She was screaming, fighting with all her strength. But he didn't care. He cracked a heavy slap across her face that drew blood, but it only incensed her more. She drove her knee into his naked testicles, stunning him. She only managed to draw one breath before he was upon her again; but now her hand was free, and she struck his face savagely, making her own bloody mark on him--
Kushim woke up with a start!
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply when he realized that he had just had a nightmare. He stared into the darkness for a time, still recovering from the shock. Then he struggled to his feet and stumbled over to the bathroom... more irritated now than shaken. He rinsed his face with cold water and stared into the mirror. In the darkness, all he saw were the blue pins of light that were his eyes flooding the entire environment with photons stored from earlier in the day. He could see everything in spectacular detail, but not many things could see him.
Kushim left the bathroom and turned on the lights. He was in the attic, and with the two dozen paintings adorning the walls it also served as his artist's studio. Being so accustomed to them as they were his creations he didn't seem to notice them, even though no regular person could come across the works and not stop and stare, enthralled by the optical illusions that were his trademark.
He started to walk around, overturning things here and there in search of his phone. He stopped periodically to breathe and ease out the suffocating tension inside his chest. He had been up here too long. Had it been two months? Three? four? He couldn't tell. He needed to get away from here for a while, and his spirit fell recollecting the irony of the fact that he had his pick of every square meter of the entire planet to visit, all its splendid beauties and wonders, yet no place ever gave him as much peace as the little space where he could retreat from that vastness of the outside world into the vastness of the world within. But time worked differently within that inner world and would quickly consume the improperly formed initiate who didn't make a proper bridge between both worlds. It wasn't uncommon for talented young artists to take their own lives because they spent too much time and got lost in the intoxicating insanity of the world within.
Kushim wasn't an amateur. He sighed and rolled his eyes as he found the phone behind the PlayStation console. He breathed deeply and dialed one of the three numbers saved in the phone.
After two rings the call was taken and a woman at the other end said, in French, "Hello, Karen from Midas Finance here. How may I help you."
Kushim replied in equally fluent French, "I want to make an appointment with the doctor."
There was a brief silence as she seemed to process this unusual request. A moment later she recovered and said, "I'm sorry, but he can't take any appointments right now. But I could take a message--
"He'll take mine," Kushim said. "Tell him it's the Persian."
He could almost hear her blood run cold. He smiled wistfully as she cleared her throat and said, "Right away sir. Please hold while I transfer you to his office."
There was a beep, and a familiar voice said, "Hello, old friend."
"Alex," Kushim said. "How's the weather up there?"
The man called Alex laughed and said, "You know how it is. The same old shit every day. Fix one problem, ten more show up to replace it."
Kushim smiled. "Well, you can only do so much. You're only human after all."
Alex the Doctor chuckled at the hidden joke. He said, "Poor me. Why don't you come up to the office and we can talk about it over some wine huh?"
"That would be great," Kushim said. "I'll be there tomorrow; the usual time." Then he hung up.
He took a look around at the small space that made his entire universe, the only thing that helped keep him sane. He wasn't an amateur; even regular people needed to escape now and again from routine. He spent a few minutes tidying up the place -- gathering used and useless materials into the trash, wiping the windows and what little furniture adorned the room -- before brushing his teeth and having a cold shower. Then he dressed in sweatpants and a shirt, tied his shoulder-length hair into a knot at the back of his head, leaving a few strands here and there, and stepped out of the attic for the first time in a long time.
Kushim didn't live alone. The house was also sanctuary to a family with whose ancestors he had formed a very special bond for several decades. They alone knew his secret, and it was for them alone that he would willingly give anything. Few of them lived in the house with him; the others usually came to visit occasionally, during holidays most of the time. Only six members of the family stayed with him perpetually: the elders Jean and Marianne, the twenty-year-olds Paris and Ruby, and the adolescents Destin and Elly. They had renounced a life to the outside world to share his solitude despite his lapses, and he honored their gesture with something no other member of the family would ever get from him: a blood oath. The other members of the family tree pursued their lives independently out in the world -- with his ever-present support of course -- but for the six who lived with him, he would unhesitatingly go to hell and back.
