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Chapter 28 - Crucifix Of Light
🕑 Added 2025-01-05 15:11:03 +0000 UTCThe stolen two-seater Chevrolet pickup truck slammed into the side of the FBI agent’s Buick to a shrieking chorus of broken glass and crumpled metal. Vladischov was out of the vehicle’s cab in a flash – while the impact had been brutal, unlike his prey he was ready for it. What pain he felt kept him sharp through the mild concussion he could feel in his brain. Not optimal, but the pain from the seat belt-induced friction burn on his shoulder counteracted it for now.
Still, no time to waste. In the corner of his eye, Vladischov could see the remains of his team dragging themselves out of the second stolen pickup truck they’d used to ram the other car. Speed, power, and surprise. That was the best way Vladischov could think of to counter the FBI team after the thrashing they’d received in the most recent skirmish.
A sense of disgust bordering on disappointment swirled in his gut, threatening to mix with and ruin the half-bottle of vodka he'd downed prior to the operation's start. Two strong men lost in a flash – one of them being the team’s sniper to boot. It was bad enough that Vladischov had been forced to add their helicopter pilot to their ground forces team to make up for the differences in numbers. There was no choice in the matter. Ms. Orlova was a fine agent, but two people were not enough to do what needed to be done.
Bah.
Vladischov stalked over to the wrecked car, nose wrinkling in disgust from the harsh stench of spilled gasoline. Was it from the car or his truck? He couldn't say for sure. Movement came from the driver's seat of the car and Vladischov's pump-action shotgun was ready in a flash. The weapon, a Mossberg 500 pump-action shotgun, was perfect for such close quarters. After a hacksaw did its work to shorten the barrel and cut off the stock, the shotgun would not only still pack a lethal punch, but it was also incredibly easy to conceal under a coat.
Shouts came from the other car, swiftly followed by the sound of a different Mossberg discharging once, then more shouts. Vladischov risked a glance over at the commotion, if only for a second.
Fortune was with him. At the very moment Vladischov glanced over, he saw the thin agent’s partner tearing his way out of the front seat of the car, heavily bloodied yet alive. The mountain of a man’s hands closed around Mrs. Orlova’s throat in a heartbeat, even as she struggled to bring her arms up to stop him. The shotgun in her hands had been lost at some point in the chaos. The helicopter pilot, a mercenary named Danten, hastily spun to face them both while firing wildly with his pistol.
Something stirred once more from the cab, and for the second time in the span of half a minute, fortune was with Vladischov. The driver of the black-painted Buick was halfway through drawing his gun by the time Vladischov’s attention snapped back, allowing the bulky Russian just enough time to surge forward and knock the weapon out of the man’s hand in a disarming strike.
Then in a split second, the thin FBI agent changed tactics, lunging out of the broken car window to catch Vladischov in a tackle made feeble by shock and injuries sustained in the wreck. The thin man’s hands frantically wrestled with Vladischov’s grip in a desperate last-ditch attempt to gain the advantage by taking the shotgun. It was a decent strategy. Without his handgun, the agent would have been at the mercy of Vladischov’s Mossberg if he didn’t immediately close the distance. Not that he wanted to use it in the first place.
Danten’s weapon discharged five times while Vladischov threw away the shotgun in favor of landing several punches on the thin man’s face, followed by a bone-crunching smack of his forehead slamming into the FBI agent’s nose. The agent’s grip weakened. Vladischov’s face morphed into a sadistic grin. Several more punches were enough to make his opponent’s hands fall away completely. Another two strikes saw the man’s eyes lose focus. Vladischov rose, watching for a heartbeat to enjoy the sight of his enemy lying in a puddle of his own blood. It truly was enjoyable. Vladischov stooped once more to retrieve his Mossberg, pointing it right at the torso of the FBI agent as he feebly attempted to rise.
That small movement stilled soon enough once the agent came face to face with the barrels of the shotgun, and he raised his hands in surrender.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Mr. Moon stared at the cold barrel of the shotgun in the Russian’s grip. A small part of his brain, perhaps the part affected most by the shock of the crash and the following brawl, idly pondered how fickle fortune could be sometimes. What was that saying… Murphy’s law, was it? Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. It was an adage Mr. Moon tried to always keep in mind, but one could not plan for every eventuality. He’d taken into consideration the possibility of a Russian ambush, but with all the other constraints piled onto his shoulders, there had only been so much he could have done to prevent one.
