Compromised (A Gene Bukowski Adventure Book 1)" by Piotr Mierzejewski (Novelette)

Genre:  Science Fiction Espionage

Type of Short Story:  Novelette

Summary:  Follow the exploits of Gene Bukowski and his team from the International Security Assistance Force in this near future Science Fiction Espionage series. This is the first in the series and Gene's assignment is to extract a former witness, and his handler, before the Russian authorities can get their hands on them!

Excerpt:

Zaliv Neelova, Russian Arctic

Sladjan Smukavec rubbed his gloved hands together in a vain attempt of staying warm, grateful that he had paid attention to the not so subtle suggestion that he pack for cold weather. Of course, if he were to be honest with himself the suggestion was more akin to a threat, but the sentiment was there. After all, he was a valuable asset to his employer, so it wasn't as if the thugs could do any harm. At least not until his usefulness ended, something he hoped would never eventuate. He just wished that they had told him how cold it would be when they first bundled him into a car. Resisting the urge to stomp his feet, he continued watching as people went about loading the long container vessel.

Then again, the thugs neglected to tell him where he had been taken in the first place.

One thing was certain however, this was no paradise.

Although, for a Russian this far north, it may as well be.

It was isolated, and the digital age seemed to be stuck in a time-warp, dating back sixty years. Of course, until recently he had no idea how long a reach his employers had, assuming that they were just thugs at best and a well organised syndicate at worst. This facility merely represented one avenue available to his employed, something the cybernetic-prostheses surgeon had no thought possible even in his wildest dreams. He continued staring, taking in the white netting and snow that covered most of the facility. Just never mind that the facility was a fully fledged seaport, with pens for nuclear submarines and an accompanying air strip housing state of the art fighter jets.

"I understand you've the best in the business," the woman next to Smukavec said, breaking the sombre moment. Smukavec blinked, and reminded himself who it was next to him. Marya Samsonova had once made history by being the first woman to have earned the position of commander-in-chief of the Russian Strategic Artillery Corps, and eventually rising to Minister of Defence. But that was before the current regime, which had singlehandedly reappointed senior military positions by men and women that were willing to work closer with Europe and the United States. Last he heard, Samsonova had been appointed as the Russian Ambassador to the Peoples Republic of China. So yes, it was initially a bit of a shock seeing her waiting for him. Still, Smukavec knew he had to tread carefully.

"I was the best in the business, General," he said carefully.

Like with the weather, he had been told to watch how he addresses his employer. Yes, she may be a prominent politician and a reputable diplomat to boot, but she had resources that had impressed him--and scared the hell out of him. "But as with everything, the limelight I once enjoyed has moved on."

She pondered that statement quietly while watching the activity around them, and Smukavec tried not to dwell on the fact that he had once been the leading expert on cybernetic limbs and bio-neural operations. The techniques he had developed and technology patented had made him retire early, and make him rich beyond any expectation. It also got him into a lot of trouble later, especially when police arrested him for child pornography. That had been his undoing. It had been a humbling experience, a humiliating one at that. Neither the police nor the jury cared he had revolutionised medicine. All they cared about was that he liked watching children having intercourse.

Suddenly, she harrumphed. Smukavec tensed, reminding himself that the woman beside him controlled a criminal empire that reached beyond the city limits of Saint Petersburg. Finally, she glanced at him, and nodded to the anchored ship.

"There is a fully functional operating theatre aboard, along with the best med-techs and programmers in the Strategic Artillery Corps," she announced in a tone lacking the thick pronunciation so common of her countryman. "There are fifty of my finest men, Spetsnaz soldiers, aboard."

"For security?"

"No."

One should never question one's employer, and Smukavec did his best to remain calm, but wasn't about to fool himself. Still, he could not understand why he needed to know that Smaonova had attached fifty Special Forces operatives to the container ship. "No?"

"For augmentation, Doctor."

Suddenly, he froze. Of all the things she could have said, this one he least expected. Still, it made sense. In the time he had found himself employed by her, albeit indirectly, Smukavec had performed limited attachments of cybernetic-prostheses on the occasional thug who had their arm or leg shot off. Full on augmentation was tricky, challenging--and right up his alley. He sighed with relief. The healthier the person undergoing the procedure the better their chances of success. At least that was the general philosophy.

She glanced at him.

"Think of it as a pilot project," she then announced, and patted Smukavec on the shoulder with a woollen glove-wrapped hand. "If you successfully transform more than half of my men, you can assure yourself a long-term consultancy with my newly installed government."

