Chapter 15 Check The Fucking Perimeter
CHECK THE FUCKING PERIMETER
JAKOB
Laughter feels particularly and personally insulting in this context.
Pugli's six goons sit around a tiny folding card table—gotten from who knows where—playing poker for bullets. They speak a rapid, overlapping mix of Bulgarian, Czech, Russian, and English, and it isn’t immediately clear whether they all understand each other.
There's a lot of yelling and cursing, which isn't unusual for these mercenary types, but it seems to me like there's a hint of tension between some of these guys.
Rounded, lifted shoulders, narrowed eyes watching every movement, snapped answers, a folded hand tossed down a little too angrily.
Makes me wonder if I can use the tension to my advantage.
Pugli is always on the phone; he has three of them—one in his right hip pocket, one in his back left pocket, and one in the inside right pocket of his suit coat; he speaks English into the first, French into the second, and a pidgin of French, English, and Bulgarian into the third; despite his name, I’ve never heard him speak Italian.
I'm not sure what any of it is all about, though, as he tends to wander while talking on the phone, pacing, gesturing angrily, rarely listening for more than thirty seconds at a time before interrupting with commands or questions.
We are, in a rather humorously clichéd turn of events, camped out in an abandoned, dilapidated, dripping old manufacturing facility in the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere.
There's nothing but open fields in every direction as far as the eye can see, rolling hills, and the occasional stand of trees.
We bounced along a rutted two-track for miles, approaching the facility from the rear; a cracking, crumbling asphalt road leads away from the facility, weeds growing up from the cracks, dislodging chunks of asphalt.
Let me tell you, that was the most painful car ride of my life.
Now, I'm tied to a metal folding chair, watching Pugli's goons suck at poker.
When we first arrived, I was in remarkably bad shape.
Losing blood, weak, and incoherent. Unfaked, also.
A battered old F-150 arrived a few minutes after we did, the bed capped by a veterinarian's mobile clinic insert.
A tiny, wiry old woman climbed down from the cab, her hair a chaotic silver bottle-brush exploding in every conceivable direction.
She wore coke-bottle glasses that made her eyes look enormous.
When we pulled into the huge, drip-echoing building, I'd been unceremoniously dumped onto the dirty concrete floor and left there to soak in my own blood as it oozed through the makeshift bandage these hacks had slapped on.
When she arrived, the old vet had tsked in disapproval, snapping something in Bulgarian—I recognize the language and know a few words, but I do not speak it or understand it.
They'd found a tarp from somewhere and rolled me onto it, and she'd set about tending to my wounds, muttering to herself under her breath as she tilted me onto my side to examine the exit wound, then let me flop painfully back down…
only to shove her blue rubber-gloved finger into the entrance hole and wiggling it around.
Which felt personal. Like a violation of some sort.
"Very lucky," she'd grumbled, half to me, half to herself, almost but not quite under her cigarette-stinking breath. "Is what we call a soft tissue wound, no bone or organs hurt. Right through, no damage. Very painful, but okay."
"Lovely," I'd muttered. "Doesn't feel okay."
"Getting shot will never tickle, big man. I am only paid to make sure you do not die yet."
"Yet," I'd snorted.
She had only shrugged one thin shoulder.
"He pay me very well for come see to you.
" Her accent was thick, but her English was excellent.
"Is not a hard choice: make money or watch a video of your favorite cousin in Bulgaria get shot in the head.
Is easy, hmm? I am sorry to you. But I do what I must do. "
"I…" I had trailed off with a groan as she had indicated for the goons to tilt me onto my side while she stapled my exit wound shut, irrigated it, applied a salve, and taped a clean bandage over it. "Fuck me, ouch. I do not blame you, doctor. I understand how Pugli operates."
She did not staple or suture the entry wound, only cleaned it out and applied the same salve and a clean bandage. "You will be fine. Movement will cause discomfort for quite some time, but so long as you are cautious, you are in no danger."
"Assuming I survive him," I tilt my head toward Pugli, "How long till I'm back to normal?"
"Easy and gentle movements within two weeks. Three months as a rule for total healing."
"Treat a lot of gunshot wounds as a vet, do you?"
She rolled her eyes at me. "I was a medic in Kosovo. Now I treat animals. They do not curse me for saving them. People are ungrateful."
"Well, I am grateful," I said. "Thank you."
She'd snorted. "I am afraid if he has his way, I have fixed you only so that he may kill you later."
"I am aware," I said. "But he has his plans, and I have mine."
She'd nodded as if I'd said something particularly sage. "Do not we all have our own plans, hmm?"
She'd tossed a glance over her shoulder: the goons were engaged in a shouting match over what sounded like someone cheating, and Pugli was on the far end of the building having a conversation of whispered intensity in rapid-fire French.
“I was a doctor of people first,” she said. “I took the Hippocratic Oath, which means honor demands I must help you. I can do nothing about his intentions for you, and I do not have to like any of this, but I cannot let my cousin die. What can I do, hmm?"
"I understand. Really. Pugli is a master of manipulating situations to his advantage. You are doing all you can."
Another shrug. "Perhaps." Another surreptitious look around, and then she presses a pill against my lips. "Here. Swallow. For the pain."
I press my lips together. "I was a heroin addict, many years ago. I do not like opiates."
"I only can offer you acetaminophen, then, which will help only a small amount."
"Better than nothing and better than a relapse. It is unlikely, I admit, but I refuse to take that chance."
"With such things, the pain is a better demon to face." She pressed several med kit-sized packages into my hand. "Every few hours."
"Thank you, doctor."
"Do not thank me." She pressed something else into my hand. "My card. If you should need further…repairs, on a cash basis. You understand?"
"Yes." A pause. "Your name?"
"Doctor Petra Georgieva."
