The Hunters

21

McNutt had been watching Dobrev’s apartment — and everything that happened inside — from his vantage point on a rooftop directly across the street. From there, he could also keep an eye on the hallway outside Dobrev’s door. His line of sight gave him the opportunity to warn Jasmine and the others of any unexpected visitors. His Soviet-made Snaiperskaya Vintovka Dragunova sniper rifle, or SVD, gave him a way to make those unexpected visitors go away forever.

McNutt peered through the Barska tactical scope and explained the situation. ‘You’ve got a white male standing outside Dobrev’s door.’ He was a short, wiry, young man with a crew cut and a sour expression. He was wearing sneakers that had no shoelaces, black pants, a black leather jacket, and a faded T-shirt. ‘He must’ve come from one of the apartments.’

‘How do you know that?’ Papineau questioned.

‘Well,’ McNutt explained, ‘he wasn’t at the door five seconds ago when I scanned the hall, so unless he came down through the ceiling or materialized out of thin air, I’d say he just stepped out from one of the neighboring units.’

‘Understood,’ Papineau agreed.

‘Thor Steinar mean anything to anyone? It’s written across his shirt.’

Garcia’s fingers pounded his keyboard as he searched the Web. He skimmed the results before he informed the team. ‘Thor Steinar is a clothing designer. It seems he’s especially popular among skinheads and neo-Nazis. He has a lot of fans in Russia.’

‘Hold up! Thor is a skinhead?’ McNutt said, confused. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. He has long hair in the comic books. It’s even longer than mine.’

‘Different Thor,’ Garcia assured him.

‘Thank God! Because that Thor is tough to kill.’

‘Of course he’s tough to kill. He’s the God of Thunder.’

‘No shit, Hector! I know he’s the God of Thunder. I’m not an idiot.’

Sitting outside in an SUV, Cobb rolled his eyes at the discussion that was clogging the intercom. The more he listened, the less confident he felt. It was the type of conversation one would expect at a comic book convention, not in the middle of an important mission.

Cobb growled, ‘Knock it off! Tell me what’s happening!’

McNutt quickly snapped to attention. ‘Thor is trying to pick the lock on Dobrev’s door. Just say the word, and I’ll take him out before he can.’

‘That’s a negative — not until we ID the target.’

Dobrev heard somebody in the hallway outside of his apartment. More curious than alarmed, he walked toward his door to investigate. He glanced through his peephole and saw his neighbor, a troubled youth named Marko Kadurik, trying to pick the lock.

Dobrev opened the door. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Me?’ the skinhead screamed. ‘What are you doing with that foreigner — besides disrespecting the memory of your grandson? You know how he felt about Chinks.’

‘You’re drunk, Marko. Go home before I call the police.’

Kadurik looked past Dobrev. ‘I’ll go home when she goes home — back to China!’

‘I won’t have this,’ Dobrev shouted.

‘Have what? The truth? Yury loved you, and you piss on his ideals with this filth!’

Filled with anger and embarrassment, Dobrev slapped the young man across the face with a meaty hand. In the narrow hallway, the sound of his palm hitting the young man’s cheek was like a pistol shot. The young man staggered, more from shock than pain.

Kadurik stared at Dobrev, who stared right back.

‘You may think you knew my grandson,’ Dobrev said slowly, ‘but you only knew the monster he became, not the promising young man that he once was. You, and your kind, and your unspeakable behavior — there is no excuse for you.’ Dobrev’s eyes burned with rage. ‘Leave. Now. While the only injury is to the respect of my guest.’

‘Your whore, you mean.’

Dobrev went to slap him again. This time the young man was ready. He pushed the old man back so the blow fell short. Then he shouldered past him.

‘We don’t want your kind in our country!’ the punk yelled as he approached Jasmine. He put his right hand in his jacket pocket as he circled around her. He used profanity so offensive that she wasn’t familiar with the terms. But Dobrev was.

‘Enough!’ the old man boomed.

Dobrev started toward him again, but the young man turned, revealing a fist that was now fitted with hard, black plastic knuckles.

‘Don’t even think about touching me again!’ Kadurik yelled.

‘Take those off, and never come here again,’ Dobrev said coolly. ‘Your kind is unwelcome in my home.’

‘My kind?‘ He sneered toward Jasmine. ‘You welcome this trash but you insult me? Our language itself is profaned coming from her filthy mouth!’

Jasmine maintained a neutral expression. Her hands rested at her sides as the angry young man stared at her with blazing eyes. Loathing crushed whatever lust a normal young man would have felt. That was a new feeling for Jasmine — to be hated for her race rather than wanted for her beauty. Fear expanded like a balloon inside her chest and stomach. Her sensei had told her not to run from that feeling but to accept it. To ride it. To use it to her advantage.

Don’t let it distract you from what must be done to survive.

Mentally she knew she had command of the skill set that he had given her. But she had never had to test herself in the field. It was very different to be in a strange, dark room instead of in a bright gym with cushioned mats.

The anger was different, too.

This punk looked as if he wanted to tear her head off.

He is looking down, she told herself. He is a coward — a brute. That’s why he put that thing on his hand to fight an older man and a woman. He is afraid.

She straightened to her full height. Not swiftly but slowly, in total control. She did not take her eyes from him. She did not assume a stance. She just — stood.

Their eyes were level now, but they were not equal. She was confident and poised. He was angry and unsure. She knew exactly what she would do if she had to. She knew, from his action, which hand would come at her and that it would be with a hooked swing. She had already scoped out her immediate surroundings using peripheral vision. The first lesson she had learned from her sensei: get out of the way. Let your attacker move past you with wild momentum. Then attack from behind.

Her resolve was apparent. His uncertainty was equally obvious… even to him. After a moment or two more of alpha-dog huffing, he clamped his mouth shut, spun away, and left the apartment — slamming the door behind him.