The sun had only started to peek out of its resting place in the sky when he left the attic so everyone was still asleep. He stepped out of the house and took a moment to appreciate the fresh morning air before starting into the forest which extended from the base of the Mont Blanc in a light sprint. He darted past the trees like a young man who had just purchased his first car and was cruising it around town with the top down. Very soon he began to push himself, starting up the mountain with no climbing gear besides the clothes on his body.
There was no turning back now. He shot up the steep rocky base of the mountain several miles away from the regular routes used daily by tourists to climb to the summit, so he didn't have to worry about any strangers noticing the oddity of a man ascending a perilous snowy mountain in nothing but his house clothes. And that was if he even got a proper glimpse of Kushim, who was zipping past at forty miles per hour now.
Kushim reached the freezing snow-covered summit of the mountain in just over thirty minutes, running the full five thousand meters nonstop at a steady twenty miles per hour. The winds roared and ripped at him, furious that a mortal regarded the extreme elements with nonchalance. He stood there defiantly, breathing air that refused to fill up his lungs. Coming down he walked, and it was just as effortless as climbing up had been but took more time, and the sun was high in the sky by the time he broke out of the tree line in a calm stroll, his body covered in only a light sweat for his exertions.
In an area reserved for splitting logs old Jean was leading the younger ones through their daily martial arts practice, and Kushim went over to join them. The kids were excited to see him and only managed to restrain themselves from rushing over to embrace him when they spotted him. Jean certainly wouldn't have allowed it.
"My Lord," Jean said, bowing slightly. He managed to conceal it better that he was just as excited to see Kushim finally outside.
"I was hoping I could join you guys," Kushim said, taking off his shirt to reveal a lean athletic body with chiseled muscles.
A wicked smile appeared on Jean's face. He said, "As you wish, My Lord. The young cubs appear to need a little motivation."
Paris and Ruby shot their teacher a concealed gear but said nothing. They couldn't hide that they were eager to test their martial skill against the most skillful warrior they knew.
All three stepped into the sparring circle and put a few feets' distance between themselves. Kushim said, "Rules?" to Jean who would be the mediator.
"Victory by forcing your opponent out of the circle," Jean replied.
Kushim grinned and looked forward at the kids. He wasn't going to put in any effort into winning the match. Rather he was going to ensure that they put in nothing less than their best effort. If they could impress him then it meant that they would be devastating to regular human opponents. Jean gave the sign, and he lunged at them.
*
The man Kushim was going to meet wasn't called Alex, neither was he a doctor at all. That was simply for the benefit of any potential electronic eavesdroppers. But he did have an office, located nearly three hundred miles away in Paris, the French capital. Kushim took a six-hour train that evening to the City of Light, arriving close to midnight. He had informed the lads back home of his intentions to get some outside air so he couldn't give them a specific return date. He took nothing with him but his credit card which would give him access to resources accumulated over several decades. He never carried a bag when traveling. What he needed he bought with a credit card... and as he considered himself a man of simple tastes, he never had much to carry.
On the phone, Kushim had set the appointment to the next morning, but that also had been for the eavesdroppers. He checked into an average three-star hotel at about half-past twelve and twenty minutes later there was a knock on the door. It wasn't room service. He opened the door to let in the Doctor carrying a briefcase, and his two younger aides.
Like the kids back home his friend was overly excited to see him and broke his stoic composure to pull Kushim into a tight embrace.
"You bloody Arab," he said in elation, "he said how the hell have you been?"
Kushim shrugged. "You know," he said. "I'm always good. But how about you? How long has it been -- three years?"
The Doctor grinned. "Eight years actually. But it's not your fault; an unreliable memory is always an unfortunate feature of people advanced in years."
Kushim winced. Then he smiled and turned to the Doctor's companions who were both in their early thirties and asked them, "Come, between the two of us who's really advancing in years?"
They glanced at each other in apparent discomfort. The bearded man their boss had called Arab and who was speaking to them now looked to be about their age while the Doctor was pushing his final years in office at fifty-nine.
The Doctor was still smiling, but the joy in his eyes had been replaced by a much less humorous glint. So they fixed their gaze on the floor and said nothing.
"Come," the Doctor said, pulling Kushim towards the refrigerator. "Pour me a drink and let's get down to business. I'm glad to see you, but you must understand that in our line of work one in my position cannot stay exposed too long."
Kushim smiled and said, "Right." He took a vintage bottle of bourbon and poured four glasses. He handed one each to the Doctor and his two companions and took one himself. Then Kushim and his old friend sat while the others stood guard at the door.