At a second look, this was a good enough spot for an ambush. Darkness, plentiful tree cover, and a side road not clearly visible from the main road Mr. Moon had been on. All one had to do was simply wait on the side road with the headlights turned off and keep a careful watch. There would be few cars on the road at this time, if any at all, so hearing the rumble of an engine in the distance would be easy. Doubtlessly there was some network of side roads that allowed the Russians to get ahead of Mr. Moon and his team from wherever they had been spying from.
Moreover, it seemed they’d filled one of the gaps in their ranks. Mr. Moon could see the new man in the corner of his eye. The man appeared rather ordinary, wearing a dark blue button-up polo and a pair of tan khakis. It wasn’t an assembly of clothing one normally would expect to see in the present company, but looks could be deceiving. And judging by the fact that the new man had shot Dag five times in the head without blinking, they were quite deceiving.
Losing Dag was a problem. The man was a powerful ally capable of going toe-to-toe with just about any man in a straight-out brawl or shootout. Though, by the looks of it, Dag had managed to take one of the Russians with him. Her neck still clutched in Dag’s massive bear-like hands, the Russian woman Mr. Moon had spotted fleeing from the ambush a few days ago was deathly still. In his last act, Dag had succeeded in crushing her throat before the man in the polo could finish the job.
Unless the Russians had any more assets in play, the scarred man and the man in the polo were the final two. Unfortunately, with the loss of Dag and, assumably, Ms. Miller as well, Mr. Moon also had no other assets in play than himself, Cass, and Mark – if the two teens could even be called assets. In one day, his team of FBI agents was annihilated. Fickle fortune indeed.
“Put these on.” The shotgun-wielding Russian spoke in a gravelly voice, tossing a pair of handcuffs onto Mr. Moon’s lap.
Mr. Moon remained silent but slowly acquiesced. While he did so, a few more pieces of the puzzle fit into his head.
Namely, the Russians did not seem to know Mr. Moon was on his way right at that moment to retrieve the alien. If they did, he would be dead by now. So would Cass Thomson, who by the muffled groaning sounds coming from the cab of his car, was still alive as well. Was this what his ex-wife would call irony? The farm was about five minutes from their current location, but the Russians didn’t know it at all.
So that meant… yes. The next stop was probably a safe house, where he and Cass Thomson would be tortured for what they knew. The Russians had to have been following them, watching and waiting for any one of Mr. Moon’s team to leave the city limits for the relative isolation of the country roads. They couldn’t have known for sure that it would actually happen, but after their latest ambush failed it was likely the only option left for the Russians.
The handcuffs cinched tight around his wrists. Mr. Moon was roughly hauled up, while the man in the polo joined them.
“It’s done.” The man spoke with quiet tones. He had an American accent, but that hardly spoke of much. Any accent could be changed with enough time and effort.
Mr. Moon kept his expression in a tight poker face. So, killing everyone in the second car was their plan from the start. It made sense. With only three Russians in total, trying to capture Dag, Ms. Miller, and Mark along with Mr. Moon and Cass Thomson would have been much too risky. One agent and one civilian would be a much more manageable number. Their plan was a mixture of risk and extreme daring, two things that had suffused every one of the Russian's plans from the start.
Something more interesting than that was that the Russians did not appear to know about Mark’s… situation.
Interesting indeed. Mr. Moon kept his poker face up in an unwavering front to prevent any information from leaking out. The girl understandably had no resistance to torture. Thus the Russians would inevitably find the farm. Once they took control of the alien, both he and Cass Thomson would be dead. But they did not know the boy had the ability to survive what would normally not be possible.
Not only that, but when, not if, the location of the alien was divulged, the Russians would face a choice. Mr. Moon and Cass Thomson could not be disposed of until the alien was safely in their hands. Until that happened, there would be a possibility of the location being a lie. The Russians could not let their only leads on the alien die before they found it. Meaning, that either the Russians would have to take one or both of them to the farm, or they would have to split their forces so that one man guarded their prisoners in a safe house while the other retrieved the creature.
Of course, there was a third possibility, in which both men went to the farm after leaving their prisoners in a secured room, but that would be a slight bit too foolish for the Russians to do. They would never consider leaving a captured FBI agent unguarded.
