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  APEX RISEN

  The Redux Protocol Book 1

  Scott Medbury

  Also by Scott Medbury:

  The America Falls Series:

  Hell Week

  On the Run

  Cold Comfort

  Rude Shock

  Luke’s Trek

  Civil War

  America Falls – Occupied Territory Series:

  Lone Wolf

  The Messenger (A novella)

  Time Snare (A Novella)

  Contents

  Part 1 - The Delivery

  Part 2 - Myfriend

  Part 3 – Murder and Mayhem

  Part 4 – Redux

  Epilogue

  Copyright © 2019 Scott Medbury

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  All characters, corporations and events depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Previous edition published as “Inga”.

  APEX RISEN

  Prologue

  Kapotnya, Moscow – Russia Winter 2006

  It was cold in the ancient Mercedes. The air from the struggling heater was no warmer than the breath from her mouth. Her unrelenting talk grated every nerve in his body, but he let it continue, hearing but not listening, content that soon he would silence her for good.

  Finally, after an hour’s drive from his shitty neighborhood, he turned off the freeway and entered an equally shitty industrial estate. It was here he would end her life and dispose of her body in a dogfood factory.

  A fitting end for a cheating bitch.

  The drab buildings that marched along the road matched the gray day. If she was curious about why he had brought her to an industrial park on a Sunday, she didn’t ask; she just continued babbling about her friends and the inane things they had done during the week.

  Even when he finally pulled the lumbering vehicle over to the side of the road in front of the factory, she was oblivious. Ignorant of his dark mood. Oblivious to his intentions. Unaware that each word – each peal of her sweet laughter – twisted the knife of her betrayal further into his guts.

  Fucking bitch!

  At 17 years of age, Dimitri Molenski, already had a hard look about him. As thin and deadly as a worn razor, he was in fact, a psychopath. Like most psychopaths, he hid it well. He could be charming and adaptable, but ironically it was his bad boy persona, not his charm, that had attracted Inga Svenson to him.

  When they had been introduced at a party by her new friend Kristina, Inga – the daughter of the new Swedish ambassador – had immediately been attracted to his swagger, his rudeness and his clear disdain for her.

  The beautiful 18-year-old was not used to any man being rude to her. Indeed, she was the one normally showing disdain. Disdain for groveling boys her own age. For the middle-aged men who moved in her parent’s social circle, making no effort to hide their lechery. For the old men who leered at her when she was out and about.

  During a giggling visit to the ladies’ room during the party, Kristina had warned her that he was from the wrong side of the tracks.

  “He’s bad, Inga. There’s a rumor he even killed a man in the summer.”

  “Really?”

  Far from dissuading Inga, this information only made the mysterious Dimitri more desirable.

  “Can you imagine my father’s reaction if I brought a boy like that home?”

  They both laughed, although Kristina was secretly concerned that her friend would even consider such a thing. She would have been horrified to learn that Inga wasn’t just considering it.

  Within an hour, the beautiful daughter of a Swedish diplomat was kneeling at the feet of the small time Russian thug in a dark alley beside the nightclub, busily breaking down his disdain for her.

  Inga had been right. Her relationship with Molenski had indeed driven her father wild. But the more he raged, the more determined she became until, eventually, her mother stepped in, persuading her father to let it be.

  “She will tire of him in a few months, how could she not? He is a cheap little gangster. Look into his eyes - there is something dead in them… like the eyes of a shark. Our Inga will surely wake up from this spell he has her under but it’s important we don’t alienate ourselves from her. We must be there to pick up the pieces when it’s finished.”

  The ‘few months’ had turned into eight, and Inga had not yet tired of Dimitri Molenski. She was under the illusion that she’d managed to coax a softer side of him into the light. For his part, Dimitri tolerated her. Her father’s position and her glamorous beauty gave him an envied status among his peers. Of course, the sex was a bonus.

  He knew how to play the game, but occasionally his mask slipped. Those slips were scary for Inga, but rather than taking them as a warning sign, she tried all the harder to coddle him. To somehow make up for the difficult childhood that had no doubt molded him into this sometimes volatile, angry young man.

  Inga paused, finally aware they had stopped. She looked around, then back at her boyfriend.

  “You’re not saying much,” she said, in perfect Russian. “Where are we?”

  He turned and looked at her. His gaze was as cold as the air in the car.

  “Dimi, what’s wrong?” she asked, placing a hand on his arm.

  “Marat saw you.”

  “What?”

  “Marat saw you with the old man. Saw what you did in the carpark, you fucking whore!”

  “What? I don’t know what you’re talking…”

  SLAP!

  It was the first time he had ever struck her. Inga’s mouth fell open, a red hand mark taking shape on the flawless skin of her cheek almost immediately.

  “Dimi!” she said, tears filling her eyes. “Please, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She really didn’t. Inga had been faithful to Molenski the entire time they were dating. Unfortunately for her, the leader of Molenski’s gang, Marat, didn’t like the amount of time his lieutenant spent with her. It was interfering with his ‘work’ and costing the gang jobs and money.

