly to him. He kept talking to her, bidding her obey him in soothing, silken phrases. The promise of sadistic violence showed in his evil eyes if she refused. Kathy was mesmerized. The squat, unshaven little man terrified her. Without touching her he had filled her with a dread of the consequences if he disobeyed him. He held out his hand to her.
"Come," he ordered. His voice could be both cruel and caressing at the same time. "Come to me now."
Kathy moved slowly towards him. He waited until she was standing in front of him, then he reached up and put his fingers on his temple and ran them lightly down behind her ears to the pulses in her neck. His touch was so light she hardly felt it. His hands went down, touching her, caressing her, stroking her. When he thought she was ready he brought his hand up, grasped her hair, and forced her head down to make her kiss him. Instead, she bit him, savagely sinking her teeth deep into his cheek, drawing blood. He cursed and slapped her hard across the face. He let the pain of the blow sink in, then he slapped her again. She backed away and he raised his hand and touched his bleeding cheek.
"Now, that was foolish of you, m'lovely," he said calmly, his voice betraying none of the anger he was feeling, but he would punish her now until she broke, he would make her pay for the blood on his cheek.
Flynn realized that he was still a long way from winning, but he didn't care, he relished what lay ahead. Kathy had backed away into the corner of the room, looking around wildly for a weapon. Flynn was moving towards her again. "We're going to have to gentle you down, darlin'. Gentle you down." He was addressing her as if she was a mare trapped in a stable. He spoke so softly that he was almost whispering to her. "Have you heard of the twitch now, m'lovely? That will bring you to your senses. The bottom lip on a horse is smooth and very sensitive, y'see?" He was undoing her belt. "Now you take the twitch, slip the noose over, and drag it up tight and the mare feels the pain so greatly that she just stands there quivering and you can run your hands all over her, everywhere, anywhere you want and she's glad to let you if you will only stop the pain. That's just one way, there are several more. Now, what shall we do with you, m'lovely?"
His hand flashed out and caught her before she could squirm away. They heard footsteps running up the stairs and the door burst open. Siobhan Callaghan stood there, sour-faced and nervous.
"Get out, damn you!" Flynn shouted at him.
"I've got a message from Mr. Kazakov, he's just come back."
"I don't care who you've got a message from," Flynn shouted, the last vestiges of his self-control fading. "Get out."
But the youth wavered in the doorway. "Kazakov says you're to come now," he said defiantly. "And bring the girl. We're moving."
Flynn heard footsteps painfully climbing the stairs and he let Kathy go. Kazakov entered the room. His cold, glittering eyes took in the scene right away.
"Did he hurt you?" he said quietly to Kathy.
She moved away from Flynn and shook her head, trying to hold back her tears.
"She's useless to me if she's damaged," Kazakov told Flynn. "Nobody touches her until she's served my purpose."471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIDLjrsggHo
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Michael Lakas navigated through the bustling chaos of the 3rd Street bus terminal with practiced ease. His movements were purposeful, weaving through the throngs of people with a blend of agility and determination. Despite the cacophony of voices and the hustle and bustle of the terminal, Lakas remained focused, his senses attuned to any potential threats or opportunities that might present themselves.
As he made his way through the terminal, Lakas scanned the faces around him, searching for familiar landmarks or signs that would lead him to his destination. His mind raced with thoughts of the mission ahead, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him like a heavy burden.
Finally, Lakas spotted his two companions waiting for him near the entrance to the terminal. They were both tall, imposing figures, with a hardened look in their eyes that spoke of years spent in the crucible of conflict. These men were no strangers to danger, having honed their skills in the most unforgiving of environments. He approached them with a nod of recognition, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that united them in their shared purpose. These two men were not just allies; they were brothers-in-arms, bound together by a common cause and a shared history that stretched back many years.
