Rogue Faction Part 1 Page 16

  On top of everything else, Magda was harboring an increasing concern for the identity of their employer. The person behind this operation didn’t have a name, but everyone in their line of work knew the reputation—cold, calculating, and shockingly well-informed. Whoever it was, it was someone with access to tier-one intelligence; contracting with independent operators throughout Europe and putting together unusual operations, like heists, assassinations, and at least one kidnapping that she knew of.

  He had done a lot of contracting with operators who worked in the same circles as she and Brolin. It was a pretty tight group. Word had spread when more gregarious members of the community started taking odd jobs from a new, unseen employer. Operations were always arranged through untraceable voiceover-IP calls routed across the internet, and the voice was disguised using complicated, high-tech modulation equipment. No one even knew if their contractor was a man or a woman. Money was wired through untraceable accounts, and the jobs were always painstakingly planned. The instructions were always the same: missions had to be carried out with absolute precision and adherence to the instructions that were provided. Whoever was behind the operations, word was that the plans were as foolproof as anyone had ever seen, and the supplied intelligence was always accurate.

  Magda and Brolin had once thought the mysterious contractor to be a myth; an urban legend conjured amidst their community—until they were contracted for their current assignment. And though they’d been reluctant to throw in with the mysterious individual, the money being offered was simply too good to pass up.

  Their reticence to contract with their employer came from additional rumors circulating in the community. While the missions their benefactor planned had been known for their craftsmanship, two operations were known to have fallen apart. According to rumor, both of the contracted teams had simply vanished following the failure of their missions…disappeared from the face of the earth.

  The faceless employer became well known for that fact—the boogeyman of their profession. As a result, only the most competent, professional, and lethal operators dared work for the nameless, faceless enigma.

  In a community of already scary and dangerous individuals, their employer was the only thing universally feared. Magda realized that she and Brolin now had no choice. Either Cyrus Cooper died tonight, or they did. The operation could end no other way.

  But the longer they waited, the more frustrated she became. If Cooper was suspicious, he sure wasn’t doing anything about it.

  She wished Agent Gladd had been responsive. They could’ve questioned him about protocols. They could’ve gained insight into the young agent. The longer they waited, the more she wanted to get it over with and just go after Cooper before he came to them.

  Just when Magda thought she couldn’t deal with the wait any longer, a rapid knock sounded on the cabin door. Brolin responded instantly with three rapid shots from his silenced sidearm. The rounds created a triangle pattern near the center of the door in roughly the circumference of a dinner plate. The pattern was good. It ensured a solid hit even if the target wasn’t standing dead center in the doorway.

  Magda found herself holding her breath as she waiting for a response from the hallway. The ‘thump’ of a body hitting the floor, an impact on the wall, the slightest shift of the door in its track—even the return of gunfire—but there was nothing. The gentle rocking movement of the car, and the distant clatter of the rails beneath them continued uninterrupted. The smell of spent gunpowder hung in the air, but still there was no movement from beyond the door.

  She watched her husband’s eyes narrow on the three holes he’d created. Curious, she stepped away from the wall to get a better view for herself. Other than the occasional flash of ambient light from the hallway windows, there was no sign of movement.

  Judging by the look on Brolin’s face, he was equally as puzzled. He signaled her silently with a wave of his hand and stepped toward the door. She slid back against the wall beside the door, ready to pull it open along its sliding track as soon as Brolin gave her the signal.

  Her husband steadied his silenced .45 and took a deep breath. Once exhaled fully, he nodded slightly. She reached out, gripping the handle with the tips of her gloved fingers. She turned the latch slowly and silently. Then, without hesitation, she stepped back, pulling the door with her and feeling it whisk across its rails into the hollow pocket inside the wall.

  Everything happened so fast that she couldn’t be sure of the exact order of events. The door hadn’t even come to a sliding stop when she heard two rapid ‘puffs’ from the silenced weapon in her husband’s hands. He must have found a target in the hallway even while the door was opening.

