Iron Wolf

EPILOGUE

This late at night, the sidewalk outside Fedir Kravchenko’s dingy, run-down apartment building was empty — dimly lit only in places by the murky glow of a few unbroken streetlamps. Rusting, broken-down cars and stinking piles of uncollected garbage lined the street. Rats scurried back into the pitch-black alleys, momentarily alarmed by the sound of his reeling, drunken footsteps.

“Major?”

Scowling, Kravchenko turned around. “What?” he slurred through vodka-numbed lips. He peered uncertainly at the shadowy figure who’d just stepped out onto the pavement a few meters behind him. “Who the fuck are you?”

The tall, square-jawed man came forward a bit into the dim glow cast by a streetlamp. Light shone dully on close-cropped gray hair, dark jeans, and a black leather jacket.

Suddenly Kravchenko recognized him. He was the nameless go-between used by the similarly anonymous patron who had funded his failed campaign against the Russians. “You were better dressed the last time we met,” he growled. “Come down in the world, have you? Like me?”

The man smiled gently. “No, Major. I simply choose my clothes to suit the job at hand.”

“Which is what exactly?” Kravchenko asked, feeling himself starting to sober up just a bit.

“Garbage removal,” the other man said. In one quick, smooth motion, his hand came up holding a silenced 9mm Makarov pistol. The muzzle centered on the former partisan leader’s forehead.

Phut.

Kravchenko crumpled. Blood, black in the dim light, trickled away into the gutter.

With a nod of satisfaction, the gray-haired man slid the pistol back into his shoulder holster. No fuss and very little mess, he thought. His employer would be pleased. He turned to go—

And large, articulated metal fingers abruptly tightened around his neck, hoisting him high into the air. Another metal hand reached under his jacket and plucked out his Makarov. Casually, it tossed the weapon aside.

Struggling and choking, the gray-haired man found himself staring up at a six-sided head studded with lenses and other sensors. One of the lenses whirred softly. The metal fingers relaxed slightly, allowing him to breathe.

“My name is Patrick McLanahan,” a cold synthetic voice said. “And, according to the scan I’ve just run, you are Dmytro Marchuk — formerly a colonel in the Ukrainian special police, the Berkut.” The machine shook its head slightly. “Not a very pleasant bunch, Mr. Marchuk. You and your former comrades once did all the dirty work for the crooked Kiev politicians backed by Moscow. Not to mention the brutal tasks assigned by any number of crime syndicates.”

“What do you want with me?” Marchuk gasped, still futilely straining against the robot’s implacable grip.

“We’re going to have a little talk, Mr. Marchuk,” the machine said coolly. “A talk about all the people who died. Plus all the damage done by Major Kravchenko and the other fanatics you’ve now silenced. And when that’s done, we’ll talk about who you really work for.”

“And then you will kill me?” the onetime Ukrainian secret policeman stammered, unable to conceal the abject terror crawling through every part of his body.

“Kill you?” the machine echoed. It shook its head again. “Only if you are very, very lucky.” And then it turned, striding away into the darkness with Marchuk still desperately kicking and struggling in its grasp.