The Doctor opened the briefcase and took out two folders, one red and one blue, and placed them on the table. He said, "Have you had any field operation since our last meeting?"
Kushim shook his head. "Just some investigations here and there, but I haven't had to hold a gun since."
The Doctor nodded thoughtfully. Then he said, "I thought so."
"But that shouldn't matter, should it? I checked myself this morning. I'm still in top form. Just gimme the job and say where."
His friend chuckled. "It can't work that way anymore, my friend," he said. "There are so many logistics involved in each op these days one mistake could unwittingly spark an international incident, or worse. Not good for everyone involved." He replaced the red envelope into the briefcase and opened the blue one. "Why don't we start with something more mundane, eh? To warm you up a bit."
Kushim shrugged. He didn't care either way.
The Doctor opened the file and pushed it towards Kushim. "It's an extraction," he began. "You know how we operate. We have between five to ten teams of intelligence operators lying deep in politically unstable nations, all working independently of each other. Their purpose is mainly to gather information so the UN can be prepared for any shocks... but also to ensure that all parties are playing fair. With any evidence of crimes under international law, we get justification to involve ourselves. Covertly, of course."
The old man paused to catch his breath, drained his glass, and sighed deeply as the hot liquid slid down his throat, then he continued: "If you haven't been living in a bunker this whole time you'd have been aware that the democratic government of Burma was overthrown by the military and a one year state of emergency has been declared. Travel in and out of the country is highly restricted, there's an early curfew and regular internet outages. I mean, an intelligence operator's worst nightmare.
"Fortunately for us, we had a couple of teams down there; the country has a long history of civil unrest due to its hundred-plus ethnic groups... . Anyway, the Burmese people aren't happy with the coup and there's been mass protests and riots ever since. We activated a couple of our boys down there to act our eyes, just keep their distance, basic recon."
The Doctor stopped. His heart raced that little bit faster, imperceptible to the two standing at the door, even if they were sitting in Kushim's position. His old friend was about to open a fresh wound, though he did his best to conceal it. Kushim gave him time to collect himself, pouring him another fifth of bourbon.
After a short time, the Doctor continued: "Eight days ago we lost contact with one of our teams." He breathed, and turned the pages in a file to show several pictures.
They were mostly duplicates of two basic subjects, one with a woman, and the other with a severed finger with the fingerprint side prominent.
The Doctor said, "That's one of the operators we assigned to cover the tensions between the new rulers and the protesters specifically, code name: Lara. She found something: as usual, the tensions are being exploited by entitled assholes who care nothing about anything else but enlarging their bank balance.
"Lara found out that the new military government is enlisting a syndicate of local warlords to suppress efforts of the protesters, and in return they get unsanctioned exportation of their goods, which include, but aren't limited to, underage boys and girls. Before she could find out much, we lost touch with her... until four days ago."
The Doctor pointed at the picture. "The finger was the first thing we got," he said, "and then we got a phone call. A local warlord's got her, by the name of Tse Chi Lop. We have three days to wire him fifty million Euros or else we wouldn't even want her again." He emptied his glass again and stared hard at Kushim.
"Listen, Persian," he said, his voice colder than the bottle of liquor from the refrigerator. "You have no idea how fortunate I felt for getting your call this morning. You alone can guarantee a clean job without any further casualties. Because whoever goes in there isn't simply assaulting some local drug lord and his bodyguards; they'd be going against the entire military government of Burma."
Kushim saw something in the old boy's eyes, like a question: Are you sure you're up for it?
He shrugged and smiled back his own reply, like saying, I can't even hear a problem there.
"What's the job, old boy?"
The Doctor looked Kushim in the eyes. "You get in there and you get Lara out. You'll have a team there to help make it as streamlined as possible. Once you're all safe and ready to go we'll decide on whether you'll remain and continue Lara's work, or pull out immediately and work on something more... hardcore."
Kushim laughed and said, "Something more hardcore than going against a foreign government?"
The Doctor didn't smile. He simply said, "Boy, you have no idea."
*
Kushim remained in the hotel for another day after the briefing with the Doctor. According to their plan, he was supposed to be ready to move by five in the evening. He spent the time getting familiar with the mission details in the file he was given. It wasn't regular spy work. He wasn't going in there like one of the Doctor's war dogs, infiltrating a country and lying in deep cover, hiding in plain sight while doing their work. This was a job assigned to teams of experienced crack-professional special forces soldiers, people trained to break in, break things and break out, possibly without making the news.