  She reeled in horror as Brolin staggered backward from an impact to his torso. The two silenced gunshots she’d heard hadn’t come from his gun—they’d come from the hallway. Brolin stumbled. She could see two distinct impact points where the high velocity rounds had just shredded his shirt.

  Her hand tightened around the small semi-auto as she watched Brolin fall in slow motion. But there was relief. Both rounds had caught him in the upper body, square in his flak jacket. He would survive…

  …Her world was shattered when a third round suddenly spat from the unseen weapon still beyond the doorframe. This shot caught Brolin square in the side of his head. Blood and brain matter splattered the cabin windows just before Brolin’s body rebounded from that same surface, and slumped to the floor.

  The entire series of events had taken less than two seconds; two seconds in which Magda’s entire life had collapsed before her eyes. She felt her stomach drop, and then a flash from behind her eyes turned everything she viewed red with rage. She was about to step to the doorway and open fire when the tip of a handgun suppressor slid slowly into the room. The man who had killed her husband would soon follow it.

  Magda didn’t have to wait long. Cyrus Cooper moved slowly and cautiously, but the moment his gun wielding hand entered the room before him, Magda attacked. She lashed out, smashing his weapon and the hand holding it up against the wall. She spun to meet him, still there in the doorway, bringing her weapon to bear with her free hand, jamming it into his ribs and quickly pulling the trigger.

  She was fast…Magda was shocked that Cooper had somehow reacted faster. He managed to bat the muzzle of her gun away just as another silenced round left the barrel. It happened so quickly that Cyrus landed a head-butt to Magda’s face before she even realized that her bullets had missed their mark.

  The room spun for Magda and she backpedaled, struggling to make sense of what just happened. She’d somehow managed to maintain a crushing grip on the gun hand of her husband’s killer. But she knew that, if he were to bring the weapon up before she regained her senses, the fight, as well as her life, would be forfeit.

  She blinked rapidly, forcing away the tears that followed the crushing blow to her face. Taking another step back, she retreated further into the cabin, dragging him with and hoping to keep him off balance. Cyrus came into focus for the first time. She still had his gun hand held at bay using her left hand. Magda was using the leverage of her straightened left arm to maintain that delicate balance since he easily overpowered her one-on-one. Similarly, her gun hand was pulled tight across her body as he held her wrist in the fierce grip of his own left hand. It was a stalemate—one she needed to end quickly, seeing as he had a substantial size and weight advantage.

  With some confusion, she realized his full attention was not focused on breaking her grip on his gun arm. The young man was putting all of his strength into breaking the ligaments in her right wrist. She felt her gun hand go numb, and then heard the ‘thud’ of her weapon strike the floor. Magda was confused. The move shouldn’t have been a priority. Unless—

  Her eyes flared wide as the horrific idea flashed in her mind. She turned to Cyrus’s gun hand. It was pushed high and wide of her, out in the air where it could do no harm. Magda’s teeth ground together as she focused all of her energy on that
hand. But it was too late. She watched helplessly as he simply and willfully let go of the silenced semi-automatic. It plummeted from his raised hand, but as she struggled to bring her hand up in defense, it was no good. The appendage was numb, clumsy, and useless.

  Cyrus’s eyes locked with hers and she witnessed the chilling certainty of his conviction. There was no anger in his gaze, no hatred—only pure focus for the task at hand.

  In her peripheral vision, to her horror, Magda saw her worst fear take form. Cyrus’s gun dropped from his raised right hand, only to be snatched from the air by his left when it came level with his belt buckle. There were two hushed ‘puffs’ and her strength disappeared in an instant.

  The two shots caught Magda center mass in her body armor and sent her pounding into the wall of the cabin.

  Gasping for air, Magda blinked rapidly and tried to clear her vision. She felt the brutal ache in her chest and was certain ribs had been broken. She wasn’t sure if it was real or imagined, but with the suppressor attached to her attacker’s gun, she thought she’d heard the sound of her own ribs cracking at the point blank impact.

