Dominic stands upright, hands firmly and visibly raised, head twisted slightly, disfigured ear held attentively high.
A moment later, a loud wooden crack accompanies Rose’s strained voice as she yells, “Now!”
By the time Dominic has spun around, the black-clad mercenary behind him is bent over and stumbling around, the splintered end of a hefty branch spinning away into the shadows. Rose is holding the other end of the branch, striking a samurai-like pose with her decisive follow-through over the adversary’s back.
Dominic immediately moves in, retracts his arm, and as the mercenary’s head swivels upward the former boxer delivers a brutal uppercut. The heavily equipped man is lifted into the air by the force of the crushing blow, his head snapping backward as his arms flail out like a rag doll.
The seemingly lifeless body flops backwards onto the ground.
A few uncertain moments pass.
Shortly, loud snores begin to emanate from somewhere in the crumbled heap.
They straighten him out, pull him back into the cover of the misty darkness, and examine his equipment. Finding a number of coiled zip ties in one of his utility pockets, they decide that it’s wise to restrain the man.
Finished, Rose steps back and remarks, “That should do it.”
“We’re not done yet,” states Dominic, pointing toward the blazing structure.
She returns an uncertain but acknowledging nod, then gestures for him to lead.
They slowly begin to make their way back, past the destroyed shed and toward the blazing home. Five shadowy figures are visible in the bright light of the fire as they approach. Two standing silhouettes are facing each other and three bodies are casting long shadows as they lie on the ground.
Suddenly a brief burst of automatic gunfire erupts, the strobe from the rifle’s muzzle temporarily illuminating the stark surroundings. In the same instant, one of the silhouette’s head jerks back and the dark shape rigidly topples backward. Only one shadow is left standing.
Without much pause, the spectral form begins to approach Dominic and Rose. The shape quickly resolves itself into the familiar form of Mirabelle, walking with calm purpose and lugging an assault rifle in her right hand.
Within seconds, she’s tossed the weighty weapon into the dancing shadows beside her and continues on, stride unbroken. “I sink zere will be more,” she says with placid urgency as she approaches.
Rose examines the scene in front of her with astonishment. Dominic’s look is one of concern.
“What happened to Elvis?” he asks Mirabelle.
“‘e is okay, I am sure,” she responds reassuringly. “I ‘ave tell ‘im to lie down in ze grass.”
Looking over Mirabelle’s shoulder, Dominic spots one of the bodies on the ground. It slowly stirs, rises to its knees, then breaks into a sprint toward their location.
In a few seconds, Elvis has reached the gathering agents. He’s covered in soot and debris but otherwise he looks much the same as he did as when he left them.
No one has a chance to question the young man as the corrugated tin flaps of the collapsed “bunker” begin to stir behind them.
Tossing the debris aside, the first to emerge are Brock and Dmitri, followed by Rebekah and her parents.
“Padding worked,” comments Brock as he examines the remains of the shed.
“Yeah,” adds Rebekah. “Did everyone make it okay?”
Her question is answered with several nods of acknowledgement.
With everyone seemingly unharmed, they quickly regroup. At Mirabelle’s continued insistence, the first thing they do is review Rose’s surveillance system.
As suspected, one of the vehicles is slowly making its way to their position.
Handing the mobile phone to Brock, Rose rushes to the location of the lawnmower’s ignition motor. Once there, she finds that she can barely see amid the thick, billowing mixture of fiery smoke and dense fog.
Squinting against the acrid clouds, she begins blindly grasping around her, suddenly conscious of the fact that this is the second time this evening that she’s doing this. She turns frantically toward Brock’s general direction and shouts, “How much time do we have?!”
Quickly conferring with the group, he answers, “Maybe a minute!”
“Dammit!” she yells back.
“What’s the problem?” asks Brock insistently.
“The ignition’s gone!” she responds. “The engine! The starter! I can’t find it!”
Brock, Dominic, and Dmitri rush in to assist in the search for the missing motor. In a few moments it’s located a short distance away, part of its extension cord torn and hanging lamely to one side.
As the rest of the group gather around them, Rose and Dmitri quickly examine the starter. They conclude that the device appears to be undamaged but, they warn, the only way to be certain is to use it.
