Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (6 page)

He climbed the metal staircase leading to the second level. He glanced down and saw the young girl he had used pawed by the booth’s occupants. He felt a twinge of guilt, but he was after a nuclear weapon that could kill millions. One drunken girl was not his concern tonight.

As he neared the table with Yakovski, he saw him slouch in his chair, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. The table he sat at was covered by a cloth that overflowed to the floor in what at first appeared a poor attempt to add a touch of class to the cesspool they were actually in, but as he neared, he saw the table cloth draped over Yakovski’s lap move, revealing a flash of short, spiked, blonde hair.
With sluts like this, how’s an honest whore supposed to make a living?
Yakovski, his eyes mostly closed, tilted his head to face Dymovsky, and smiled. Suddenly he whipped his hand out from under the table cloth. As it swung at Dymovsky, he spotted the glint of a pistol.

Dymovsky had nowhere to hide. The wall was too close, and provided no cover, and there was nothing between him and Yakovski’s weapon. He knew he couldn’t reach his own weapon in time. Instead, he dove over the railing, and tumbled toward the throng of dancers below.

Harry’s Irish Pub, Fayetteville, NC

“To BD! Not even a Sidewinder missile can take ’im out!”

A round of cheers erupted from the table as glasses of beer rose in honor of the man of the hour. BD, short for Big Dog, a nickname given to Burt Dawson during basic training years ago, raised his glass in acknowledgement, then downed it in one shot as his men cheered him on. Dawson slammed the glass down with a satisfied roar, wiping his upper lip. He looked at the eleven men sitting with him at the long table. Some new, some he had served with for years. But all brothers. Brothers in covert arms. Burt Dawson, Command Sergeant Major, was the leader of Delta Team Bravo, in his opinion, and many others, the best group of operators in the Delta Force, the most highly trained black ops specialists the U.S. Military had to offer. The 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment – Delta was America’s answer to the growing problem of international terrorism and had served with distinction in many operations the American public knew nothing about. Dawson had served with the Delta Force for almost eight years, on missions from Iraq and Afghanistan, to Iran and Syria. All successes, all without credit.

And he’d have it no other way.

As events last year in London had proved, their work, and their identities, had to be kept under the radar, otherwise their lives, and those of their loved ones, could be forfeit. He had managed to escape just in time, the explosion from the missile sending him flying away from the helicopter, a gash in his leg that nearly ripped open his femoral artery his lone injury worth talking about, the others simply what he’d characterize as flesh wounds. Over six months of rehab and he was officially cleared again for active duty this very day.

And it was time to celebrate.

Niner downed his beer and called the waitress over for another round. Niner, whose grandparents moved to the United States after the Korean War, had gained his nickname in a bar fight years before when a redneck had called him “slant-eyed”. Niner had proven his wit quicker, slinging his own Asian insults, one of which was “nine iron”, then, with the help of some other Bravo Team members with him, beat the living shit out of the guy and his friends after they hadn’t taken well to the entire bar laughing at them. From then on he had insisted his nick name be “Nine Iron”, which was shortened to “Niner” over the years.

Mike Belme, his best friend of over ten years, sat to his right. Nicknamed “Red” because of the fiery red hair he kept at bay with a Bowie knife, he was Dawson’s second-in-command, if you could call him that, the organization of a Delta unit very different than the traditional military unit, with all members of the same or similar rank. There were no officers here.

Mixed in amongst the long term members were four new members since the events last year, replacements to those who had lost their lives in that mess. Stucco, who had done drywall before joining the forces, and Casey, whose Casey Kasem impersonation was uncanny, had joined the unit toward the end of the London events, and Dawson was pleased with their performance, especially in the aftermath. Despite not being deployed together, the way barbs easily fired back and forth with the long timers, the two newest members, Rook, who loved chess, and Temple, who was let off easy after a high school photo was found on the Internet with him drinking a Shirley Temple, had fit in well even with Dawson and half the team undergoing some type of rehabilitation after London. And with Dawson now back on active duty, the team was fully operational for the first time since London.

And Dawson was itching to get back into the thick of it.