The chances of survival were slim, but if Mr. Moon was correct in his assumptions, there was still a chance. A slim chance of escape, and a much larger chance that Mark would revive at some point later on, whether that be a minute from now or in a few hours. Moreover, there were also the police. Before leaving the former Chief’s house, Ms. Miller had directed them to the farm. The Russians would win in a straight gunfight, but theirs was a presence potentially uncounted for, another domino in the lineup waiting to fall.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Cass’s head pounded worse than ever before. After the impact, it felt like she was floating free in outer space, at least until a rough set of hands grabbed her, cuffed her (again), and flung her into the back seat of Mr. Moon’s car. Soon after that, the chief scumbag himself, Mr. Moon, was flung in right beside her, his bruised and bloodied body slamming to a halt against the now-empty shotgun rack that took up a third of the back seat.
Any hopes of being able to heartily congratulate whoever had given Mr. Moon such a beating shriveled up and died with the entrance of a scarred man, brutal but with a calculating look in his eyes, sliding into the driver’s seat of Mr. Moon’s car. The passenger door opened, revealing another man who, wearing a button-up polo shirt, looked extremely out of place amongst the suits the other men wore.
Cass whipped her head over to look at Mr. Moon in alarm. Around the mask of blood covering his face, the man’s expression was as empty and composed as usual. That expression on his face did more to fill Cass with a feeling of unrelenting fear than anything else that had happened in the past few days. After the recent chaos, blood, and death, that man still looked composed.
“Ooohh, nice toys,” The man in the polo murmured, a note of surprise creeping into his voice as he admired the brutalist pump-action shotguns liberated from the rack, “A pair of Franchi SPAS-12 shotguns. They really do give you feds the good stuff. This car’s great too. Can’t believe it’s in better shape than our trucks even after all that. Crazy, huh? The wonders of taxpayer dollars. Not that I pay taxes, of course.”
The man in the polo playfully held out his hand to shake, grinning as both Cass and Mr. Moon simply stared at him in response. On Cass’s much more readable face, the unspoken words of ‘I’m in handcuffs and you’re a lunatic, how the heck do you expect me to shake your hand’ were plain for all to see.
“Hiya. The name’s Danten. I’m a ‘copter pilot by trade, but very soon I’ll be your own very special interrogator for the day. You two and me, we’re gonna get real acquainted then. I can’t wait for you to meet Besty. Best pair of pliers I’ve ever owned!”
Oh cripes. It took all of Cass’s remaining strength to avoid saying that out loud. No doubt her face betrayed all the fear she felt, but Cass still didn’t want to give that freak the satisfaction of hearing her voice that fear as well.
Once the two men in front turned their attention back to the road, and to extracting the car out of the mess the wreck had left it in, Cass sneaked another glance at Mr. Moon. At first glance, his eyes still appeared calm. But that wasn’t all. The more she looked at him, the more Cass became certain. There was a calculating look hidden deep in his eyes. Mr. Moon still had a plan even after how wrong it had all gone.
And as much as she hated relying on the scumbag, Cass couldn’t see any other option.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
As it turned out, Mr. Moon was right. After a few turns to switch from the country road to a barely maintained dirt road in the middle of nowhere, the next stop was indeed something that could be called a ‘safe house’. In this case, it was more of a depilated structure masquerading as a sort of house instead of an actual house, but at the end of the day it was a roof with four walls that no one else knew about. In essence, a safe house. No matter how run-down it was. Several more vehicles, all with broken windows, sat outside the house.
There were enough stolen cars to last the Russian’s reckless tactics for a while. They had to be from homes in the country or from the surrounding towns. Otherwise, reports would have made their way to the Carlson PD by now.
He and the girl were callously hauled out of the backseat of his damaged, yet still-running car. Department-provided vehicles were always much sturdier than one would initially assume, which was one of the perks of the job. In this case, his Buick had merely limped out of the crash, while the two pickup trucks the Russians brought were reduced to non-functional wrecks on the side of the road.
The Russians kept them both stumbling forward across the weed-covered gravel driveway as quickly as their legs would work. The outside walls of the house soon faded away to reveal the inside, covered with peeling cigarette-stained wallpaper, vines curling through broken windows, and chipped wooden floors. It was a classic two-room house in the country. By his guess, it was built sometime in the 40s, considering it actually had wallpaper. Any older and the great depression wouldn’t have allowed money to purchase luxuries like wallpaper, any newer and the wallpaper would be in better shape.