  As her head slumped against the wall, her husband’s lifeless body fell into view. The sight brought about a gripping and exhausted sadness. And though her mind told her that the battle was not yet over—that there was still work to do—her body seemed entirely unwilling to leave her husband’s side.

  This was confusing. She’d never been one to shy away from a fight, yet she couldn’t seem to pull herself from the floor. She turned to look upon the man who had shot her and found that even that simple movement took far too much effort. Even blinking felt clumsy…slow and sluggish.

  My God, how hard did I hit my head?

  She was still trying to sort through the strange sensory input when her attacker approached cautiously. He looked down at her, then squatted before her. Taking a long look into her eyes, he then placed two fingers against the side of her throat, and waited.

  What the hell is he doing?

  When the young agent pulled his fingers away, she could see pain in his eyes. He looked disappointed. Magda wanted to ask him what the hell he was doing, but suddenly realized that she couldn’t form the words. She could think them, but she couldn’t manage to voice them.

  Finally, with complete and utter horror, she noticed the two fingers the man had placed against the carotid artery of her throat. They were thick with arterial blood. The reason for the cool numbness that had been present registered in her mind, as her vision began to draw dark. It wasn’t so bad, she thought. After all, she would be seeing Brolin again soon, and they wouldn’t have to worry about their employer any more.

  Things could be worse…

  Chapter 28

  Express train out of Paris, France

  12:53 am

  Kneeling before the lifeless body of the hired killer, Cyrus couldn’t help his sense of disappointment. He needed to take the woman alive, but the combat instinct had been so deeply instilled in him that it was second nature. When he opened fire, he’d followed the two torso shots with a shot to the head. He’d tried to check his fire at the last moment, but the last ditch effort hadn’t been enough to spare the nameless woman’s life. The bullet had missed its mark as a result, but it had caught her along the edge of the throat, clearly nicking an artery. She’d bled out quickly.

  Her blood was already pooled around her body and that of the partner she’d nearly landed on top of. The entire incident meant serious trouble for the mission. Cyrus was supposed to take the place of Ragsdale’s courier and deliver the imaging hardware to Doctor Voss, himself. Now their train ride had become a bloodbath that would be impossible to cover up.

  Cyrus found some good news when he checked on Paul Gladd. He was bound hand and foot, and resting on a bunk along the wall of the cabin. He didn’t look well. His face was dripping with perspiration, and his shirt was thoroughly soaked. But as far as Cyrus could tell, his partner hadn’t been physically harmed. He still had all of his fingers, and likely all of his toes. At a glance, he didn’t appear to have any wounds or new bodily orifices whatsoever.

  Cutting him loose, he left Gladd on the bunk to recuperate. Lastly, he checked on the unconscious man in the wheelchair. Gladd must’ve secured their target before being subdued by the wetwork team, Cyrus reasoned.

  The thought brought Cyrus back to the pair of bodies on the floor. While he was confident that the two had been working with the large German from the dining car, he could only guess at their motivation. He searched both bodies, but just like the German, neither held any sort of clue to their identities or their mission. Also, like the German, these two clearly meant to do him in. But if that was the case, why hadn’t they killed Gladd? And, from all he’d seen, this team didn’t seem to have any interest in the courier. All of this, once more, led him to believe that the team had been sent after him and Gladd…only.

  The questions surrounding his situation were only made more frustrating by the fact that Cyrus could only blame himself for the death of the woman. If only he’d held his last shot, there would’ve been an opportunity for answers. Still, extensive training for similar situations had espoused only one response. When your life is in danger, it’s critical to act with decisive and deadly force. Training made such a response second nature. The theory being, when circumstances arose, there wouldn’t be time for conscious decisions. As such, he’d been hardwired to operate on pure instinct.

  Unfortunately, in this situation, his instincts left him with no clues and absolutely no leads.