Before they became enforcers for Etienne Dubois, these men had served in the French military, their skills forged on the battlefield in service to their country. But it was under Dubois' tutelage that they truly came into their own, their natural talents honed and refined until they became the formidable warriors that they are today. This shared background drew them to Dragov, for they recognized in him a kindred spirit, a leader who understood the true nature of power and how to wield it to achieve their goals. Under Dragov's command, they had found a new purpose, a new cause to fight for, and they followed him without question, knowing that together they would conquer all who dared to oppose them.
Etienne Dubois was waiting for them, leaning against a glass wall near the exit. He gave one of the companions an almost imperceptible nod, then left, making his way to the car park. Michael had no idea what to expect as he hurried after them. They zig-zagged amongst the cars till they heard an engine start, and then a car without lights pulled up beside them. One of the companions kept Michael in the cover of a parked car while the other checked the driver's identity.
The two men operated as a perfect team, seeming to understand each other without the need for words. It took mere seconds before Michael was bundled into the back of the car and it pulled away. The driver kept looking into the rearview mirror.
"Did you spot anyone following you?"
The big man beside him shook his head. The driver relaxed a little and turned to Michael, offering him a steel claw to shake. In the lights of the oncoming cars, Michael saw the scars on his face.
"Welcome to Harborview, California," he said. "He had a pleasant, friendly manner. "My name's Eitenne Dubois. I take it you've already been introduced to these two, Fernand Pierrat and Colin Bonhomme."
Michael nodded impatiently. "Where's Dragov?" he asked. "Has he heard anything about my sister?"
"I believe he's trying to arrange a meeting," Etienne said carefully. "That's all I know."
Michael could tell by the glow of lights against the sky that they were heading into Harborview city limits. The precautions they had taken at the bus terminal increased the sping-tingling sense of unease that settled over him like a heavy shroud. It wasn't just the quaint charm of the small town that put him on edge, it was something deeper, something rooted in his past experiences and the stories he had heard.
Michael harbored a deep-seated aversion to small towns, particularly those in America. To him, they represented an oppressive sense of conformity and isolation, a far cry from the vibrant energy and diversity of the city life he was accustomed to. He had heard countless stories about the dark underbelly of small-town America, tales of corruption, bigotry, and violence that lurked beneath the surface of idyllic façades. They had been passed down to him by his father, who repeatedly regaled him with tales of his encounters with the denizens of small American towns, painting a picture of a society rife with prejudice and narrow-mindedness.
But it was one particular town that had left a lasting impression on Michael, a town so steeped in darkness that it haunted his nightmares to this day. It was a town nestled in the heart of the Midwest, its streets lined with dilapidated buildings and boarded-up storefronts. As Michael wandered through its deserted streets, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, of unseen eyes tracking his every move. But it was what he saw in the town's shadowy alleyways that truly chilled him to the bone. He witnessed acts of unspeakable cruelty, and atrocities committed under the cover of darkness by those who preyed upon the weak and vulnerable. It was a stark reminder of the depths of human depravity, a reminder that no place, no matter how seemingly innocent, was immune to the darkness that lurked within us all.
Pierre glanced into the mirror once more, then he swung the car around. Eventually, they were headed west out of the town again. He took a route that wound through bustling roads, narrow alleys, and busy boulevards. He turned left on Mariposa Street and then took Avenue Laterdale southward. The church where Dragov had previously met Kazakov was visible in the distance, its spire reaching toward the sky amidst the typical California terrain surrounding Harborview. Out of the darkness on the left appeared the imposing fortress-like structure, with its high walls and guard towers looming ominously against the skyline. As they draw closer, the details of Pescadero become clearer. The mighty, seemingly impenetrable edifice was surrounded by seven-meter-high walls topped with razor wire, with concrete and glass goon towers positioned at regular intervals along the perimeter equipped with machine guns and searchlights. The main entrance was heavily fortified, with armed guards stationed nearby. Pescadero State Hospital! Michael had seen it many times in photographs but now, close to it, he was horrified.