But even then, with such a team the odds of success would have still been about even. Because their enemies may be just as motivated as they were... and would be expecting such an assault. They wouldn't be expecting to be challenged by one forty-year-old man. They wouldn't be expecting that man to not really be forty years old, or that he could not really be called a man anymore, not since he became cursed three thousand years ago.
Countless intelligence agencies operated in every country on the planet, in the twenty-first century, and Kushim was older than almost every single one of them. There were a few, hidden even from the more secret international intelligence community, that traced their lineage from the first peoples in the Near East to pioneer the Agricultural Revolution roughly twelve thousand years ago. Kushim did well to steer clear of those groups, but he made sure that he and his family were always ready for any threats therefrom.
He steered clear of any international intelligence agency, because they were always trouble, bending facts to fit the narrative rather than the other way around. He only worked with the Doctor... because, like Jean and the kids, he was one of his familias. Kushim himself had been acquainted with him -- like most of the others-- since he was a boy and secretly nurtured him into the career path he followed and became excellent in. The Doctor's real name was Lucas, and Kushim ensured that he grew up with a bullshit filter to function fully autonomously in the media-manipulated world of the industrial nation. He didn't know too much about Kushim's true nature, but he knew that his mysterious benefactor would always have time for him, while also being the man to send into a situation where teams of heavily-armed crack professionals had a chance of failure.
Not a second later, he got a knock on the door. It was his chauffeur, come to pick him up. Having properly discarded the file, Kushim checked out of the hotel and followed the tall slim gent out to a car waiting in front of the hotel. Kushim got in the back seat, the old man went in front and started the engine. The old man said nothing, so Kushim said nothing as well. In the world of espionage, ignorance was a most valuable asset.
They drove out of town to a remote airfield where a military jet sat waiting to take off. Kushim was let out of the car, and then without a word the old man got back in and drove away. Kushim ran around to the back door of the aircraft to escape the noise of its engines, which was deafening to someone with heightened sense perception as he was. It was interesting to think that he had spent such a long time out of the battlefield that its common sounds stunned him. He would do well to remember to procure earplugs so he wouldn't be caught off guard again.
He was ushered into the plane by an ex-military woman in civilian clothes inside a cabin which had two men in the combat fatigues of the French Air Force, who were playing cards and -- he noticed -- putting up a good show of pretending that he didn't exist. The woman showed him a place to sit and ignored him erstwhile. A few seconds later the jet was up in the air.
They spent nine quiet hours in the air, when the woman suddenly said, "Drop off in five, Persian", then unzipped a small backpack, and took out a leather bodysuit with a mask. "Wear this over your clothes," she said and took out a tiny silver gadget size of a finger from the bag.
"This," she said, handing him the device, "is your link to your contact down there. Please don't lose it. Activate it only when you've made your way into the mainland. Click the ends inwards and your contact will find you anywhere you are." Finally, she handed him a small burner phone which had no internet access. "Turn this on after you activate the tracker," she said.
Kushim placed the items inside his trouser pockets and put on the bodysuit, before being given a parachute to strap onto his back. It was pitch-black outside the windows; the time was still around two a.m. in the morning.
She got to her feet and said, "Alright, we're here." Then she went and opened the jet's cargo door, letting in the roar of the wind twenty thousand feet up in the air. Kushim put on the mask.
"Ready?" she asked. He nodded. She said, "Bonne Vitesse", and he jumped out of the jet.
Within seconds Kushim reached terminal velocity as he darted like a bullet towards the ground which appeared as distant to him as distant as the moon from the earth; gravity's unforgivable pull on his body was equaled only by the resistance of the air against the speed against his descent, at almost four hundred miles per hour. By this time regular humans would have lost consciousness due to the body moving too fast for the heart to properly pump oxidized blood to the plane.
Twenty seconds later he steadied himself as much as possible and deployed the parachute.