With anxious seconds ticking away, Rose frantically patches the lengthy extension cord, twisting the copper wires over the motor’s exposed terminals with her bare hands. The job is ugly but, she explains, “it only needs to work once.”
Finished, she grips the plastic ripcord handle.
“Showtime,” says Brock with a nod as the ominous shape of the vehicle approaches the culvert.
All of the SUV’s lights are off. Its glossy black paint gleams in the light of the burning house as it glides silently closer. The same bright reflections cover its windows, hiding the occupants inside.
The tension mounts as Rose watches the vehicle approach the turnoff to the driveway. Finally, deciding that the car is in the perfect position, she violently yanks the cord.
Nothing happens.
Jutting her lower jaw forward and shutting her eyes, she forcefully tugs the cord a second time.
Almost immediately, a bright flash and mighty bang from the culvert expand into the night. Rose braces herself for the blast’s impact but the shock wave is not nearly as severe as the house explosion; more like a strong gust of wind.
A breathless moment later, a metallic thud follows from the end of the driveway.
Opening her eyes, Rose surveys the area.
The smoke has temporarily cleared, allowing her to see that the vehicle has been plunged nose-first into the collapsed culvert. Thick flames lick up the sides and over the hood of the dark SUV, revealing only one mercenary struggling to free himself from the driver’s seat.
Brock immediately rushes to the scene, leaps over the ditch to the tilted car, and begins to pull strenuously on the driver’s side handle. In moments he’s joined by Elvis and Dmitri.
After some effort, they manage to force open the deformed door and free the injured party, pulling him away from the burning vehicle. Propped up between them, the driver hugs his rib cage with one hand. Behind him he drags a badly twisted, possibly broken leg.
Having reached a safe distance from the flaming wreck, they gingerly place the man on the ageing asphalt of the rural road. Noting that they have things under control, Brock leaves the trio and cautiously makes his way back over the rocky ditch to rejoin the rest of the group.
“How many more of you are there?” asks Dmitri, gazing at the wounded man insistently as he and Elvis search him for weapons.
With his mask now removed, the scruffy middle-aged mercenary grimaces in pain but says nothing.
Sternly, Dmitri asks again, “How many?”
Moving his injured leg with his hands, the man groans slightly but continues to stay silent.
Turning his back to the mercenary, Dmitri whispers sideways to Elvis, “I’m not waterboarding the guy so … any ideas?”
Without responding, Elvis moves in close to the man on the ground.
“We know there are at least four of you and by my count three are out,” says the young agent to the stricken mercenary with an assertive coldness. “At this rate there isn’t going to be any of you left to answer our questions. Do yourself a favour … tell us how many of you are left?”
Once again, the grounded man painfully repositions himself but remains mute.
“This is fucking serious, do you understand?” continues Elvis. “Do you understand what you’re dealing with here? Have you seen what my friend back there did to your two buddies? She did that and she could barely lift the gun. And this guy here” — he motions with his head toward Dmitri — “hasn’t even done anything yet.”
Dmitri’s face freezes. For a few short moments an expression of uncertainty hangs on his features. By the time he realizes what Elvis is up to, the injured man has tilted his head up. Just as their eyes meet, Dmitri assumes his coldest, hardest, most merciless look.
A few more moments pass without an utterance.
“Can’t say we didn’t give you a chance,” states Elvis, slapping his thighs in surrender. He stands up, turns, and prepares to walk away.
Just then the man mumbles, “Wait.”
“For what?” asks Elvis, slowly spinning back around.
“Five … there are five of us,” the mercenary responds through gritted teeth in a halting Australian accent. “Just five. Not enough, yeah? You win, okay?”
“Not okay,” replies Elvis sharply. “What is your beef with us? Why the hell are you trying to kill us?”
The man on the ground shakes his head. “We’re not trying to kill you,” he states. “There’s a bounty on your heads, yeah? Living heads. We’re supposed to bring as many of you in as possible.”
“Oh, okay, bounty hunters. Nice. Very honourable,” continues Elvis with disdain. “So where are you supposed to take us? And why? Who sent you?”
“I don’t know,” says the injured man softly.