"Jesus," he breathed."There's no way we're getting her out of there." He shook his head in dismay, his confidence waning as the reality of the fortress-like structure before him sank in. "We must be out of our minds."
"Don't worry," Etienne reassured, his tone calm and measured. "We don't need to risk a full-scale extraction raid. Dragov will fill you in on the plan when the time is right."
Dragov was waiting for him as the car pulled into the safe house that had been set up in the suburban district of Oakhurst, just a few miles northwest of Pescadero. The companions, Fernand and Colin, went to greet him. One put his arms around Dragov and hugged him while the other just reached out and laid his hand on his shoulder. Little was said, but the manner of greeting impressed Michael. These men shared many memories: they were united by loyalty bonds born of hard times that went deeper than friendship.
"You must be tired," Dragov said, turning to Michael. "I'll show you to your quarters."
The house gave no hint of the activities transpiring within. Inside, it was meticulously organized, with a spacious living area, a modest kitchen, and several bedrooms. The windows were fitted with heavy curtains for privacy, and the doors were reinforced for security. Dragov opened the door to a narrow room with a metal camp bed pushed against the wall.
"Here's where you'll sleep," he said. "You'll find a sleeping bag under the stretcher. The kitchen is at the end of the passage on the right. You'll take it in turns with the others to cook and keep the place clean. Do you want a weapon while you're here?"
"Good God, no." Michael was aghast, loathing all firearms. "I'd never use one."
"Well then," Dragov said unsympathetically, "you'd better keep close to Fernand and Colin."
"What have you done about my sister?" Michael asked.
"A meeting has been arranged for tomorrow night. I can do nothing but wait until then."
"With Kazakov?"
"Yes."
"I'll come with you," Michael offered.
Dragov shook his head. "I must go alone."471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBtGAu3huNY
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As Dragov walked along Maplewood, the only west-east street in Harborville, he found himself surrounded by quaint suburban houses. The street was lined with neatly manicured lawns and well-maintained homes, each with its own unique charm. Some were single-story ranch-style houses, while others were larger two-story residences with spacious front porches. The architecture varied, with a mix of traditional and modern styles, giving the neighborhood a diverse yet cohesive feel. The night is calm and peaceful, with a gentle breeze rustling through the trees and casting dancing shadows on the pavement. Despite the late hour, the street was quiet, with only the occasional car passing by. The soft glow of streetlights illuminated the sidewalks, casting a warm, welcoming ambiance over the neighborhood. Life in the town seemed to be going on as usual, with lights shining in the windows of the houses and the distant sound of laughter and conversation drifting through the air. It was a tranquil scene, belying the tension and intrigue that lurked beneath the surface as Dragov navigated the quiet streets.
The building where Dragov had been instructed to wait for Kazakov was an unremarkable structure, blending into the surrounding urban landscape. It was a nondescript three-story office building with a faded facade, its once vibrant paint now weathered and peeling. The ground floor housed a few businesses—a small convenience store with barred windows, a modest diner, and a travel agency. Offices occupied the upper floors, their windows dark at this hour, suggesting that most of the occupants had already gone home for the day. The street outside was quiet, with occasional cars passing by, their headlights casting fleeting shadows on the sidewalk. Overall, it was an unassuming location, perfect for a clandestine meeting.
Dragov felt a sense of unease, the sense that he was being watched. It was the instinct of a seasoned operative, honed by years of living on the edge. As he scanned the building's exterior, his eyes caught a small ledge near the roofline—a perfect vantage point for snipers to conceal themselves. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, heightening his awareness of the potential danger lurking in the shadows. In addition to the ominous presence of the potential sniper's perch, Dragov noticed something else that tugged at his heartstrings—a faded mural painted on the side of the building. It depicted a scene from happier times, perhaps a depiction of the neighborhood's history or a tribute to its vibrant community spirit. Yet, now weather-beaten and worn, the mural served as a poignant reminder of the passage of time and the inevitable decay of once-thriving neighborhoods. Whether it was a trick of the light or the stark reality of urban decay, Dragov couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness as he took in the sight.