Jimmy, named after Jimmy Olson once the team found out he had worked on his school newspaper, stood. “I’ve gotta drain the main vein.” He turned to Niner. “Ready?”

Spock’s eyebrow shot up as the table erupted in laughter. Niner leaned back in his chair and eyeballed Jimmy.

“What are we, a bunch of women?” He turned to the waitress. “Get my friend here a Shirley Temple!”

Jimmy flushed and Temple shook his head. “But you said—”

Niner threw his hand daintily at Jimmy. “Okay, dear, let’s go to the bathroom.” He stood and sashayed toward the men’s room, the entire bar, filled with servicemen, now laughing.

Jimmy followed, shaking his head and muttering, “But he said he needed to go!”

As Jimmy walked away, Atlas and Mickey rejoined the group.

Red elbowed Dawson, and in none too quiet a voice, asked, “So, do you think he struck out?”

Atlas, whose chiseled physique demanded he take a knee and a planet on his shoulders, gripped Mickey by the back of the neck. “This man takes more abuse than any man I know.” Atlas shook Mickey’s entire body with his massive hand. “He’s been buying that girl drinks all night, chatting her up, and what happens? He moves in for the phone number, and she thanks him, tells him she’s gay, and plants a huge kiss on her friend that I’ve been playing wingman with!”

Mickey’s ears, the source of his nickname, turned bright red, but he had a smile on his face. “Yeah, but who insisted we keep sitting there for five minutes watching them?”

Atlas nodded, letting go of Mickey’s neck. “Damn skippy. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t lying to my friend here!”

The table roared in laughter as another round of beer arrived.

Titanik Club, Moscow

Dymovsky fell silently toward the throng of dancers below, not wanting to warn them, otherwise they might scatter and he’d impact the dance floor without anything to break his fall. It felt like an eternity, however in reality it was only seconds before he slammed onto several dancers, taking them all into a heap on the floor. The wind knocked out of him, and the precursor pains of several new bruises certain to show up in a few hours, he pushed himself to his knees when he heard a scream. Instinctively he threw himself to the right, rolling on the floor and pulling his weapon, as gunshots rang out, leaving several holes ripped through the wooden dance floor. He raised his weapon and fired back at the ceiling, making certain not to hit his target.
I need you alive! Don’t make me kill you!
Yakovski dove out of sight, then Dymovsky spotted the top of his head as he ran for what might be a door on the second level.

Pandemonium had taken over the club. He lay alone on the dance floor, his weapon tracking Yakovski as he made his escape, the remaining club patrons trying to squeeze up the tiny set of stairs leading to the outside. Dymovsky tried his radio, but the earpiece had become dislodged in the fall. He was on his own. He jumped up and ran to the metal staircase, forcing himself past the few remaining patrons from the second level still trying to escape. Reaching the top, he heard several gunshots and spun to see Yakovski kicking the door open, breaking through the lock he had just disintegrated. Dymovsky bolted toward the door and followed Yakovski into a liquor storage area, a single, flickering light swaying wildly in the middle of the room the lone source of illumination. A large garage delivery door was on the far side, closed, another entry door stood beside it, then a large window, painted black so no one from the outside could see the booze stored on the half dozen long shelves occupying the left and right sides of the room. Several pallets piled high with boxes of beer and vodka, stood in the middle.

Dymovsky hugged the wall, cautiously looking around. All the exits appeared secure—his target was still in the room. He slowly rounded the perimeter, listening for any telltale sign of his opponent, but heard nothing, the music still pounding from the now unmanned DJ booth. He saw the hint of flashing red and blue lights through the painted glass, his comrades in arms obviously having moved in after the gunshots. He rounded the shelves, his gun pointing at the cases stacked in the middle of the room, when suddenly he heard a roar and spotted Yakovski leaping from between two rows of Putinka vodka, his outstretched weapon aimed directly at him. Dymovsky ducked, knowing it was too late to avoid being hit at this range, but much to his, and Yakovski’s surprise, nothing but harmless clicks sounded from the weapon, Yakovski having used up the last of his bullets.