Suddenly, Dmitri explodes, “Like fuck you don’t know! Where are you supposed to take us?!”
“I really don’t know,” replies the bounty hunter, a sudden muscle spasm causing him to grimace with pain. “We’re supposed to send a text when we have you, then take you to wherever they tell us. None of us know where, yeah? I’m telling you the fucking truth.”
“Who hired you then?” demands Dmitri, slightly more calm.
“I don’t know,” responds the man again.
“So we’re still playing this fucking game?!” shoots back Dmitri, quickly reverting to a menacing posture with clenched fists.
The injured mercenary holds up his hand and implores, “Listen, mate, I really don’t know, yeah? Cryptocurrency, deep web, all that shit. Fuck, I don’t even know what my team looks like. Never even heard their real voices. I was told to be masked up and ready to go when I met them, yeah? Compartmentalized … need-to-know.”
“Why?” interjects Elvis.
Glancing uncertainly between Elvis and Dmitri, the man responds, “I don’t fucking know, yeah? They’re well organized, I know that much. Deep pockets, too.”
Tilting his head to the side, Elvis asks, “So how much are they paying you?”
“Twenty grand to show up,” answers the defeated man, “and then a hundred grand to bring you in.”
“A hundred thousand to capture us?” replies Elvis, slightly astonished.
“Each,” details the man. “Split five ways that’s twenty grand a head. If we managed to get all eight of you we’d each make off with a hundred and eighty-grand. Someone’s keen to get their hands on you, yeah?”
“Yeah, ” observes Elvis. “So what if you didn’t manage to get all of us? Let’s say we fought back.”
The man looks down, shrugs, and states, “That’s why we have the guns.”
After a brief moment of silence, he gazes up at Dmitri and continues, “At worst, I figured maybe you and that Dominic guy would give us some trouble. The rundowns said…”
“You know about Dom?” Dmitri cuts him off, his face momentarily slackening.
“Yeah,” says the flagging man. “You’re Dmitri. This guy here” — he motions with his hand — “is Elvis. We were given files on all of you.”
Dmitri returns to his strict demeanour ans asks, “What else did you learn about us?”
As the injured man exposes what he knows, the rest of the group stand some distance away and behind the house, examining the two dead mercenaries lying on the lawn.
Perhaps the best view of their deaths was had by Mirabelle who describes how the first man was killed when a flying piece of lumber smashed into his head, cleanly cracking both his helmet and his skull. She explains how she moved her head out of the way of the hurtling projectile at the very last moment which, by her estimate, made it impossible for the man to react in time. Thanks to a quick dive and a slight dip in the terrain, both she and Elvis were able to avoid most of the blast’s destructive power.
The gruesome sight of the mercenary’s shattered head splayed out on the grass appears to confirm Mirabelle’s story.
Continuing her recollection, she details how she was up and relieving the mercenary of his weapon so that by the time his partner recovered from the blast she was already holding the rifle at the ready.
Mirabelle then describes how she watched the second man for a moment but, when he raised the muzzle of his gun, she had no choice but to react. “‘e want to kill me,” she explains calmly.
“But how did you know how to fire the gun?” asks Brock.
“You know. I just … feel,” she responds with an indifferent nod. “Also, I ‘ave see some gun when I travel. I understand a little ‘ow zey work.”
This claim is attested to by the uneven holes, cracks, and missing splinters in the other mercenary’s facial coverings, blood slowly oozing out and into the lawn beneath his head.
Brock nods and falls into solemn silence.
The gloomy scene is interrupted by the loud snore of the third mercenary as Dominic and Rose drag his limp body over the wet grass toward the group. His hands are bound behind his back.
Rebekah immediately inquires, “What happened to him?”
“The old one-two,” replies Rose as she drops the man and makes an alternating punching motion with both hands. “Mostly two,” she continues, motioning toward Dominic with a fist.
“Team effort,” nods the large man soberly.
“Okay, looks like you guys got this,” observes the short-haired woman, “so I’m gonna run and check on my bike.” Receiving eager gestures of approval, she once again disappears in the general direction of her camouflaged motorcycle and the all-consuming murk of the backyard.
