The Life We Lead: Ascending

  The Life We Lead

  Ascending

  George M. Nagle

  Copyright 2014 by George M. Nagle

  The Life We Lead series is copyrighted by George M. Nagle.

  Cover design by Kelly Pernell of pbj creative studios

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedicated to

  Marie Pauli Nagle

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “Ready to go, man?” asked Daen. He frowned slightly as he looked at his companion. “You look like you have a headache.”

  “Life is a headache, but yeah, let’s go.” James answered in a deliberately playful tone. Aware that he was showing his distraction more than he wanted to, he masked it as best he could.

  The pair walked out of the hotel room, and James locked the door behind them.

  Something was coming and James knew it. That slightly fogging feeling, like missing sleep or jet lag, combined with the tension in his stomach, was starting to build. Judging by the degree of tension he felt, this was going to be something big.

  He hated the feeling.

  Opening the door to the street a few moments later, a hard cold burst of snowy wind hit them.

  “Damn, man, this Russian weather is harsh. Glad this place is close. Ain’t made for this weather, man. I just ain’t. Feels like the air is freezing in my mouth. People shouldn’t live like this.” Daen’s voice was muffled beneath the coat collar he’d pulled up as far as it would go.

  James silently agreed as they walked the block and a half to the bar the hotel clerk, Natalia, had recommended as having good food.

  They had barely taken seats at the bar when two shot glasses filled with vodka appeared.

  His eyebrows high, a huge smile on his face, Daen said, “Now that’s service!”

  They picked up the shots and downed them. James didn’t normally drink at all, but he also believed that “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

  The old man behind the bar smiled and said in Russian slang, “Americans.”

  He clearly spoke English.

  “You are Ameri`cans, da?” A rather drunk, red faced man in his late forties with bright, blue eyes and short, sandy blond hair all but shouted to Daen and James in an intoxicated slur.

  “I know many Ameri`cans!” the drunk man told them. “I … I … I … have even been to your country. I must buy you drink!” The man turned to the barman and called for another round.

  “Thank you. That’s very friendly,” said James.

  “And welcome too, man. I need to warm up,” said Daen, and everyone chuckled.

  As the barman brought the drinks, James excused himself.

  “But, a moment, friend, your drink is here,” protested the drunk man.

  “Need to let some out before I take more in.” James smiled as he walked away. Russian culture, like many others, was very sensitive about drinking together.

  As James made his way along the dusky bar, he noticed how uneven the floor was. Only half the light sockets had bulbs. The tables were mismatched and the walls were covered with odd bumps that, in the poor lighting, made the wallpaper look like it was moving.

  A young lady of about twenty was tending to the back area where twelve other patrons were scattered. She wore a simple dress with an apron, flat shoes and had a rather plain face with dark brown, shoulder-length hair.

  As James passed her, he noticed a thin, gold chain hanging around her neck with a small golden emblem. It was partially covered, but it looked like a cross or maybe an “X” shape.

  “Could you tell me where the bathroom is?” he asked.

  The lady gave him a dazzling polite smile and looked toward the man tending bar as if seeking assistance. She clearly didn’t speak English.

  “Ah, where is the toilet?” said James in poor Russian.

  The girl said something in her own language and smiled again, turning her head in the right direction.

  James did not understand what she had said, but got the hint from her body language. As James turned in the direction she had motioned him toward, he heard the front door open and close, followed by a burst of cold air that swept the place.

  His eyes did as they were trained and immediately finished scanning the area for cameras, exits, or fire equipment, but all he could see was the entrance to the kitchen and a locked door that probably led to a storeroom. Going to the bathroom was just an excuse to get a feel for the bar, as he still had that slightly nagging, distracted feeling.

  Entering the bathroom, he found a small room with very old, but clean, fixtures. A mirror had a small crack in the lower corner over the sink, and the window was big enough to slip through, though the building next door would make it a tight exit.

  Exiting the bathroom, James noticed a small family that had come in to have what was probably a rare night out. Reaching his seat, he noticed that his glass was empty. He looked over at Daen, who leaned in and whispered, “Man, the guy next to you must use the five second rule on drinks. If it’s there any longer, he snatches it up like it’s open season. I don’t know how he’s sitting there. He’s already had four shots since we came in. What do you want to eat?” he asked in a louder voice, handing James a menu.

  James simply said, “Whatever you’re getting is fine.”

  Daen, who spoke Russian, placed the orders with the young lady serving food and was about to say something when the door opened again. “Damn, man, I’m not used to cold like this.” He shuddered as the door shut and the new customers passed by.