  It was easy. All it took was a few whispered words. Molenski’s jealous streak and short fuse took care of the rest. Marat knew the stuck-up Swedish girl would cop a beating from Molenski, but she’d piss off back to daddy and live happily ever after once the bruises faded. Hell, he was probably doing her a favor.

  Even Marat, a career criminal who had spent hard time in prison, didn’t recognize just how deep young Dimitri’s ‘badness’ went.

  With her cheek stinging, the young Swedish girl finally did, though. Through her tears, she finally saw in his eyes that something inside him was broken, and when he produced the knife, she knew she was in serious trouble.

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Before she could open her mouth, his hand whipped the blade across her left cheek. Inga screamed and clapped a hand to her face, attempting to stem the warm blood that flowed through her fingers. She fumbled for the door handle with the other.

  He laughed and stabbed her in the left breast. Inga shrieked in agony and intensified her efforts to escape the vehicle. Molenski laughed harder. The stab wound was not deep enough to do any real damage; he intended to stretch this out as long as he could.

  “Dimi please!” she begged her sniggering torturer.

  Then he stopped laughing, and it was worse. He put the blade of the
knife under her nose. Inga’s hand froze on the door handle.

  “First I’m going to make you sorry you were ever born, and then I will send little bits of you back to Daddy.”

  In full survival mode, Inga pulled the door handle and simultaneously swatted the hand with the blade away as she desperately lunged from the car. As quick as she was, Molenski was quicker. He grabbed her soft blonde hair before she could escape and began to drag her back into the car.

  “I think your ear first,” he growled.

  Inga groaned in pain and with a strength borne of panic, jerked forward. Hard. She felt searing pain as her hair was torn out by the roots, allowing her to spill out of the car onto the cold concrete. She scrambled to her feet and ran, leaving a stunned Molenski with nothing but a fistful of hair.

  He was out of the car and after her in a flash, but she had a good start.

  The terrified, sobbing girl ran as hard as she could, her breath coming in hitching bursts that plumed in the cold winter air. Blood from the wound in her cheek poured down her face and splattered onto the concrete sidewalk, a gory testament to her flight.

  His running footsteps were closing on her.

  If only she could make it to the main road.

  Molenski was almost upon her, his knife in one hand, the other reaching out for the hair that trailed behind her like the ribbons of a fast flying kite.

  With one final effort, Inga opened the gap another inch as she rushed headlong into the cross street and… disappeared under a truck.

  Molenski skidded to a stop, fast enough to avoid the same fate as Inga, but not fast enough to avoid the truck altogether. He hit the side of the vehicle and bounced, flung back onto the sidewalk even as the driver slammed his brakes, locking up the wheels of the big truck which screeched to a halt, fifty feet down the road.

  The stricken driver jumped from his cab and grasped his head in both hands, wailing in shock. Molenski rose to his feet slowly, oblivious to the driver and the scattering of people that came running from their places of work. He had eyes only for the bloody, broken body in the middle of the road.

  There was no sadness or loss. Only a deep, raging fury that Inga had stolen his right to torture and execute her for her betrayal.

  The distraught driver began stumbling towards him, wailing.

  “I’m sorry, it was an accident; she came right out in front of me…”

  Molenski spat on the sidewalk before turning and walking away without looking back.

  Part 1 - The Delivery

  Chicago, USA - November 11, 2029

  1

  Ivan Petrovic stared at the TV without really watching it. He’d been dressed in his light cotton suit and tie since 7 am. Being up so early was a requirement of the job he’d performed since his late twenties, and even though he was rarely called before 8 am, just occasionally Dimitri Molenski, his boss, surprised him.

  Whether to catch him out or not, Ivan wasn’t sure, but it was hypothetical. Ivan had been ready for the call every time. He was diligent and disciplined when it came to his job and apart from his six weeks in the hospital after the ambush, he had eaten and dressed before 7am every single day of his long tenure as Dimitri Molenski’s personal bodyguard.

  Ivan stood up and walked to the kitchenette of his suite. The sink was clean. Had he already washed up from his breakfast? If so, he must have done it on autopilot. Then he remembered, yes, he had done it right after he finished his coffee. He smiled. So forgetful of the little things. It was a consequence of his induced coma. As the doctors had told him during his rehabilitation, one simply could not recover from the trauma of multiple gunshot wounds and near death, without some after effects.

  Still, physically he was fully recovered and if anything, fitter and stronger than before. If a little forgetfulness was the price to pay for escaping death, he was more than willing to pay it. He went back into the living room and sat down in front of the blank television screen to await the call.

  Ivan was a large man, tall and heavily muscled, but he moved with the grace of a big cat. His blond hair was shorn into a military cut, and his handsome Slavic face was serious most of the time. He had a year to run on this, his third, five year contract. This time, however, he wasn’t sure he could see it through to the end. It wasn’t the work itself. While it could be boring, there was nothing to complain about. He was earning a good salary, had a luxury suite in his employer’s mansion and got to see from the inside how a big, albeit only semi-legitimate, business operated.

