Blood Vengeance

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Blood King poured himself a precise shot of vodka, expecting very little from the relatively famous French brand and receiving exactly that. He tipped the shot back in one go, the way his Russian fathers and forefathers had always done. He yelled out a toast, as was his ritual.

“To freedom,” he said, speaking to Gabriel and the other mercenaries about the room. “Let us hope it tastes better than this fuckin’ vodka, dah?”

The men saluted. The Blood King chased the shot with a salty pickle, obtained from the in-room mini bar. “Gods,” he said, spitting the bits out. “I have tasted better prison food.” He stared at the quiet occupant in the room. “How about you? What exactly is your poison, Mr. President?”

Coburn eyed Kovalenko with disdain. “You won’t get away with this.”

“I won’t? But I already have, Mr. Pres. I already have.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“Ah, sixty-four million dollar question. But that number is so out of date in modern times, yes? Let’s see, how much did it cost you to become President? Six hundred and sixty four million, perhaps?”

“You’re crazy, Kovalenko.”

“So they tell me,” the Blood King said wryly. “Too many years at sea playing the salty dog. Same as Blackbeard, yes?”

“So you still think you’re a pirate? You won’t be able to disappear this time, Kovalenko.”

The Blood King poured a second shot, contemplating the President’s words and weighing them against the recent pleasurable scene he’d witnessed in the hotel’s lobby when his men had decimated Coburn’s Secret Service detail. This was something new for him, weighing someone else’s opinion against his own. After so many years of fulfillment without consequence it was actually a breath of fresh air. But he had discovered the ability in prison whilst recruiting Mordant and Gabriel to the cause, and had found, to his surprise, that other people had clever ideas too.

But the Americans were weak at their heart and unimaginative. They had allowed a covert enemy force to plant an operative deep inside their capital city’s Department of Transport — to the point where he been able to pull off a one-time infiltration of their secretive hi-tech VIP traffic control system.

All lights green, was the maxim, meaning ‘clear the way for the particular dignitary’, but not this time. On this occasion, the saying had become an absolute — all lights, all roads.

And there was still something far better to come.

Kovalenko threw back the shot, toasting under his breath, this time to his lieutenants and the men they had selected. The Secret Service agents had ordered the lobby to be evacuated, but had been understandably uneasy, and when armed men had stepped forward from several different parts of the room two of them had choked, others had died instantly, three had thrown themselves at the President, and the rest had simply started blasting away.

No mind, Kovalenko thought. It didn’t matter. They had all died. Coburn was unharmed, and even that hadn’t been a prerequisite of the op. The Blood King had shot several wounded men in the head, satisfying his blood lust for that part of the day. At last, life felt right again, almost worth living.

“What do you want?” Coburn said again, interrupting his reverie.

“What do you get man who has everything?” Kovalenko said in his thick Russian accent. “A president?” He chuckled. “Heads of men who have betrayed him? Imprisoned him? Well, that will do to start.”

“You’re still pursuing this damn vendetta? So that’s why you killed Jonathan. We should have ended you when we had the chance.”

Kovalenko looked a little surprised. “I see you are a fighter, not a whiner, yes? Well, it is good. I would hate to have to cut out your tongue so soon.”

Gabriel caught his attention. “Dis ting is ready, mon. You want it over dere?”

The Blood King grinned and moved over to sit by the President. From his waistband, he produced two huge guns and set them down on the table. The suite was situated on a high floor, prepped weeks ago before being cleared out for the inevitable Secret Service sweep. It was perfect for their needs, and just one of many rooms their enemies might figure they were occupying.

Gabriel positioned a large-screen laptop on the table before him. The Motion Eye — its webcam — was already activated.

“Will this stream live?”

“When y’ push de button.” Gabriel indicated the enter key. “You will broadcast to YouTube, and after that Hulu, UStream, Blinkx and a hundred others. De right channels have been informed dat a broadcast be imminent.”

“They will not try to shut it down?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Unlikely. Dey need dis information. Dey might try to censor it. Gag us. But the American news channels, dey are bold, mon. Dey will sink dere claws in. Dey will get dere story.” Gabriel smiled widely, making the President’s eyes widen. Kovalenko didn’t blame him. The African was one scary, unhinged, but absolutely brilliant fellow and had shown his proficiency time and time again whilst plotting Coburn’s downfall from prison, through intermediaries to powerful men on the outside.

Men who were just starting to rise in ways of their own.

Kovalenko tossed back one more toast. “To Blood Vendetta.”

Then he hit the enter key and positioned the webcam’s eye so that only the President and he could be seen. As a broad smile broke out over the Blood King’s face, he calmly and noisily loaded his guns as the nation watched.

He stared into the camera the whole time and spoke only four words. “Come and get me.”