his honor. But what turned him, what brought Raechen out of retirement and back into the fold, was the appeal to his heart. They explained that if he was successful they would find a way to save his son from fate’s deadly hand.
Raechen stood six two, the muscles on his fifty-two-year-old frame as strong and taut as when he was a twenty-six-year-old captain in the Red Army. His black hair had gone silver at the temples but his gray eyes were as sharp as in his youth. He had a hard Slovak look that came courtesy of his mother’s side of the family; his features were sharp and craggy, which only managed to repel and create fear. It was an appearance that served him well but had not worked out for his sisters.
The man was a legend in the worst of circles. His reputation at covert activity on behalf of the USSR was thought to be fiction, for the deeds he performed for his superiors were nothing short of frightening. He was an assassin, adept at the extraction of information; he possessed the gift of languages, and was honored many times for his infiltration into foreign governments. Rumors of his death had persisted for years, but were obviously premature; word was he was assassinated for his change of philosophy. Instead the man without a conscience married and, with the birth of his son, developed a heart. But it seemed that heart had lately reverted to its prior state, as evidenced by his recent return.
He put down his food and picked up the file on Genevieve Zivera. His orders were simple: find her and bring her in. While Raechen possessed the requisite skills for deeds far in excess of kidnapping, he much preferred to keep those abilities retired. He hadn’t killed in seven years and his mind was mercifully allowing the faces of his victims to fade from his nightmares. He had every intention to bring her in quietly, without incident, alive.
Raechen had tailed Genevieve out of Boston, through Connecticut, and down into Westchester. When the two trucks sped by him, their lights off and horns blaring, his stomach tied itself in knots with a premonition. He helplessly watched the two Ford pickups race by his mark and come to a skidding halt on the other side, disgorging two armed men.
He yelled out to no one as the events unfolded before him, as the woman tried to turn the Buick only to lose control and crash through the guardrail. He slammed on his brakes and watched as the car sailed out into the night sky, hitting the surface of the reservoir in an explosion of water. He couldn’t help thinking that hope for his son was vanishing along with the vehicle.
He looked back at the two trucks only to see nothing but shadows as they sped off into the darkness.
Raechen pulled his car along a dirt path well off the road, raced down through the woods, and dived in the lake hoping against hope that she was somehow still alive. He swam as fast as his arms would take him toward the bobbing car, only the trunk visible above the surface. He slid around the vehicle, fruitlessly trying to gain purchase. The water swirled about him as the hot engine steamed and the escaping air bubbles conspired to churn up a murky froth. He reached under the dark water, grabbing hold of the driver’s-side door handle only to be yanked under as the last bit of the car slipped beneath the surface.
Down he went into the blackness, the car slowly descending, accelerating like a locomotive building up a head of steam. He held tight as he was sucked down with the three-thousand-pound wreck. His lungs burned until he saw stars, until he was on the point of blacking out, his eardrums ready to burst from the increasing pressure. Raechen buried his suffering, knowing that hers was far worse as she headed for the lake bottom trapped in a four-wheel coffin.
He gripped the handle with both hands, his feet gaining purchase on the depth-diving car, as he wrenched open the door against the negative pressure. He reached into the mass of air bags, fumbling over
Raechen stood six two, the muscles on his fifty-two-year-old frame as strong and taut as when he was a twenty-six-year-old captain in the Red Army. His black hair had gone silver at the temples but his gray eyes were as sharp as in his youth. He had a hard Slovak look that came courtesy of his mother’s side of the family; his features were sharp and craggy, which only managed to repel and create fear. It was an appearance that served him well but had not worked out for his sisters.
The man was a legend in the worst of circles. His reputation at covert activity on behalf of the USSR was thought to be fiction, for the deeds he performed for his superiors were nothing short of frightening. He was an assassin, adept at the extraction of information; he possessed the gift of languages, and was honored many times for his infiltration into foreign governments. Rumors of his death had persisted for years, but were obviously premature; word was he was assassinated for his change of philosophy. Instead the man without a conscience married and, with the birth of his son, developed a heart. But it seemed that heart had lately reverted to its prior state, as evidenced by his recent return.
He put down his food and picked up the file on Genevieve Zivera. His orders were simple: find her and bring her in. While Raechen possessed the requisite skills for deeds far in excess of kidnapping, he much preferred to keep those abilities retired. He hadn’t killed in seven years and his mind was mercifully allowing the faces of his victims to fade from his nightmares. He had every intention to bring her in quietly, without incident, alive.
Raechen had tailed Genevieve out of Boston, through Connecticut, and down into Westchester. When the two trucks sped by him, their lights off and horns blaring, his stomach tied itself in knots with a premonition. He helplessly watched the two Ford pickups race by his mark and come to a skidding halt on the other side, disgorging two armed men.
He yelled out to no one as the events unfolded before him, as the woman tried to turn the Buick only to lose control and crash through the guardrail. He slammed on his brakes and watched as the car sailed out into the night sky, hitting the surface of the reservoir in an explosion of water. He couldn’t help thinking that hope for his son was vanishing along with the vehicle.
He looked back at the two trucks only to see nothing but shadows as they sped off into the darkness.
Raechen pulled his car along a dirt path well off the road, raced down through the woods, and dived in the lake hoping against hope that she was somehow still alive. He swam as fast as his arms would take him toward the bobbing car, only the trunk visible above the surface. He slid around the vehicle, fruitlessly trying to gain purchase. The water swirled about him as the hot engine steamed and the escaping air bubbles conspired to churn up a murky froth. He reached under the dark water, grabbing hold of the driver’s-side door handle only to be yanked under as the last bit of the car slipped beneath the surface.
Down he went into the blackness, the car slowly descending, accelerating like a locomotive building up a head of steam. He held tight as he was sucked down with the three-thousand-pound wreck. His lungs burned until he saw stars, until he was on the point of blacking out, his eardrums ready to burst from the increasing pressure. Raechen buried his suffering, knowing that hers was far worse as she headed for the lake bottom trapped in a four-wheel coffin.
He gripped the handle with both hands, his feet gaining purchase on the depth-diving car, as he wrenched open the door against the negative pressure. He reached into the mass of air bags, fumbling over
Similar Books