*
Matthew hissed and paced about the dark room. It made no sense; what was the Doctor thinking, sending a lone man into hostile territory where mobility was almost completely stagnant? How the hell was Matthew supposed to rendezvous with him in time to plan the raid for Lara's rescue? The only reason there was still that tiny flicker of hope in his chest was that in his seventeen years serving the interests of the free world under the command of the ingenious Doctor, Matthew had seen him engineer some amazing miracles from his tiny office in the commercial haven of Saint-Denis Pleyel in Paris. But he may have outdone himself here because in two days Lara would either be dead, or she would wish she were unless the French government coughed out fifty million euros... or unless they were able to get her out before then. He bumped his knee against a chair and cursed.
"Matthew, sit down," Anna said from the corner of the room where their equipment was set up. "Driving yourself mad won't do you any good." He started to argue but she cut him off, saying, "Just sit down first. You're starting to make me feel like something was going on between you two. I love her just as much as you do, so stop acting like I'm not worried enough."
Matthew took a breath and sat down on the chair by the window, set to the side to give any potential snipers an extremely poor target. The streets outside were empty, as their apartment was located further from the main protest areas towards the center of town. It wasn't Lara he was worrying about.
"It's not Lara that worries me, Anna."
"Whatever it is, you know it's not worth the worry," she replied. "If it's coming and you can't do anything about it, what use is it to kill yourself twice with worry?"
Matthew sighed. He looked at her form illuminated by the dim glow of the computer monitors and found a strength emanating from her that helped him collect himself. He took a breath and said, "We should pay the money."
Her silence after he said that shook him again and made him condemn the statement. Even if it was true he didn't need to say it. It meant a declaration of defeat... before the battle was over. Some warrior he was.
Anna eased out of her chair and walked toward him gracefully as if her nerves weren't stressed past the breaking point for over a week now. They slept in fits the whole, none of it restful. Yet she carried herself like none of it had happened. She crossed the room to him in that slow gait, saying nothing the whole time, but by the time she reached him he understood. She didn't come to indict his lapse defective courage, she had come to save him with some of hers.
She straddled herself atop him on the chair started to kiss him. She felt light and tender, communicating not hunger and passion to him, but protection. He returned the kisses, matching her meekness even as he tore her shirt from the shoulders and let her take off his. The wooden chair soon proved to be an unfit companion, so they moved the interaction to the bed within five seconds. Though somehow it took them just that long to ensure that no single strip of fabric separated their bodies from connecting in communion.
*
Meanwhile, about ten miles away Kushim landed in a forest and tore off the bodysuit. He took out the tracking device and activated it before switching on the phone, then started to pace about idly, awaiting further instruction. He expected it to come promptly, like with every other phase of the operation so far. And he knew that something was wrong when ten minutes and then twenty passed and no call came. He feared the worst, thinking that the others had also been captured by the enemy and Lucas's superiors would already be receiving a ransom demand of more than fifty million euros by now.
He breathed deeply and started to walk in no particular direction. He would let another half-hour pass before calling Lucas to inform him of the development if he still hadn't been contacted by then.
*
Anna was the first to wake. She stirred atop Matthew's bare chest and glanced at the sky through the curtains to see that it was still dark out. She rolled off the bed just as he woke up and went to look at the monitors... and shrieked!
Matthew leaped out of bed at the cry and reached for his gun on the floor by the bed, then he sharply scanned around the room for the source of her fright. He found nothing.
"Anna, what the--
"Come, " she said.
He went, took a look at the monitor. And said, under his breath, "Fucking hell... ."
There was a blinking red dot on the map, in a position less than ten miles from their location. And it was moving. He cursed again and picked up his phone.
*
Kushim got ready to call the Doctor. In a few seconds, he would have completed thirty minutes wandering around aimlessly. Then the time came and he started to dial the old boy's number from memory... but then the phone in his hand started to vibrate with an incoming call.
He took it, and said nothing.
"Hello?" came the voice of a man on the other end. "Persian?"
That was the code word. He said, "Yes."
"Listen, I'm sorry about the delay. We had some... uh, logistics issues, but it's all fixed now. We see you, but you're going in the wrong direction--" (at that Kushim couldn't help but roll his eyes, because he wasn't going in any specific direction)...
"Persian, you there?"
Kushim chuckled and said, "Yes, I am."
"Alright. So here's what you're going to do..."
