“Where did you get this kid, anyway?” Marco Lessio asked Kalakia. “We haven’t met, but I like him already.”
Kalakia sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“The boy is an anomaly. He is skilled beyond imagination, yet he is gripped by dark forces.”
“Whatever,” said Lessio with a shrug. “He’s exactly what we need right now.”
“I agree,” said Kalakia. “War is not kind to those who do not reciprocate the brutality of their enemy.”
“Abel’s warrior spirit will carry us to victory,” said Limbaba with fire in his eyes. “There is no stopping us.”
Kalakia felt satisfied with his Generals’ response to the news of Drexler’s brutal demise. His hope that the boy’s unorthodox methods would excite the men had come true. Frederich’s heinous deeds were acting as a call to arms for the soldiers.
“Strike time is two days from now,” said Kalakia. “Thursday, 3:00 am, Central European Time. Any objections?”
Only the flicker of candles could be heard. Francois cleared his throat in the corner and shuffled around.
“Discretion is everything,” said Kalakia, raising his voice to emphasise the importance of his message. “We strike as one. No rogue acts — do nothing which might prematurely compromise the plan. Any leaks could prove devastating. Put your soldiers on alert, but do not share specific details with them until the day of the attacks.” One by one, Kalakia stared sharply at each of his Generals. “Is that understood?” he said.
Each man nodded obediently.
“Prepare for battle, gentlemen.”
Frederich jerked the steering wheel abruptly and pulled over to the side of the road, left the door open behind him and dashed into the overgrown grass. He began retching immediately, each contraction sending a sharp ache through his ribs and waist. Because he had barely eaten, his purge produced only dark bile.
The nausea eased somewhat, but he still felt weak in the legs. He collapsed onto his knees, moaning and bending his head to the ground. It took all of his strength to keep his eyes open, to avoid going back into flashback mode, but the pull of the abyss was too much. He fell backwards onto the grass, closed his eyes and went into the black. There he was met by Drexler, squirming and screaming hysterically. Images of bloodied, mutilated flesh flickered by, then a thick, dark red pool oozed across the floor. The groans of the shooter by the door sounded unnatural, like an animal in distress. Frederich quickly opened his eyes. It was too much to take in at once. He looked down with disgust at his shirt, which was soiled in the blood of his slaughtered foes. At first he pulled at it, then stretched it out, desperately trying to get it off. The stitching gave out at the side before he managed to pull the shirt off, only to find that his skin was also stained red.
The surrounding area was secluded, with no sign of people and no houses. In the distance was a brown wooden fence which separated the vast plot of country land, and beyond that was a small lake. Frederich stomped shirtless through the grass in the direction of the water. He reached the fence and grasped it, bending his body over and flipping to the other side, crashing down onto his shoulder. The impact re-aggravated the bruising from Vidrik’s sniper bullet and sucked the air out of him. After hesitating briefly, he rolled to his side and forced himself up, then limped onwards to the lake and trudged straight into the water.
He dove under. The shock of the cold passed quickly, and he remained submerged for a long time with his eyes closed. The effect was instant. His state of weightlessness relieved him of the pain, the upward force of the water holding him in place without reservation or judgement. He went deeper into the feeling as his oxygen slowly ran out. The pressure in his lungs grew while he advanced further into the abyss. For a moment he lost touch with his body and experienced absolute calm. He remained hovering in the silence before his feet pushed into the mud and he emerged out of the water while sucking in an enormous gulp of air. Once he caught his breath again, he floated on his back and gazed up at the grey sky, rejuvenated and soaked in relief.
9
Footsteps approached Inselheim’s room from outside and stopped in front of the door. There was clattering in the keyhole before the door swung open, revealing one of the guards, dressed in neat army green trousers and a button-up shirt, just like all the others Inselheim had seen. Beside the guard was an older man with silver hair and a round belly, wearing tan chinos and a navy blue polo shirt. The guard remained by the door, and the man walked inside by himself, taking slow, purposeful steps. Inselheim had been resting on his king-sized bed, where his kidnappers had imprisoned him in a luxurious room for the past two days, and he sat up at attention. The man gave Inselheim a dry smile, his eyes barely moving.
“Hello, Mr. Inselheim,” said the man. “My name is Horst Stirner.”
Inselheim gave the man careful attention but said nothing. It was yet another unexpected development in a baffling series of days.
“Have you been well looked after?” said Stirner after the long pause. “I told my guards to treat you with the respect that a man of your stature deserves. Please tell me if they fail in their duty.”
Respect? thought Inselheim. They had tossed him into the back of a moving van, blindfolded him and tightly bound his hands and feet. Then they left him there for almost a day wondering when he would die or how badly they would torture him when they stopped.
“You’re kidding,” said Inselheim. His neck still ached from being jammed up against the side of the van. His wrists were bruised and scabbed from where the cable tie had cut into them. “Do you know what