The main room, which would be best classified as a combination of a living room and kitchen, was derelict. Two chairs and no other furniture to speak of. In the corner was an oven with its door ripped clean off. Some sort of bird nest was inside the oven, empty for now. Near the back of the room was the only new thing in the house – what looked to be a solid wooden door, untouched by nature and connected to the wall by a set of brand-new hinges.
That room, Mr. Moon assumed, was where he and the girl would be held. Within seconds, his assumption was found correct. The helicopter pilot, Danten, put his palm on the doorknob to ease it open without a sound, with not even a single squeak of protest coming from the hinges. Either they were freshly greased, or the hinges were even newer than brand-new.
Past the wooden door was a second room, one that was as bare as the first aside from a steel table and chair, and an iron support beam stretching from the floor (concrete, instead of wooden like the rest of the house) to the ceiling. There were no windows, and contrary to the appearance of the rest of the house, the walls looked well-maintained. Perhaps Dag could have broken through them, but that feat was beyond Mr. Moon’s abilities.
Mr. Moon and Cass were shoved into the room, the girl landing with a sickening ‘thump’ and a yelp on the concrete floor, while Mr. Moon stumbled to keep upright. Keeping one’s balance when the hands were cuffed behind the back required a good deal of dexterity to be applied. He’d learned that at Quantico, the FBI training facility, many years ago.
The sound of metal settling against wood was next, the bulky Russian having set aside his sawed-off Mossberg against the doorframe in favor of pulling out a Sig Sauer from his waistband. Mr. Moon recognized the familiar black metal pistol instantly. It was his, stolen after the wreck. He knew the magazine held 17 rounds. It would be more than enough to kill them both several times over.
“Listen closely and carefully.” The man spoke with a thick Russian accent. “Danten is going to temporarily remove your handcuffs. Then you are to shuffle toward the support beam, very slowly, and then you will put your wrists next to it. After that, he will cuff you to the pole. If you try to escape, I will shoot you. If you try to hold Danten hostage, I will shoot you. If you use him as a shield, I will shoot through him to shoot you. I would rather not do that as he is a better pilot than I.”
Danten sheepishly shrugged. “Vladischov will do it. Please don’t make him. I kinda like living.”
Mr. Moon carefully nodded. His mind tucked away that name. Vladischov. It was good to link a name to a face. He didn’t recognize the name, but maybe he would in the future. As slow as could be, Mr. Moon shuffled toward the beam. After a brief second, Cass’s footsteps followed him. Good. The girl did not seem willing to do anything stupid. Her life was still important for keeping Mark in line and as insurance in the instance they lied when telling him of the farm.
Rough hands made the handcuffs fall off his left wrist, before his hands were dragged closer to the pole and the cuffs were fastened back around his wrist. Mr. Moon glanced back as the same was done for Cass Thomson. The cuffs were around the pole, putting the length of metal between his back and his hands. Without removing the cuffs, the pole, or somehow sneaking the key, he was going nowhere anytime soon.
Then a hand dipped into Mr. Moon’s pocket, pulling out his wallet, two paper clips, and a handful of spare bullets for his Sig Sauer. The wallet and the bullets were tossed to Vladischov, while the paper clips fell into Danten’s pocket after the man gave Mr. Moon a cheeky grin.
“Sneaky man.” Danten chuckled, “Think about picking the lock after we left? Sneaky.”
Mr. Moon made a slight shrugging motion with his shoulders but otherwise did not respond. Anything he voiced aloud, any emotions he let flicker across his face, those would be puzzle pieces the Russians could use to gain more of an advantage than they already did.
Next, Danten searched Cass Thomson’s pockets, revealing nothing aside from a small penknife. The man tucked it into his pocket and turned to Vladischov.
“All clean big man.”
Vladischov looked up from where he had been studying the contents of Mr. Moon’s wallet.
“Now that you aren’t sniping at us from a block away, I see you are a rather bland man.” Vladischov grinned, withdrawing several things from the wallet. “Cash, that goes without saying. A driver’s license. It says your real name is Mr. Moon. No date of birth.” The Russian grinned again, clearly enjoying the moment. “A lie, I presume. Cash and a driver’s license. Then there’s a picture.”
