Chapter 32 #2
Dmitri grimaced. “I would tell you if I could, but no one gave us names. We are only mercenaries. I was told when the airplane would arrive, but nothing about who was on it.”
The American only stared, the blue eyes vacant.
“A man like you would understand,” Dmitri said. “There was no need for us to know. As to who hired us, everything was arranged through the dark web.”
The American nodded as if hearing what he’d expected.
He reached over and picked up the roll of duct tape.
It was smaller now, most of it already used to bind him to the GAZ’s crooked bumper.
The big man seized Dmitri’s left hand, which was unrestrained below the elbow, and bent it upward until his fingers touched his chin.
The pain was excruciating—his hand had been crushed during the rollover, and at least two fingers were broken.
Holding it forcefully in place, the American began wrapping the tape around his wrist and neck again and again.
When he was done, the palm of Dmitri’s damaged hand was directly below his chin and completely immobilized.
“What are you doing?” he asked, the first quake in his voice.
The American put two fingers on the palm of Dmitri’s injured hand.
“Squeeze my fingers,” he said.
The Russian looked at him quizzically.
“Do it!” he bellowed.
Dmitri did his best, closing the three undamaged fingers of his left hand in a tenuous grip.
“Yeah, that’s about what I thought. You’ve got some serious damage to that hand. Bones, nerves.”
The American pulled his fingers clear, then reached into his tactical vest and removed something Dmitri recognized instantly: a standard Russian F-1 fragmentation grenade.
“What are you doing?” he whispered uneasily.
“Ever hear of Charles Darwin?” the American asked as he placed the grenade into Dmitri’s partially closed fist. The big man wrapped his own hand around Dmitri’s, including the two fingers that were broken, and forced him to squeeze the grenade firmly.
Dmitri grunted in pain. The American then reached in with his free hand and yanked out the grenade’s pin.
Putting the pin between his teeth, he mumbled, “Darwin had some insightful observations about the gene pool. Now, keep a tight grip—wouldn’t want you to drop it.” The American unfurled his hand and pulled away. Dmitri stared in horror at the pin-pulled grenade in his mangled hand.
“Good,” the American said. “All you have to do is hold that spoon down, just like you’re doing—it only takes a couple of pounds of pressure. Like I said, sometime in the next hour or so, another car will come by. Might be sooner, might be later. Best of luck.”
And with that, the big man stood and began walking away. He raised his hand over his head, made a circling motion, and his team began loading into the aircraft.
Dmitri’s hand began trembling. He adjusted his fingers, trying to get a better grip on the safety lever. A bead of sweat trickled down his nose and landed on his wrist.
The American didn’t even look back. He was fifty feet away now, issuing orders to his team.
One of Dmitri’s bent fingers slipped, and he nearly dropped the grenade. His entire arm began to shake.
“Wait! I’ll tell you!”
The American stopped, turned around. He said nothing.
“I was never given the name of the target on the airplane, but I was told he was Swiss. And we work for Malenkov. Andrei Malenkov. Now please…take this thing. I have told you all I can.”
The American thought about it, then nodded, and said, “Yes, I think you have.” He turned again and set back out toward the airplane, his gait loose and unbothered.
“Wait! I have told you everything!”
His pleas were soon drowned out by the sound of the aircraft’s engines firing to life.
Dmitri screamed to be heard above them, but it was no use.
Soon all the Americans were on board, and the boarding ramp was raised.
The transport began moving, its propellers blowing a massive cloud of dust in his face.
His eyes burned and he coughed up brown spittle.
Dmitri blinked away the dust just in time to see the airplane accelerate and lift into the sky.
In no time it disappeared, merging into the blackness.
Completely alone, Dmitri stared at his sweaty hand and the quivering explosive device.
His gaze shot outward, looking up and down the road in desperation.
He saw no approaching vehicles. The muscles in his ruined hand began cramping.
He fought for control, but it was a losing battle, the physical agony magnified by an overwhelming sense of dread.
His entire body began shaking. The grenade seemed to dance beneath his chin, and with a final shudder it fell from his grasp and landed squarely on his crotch.
His eyes bulged in fear. He tried to squirm sideways, but his bindings made it impossible. Dmitri braced for the explosion that would end his life.
Time seemed to expand.
Five seconds. Surely it had been five seconds.
Surely.
The Russian glanced down at his lap, anticipating a faceful of shrapnel. Still nothing happened.
Then he looked at the grenade more closely.
The safety lever he’d held in a death grip was still in the safe position, aligned with the metal shell.
Then he saw why. The pin had been broken off and was still in place—the device had never been armed.
But he had seen the American pull the pin!
Only then did he piece together what had happened.
It had been nothing more than a magician’s trick.
Mere sleight of hand. The pin he’d seen pulled had never been engaged.
It was a prop, probably taken from a spent grenade.
Dmitri canted his face toward the empty sky, and with all the vitriol he could muster, shouted, “You bastard!”