*
After Matthew gave the Persian the directions they both settled down to wait for him. The Persian would be covering ten miles of forest on foot, which couldn't take him less than four hours, but there was a curfew in place and to go out before eight in the morning would attract too much attention. The Persian would only make it to the rendezvous point at about that time, and would then wait just another hour and a half for Matthew to cross two miles to meet him there. There was no rush, not yet. But what worried both seasoned counterintelligence agents, though each was strong enough to not let that fear show, was one question: what could one man do against an army of ruthless, heavily armed, trained killers who were anticipating such a siege?
It didn't matter now -- the man was already on his way. Matthew tried to get some more sleep while Anna was busy with the computers, monitoring the development of events all over the city and the rest of the country.
He thought that he had only started to drift off when the phone rang. He cursed, seeing that it was the Persian. Had he run into trouble?
Matthew took the call and said, "Persian?"
Kushim said, "I'm waiting for you."
"What?!"
Matthew glanced at Anna and asked her for the time. She said it was still half-past four.
He said, "What do you mean? It's been only thirty minutes."
"Right," Kushim said; you couldn't hear the humor in his voice. "And bring a few burgers on your way. I haven't pushed this hard in a while."
Matthew stared into the phone as if the Persian was making a childish joke and he resisted the impulse to scream something offensive at the fucking clown. He took a breath and started to speak, but he was cut off.
"Ten o'clock," the Persian said. "Don't be late."
*
Kyle had been camping in the forest outside the facility since he broke out. A dozen guards with twice as many wolfhounds specifically bred for their aggression were currently scouring the forest hunting him.
To escape, Kyle had had to fight his way out in the end, but thankfully he didn't kill anyone during the scuffle. He'd broken many bones, and maybe one or two would never walk again, but they would all live. He extracted the tracking device as soon as he broke into the woods while the supervisors were organizing their hunting party. He surprised himself by fighting the anesthetic fluids long enough to create several false trails using his blood, before climbing forty feet up a tree to pass out.
He woke up to the feeling of being restrained by something moving. He woke up with a frown and found that he was in the crushing coils of a massive python... or at least that was what the snake thought. Kyle could have easily broken free with barely any effort, but he didn't want to murder the poor animal who probably hadn't had a decent meal in days. Kyle's stomach growled to remind him also that he needed to digest something to help dilute his own body's anesthetic and the snake seemed like a viable option, with enough calories to last him months barring another emergency.
He took a breath and focused. Like the anesthetic, his body had countless hormonal fluids with different functions, most of which he had discovered only during training. By increasing the oxytocin in his blood he could make himself irresistible to any sentient creature within a hundred-meter radius, if not as a mate then as a meal. And likewise, by reducing it, he would become so repulsive that those same creatures would rather take their own lives than have him come any closer. This was what he used, sending out only the tiniest dose into the atmosphere. The snake uncoiled from him and nearly killed herself flinging herself off the tree.
Kyle sat up and leaned against the tree trunk. His stomach growled again. He hissed at it and broke off a small section of the branch he was sitting on, and began to munch it. He ate it all up and his stomach stopped bothering him. Unlike regular people, Kyle's natural diet wasn't limited to just meals cooked over a fire. He was a complete -- or even an extreme -- omnivore: as long as an object was biodegradable it was edible.
Feeling instantly energized, Kyle got to his feet and crouched, scanning the environment with more senses than other people could even imagine. Within seconds he acquired a detailed map of the entire ecosystem within a hundred meters, and he affirmed something he had only vaguely felt when he rounded the forest creating those false trails: there was something else in the woods... something dangerous. More dangerous than the armed guards and their dogs, more dangerous than Kyle himself. Kyle thought so because he checked again and still the source of his discomfort remained hidden... . And that scared him.
*
Matthew crossed the open park to the rendezvous point situated at the old cemetery deeper within the woods at a few minutes to ten, and he was carrying the Persian's order: five cheeseburgers and a Coke. He got there and found no one. Looking around, he started to dial the Persian's number... and froze.
With his heart refusing to beat properly, Matthew turned around slowly, as if dreading to see what was behind him. How could he even tell that there was something behind him?
Matthew's blood ran cold as he found himself standing face to face with a strange man whom he was fucking sure hadn't been here a moment ago. The Persian was tall and clearly from the Middle East, with a slight beard and long hair styled to a samurai knot. He wasn't carrying a bag, or anything else for that matter.
Kushim spoke so the guy wouldn't get a stroke the way he stood stiff with shock. Pointing to the package Matthew was carrying, he said, those are mine, right?