He heard a car come quietly to a stop by the pavement, and he spun around. The door opened. Kazakov climbed out and straightened up painfully. The car moved on a little way and parked. Dragov was conscious that men had positioned themselves in the shadows on either side of the street.
"I've chosen an appropriate venue for our discussion," Kazakov said to Dragov by way of greeting. "This building has witnessed its fair share of intrigue over the years, much like the matters we're about to delve into. You see, a different situation exists now from when you last demanded a meeting. I have the men to command the streets and I have the girl."
"Why go to all that trouble?" Dragov asked. "I have already agreed to give you Ms. Barton."
"You agreed when you had too many cards left in your hand to play, Mr. Dragov," Kazakov replied bitingly. "From now on I want to be sure that you are working for me and only me."
Dragov shrugged. "What more do you want me to do?"
"For a start," Kazakov said, "there's the assassin called Zoltan. I want you to bring him out into the open so that we can kill him."
Dragov knew he could be blackmailed into a position where he would have to obey Kazakov's instructions, but Zoltan was so unstable that no opponent could guess what he would do. At all costs Zoltan had to be kept alive: he was Dragov's ace in the hole.
"Impossible," Dragov answered finally. "I can undertake to give you Ms. Barton, that means nothing to me, but I cannot let you kill Zoltan. We have owed too much over too long to each other."
"You have sentimental reasons," Kazakov scoffed, mocking him. "I can't believe that. What if I was to say to you that it's the life of Zoltan against the girl's?"
"Then you must kill the girl," Dragov said quietly.
Kazakov had not been expecting that. Dragov was too controlled, too self-assured; maybe he was mistaken in thinking he could control him through Kathy. Kazakov turned and signaled with his hand.
"Would you like to see her?" he said. "It might serve to refresh your memory as to how you feel about her."
A car loomed out of the darkness. As it crawled slowly past them Dragov saw Kathy's white face straining against the sealed window. Her lips were moving, she was calling out his name. The car stopped. Dragov took a couple of paces after it, and then the car moved on again, keeping just in front of him. Dragov knew that Kazakov was waiting for him to break and run after it, to try and wrench the door open to get to Kathy---it would have been a natural reaction. The image of her pale, tired face was in his mind as he turned his back on her and rejoined Kazakov.
"Take the girl away," he said. "If this is a game you're playing, then there's no reason behind it."
"I have heard that women who associate themselves with you don't live very long," Kazakov remarked.
"That's true," Dragov answered, his cold dark eyes burning into Kazakov's face. "I've become accustomed to death."
The car reversed. Dragov watched Kathy pass him. He knew that she would be horrified, that she was begging for some gesture of reassurance from him, some sign, but he gave her none. He stared fixedly after her as the car disappeared and if anything his eyes burned a little colder.
"So," Kazakov said, understanding that he was inflexible on this point. "No Zoltan."
Dragov shook his head. "No Zoltan," he confirmed.
"And the girl? What shall I do with her?"
Dragov laughed. It was a terrible laugh, so intense but controlled that Kazakov didn't doubt him when he said, "If you harm her in any way then I will kill you."
"That is no great threat," Kazakov answered mockingly. "I will die shortly anyway."
"Then I will kill anyone you ever loved, Mr. Kazakov, and Ms. Barton, I will surely kill Ms. Barton. But we waste time talking about killing, you want Ms. Barton and I can get her for you. You suspect me of disloyalty so you hold the girl. When I return Barton to you then you can give me the girl. Surely that is acceptable to both of us?"
Kazkaov was beginning to respect Dragov. He thought he had been misled over Kathy until he heard the horrible laugh that told him beyond any doubt that Dragov loved her and that Kazakov could control him through her. Other than that one slip he had hidden his weakness well. Kazakov was satisfied now.