A few moments later, an audible series of metallic clacks can be heard coming from a slightly different direction. Before any of the group have a chance to question the source of the noises, two more mercenaries emerge from the thick atmosphere, guns drawn.
“Back up!” barks the first man in another robotically disguised voice. “On the ground! Face down! Now!”
Arti and Cornelius struggle to lower themselves but eventually join the rest of the group on the grass as demanded.
“Hands behind your heads! Feet crossed!” continues the bounty hunter as his partner moves swiftly to zip tie the group’s hands and feet, starting with Dominic.
With the group restrained, the two men gather just out of earshot and appear to exchange some words. Seemingly finished, the first man approaches, hoists his gun up, and motions with it toward Dominic.
“Two of you are missing,” states the robot voice. “Elvis and Dmitri. Where are they?”
“Who?” asks Dominic, craning his head up to look at the armed man.
At this the mercenary pulls up the butt of his rifle and swings it down over Dominic’s head with a thud. The large man’s face is plunged into the dirt where, for a moment, it remains motionless.
After a brief effort he stirs, then lifts his face. There’s blood running down over his eye from the fresh gash above it.
The mercenary pulls back and swings his weapon around, pointing the muzzle at Dominic’s head. “I’m not fucking around!” he yells. “If we leave here with one less of you that’s fine by me! Where are they?!”
Observing this, Brock feels a sense of overwhelming helplessness and panic build up in his chest.
Suddenly he recalls some of Dominic’s training.
As he concentrates on breathing more slowly and deeply, the sense of frenzy begins to congeal into a feeling of electricity at his solar plexus, like a gathering ball of lightning. With one big breath he momentarily feels like he looses consciousness, as though he’s been swept away by a temporary wave of anesthesia. He can’t identify the feeling but it’s oddly familiar.
As he recovers, Brock watches the second mercenary move to reposition himself, disappearing out of his sight line behind the closer man. A few moments pass but the obscured man doesn’t reemerge on the other side.
If the farther man is standing, observes Brock, he would need to be contorted in an extreme pose in order to remain hidden behind the foreground man. If he’s moving, it can only be toward the still-blazing building — or down into the earth.
Within seconds and seemingly for no reason, the first mercenary stands and quickly retreats backwards.
His line of sight no longer blocked, Brock observes that the partner is nowhere to be seen. Momentarily taking his eyes off the scene, Brock’s stare is met by Rebekah’s wide-eyed expression as she silently mouths, “What the fuck?”
The singular mercenary now appears more nervous, shifting around uneasily, head swiveling back and forth.
“Know what?” he pronounces in his artificial voice. “Fuck this. I’m just gonna cut my losses. Two of you are coming with. The rest” — he shakes his head with indifference — “can stay here.”
Quickly scanning over the prone group, he selects his targets.
“Mom and pop Heinrich,” he announces. “I’m gonna cut your legs loose. When I do, you’ll follow my instructions to the letter or your lovely Rebekah gets it in the back of the head. Got it?”
They both do their best to nod affirmatively.
The armed man extracts a large, serrated blade from somewhere inside his jacket and uses it to cut the ties around Arti and Cornelius’ ankles. Yanking the couple up by their bound arms, he forces them to stand with their backs to him. Then, shoving them forward with his sideways rifle he commands them to, “Walk!”
As the trio nears the flaming culvert, the hostage taker spots his injured associate splayed out on the other side. Seeing the approaching group, the supine man yells out, “They’ve got my guns! One of them is hiding in the di…”
At this, Dmitri pops up out of his hiding place in the shallow roadside trench and points his recently acquired assault weapon at the retreating mercenary. “Yeah, the ditch!” he shouts. “And I’ve got his fucking gun so let them go!”
“Not on your life, chief!” retorts the kidnapper, pulling closer to his bound quarry. “You even know how to use that thing?”
Dmitri doesn’t respond but keeps his weapon trained on the mercenary. He watches the man move carefully sideways over the gravel driveway with Arti and Cornelius pressed closely together, forming human shields.
As they approach the ditch on the other side of the burning car, a shadow flits between the slats of light formed by the nearby hedges.