Within two hours they'd returned to the safehouse. Anna knew something was wrong the moment they came in. She had never seen Matthew so shaken in all their twelve years working together. And what was more, her woman's intuition told her that it was their strange man, the Persian, who had somehow been able to cover ten miles on foot in only thirty minutes. She didn't know why she smiled then, or why she was completely relaxed, unlike her boyfriend.
But she knew that if this man could freak Matthew out so badly then how much more their enemies?
"Hello," the Persian said in a tone not unlike a mischievous little boy who knows that someone is about to come into some misfortune but pretends to be clueless. She liked him immediately.
"Hi," she replied. "The last couple of hours must have been hell for you."
Kushim shrugged with a smile and said, "Isn't that what we all signed up for?"
She smiled a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Indeed," she said.
Then the atmosphere cooled down a bit so that now everyone turned serious. There was work to do. By tomorrow the Doctor would have to find fifty million euros or Lara would be as good as dead. Unless they found a way to save her today.
Anna knew she would have to handle the briefing because Matthew still hadn't recovered. The first thing she said was, "There are just three of us, and one person has to remain here at all times. No offense, but we have no idea what Doc saw in you to select you for this mission, but we need a little more to work on than his word."
The Persian appeared to take her words in good humor. He said, "I'd be surprised if you didn't," then added, "I need a gun."
Anna nodded with a puzzled chuckle and said, "If you say so."
"With a suppressor please."
She handed him the items and watched him screw the suppressor onto the pistol. Then he handed it to her and said, "Take a couple of steps back please."
Anna obliged. This was getting interesting. But then it quickly turned from interesting to crazy when he said, "Now shoot me."
Anna stared at him to ensure that she hadn't misheard. He still had that smile, but his eyes held a touch of madness within them. She turned to Matthew, who only stared mutely at the Persian.
"That's the only demonstration you're going to get," Kushim said. "Shoot me, or keep your peace."
Anna frowned, looking into the Persian's eyes. So he was crazy. She tossed the gun back to him and said, "You shoot yourself."
He smiled, as if there was nothing more he wanted to do in the world. He pointed the gun at her and she froze.
"What the fuck are you --!
Three shots rang through the air, only polite coughs due to the suppressor on the gun. Anna had flinched, so she didn't see what happened. When she regained her composure and looked up, the Persian was walking toward her. He stopped at the work table and first placed the gun down, followed by three bullets in perfect condition.
After a lifetime trying to make sense of what she was seeing and what her mind was telling her, Anna found the courage to pick up one of the bullets.
Her head went dizzy and her legs buckled. The bullet was hot and smelled of gunpowder. Then managed to steady herself and inspect the others. They were all the same, hot and reeking of gunpowder.
Anna's eyes were heavy as she looked up to the Persian, who was no longer smiling now, but was starting ahead of her, into space. When she spoke, it came out as barely a whisper: "What the hell are you?"
Kushim said, "A solution. And you're only supposed to show me the problem, no questions asked.
*
Khn Mat was the most powerful man in the world, and it wasn't only Revo who thought so. No sane human being in Asia would dispute that he was God in Myanmar. Revo was fifty-six years old, a retired colonel of the Myanmar Armed Forces, the Tatmadaw, and he had served as one of the highest-ranking ministers of the Khn's empire for close to fifteen years. In that short time, he had witnessed army after army, made of men from all over the world trained to enter into the most closely guarded places and impose their will however they had been ordered, try, and fall to the Khn's majesty.
He smoked his pipe and paced about the balcony on the second floor of the Khn's mansion, overlooking the entire front yard of the compound with an M25 military binocular in his hand, which would give him control over the coming evening. He would be able to see a golf ball, or anything else that moved for that matter, from half a mile away. The sun was just starting to set, and the dogs were now being let out to patrol the grounds. They were fifteen in number, huge ferocious beasts that had been specifically starved for days against tonight. Snipers were positioned on the sides and corners of the roof, ensuring that the entire compound had long-range protection three-sixty degrees around, up to, and beyond the twenty-meter tall fence surrounding the compound, which was lined with electric razor wire.