Vladischov unfolded the photo in his hands to take a look at it. It was quite wrinkled. Soon enough, Mr. Moon would have to replace it with a newer copy. That was the price he paid for keeping it in his wallet.
“Touching.” Vladischov nodded. His grin had disappeared, replaced with the stone-cold face of a professional. “You have a boy? And a wife. Lucky man.”
The man held the photo out for all to see. As Vladischov described, it showed a woman, her blonde hair kept in a neat ponytail, cheerfully smiling under the noon sun. At her side was a young boy, face smudged with dirt and as happy as could be. Mr. Moon kept his face empty. The less Vladischov knew for sure, the better. Even if it was about something as ordinary as his family life.
Once it became clear Mr. Moon had no response, Vladischov crumpled the photo in his hand and threw it into the corner of the room. Then the man switched topics, as abruptly as could be.
“The alien. Where is it.”
Mr. Moon could feel Cass Thomson stiffen up. With them both cuffed to the pole, her arm was brushed up against his. And like a shark smelling blood, Vladischov instantly noticed that reaction. The scarred Russian stalked closer to the girl, leering into her face as she tried to wiggle away.
"My offer. Location or Danten tortures you until you break. From the looks of it, you're soft enough that it'll happen quick."
To Mr. Moon’s mild surprise, the girl did not immediately give up the location. Instead, she stared at the man without speaking a word. Admirable, but pointless. Mr. Moon needed either the Russians to split up, or for all four of them to go to the farm together. Only then, when the pieces were moving once more, would he have a chance to turn things around. Wasting time here was pointless. Acquiring avoidable wounds would only put them deeper in the hole.
“Tell them.” Mr. Moon’s voice broke the tension in the air. Cass turned toward him in surprise, while Vladischov appeared more curious. Danten, meanwhile, muffled a bout of chuckles. They truly had not expected to hear him say those words. Yet in their faces, Mr. Moon could see they mistook his order as resignation in the face of the inevitable, instead of a faucet of the plan coming together in his mind.
Mr. Moon kept his face deadpan. “I have business to attend to. Tell them the location and be done with it.”
"Business to attend to?" Danten's laughter was no longer muffled. "What a guy, cool as a cucumber when we have you dead to rights. Perfect. Saves us the minute it would have taken to squeeze the info out of the girl."
But still, Cass Thomson hesitated. Mr. Moon twisted his head to the side, temporarily breaking his deadpan gaze to fix a look of mild exasperation on his face. Only then did the girl finally say the location. He could have said it as well, but the Russians likely wouldn’t believe him. Training agents to resist torture was a common practice in all intelligence agencies.
“The Henryks Farm. Due East ten, maybe twenty miles from here.”
"Where on the farm." Vladischov retorted.
“Barn. Under a haystack.”
After those directions were given, the silence returned. Vladischov carefully studied Cass Thomson’s face, before ultimately deciding that whatever he saw in her unguarded expression, he believed.
“Stay here.” Vladischov’s voice rumbled as he swept toward the door, only pausing to grab his Mossberg, “If I do not radio back in half an hour, kill them painfully.”
Danten nodded, flashing a carefree grin. "You got it, boss."
The door closed behind Vladischov with a solid sound. Mr. Moon resumed holding his poker face and studied the situation. Only one guard, a maximum time of half an hour, and they were both cuffed to a sturdy pole. Mark’s condition was unknown, and Mr. Moon knew not if the tattered remains of the Carlston PD would arrive at the farm in time to run into Vladischov.
There still was a chance, but Mr. Moon had to admit the situation could have been better. Making this work would be like threading a needle with a gun pointed at his head.
-------
More blood, more death. Things are moving faster and faster as more pieces get removed from the board, both the Russians and the FBI get more desperate, and Jack continues to inject his brand of madness into the situation. Now the Russians know about the farm. Will Mr. Moon and Cass escape in time to take the alien? Will the remains of the Carlston PD arrive in time? Where is Jack in all of this?
In other news I've been enjoying a Pokemon Nuzlocke in the Unova region (gen 5). I've also been testing my patience a bit with shiny hunting in the game. Nothing yet, and I don't expect anything, but I've never gone shiny hunting before so it's an interesting experience.
Hope Ya'll had a good New Years, and here's to 2025 being a cool year! As always, huge thanks to all patreons and readers!
Peace