Smukavec paused, and regarded her anew. The current government in Moscow, led by one Alexander Ivanov, was labelled as the first true democratic entity since Yeltsin. Whilst it wasn't without its problems, the regime under Ivanov had modernised economic infrastructures and secured several trade and defence agreements with Brazil and Venezuela. Equally, Russia went from a second rate country to a formidable power once again. Why she wanted to replace something that was good for the country at large was a mystery to him. Still--

"New government, General?"

She nodded, and smiled. Not that there was any hint of humour in that smile, and Sladjan Smukavec suddenly felt a shiver go down his spine...

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"Whiskey, Zebra, Tango" by David A. Todd (Short Story)

Genre:  Action, Crime, 

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Summary:  A routine traffic stop in Providence, Rhode Island results in a high speed chase, and the suspect fleeing on foot in neighboring Cranston. The investigation determines that Sharon Williams Fonseca, by all appearances an average housewife and grandmother, helped him get away. Police from both Providence and Cranston investigate who she is and why should would help the man, who is suspected of being a terrorist in Yemen. A mysterious CIA agent appears as they are interrogating her, and helps fill in the gaps on what they have learned.

Excerpt:

Officer Pete DiPetrillo enjoyed the quietness of the night. Not a moving car in sight. A rash of business burglaries around Columbus Square had him and his partner, Sonny McCormick, parked on a side street and watching. Everyone in the neighborhood knew they were there. This was deterrence, not surveillance. The bad guys would lay off for a while, and hopefully the detectives would figure out who they were.

Their evening shift was about over. Pete and Sonny had covered all the successes and problems with the Red Sox, the Patriots, and the Celtics, and were just moving on to the Bruins when the radio interrupted.

"All units in South Providence in the vicinity of Elmwood Avenue, pursue a fleeing vehicle southbound on Elmwood, a gray Toyota Corolla, license Papa-Delta-7-7-1. Suspect is a Middle Eastern male, believed to be alone in the vehicle. Suspect fled from a routine traffic stop—"

"That's us," DiPetrillo said, and started the engine. They were sitting thirty feet east of Elmwood.

McCormick grabbed the mike and said they would pursue. The suspect car came rapidly into view, zoomed through Columbus Square, veering right at the wye onto Reservoir Avenue. Whatever unit stopped him downtown was not in close pursuit yet, though sirens sounded down Elmwood.

"Jeepers, he's going 80 at least," DiPetrillo said. He gunned the cruiser into the intersection, accelerating rapidly, but the suspect had already disappeared over the railroad bridge. They were up to 60 at the top of the rise, and could see other units in the rearview mirror and the suspect ahead of them. They were now the closest unit.

This was DiPetrillo's first time to drive in hot pursuit. He'd been in Sonny's place several times before. Those adrenalin rushes were nothing compared to what he felt now. His cruiser had more power than the Toyota so they were gaining. The suspect took the right at the Y ahead.

"Suspect stayed on Reservoir," McCormick called in, and appears to not be taking Route 10." The slight rise ahead caused them to lose sight. "C'mon, step on it."

"I've got it floored now. He's gonna be in Cranston before we get close to him.

"Has Cranston been dispatched?" Sonny called in.

"Cranston has been dispatched. So far no report on where their units are." The dispatcher had rarely been silent as she coordinated units.

"We'll see him in a second," DiPetrillo said. "He's just…oh, call it in."

Sonny spoke into the mike, "Suspect has turned west onto a side street just south of Route 10. We are fifteen seconds away."

To make the turn on the side street, DiPetrillo began braking just as he left the bridge over Route 10. He turned sharply, and saw the Toyota ahead in a gas station parking area. The driver had done a 180, crashed the rear end into the air pumps; the driver side door was open, and the suspect was nowhere in sight. DiPetrillo braked harder to bring the cruiser to a stop.

"Vehicle has crashed at the Hess gas station at Reservoir and," McCormick looked at the street sign, "Carleton. Suspect is not in sight and may be on foot."

They had stopped not ten feet away from the crashed car. DiPetrillo looked at the area. The suspect could have fled up Carleton Street, or across the front of the gas station to whatever street was on the other side, or might even be hiding behind the car. The gas station attendant was outside the door of the building and looking in their direction, which convinced the officers the suspect hadn't gone across the front of the gas station. This was a residential area, houses on small lots, no cars on the street. DiPetrillo saw that it was actually two streets that came together in a tight wye, forming a wide triangle of pavement before joining Reservoir Avenue. The suspect could be down either street, or hiding in a back yard. The square was dark except for police flashers. He could hear little over the sound of his engine and air venting from the destroyed dispenser.