The Khn's entire family had been shipped to another house in Singapore, but the Great Khn Himself remained at home, unwilling to put men in danger he would not face. He was in his chambers, observing the game like a chess master whose pieces were all Queens from a TV large enough to display ten different views at once. He would send down his blessings to the warriors outside, and Revo knew that they would win. There were thirty other men positioned strategically inside the main building, some guarding their King, as no one would need to be exposed outside. They only needed to wait for the enemy to come, and Revo knew, through instincts honed through several battles, that they would come.
The enemy was European, and they would be sending men here because the Khn captured their spy who was transgressing his domain and, rather than pay the price for their insolence they would try to cheat a god. The spy was lying in a cell beneath the grounds and, whether or not her people paid for her freedom, she would not be getting out of there tonight.
Two men stood guard at the balcony, watching, like him, with the same long-distance night vision binoculars he was equipped with. The night was eerily silent and dark, all lights in the compound having been turned off in order not to disturb the binoculars' infrared spectrum. Revo took a long drag of his pipe as a cold breeze blew past. It was going to be a long night, he knew. He was a seasoned warrior and was convinced that he was going to see the morning.
Neither his experience nor his conviction saved him, or anyone else for that matter. Because it wasn't a group of highly trained men that came for them that night. It was only Kushim, but when it was all over and the dust cleared, none of the entourage of news reporters who came to inspect the scene could tell the difference.
It all started when someone said, "Commander, I see something."
*
Kushim approached the compound from the front. It didn't matter which way it was, he could be in and out with the girl before anyone would know what happened. But he didn't rush, for two reasons. One: he was a generally laid back person; and two: he was an artist, and liked to send a message in every job he took on. From fifty yards away he could tell that everyone was clustered inside the main building and he would first have to deal with fifteen angry Rottweilers. Twenty yards out he stopped walking, and dispelled the Mist about him, making himself visible.
*
The soldier said, "Commander, I see something."
The warning came from the radio channel that connected the entire unit. Revo threw down the pipe and said, "Where?" But then he saw it too... or was it a he? By the gods, it was a man, in civilian gear. Was he fucking lost? Or perhaps had he been sent in to negotiate? No, that couldn't be possible. A negotiator would have come in broad daylight. Well, it didn't matter. If the man took one more step -- but how did he get there without anyone seeing him until he was only fifty yards away? What the hell was going on here?
"I see him," Revo replied. "Put a bullet in him."
The order had not so much been given that a polite cough flashed through the mike as a bullet traveled three thousand feet per second. The strange man should have dropped dead before they even heard the shot. Yet nothing happened. He remained standing, as if the rifle had fired a blank round, not a bullet that could penetrate a concrete wall.
The stranger began to approach leisurely. He took three steps forward, and vanished.
"Jesus Christ!" one of the men standing with him shouted. Revo could feel the confusion playing with his men's minds, because he felt the same fear too. Had the enemy sent a demon?
Suddenly the dogs began to howl excitedly and started to rush towards... Revo nearly jumped back as he saw the stranger standing in the front yard. How...? Despite the chill, Revo started to sweat. The silence over the radio testified that the shock ran through them all like an electric current.
The stranger awaited the dogs' approach like a man who had sent a puppy to fetch a stick. Except that these were fifteen man-killing creatures, not puppies. The first dog to get to was sent back ten feet with a blow and didn't move again. Then they all charged into him and for a time all everyone was seeing was a brawling mass of dogs, ripping at the man in their middle with killing intent. Yet it didn't last. One by one, the dogs flew away from the stranger in still heaps. Not one stared.
Revo used incredible effort to break his mind from the astonishing spectacle and screamed, "Shoot him, shoot him, shoot him!" but his men only heard a whisper.
Those that could manage dragged themselves to get an aim of the demon, for their legs were like wood.
*
Kushim didn't kill any of the dogs, but none of them would be bothering him again tonight. The men in the building started to shoot but their aim was poor and lacked conviction. He took a deep breath, because things were about to turn messy. The new military government of Myanmar needed to know that something like this had happened, even though they would never know how it happened.
He killed every single man inside the building, except Khn Mat himself. Their deaths were swift, but he dishonored their bodies by placing them in grotesque postures and maliciously unnecessary positions. But he didn't harbor anything against the men, just as an artist painting a picture harbored nothing against the mess his work makes on his hands and clothes. But Kushim let Khn Mat live, because no one in the world knew better than Kushim himself that there were many other fates worse than death.
He returned to the apartment with an unconscious and severely traumatized Lara, and the Khn who was in just the same condition.