by Captain Sammitch
The room was eerily silent, but Phil knew it was only a matter of time before someone noticed his handiwork, and then it would be all over.
What was he thinking?
He had just killed eight men. They had earned it, to be sure, but now they couldn't be arrested or questioned. They couldn't lead the authorities to the other suspects, and they couldn't tell them where the other girls had been hidden.
Essentially, Phil had just ruined the investigation. And worse, now he would be a prime suspect in the murder of eight men - criminals, yes, but eight men all the same.
Unless he got out of there right now.
The silence was maddening.
Phil wasn't alone.
He could distinctly sense other presences nearby. In this room.
Phil began walking along one wall, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He didn't have much time at all. He stopped when he came to a beat-up refrigerator against one wall. He opened the door. Empty.
Phil unplugged it from the wall, then pushed one shoulder against the fridge and sent it crashing to the floor, making an awful din that was sure to lessen Phil's available time even more. He reached for a hanging lamp cord and pulled it.
A girl, maybe fourteen years old, was bound and gagged with duct tape on the floor of a small closet with no door. She had obviously been there for at least a day, maybe longer. The girl awakened to see Phil standing there and started to cry.
Phil put a finger to her lips. "Sshhhhhh. It's okay. Don't cry now, sweetheart."
The girl tried to muffle her sobs as Phil removed the tape as gently as he could without it taking forever. "Close your eyes, please," he told her as he picked her up.
The girl obeyed, and Phil stepped over Hector Vargas' body and carried his new charge down the stairs and out the front door. He stopped to scoop up the camera with a free hand. Walking quietly across the front lawn, Phil quickly crossed the street and slipped into the garage next to the condemned apartment building he had just been in not five minutes before.
He found a seven-year-old Chevy, banged up but driveable, and gently laid the girl in the back seat. "Stay here," he told her. He set the camera down in the front passenger's seat and ran into the building to retrieve his rifle.
He returned to find the girl sitting upright, her face pressed against the window intently. Phil sighed. She wasn't supposed to see him with the gun. "What are you doing?" he asked her as he set the rifle on the floor in back.
"I didn't think you were coming back," the girl whimpered. Tears were streaming down her face.
Phil touched her face gently with one hand. "It's okay. It's okay. It's over now." He looked at her. "What's your name?"
"My... my name's Amber," she replied.
"Well, Amber," Phil said, "I'm taking you to the police station, and you're going to stand outside until they come and get you. Understand?" Amber nodded. "I'm also going to leave that camera on the ground next to you, so don't touch it or you'll get your fingerprints all over it. Don't be scared; the police will take you to the hospital, and then your parents will hurry to see you." Amber didn't respond. "Everything's going to be all right," Phil insisted, trying to convince her - and himself - that he was telling the truth.
Patrolmen rushed out the front door of the 4th Precinct HQ when they heard a little girl's cries for help. They found fourteen-year-old Amber Miles and a Sony camcorder with a bullet hole through the eyepiece, and saw the taillights of an old Chevy receding into the night.
Phil figured he'd given them enough to go on for the moment.
It was risky, but there wasn't much in the way of an alternative.
Phil still had the list, and he knew that the others were here in New York. But having the FBI and the local authorities after him would definitely complicate matters. Still, he knew he owed it to the two girls he couldn't save to bring the Colombian kidnappers to justice. Even if that meant falling on the wrong side of the law himself.
He was working on the barrel of his rifle with an acid pen. Phil was subtly altering the characteristic rifling marks as much as he could while trying to preserve the rifle's accuracy. Ballistics experts had helped to nail the D.C. sniper, and while he didn't want to liken himself to a sociopath like that, Phil knew he was no less vulnerable to the talents of trained forensics experts. He didn't plan on using the rifle too much in the future anyway, but it always helped to have one less loose end out there.
Phil dropped two Alka-Seltzer tablets into a glass of water. But his stomach didn't hurt any worse than his conscience. He dumped the solution down the rifle barrel, neutralizing the acid. That done, he emptied the barrel into the sink and began cleaning it as usual.
Phil didn't like leaving loose ends behind.
Not when there was business to attend to.
GRU (Committee for Military Intelligence) Headquarters, Moscow
"This is not going according to plan at all," Morozov lamented.
"I fear that the situation is rapidly spiraling out of control," Kamensky added. "The security of SIGMA is threatened by these events, and unstable elements have emerged that must be dealt with quickly."
"How would we accomplish this, Nikolay?" Morozov asked. "Our intelligence assets in North America are spread so thin that they would be unable to address this situation without leaving key sectors unmonitored."
"Do not think in such static terms, Vladimir Petrovich," Kamensky replied, smiling. "The Americans continue to attempt to win our trust, and as such are deserving of similar action on our part. We may not have as good a chance to come closer to our counterparts as we have now. Nyet, Vladya, we will not employ our own assets in this case. We will continue to monitor the activities of the American FBI and see how this case progresses. But as far as any actual interface with the objective, we will use outside help. Someone very talented, yet ultimately expendable."
"An... independent contractor of sorts?" Morozov asked.
Kamensky grinned. "You learn well, comrade. One of these days you will be more than ready to succeed me in this position. Da, we will use a freelance operative. Someone who has great experience in capture of criminals, yet with the finesse to track down a rogue agent. Either skill may be necessary in this case."
"KESTREL, perhaps?"
"Nyet. A male operative will be watched too closely, and while KESTREL has great skill in the European theater, he will not be able to function in the United States. He has also worked for Committee for State Security before, and while they are no longer KGB by name, they still do not trust us, and never will. KESTREL's loyalty may be questionable. We will want an American mercenary or bounty hunter in this case. In my opinion, only SWAN will do."
All "freelance" agents with no direct affiliation in the GRU's database were named for various birds, depending on their skills and attributes. The German KESTREL - named for a small falcon - had exceptional espionage talents, but his fieldwork skills outside of that only extended to assassinations. Clearly not what the GRU wanted in this case. Kamensky would have preferred to employ FALCON in this case, but the British mercenary had "retired" to La Perdita some months before. But SWAN - now SWAN would work nicely. She was a beautiful woman capable of winning anyone's trust, yet she was a very efficient fighter and a talented intelligence gatherer. Her loyalty was unquestionable - for the right price, which the GRU was more than willing to pay for a mission of this caliber. In Kamensky's mind, SWAN was ultimately the only choice for this mission, and the only one he ultimately trusted to bring SIGMA back under control.
"Get SWAN, and we will go for lunch," Kamensky said. "It has been a long day."
Morozov nodded. "Sudets?"
The secretary looked up.
"I want you to contact Miss Kline for me."