"I am Jakob."
A glance at Pugli had her features hardening; she gathered her things and rose to her feet, accepting a thick envelope from Pugli before departing.
Once she was gone, they had—-again, none too gently—wrestled me onto a folding chair, zip-tying my wrists and ankles to the chair in such a way that I am unable to move.
I had managed to vanish the card and Tylenol into a hip pocket before they bound me to the chair.
How I'm going to get a hand loose to take the meds, I'm not sure.
That's a problem for later.
For now, the problem facing me is the pounding agony rippling through my torso. For "just a soft tissue wound," it hurts like a bitch.
Throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. The blood loss has me dizzy and weak. The pain is making me nauseated and, frankly, angry. The more time that passes, the angrier I get.
The goons play cards. Pugli paces and jabbers on his three cell phones. I suffer.
An hour passes. Two.
Finally, irritability replaces prudence.
"Jesus fucking Christ," I snarl, throwing my weight to make the chair jump and slam against the floor with a crash, drawing attention.
"Are we just going to fucking sit here? If you're not going to kill me, then let me go. But one way or another, stop wasting my goddamn time!” I lift and slam again, and discover that the action causes the zip ties to shift and twist, which means I might be able to wrench them hard enough to snap. “I am not a patient man. Make a move."
Pugli, across the building, ends his call and strides over to me with the slow ambling pace of a man seeking to make a point by appearing laconic.
It is an utterly transparent ploy. He produces a Walther PPK from under his jacket and presses the barrel to my forehead.
"I would not be in such a hurry to die, Caleb Indigo.
Your death is on its way. I would enjoy these last minutes of life. "
I feign indifference—I do not want to die. Not yet, at least. Not until I'm sure it will have value, until I'm sure my death will serve its intended purpose.
"Enjoy what? The amazing view?"
Pugli sighs as if I am particularly stupid and he has no more patience for it. "Being alive. Drawing breath. It is a privilege I shall soon withdraw." The man’s hubris is breathtaking.
I decline to answer, because there's no point.
Pugli glances at one of his hench-goons. "Check the perimeter."
The man frowns, blinking. "Um, but boss, is all open. No perimeter. Is why we pick this location?”
Pugli's face betrays a glimpse of a simmering rage bubbling away just beneath the surface.
"Go out and fucking look with your fucking eyes. When Lash comes, location will not matter. Go out and look! All of you!” He gestures with the pistol at the gathered mercs.
"Spread out. You cannot underestimate the danger our enemy presents. "
Hmmm. Now that is an interesting statement. And what it tells me is that Pugli is scared shitless of Nico.
Which is valid. I would be too, if he weren't on my side. And I might be a little afraid of him anyway, even though he is on my side.
"Yeah, best go keep watch." I jut my chin at one of the hench-goons—the one who was winning all the hands. “He was cheating anyway. He's got an ace up his sleeve."
My comment has the intended effect—instead of dispersing to do Pugli’s bidding, they devolve into a nasty, loud, and rapidly escalating argument.
Pugli attempts to calm them, but they ignore him entirely, and it swiftly turns into a physical altercation.
I watch with unrestrained glee as fists are thrown, noses are head-butted, guts are slugged, and jaws are elbowed.
Pugli, trying to break it up, has his nose bloodied, which has the delightful effect of ruining his custom-tailored suit.
BAM!
The cheater staggers backward from the scrum, clutching his belly. Another goon swaggers after him, grabs his right wrist, and yanks at his sleeve. Vindicating me, not one but several cards flutter to the floor.
Cheater drops to his knees, blood seeping from his belly. The one who shot him, his pistol still in hand, scoops up the cards, finds the ace, slaps it against Cheater's forehead…and blows his brains out from point-blank range, sending the bullet through the center of the spade on the card.
Pugli, predictably, loses his shit, going on a tirade in four languages, most of it incoherent French, sprinkled liberally with "fuck" in English.
By the time he runs out of steam, I'm cackling out loud—or rather, trying not to because it hurts worse than actually getting shot did; that felt like a giant fist slugging me in the stomach, knocking me backward and smashing the breath out of me. The real pain didn’t come till a bit later, after the initial shock wore off.
He stomps to me, face a rictus of hate, all of his megalomaniacal calm erased. "You! You fucking—" and here he trails off into more incoherent French cursing and ranting.
"What?" I ask, innocent as you please. "He was cheating. I watched him."
Pugli's left eye twitches, and a vein in his forehead pulses. If we're lucky, he'll just have a heart attack or an aneurysm and just drop dead right here.
"Any pain in your left arm?" I ask, hopeful. "Shortness of breath? Numbness or tingling in your fingers?"
"What?" he asks, puzzled. "No. What are you on about?"
"Oh, I was just hoping you were having a medical emergency. That vein on your forehead is really going crazy."
I must be delirious from blood loss. It's the only explanation for my behavior.
I have not spoken so casually in my entire life.
My tutor punished me mercilessly for speaking—in any language—like a "plebeian peasant.
" My family is ancient, you see, on both sides; I descend from a long line of wealthy, landowning merchants on my father's side and from the tribe of Levi on my mother's.
Thus, I was expected to comport myself as such.
Which meant speaking with eloquence, elocution, and elegance.
He snarls at me wordlessly, whirling away. "Take care of him," he gestures at the dead man. "Then, if you please—CHECK THE FUCKING PERIMETER."
Two of the goons drag the dead man out of the building by his arms, leaving a gory smearing trail in his wake.
They drag open the large double sliding doors at one end of the facility—we're in what was the warehouse section, where goods were once stored.
Daylight lances into the dim, echoing space in a widening slice. They drag the corpse out into the sunlight.
Two steps.
Three.
And then all hell breaks loose.