  No, it wasn’t boredom or job dissatisfaction that was sapping Ivan’s tolerance for the job, it was Molenski himself. Or more to the point, the things he did or had others do in his name. And it was getting worse.

  He owed Molenski a lot. The mobster had taken him under his wing back in Russia when Ivan was only 15 years old. He had given him a job and a roof over his head and then paid for Ivan’s passage to America three years later. The payback had been Ivan’s absolute loyalty through good times and bad, from the early gang wars and struggles to the relative calm ‘business’ that was now the status quo.

  His near-death experience had lent him some perspective, though. The bodyguard had seen and done many bad things in the service of Molenski, but in the last two years, he had seen more personal violence, bloodshed, and murder than ever before. More even than during than the five-year gang war upon which Molenski had built his empire.

  Briefly, he’d thought things were changing. It had been relatively quiet the last few months, so much so that Ivan began to wonder if he should reconsider his plan. Perhaps the mob chief was finally beginning to mellow?

  The events of the previous night confirmed that nothing had changed though, the fleeting, bloodless period of calm was about to come to an ugly end. This morning, Molenski would be ‘talking’ to the man his security team had abducted the night before. If the Russian was true to form, it would end very badly for the man sitting in the basement.

  If there was one thing that eased Ivan’s burden of guilt, it was the fact that, generally, Molenski did bad things to other bad people.

  Unfortunately, that didn’t negate the fact that over the years, each bullet, each scream, each drop of blood, had chipped away at Ivan’s resolve and loyalty to his boss. Like a tooth that had been eroded by overuse, he was almost down to the raw nerve and was less and less immune to the misery inflicted by and for the Russian.

  Ivan kicked his thoughts around like a soccer player practicing for a big game. He knew it would be impossible to break his contract with Molenski without either running for his life or killing his employer. Both would be difficult, near impossible, given the resources at his employer’s disposal.

  No, it was better to see his contract to its bitter end and take the large sum of money he had been saving all his working life. Far easier to jet off somewhere, live by the beach and pay for some top-notch counseling to repair the damage done by his service to the brutal mob boss.

  Given Molenski’s ruthlessness, Ivan should perhaps have been concerned about his boss turning on him once the contract ended. He wasn’t. He had been around the Russian long enough to know that his warped moral code put business deals above all else. The contract between them was business and the Russian always honored those deals and expected the same of others.

  In fact, that was why the man currently sitting in the basement was in so much trouble.

  The phone rang.

  2

  Ivan loosened his tie and collar. The heavy steam of the bathroom had dampened the material of his suit and, compounded by his boss’s cigar smoke, made it hard to breathe. He surreptitiously checked his watch. One hour and twenty-seven minutes had passed.

  Surely he will be done soon.

  There was a knock at the door. The big man jumped to his feet, his hand reflexively reaching underneath his jacket. He stepped lightly to the door, with his hand on the handle of his hidden gun.

  Molenski, relaxing in his hot bath, didn’t move. He simply ble
w out a plume of cigar smoke and watched as it curled upwards, mingling and dissipating in the steam. To the casual observer, he may have appeared disengaged, perhaps more interested in his cigar smoke than the knock at the door. They would have been wrong.

  Of course, given the fact that the estate was watched over by twelve armed guards, a sophisticated security system and was also under 24-hour remote surveillance, he could perhaps afford to be relaxed, but Dimitri Molenski was a man who never left anything to chance.

  His hand moved imperceptibly closer to the folded towel on the arm rest of the tub, or more accurately, to the compact Ruger LC9 pistol in the towel.

  “Da?” Ivan called.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” said a woman’s voice. Ivan relaxed. “I tried knocking at the bedroom door, but no one answered. It’s Marina; please let Mr. Molenski know that his… delivery has arrived.”

  “Da, okay.”

  Her footsteps retreated.

  “Did you hear?” Ivan asked, his chiseled face neutral and hiding any curiosity he had about the delivery.

  “Dah,” said Molenski, waving his cigar and sending a sprinkle of ash onto the marble floor.

  The bathwater lapped at the heavy silver cross resting on his tanned chest as he took another drag of his Cuban.

  It was finally here. He felt a thrill of anticipation but didn’t allow it to manifest itself physically. Since his volatile, formative years in Russia, he had become a master of self-control. That was how he had become so successful, first in his hometown by taking out the leader of his gang, Marat, followed a few years later by wresting control of a major Moscow crime syndicate.

  Every move was thought out. Nothing was done on impulse. Nothing left to chance.

  Finally, when he arrived in America at age 30, it was that famous self-control that had helped him take down the Italians, the Triads and the Croatians, seizing organized crime in Chicago by the balls and within ten years making the city his very own ‘Russian empire’.