  “This, this is not cold,” said the drunk man next to James. “I have been in cold, and this is not cold. Moscow does not get so very cold like Siberia. The cold there is so bad that when you take shit, it starts to freeze before it hits ground. That is cold. Or when can’t go outside for a few days because your eyes might freeze if slightly touched with wind. I, Petior, I have been in this cold. It is nice here,” said the drink-snatching man who had bought them a round of vodka.

  “Damn, man, seriously?” asked Daen with astonishment.

  “Of course, seriously. I have been all over and never experience cold like this anywhere else,” Petior said, laughing. “It is where hell would go to be frozen over.”

  James and Daen introduced themselves, using their customary false names.

  “Stephen Lewis,” said James, shaking Petior’s hand.

  Daen nodded. “Bryan Douglas.”

  James and Daen rarely used their real names when they were together. Mainly because if they were together, odds had it they were on a mission for
the group. This spring break trip to Russia was no different, though both wished the weather was more like what most of their peers were no doubt experiencing.

  While they waited for the food, James, Daen and Petior were laughing and really enjoying getting to know each other in one of those rare moments that you instantly become friends with someone you just met.

  Dinner arrived, consisting of steaming potatoes, fresh fish with a light, tantalizing aroma, two different sauces, and what appeared to be coleslaw.

  James leaned over the counter to order another round of drinks, discretely communicating with the bartender to switch his out for water.

  The bartender clearly found this odd, given the face he made at James, but he played along. The bartender was very skilled at covering up the fact that James wasn’t drinking vodka like Petior and Daen.

  During the meal, Petior gave them a highlight of his best adventures in what seemed almost a biography.

  “Very early in Russia, you must be strong or weak. Not strong like Ameri`cans think. Their strong is like our weak. I remember when I was a boy, just start at school. An older boy was beating on each of my classmates. A new one each day. When he got to me, he got much more than he could deal. I remember, he pushed me and I was small and I hit very hard on the ground on my nose. See?”

  He pointed to one of the many low bumps on his crooked nose. “That is the first time it broke. I was bleeding and my friends were calling out. I lay there and he walked over me, his feet on sides of my body. He turn me over to face him and I kick very hard.”

  Petior started laughing in a deep, booming way, spilling half his drink on his sleeve. “Ugh, bad to waste drink,” he said as he began to suck it out of the fabric.

  “Well, what happened then?” asked Daen impatiently.

  “Oh yes, I kick him very hard in balls,” the man finished.

  Instinctively, James and Daen cringed, subconsciously grabbing their own groins, but laughing.

  “He collapse on top of me on his knees,” Petior said. “So as he fell, I turned quickly and hit him in the nose with my elbow. Blood all over, and he is lying there on the floor bleeding, very still for a moment. Everyone cheers for me. Then schoolmaster comes. He have to take other boy to infirmary, but he takes me to office. He ask what happened and I tell. He says I did what I had to, but he still have to beat me for the fight. He gave me five lashes. I have a mark still from one.” Petior stood up and grabbed for his belt as if he were going to show the mark.

  “Hey, hey man, no man. We believe you. We don’t need the visual,” said Daen quickly.

  James laughed and shook his head.

  The evening carried on this way for another two hours or so, the three men joking and laughing and thoroughly enjoying themselves. Daen was getting very drunk, while Petior did not seem to be any worse than when they’d come in, though he kept slipping in and out of Russian.

  James decided it was time to go. He paid the bill and covered Petior’s tab too, for which the Russian was very grateful. James half-carried Daen as they said farewell, and Petior insisted they have dinner again tomorrow, meeting up at the bar first at 6 p.m.

  Though James liked Petior, he was conscious of the fact he and Daen had a mission. Spending another evening with someone they’d randomly met didn’t sound like the best use of their limited time, but Daen agreed before James could say anything, so he went along with it. He knew Daen would be in rough shape the next day and wouldn’t want to stay out too late the following evening.

  The cold walk back to the hotel didn’t seem to bother Daen much, but James’s back was happy to drop Daen on his bed ten minutes later. Walking a drunken man who is taller than you home on ice is not an easy task.

  James turned toward the bathroom. He had taken a few steps when he heard the unmistakable sound of vomiting, followed by a splattering sound on the floor. He paused a moment, his eyes closed, as if praying for patience. Then a thud came.

  Daen had fallen off the bed and was trying to get up.

  James helped him up and steered him to the bathroom.

  “I think I’m going to be sick again, man. Why you putting me in the tub?” he groaned.

  “It’s a lot easier to wash down a tub than a floor and toilet and everything else if you miss,” said James.

  “Okay, man,” said Daen weakly before passing out.