Other units began pulling up, both Providence units from the north and Cranston units from the south. A Providence captain took charge. He sent DiPetrillo and McCormick, along with two other officers, on foot to check the street to the left and others to check the street to the right, while sending cruisers down both streets. "Listen for dogs barking," he instructed. "Other teams will begin leapfrogging you in a minute."

DiPetrillo and McCormick and the other two began a quick check of the front of the houses first houses, discussing how they would handle going into the back yards. They could hear a dog yapping at the third house, and when they got there they encountered a woman standing at the bottom of the porch steps, holding the dog's leash and trying to pull the little terrier to her. She looked up at the officers before her with guns drawn, and let out a little shriek.

DiPetrillo spoke first. "Ma'am, please get inside your house. A suspect may have come down this street. We don't know if he's armed, and—"

"I saw him," she said, taking a step toward them and pointing down the street. "He went that way very fast, just seconds before you pulled up." DiPetrillo saw she was an older woman. He guessed about fifty, slender, hair at her shoulders and loose, and wearing a bathrobe over what looked like a housecoat.

McCormick spoke into his lapel microphone. "Suspect was last seen on foot heading…"Again he looked for a street sign, saw none, but the woman said, "Cottage." "…west on Cottage Street, maybe a minute or two ago."

"What's down this street?" DiPetrillo asked.

"It's a long block, then little league fields," she said. "Beyond that is Speck Pond. Franklin Street crosses it first."

"Okay, ma'am. Back inside your house, please. We'll have an officer here in a moment."

"But I've got to walk Molly."

"Later, please." The officers took off at a trot in pursuit.

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"Last Stop, Dullsville" by Walter Conley (Short Story)

Genre:  Crime

Type of Short Story:  Walter Conley

Summary:  A man comes to in a hospital with his mind shattered. Whenpeople claiming to be family drive him to a cabin in the woods, a place known as Dullsville, are they really trying to help him recover? Or setting him up for the most terrifying night of his life?

Excerpt:

As he was driving through the woods on a summer evening, a pick-up
truck emerged from a side road and plowed into his door. There was no
move to evade him. The truck didn’t even slow down. They, whoever
they were, had done what they’d set out to do, which was to drive Paul
off the road and into the woods, as hard as possible. Their intent
was to kill him; of this, he has no doubt. Their motive, however,
baffles him. Again and again, while he’s under, drugged into a stupor
on the couch, he is there, winding through the trees, catching a
sudden glare to his left and then pulling back and raising his hands
and screaming.

He has the dream tonight.

When he comes to, it takes a moment for him to recover—not only from
the trauma of the crash, but the fluid pace of the dream, as well. He
sees the white of the cast on his leg, the gunmetal grey of his
crutches, the duller grey of the floor and walls and the hard black
panes of the windows, bare, as they suck in the country dark.

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"Unfamiliar Country" by T.S. Sharp (Short Story)

Genre:  Supernatural Crime

Short Story Type:  Short Story

Summary:  A short story about the grisly work of a hired killer whose work finally catches up with him.

A contract killer's work is complicated by an unwelcome visitation from his most recent job. Boyd's task was simple. Kill the man and bury the body. That was the easy part. Now Boyd has to grapple with his conscience, driving him to extreme measures deep in the Welsh countryside.

Excerpt:

Boyd walked the man up the sloping woodland ground to the pre-dug grave. His head was covered with a rough hessian sack, tied tightly around his neck, his arms bound behind his back. Propelled forward by Boyd, the man stumbled on the rotting leaf litter and exposed roots, trudging silently toward his fate. The walk was awkward and Boyd had to keep yanking him in the right direction like a dumb beast, but eventually they arrived at the deep hole cut into the moist earth of a remote wooded hillside.

He positioned the man where he wanted him alongside the grave, then kicked at the back of his knees to force him into a kneeling position. Mute and defeated he sat there, head bowed, looking like a man at prayer. Boyd pulled at the cords and untied the sacking covering his head, then yanked it off. The man blinked in the sudden light, saw the empty grave before him and looked up at Boyd. His face was swollen and bloodied from the beating he’d received to subdue him, his mouth covered with several layers of duct tape. He breathed heavily through his nose, blowing out small bubbles of snot and blood that inflated and burst every few seconds.

The man’s eyes bulged and widened as he saw Boyd raise his handgun. He flicked the safety catch off and levelled the gun at the man’s head. He could hear his strangulated cries through his gag, see him convulsing with terror. The man looked down at the dark earthy pit of the grave. Boyd pulled the trigger and shot him through the head. The sound crashed through the trees and foliage, down the wooded hillside and back again, washing over both of them and then receded to nothingness. The man toppled over to one side and lay there like nothing more than a pile of ragged discarded clothes.