Yakovski leapt at Dymovsky, and Dymovsky, now kneeling, raised his hands and, as Yakovski was about to make contact, raised himself, and with both hands, twisted and propelled Yakovski through the window, shattering the plate glass. Dymovsky stepped through the shattered window, hands raised as he heard the police outside screaming at Yakovski to drop his weapon. As he stepped out onto the street, he was greeted by over a dozen Moscow Police, their weapons spinning toward him.

“Take it easy, it’s me, Dymovsky,” he said in as calm a voice as he could muster.

“Lower your weapons, don’t you recognize the scene commander?” yelled Ignatev, as he ran up to him. “Are you okay, sir?”

Dymovsky nodded and winced. “Might have a broken rib, but I’ll live. Your vodka might have to wait, though.” He pointed at Yakovski. “Get him into interrogation immediately.”

Unknown Location

November 19, 1256 AD

“Master Hasni?” gulped Faisal. “Wh-what are you doing here?” He looked down between his legs as Fatima came up for air. It was then he noticed the other women had stopped what they were doing, looks of concern on their faces as they stared at the new arrival.

“We are under attack, we must go!” said the Master firmly.

“But, but I don’t understand!” Faisal’s mind raced as he tried to understand what was happening. “But we’re in Jannah. How can we be under attack?” Then Faisal understood. His Master must have just been killed, and didn’t know where he was. He turned to face his master, careful to keep his now aching shame under water as Fatima moved away. “Master, it is okay, we are not under attack.” He extended his arms and opened them, taking in all of the surroundings. “This is Jannah. You have passed over into paradise! Be at peace and praise Allah for your reward.”

Master Hasni strode toward him, apparently unconvinced. He looked at Fatima and snapped his fingers. “Fatima, get you and your girls to safety at once. Take the south tunnel. Do not return until you are sent for.”

Fatima bowed then scurried from the pool, grabbing her wrap as the other women hurried out the door the master had entered.

How does the Master know her name?

“Master?”

“None of it is real, boy,” said Hasni, clapping his hands together. “Now get dressed, quickly, there isn’t much time.”

Not real? How could it not be real? Why?
Faisal stared at his master.

“Now!” yelled Hasni. Faisal jumped and looked about, finding his clothes neatly piled on a nearby pillow. He climbed from the water, trying to hide his disappointment, and dressed as Hasni paced in front of the door. “Come, come!” he urged.

Faisal trotted to the door as he tightened his belt and followed his master from the chamber where he heard more voices, that of yelling and screaming in the distance.
Where am I?
He followed his master down a long hallway and through another set of doors, where he stepped out into a blazing midday sun, and into a courtyard he was well familiar with.
I’m still in Alamut?

Faisal stopped. “Master, I don’t understand.”

“Come with me, there is little time!” urged his master.

Faisal stood fast.
But what about Jannah? I want to be there. I want to go back. I don’t understand!

“Faisal, my pupil, you must come now, we are under attack by the Mongols. There will be time to explain later.”

“But I was there. I saw it. Fatima—”

“Is a whore, in our service, who has pleasured many a man before you, and Allah willing, will pleasure many after you.”

A flash of anger surged through Faisal, his face flushing red as his heart raced. “She is not a whore!” He barely knew her, but knew he loved her.
It had been less than thirty minutes. How can you love her?

His master stopped and walked back to Faisal. Lowering his voice, he said, “Listen, son, it is all part of the ritual. You are now no longer my apprentice. You are an Hassassin. You passed your final test. All Hassassins go through the ritual where you are made to believe you were killed and have awoken in Jannah, then after a blissful hour, you fall asleep again after drinking some wine, fed to you by a beautiful woman, then wake in our infirmary with a nasty knock on the head. It is the Right of Initiation.”

“But why?”

“So you know what you are fighting for!”

“I don’t understand.”

“Every Hassassin thinks he has died, sees what paradise is like, then awakes, thinking he has been brought back to life by Allah. He then serves Allah without question, knowing that his reward should he die in battle is paradise, a paradise that he has experienced.”