  Chapter 29

  Express train out of Paris, France

  4:25 am

  Paul Gladd struggled to roll over. It felt like he was fighting the mother of all hangovers. His mind strained to recall what he’d been drinking the night before. He was willing to give just about anything to make whoever it was stop the constant banging downstairs. The rhythmic crashing sound manifested like someone smacking him upside the head with a large wrench, over and over and over again.

  Something about the rhythm of the sequence worked its way through Gladd’s addled mind, and he found himself confused. He couldn’t recall drinking last night because it hadn’t happened. When he moved his arms, he found that there was pain. Actually, he felt pain everywhere—through every literal inch of his body. Moving his arms also brought about an unusual raw burning sensation in the flesh around his wrists.

  With a great deal of effort, Gladd pulled himself to a sitting position and looked around. He was in the lower bunk of a four-passenger train car. Mercifully, the room’s lights had been dimmed. The scenery outside the windows was dark and he was confused. The particulars of his situation took a few additional moments to bubble to the surface of his mind.

  Cyrus slept on the bench on the far side of the cabin. He was sitting with his eyes closed and his head tipped back against the wall. A silenced 9mm lay in his lap. A man in a wheelchair took up much of the floor space in the center of the cabin. He was wrapped head to toe in a hard-shelled cast, with the only visible parts of the man being his eyes, lips, fingertips, and toes. A quiet snoring could be heard emanating from inside.

  “Feeling better?” Cyrus asked in a quiet voice.

  Gladd noticed that Cyrus hadn’t so much as moved when he spoke. He hadn’t been sleeping after all. Though everything about his current situation was disconcerting, even if he couldn’t fully recall why, Gladd found his partner’s vigilance reassuring.

  Throwing his legs over the side of the bunk, Gladd marveled at his renewed level of pain. It must’ve shown on his face.

  “It might not feel like it now,” Cyrus explained, “but you’re doing a hell of a lot better than you were a few hours ago.”

  His movement had brought about a wave of nausea, and he gripped the edge of the bunk with white knuckles. “I feel like I got hit by a bus,” Gladd muttered. It was all he could think to say, and he couldn’t imagine that it was far from accurate.

  Gladd slid from h
is bunk and onto rubbery legs. He leaned against the bedside for support. “What the hell happened?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Cyrus said, after a moment’s consideration. “You were out cold and hogtied when I got back to the cabin. As close as I can figure, a pair of heavy hitters got the drop on you and laid you out good.

  “At first I thought you were drugged, but I couldn’t find anything on them that would support that. As odd as it sounds, I think they just spiked you with a Taser.”

  A groan escaped his lips before he could help himself. “A Taser?” Gladd rasped. “Yeah, that would explain it.”

  When the comment brought a bewildered expression to his partner’s face, Gladd knew he had to explain. He pulled himself back up onto the bunk; it relieved some of the pain in his legs. He searched for the words to explain something he didn’t want to talk about. Like a boxer with a glass jaw, the simple device was his Achilles’ heel and his Waterloo all rolled into one.

  “When most people take a hit from a Taser it overloads their nervous system and they drop like a log, right?” Gladd asked.

  Cyrus just looked at him and waited for him to continue. Apparently, he took the question as rhetorical. Even now, Cyrus wasn’t one for wasting words.

  Gladd rolled his eyes, and continued, “Anyway, there’s a small percentage of the population that’s wired a little different than everyone else. For them, a hit from a Taser isn’t just a 50,000 volt overload that causes a central nervous system reboot. For us, it’s a full blown meltdown. It’s more like having your body turned inside out.”

  Cyrus’s surprise was evident by the look on his face. He took a few seconds to process the explanation. “Inside out?” he asked at last. “I’d say that looked about right. I wasn’t sure you were going to make it there for a while. But at the same time, I couldn’t find a damn thing wrong with you. It didn’t even look like they laid a hand on you. I found the mark the Taser left, but that was it.”