Boyd breathed out heavily. He smelt the faint whiff of cordite in the air mixed with the sweet smell of oak and ash trees, bracken and holly bushes. He bent and picked up the spent shell casing from amongst the decaying leaves and put it in his pocket. He returned to the man and pulled his body out straight so that it was lying lengthwise alongside the grave. The man’s lifeless face turned to look upward through the gently swaying ceiling of tree cover, looking past Boyd with eyes half closed, glassy and dull. The right side of his head was shot away where Boyd’s bullet had made its exit, leaving a matted gore of blood and hair and bone fragments. He stood there for a moment, alone with his handiwork in the cool stillness of the trees. His work was all but complete now. With his foot he pushed the corpse into the grave where it landed with a dull thud, perhaps the last sound it would ever make.

He retrieved his spade from the undergrowth and moved alongside the heaped earth, thrust it into the mound and heaved his first spadeful into the hole and its new occupant. In the depths of the grave, perhaps five feet deep, Boyd could make out the man’s face tipped toward the sky, as if taking his last look at the realm above. Again Boyd paused in his work, regarding the dead man in his final indignity, having the cloying soil of a Welsh forest thrown on top of him, devoid of ceremony and ritual. Boyd swallowed hard. His mouth was dry and his lips were cracked and sore. He continued filling in the grave until it was level, then stamped down the earth, making sure to disguise his boot marks by brushing the ground with a leafy branch.

He patted the gun in his waistband for reassurance, feeling its solid weight against his side, then put the spade over his shoulder and retraced his steps through the tree-crowded pathways to his car. He found the whispering murmur of the trees all around him comforting. The seemingly infinite variations of green and the gnarled and twisted boughs spoke to him of an ancient and all but forgotten landscape, as if he was the first to rediscover it in a millennia. The rich, sweet smelling air helped to clear his head too, for which he was grateful.

Arriving back at his hire car parked on a lonely Forestry Commission track, Boyd opened the boot and threw in the spade, wiped his hands on some paper towels and climbed behind the wheel. He pulled his mobile from an inside jacket pocket and made a call to his employer.

“It’s done,” he said as soon as it was answered, then the line went dead.

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"Conflict of Interest" by V.H. Folland (Novella)

Genre:  Crime

Short Story Type:  Novella

Summary:  A new job, a fresh start, and things are looking up for Harry. Maybe going straight isn't so hard.

He didn't expect to stumble over a job aimed at his new employer, for the kind of money a crook could retire on. It should be simple enough: tell the police, let them arrest the criminals, claim a reward. Sorted.

Except Harry's not a snitch - and it's being organised by his mate...

When his old life meets his new job, Harry's going to have a few hard choices to make.

Excerpt:

"Heard you got two of Joe's boys nicked last night." Dave said it casually, over his beer.

"They the two that tried to mug me?" I took a mouthful of my drink while I thought about that little problem. Joe was a nasty piece of work, but then he'd say the same about me.

"That's right. They were meant to be casing the place, only to find you already robbing it." He grinned and I laughed, even while I swore to myself in my head. If they'd watched me working the place over last night they knew at least two ways to break in.

"Small world." Crap. My first security job, and there was already a professional crook targeting the offices. At least with a pair like that involved it wasn't going to be more than burglary – probably through the same window I'd used.

"He's not best pleased." Dave smirked and I shrugged, waving for another beer.

"Tough."

"Not with you. With the idiots who broke the plan 'cos they thought they'd get a five-finger bonus." I nodded. They might share the results of the burglary, but the chances of them handing anything they got off me to Joe were slight. He never took being stiffed well. "Hey, ask nicely and he might cut you in. Heard he's short-handed all of a sudden."

"Think I'll pass thanks. I've got a job already." Taking jobs with people who hated you wasn't bright. It was too easy for them to even the score somewhere along the way.

"I heard. Joe ain't going to be pleased, you working the same target."

"He can lump it. I'll be there for a while." Joe wasn't the one that got mugged, and I wasn't feeling sympathetic. If he was going to make my job complicated, I might as well return the favour.

"Yeah? So what's this about you working for 'em in security? Ain't they doing you for theft?"

"Nah." I grinned at him. "They paid me to nick the cash box."

"Jeez, Harry!" he spluttered into his pint, "I thought you were out of the insurance game after last time." I muttered something about it paying well, and dug into my pockets for a distraction. After ten years inside, courtesy of Inspector Rivers, I didn't have many career options. I was meant to be going straight, but old habits could be hard to get out of.

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