  James turned Daen’s head to the side so he wouldn't choke if he threw up in his sleep, then cleaned up the vomit near the bed. He thought he might be sick himself as the smell of alcohol and that night’s dinner wafted up in the air. He reminded himself that Daen rarely drank around him out of respect for their friendship and decided that, in the big scheme of things, it didn’t matter.

  What did matter was figuring out how the heroin was being channeled within Russia and how the Italians were involved. It still didn’t make sense. Russia had its own mafia and hated the Italians. But somehow they were connected and aiding each other, according to the initial file they’d gotten from Tom at the group.

  The group was similar to a spy agency, but with a few distinct differences. One of the major ones was that the members tended to be in their late teens and early twenties. This allowed others to overlook them, under the assumption that they didn’t posses the skills to operate like they did. Age is often used to gauge experience and wisdom. This mistake was a key that the group capitalized on.

  Another difference was that the members were not employees, but more like volunteers. They were members because of the skills they already possessed but wished to develop further. Also they joined to expand their knowledge and abilities through the challenges that came with being a member.

  It also had a financial reward, since some operations did give access to funds nobody could report missing.

  However, like all things in life, they had to give up certain things that many of their peers enjoyed. Being able to hold consistent relationships or even fully disclose their lives to family and friends was not allowed. It also was dangerous if they did tell people about the group as it diluted the ability of the group to stay in the unknown shadows.

  Daen and James found themselves in Russia because they were at the beginning stages of investigating a major drug cartel operation. This particular investigation was the largest the group had undertaken.

  James had been selected because of his remarkable abilities. Among his skill set were strong observational skills, intense logical thinking, tenacity and a rather high set of morals.

  In turn, James had selected Daen because they always worked well together and because Daen spoke fluent Russian. James preferred to work in small groups and had vigorously argued that it should just be Daen and himself on this reconnaissance trip.

  This didn’t go over so smoothly, mainly because Daen, who was black, would stand out like a sore thumb in Russia. James actually felt this was an advantage, because it would allow them to hide in plain sight. No one would suspect a black man of being some sort of spy in Russia.

  Tomorrow would be a light day, James decided, as Daen wouldn’t be worth much in the morning. It would be a good day to walk around and just observe, and James knew where to start. He would start where he always did, at the bottom, and that meant the subway system with the people living on the streets.

  Just as James was climbing into bed, the sound of fluids hitting porcelain rang out as his friend emptied what little remained in his stomach. He shook his head and rolled over to get some sleep.

  ***

  The next day, after leaving Daen a note and enough rubles for some food, James went down to the subway station with his translation device in his pocket. To look more like a tourist, he wore his camera around his neck. He didn’t really need pictures, but the camera had a great zoom lens and helped him blend in more innocently. This morning was more about getting a feel for the environment, as he doubted many transactions took place this early in the day.

  The vast subway system was very busy. It had clearly been beautifu
l at one point, but now the detailed tile work showed signs of aging and dirt. The stained glass windows would fit perfectly in a Catholic church in Rome if only they depicted heavenly images, rather than the nature scenes that highlighted Russia’s natural beauty.

  The station was rather modern with vending stations and ticket machines, though cart vendors pushed their goods at everyone who walked by.

  The cart vendors weren’t the only ones commuters had to avoid. A few children were trying to sell candies and such, or were just flat-out begging. James watched them for a while and noticed a pattern. The kids never seemed to get too close to the cart vendors who had taken space on the walls; they seemed to have their own zones of operation. They also had the best zones near the bottlenecks of the station.

  A girl about six and a boy about the same age were positioned toward the entrance. The girl seemed to target men while the boy targeted women.

  Then came two girls. One looked to be eight, the other a little older. They crossed into the little kids’ area and caught those people the little ones hadn’t yet spoken to.

  Finally, a teenage boy with small objects and trinkets for sale approached people the other four had not; he too seemed to have an area.

  It looked like they were working as a team with zone coverage. More impressively, it seemed to be working.

  A young girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, suddenly came through the crowd. She grabbed the older looking of the two girls selling candy and screamed at her in Russian. James couldn’t see what the girl had done to offend the teenager, but the girl suddenly began hitting the younger one. The crowd gave them room, and no one made any motion to stop it.

  James moved toward them, but before he’d taken two steps, it was over. The older girl vanished while the younger one lay crying on the floor. As James reached her, she stood up, wiped her tears, and resumed her work. Looking down, James suddenly understood.

  A candy wrapper lay on the ground. The girl had eaten a piece of candy, and the older teenage girl was the boss, punishing her for it. Simple and swift. The older girl had done what she’d felt she had to do, but hadn’t gone overboard. The girl had accepted her punishment and returned to work. Perhaps this wasn’t what would happen back home, but it was a system of justice that allowed the kids to survive.