In the blink of an eye, Elvis emerges from the darkness and into clear view of the still-raging inferno. His arms are held stiffly in front of him and in his hands he holds an impressive-looking pistol, its barrel aimed at the back of the mercenary’s head.
“Freeze! I’ve got a gun!” demands the young agent. “Drop it!”
The soldier of fortune slowly raises his hands, lifts his weapon aloft, and then tosses it casually to the side.
Dmitri moves to close the distance between himself and the man while doing his best to motion for Arti and Cornelius to move closer. As he gestures, he temporarily loses his grip on the rifle.
The mercenary uses this moment to lunge for his own discarded gun. Before he lands, the weapon is snatched up by Dominic who has suddenly appeared from somewhere behind Elvis.
Understanding that he’s been defeated, the masked intruder drops to his knees and puts his hands behind his head.
“Not like that,” demands Dominic, training the man’s own weapon on him. “Face down, on the ground. You remember.”
As the man descends to the earth, the ex-boxer pulls a few zip ties from the back pocket of his pants and kneels on the mercenary’s back, securing the man’s hands tightly behind him.
As this is happening, Rebekah and Brock arrive on the scene. “The other guy’s over there,” indicates Dmitri, pointing to the injured man on the road.
Clutching some freely shared zip ties, the newly arrived duo hurry over to him as the closer man is searched. In short order, he’s relieved of a sidearm as well as a daunting knife. Dominic quickly commandeers the large blade to free Arti and Cornelius.
Now a short distance away, Cornelius rubs his freed wrists. Among the interplay of stereoscopic lights from the house and vehicle fires, his face grows suddenly stern.
“Zere is somesing I must do,” he insists and walks briskly back behind the incandescent house.
He reappears a few moments later with Mirabelle who is taking a long and mellow drag on her cigarette. Cornelius’ concern seems to be alleviated.
Once again the group come together to recover, review, and plan.
Out of earshot of the three surviving mercenaries, Cornelius explains why he really returned to the backyard. “Zey don’t know about Rose,” he begins. “I vanted to ensure zat remains ze case. Alzo to sank her for setting us free.”
“Why do you think they don’t know about her?” asks Brock.
“Vell, I don’t know for sure,” Cornelius admits. “But, you see, I never introduced myself zo how did ze man know our names? He asked where vur ze ozer two, remember? He said Elvis und Dmitri, ja? But sree people vur missing at zat time.”
“They have files on us,” adds Dmitri as Elvis nods in agreement, “and the busted-up driver back there also mentioned that there are eight of us. They could both be lying but I think Mister Heinrich is right.”
“Ja,” replies the elderly man, “zo Rose vill take her motorzycle to ze edge of ze property und zen over ze neighbour’s field. Vee vill meet her on ze road on ze ozer side of zat field.”
“Is that a good idea?” questions Dominic. “One of these three” — he motions in the general directions of the downed mercenaries — “is gonna hear the engine. And the other one could still be out there somewhere.”
“Oh, don’t vorry,” assures Cornelius. “She vill be valking her motorzycle by her side. She has alzo a vepon vis her but I sink zat ze ozer man has gone a long time ago. Anyvay, she vill be careful.”
Satisfied, Dominic urges the group to take a few deep breaths before continuing the discussion. They do, and their first decision is to find the keys for the remaining vehicle. These, along with a cheap mobile flip phone, are quickly located in the pockets of the attempted hostage taker.
A search of the phone is delayed as Dominic, Dmitri, and Brock travel stealthily down the dark country road to retrieve the second SUV. In the meantime, the destroyed “bunker” is rummaged.
The three agents promptly return with the vehicle and without incident. The rest of the group pile themselves and their retrieved belongings into the roomy SUV with Dominic at the wheel, Dmitri in the passenger seat, and Rebekah with her parents filling the second row of seats. Brock, Elvis, and Mirabelle sit in the rear row, snugly but comfortably.
Soon the vehicle is departing down the sparsely lit country road, an encroaching darkness pressing in on either side. Black trees hang ominously over the receding taillights as they make their way slowly down the straight and narrow path.
Just before disappearing into the distant mist, the red lights make a sudden and sharp left turn, then vanish entirely into the uncompromising night.
END OF BOOK ONE