"All right," he said. "Your man Zoltan stays alive but I want you to bring him in where I can watch him. From hereon out he stayed with the others. I have someone for you, an Irishman: you are to make him part of your team. He will be your lieutenant and he will see that you honor your part of the bargain."
Dragov agreed; he had no choice.
"How are your plans progressing?" Kazakov asked.
"They're coming on well; we should be ready to move within the first or second week of February. Where do you wish me to deliver Ms. Barton to you? I'd prefer it to be somewhere quiet and secluded, away from prying eyes and potential complications. It's safer that way, for all parties involved."
"That sounds acceptable. A secluded spot in the countryside outside Harborview would suit our purposes just fine."
"Do you have anyone else involved in this operation, or is it just you?" Dragov asked.
"No one else knows about this, Mr. Dragov," Kazakov's thin lips cracked into a bitter smile. ."It's a personal affair for me. I have my reasons." His car drew up. "Where did you leave your car?"
"At the end of the street."
"Get in, I'll take you to it."
Kazkaov sat beside Dragov in the luxurious dark comfort of the car. He was weak from being on his feet too long and it cost him an effort to speak. "I was a Hitler Youth in Bulgaria during the last days of the war," he said. "We dug in around the outskirts of Sofia, preparing for the final defense against the advancing Russian forces. When the Russians came, it was chaos. The city was in ruins, and the people were desperate. The women, our mothers and sisters, hid wherever they could find shelter - basements, cellars, makeshift bunkers. Anywhere they thought might offer some protection from the advancing Russian troops.
The boys in my brigade were just teenagers, most of them barely old enough to shave. But they stood tall, fiercely determined to defend their city against the Russian advance. We held them back for several days, but we were low on food and ammunition. Eventually, we were forced to fall back to the city center, where we made our last stand. We defended every inch until we were wiped out to the last child.
I was wounded, I remember, so frightened that I was going to bleed to death. I witnessed unspeakable horrors when the Russians took Sofia. I hid in the ruins of bombed-out buildings, listening to the screams of women and children, and the crash of the artillery barrages. But the worst part was the peace that followed. The Bulgarian people were subjected to unimaginable indignities—forced labor, mass arrests, executions. I believe that tens of thousands of my countrymen died in the year after the war ended, victims of starvation, disease, and Soviet brutality."
Dragov could imagine the scars left by that experience on a twelve-year-old's mind.
"My experiences in the war taught me not to truly ally myself with any side," Kazakov said softly. "That's why I found my place in the Shadow Syndicate. We operate in the shadows, dealing with those who play the game of power and control. It's a world where allegiances shift like sand, and survival depends on adaptability and cunning. I have received information through my sources that your attempt to rescue Mischa Barton is aided indirectly by the CIA. I understand their underlying motivation for wanting Ms. Barton removed from Pescadero. It's all about oil. But my ultimate plot goes beyond mere extraction. I plan to use the actress as a pawn to strike back at the superpowers and their allies. Their dependency on oil makes them vulnerable, and I intend to exploit that weakness. Whatever happens to me after this is not important. My health is failing fast, I do not have much longer to live, but I still have the power to take Barton and place her in the hands of people who will know how to deal the most damage to both superpowers. That woman must surely have learned their secrets. Deliver her to me and I will reward you well."
They drew up at the end of the street. The car carrying Kathy pulled in behind them and a squat redheaded man got out.
"Seamus Flynn, your new lieutenant," Kazakov announced as the Irishman strutted over and stood on the pavement.
"The girl," Dragov said quietly. "I'll want to know that you're treating her well."
"All right," Kazakov assented. "She will be brought to a telephone where you can speak with her once in every seven days. Flynn will be supplied with the number. But please, don't waste your time trying to find her, Mr. Dragov. She'll be very well guarded and if you were lucky enough to locate her, she would be dead before you came through the door---is that clear?"
Dragov climbed out of the car.
"I want a daily report," Kazakov said sharply to Flynn. "Good luck, Mr. Dragov," he called as the cars pulled away.
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