“Capture and Release”

The moon shone brightly over the trees above casting a world of shadows and illuminating pools of light on the ground below. A warm, gentle, Georgian breeze tickled the face of Helen Decateur, an affluent socialite, who instinctively brushed her long brown hair out of her face, exposing her clear skin and deep emerald eyes. Shutting the door of her Porsche Cayenne Turbo-S SUV, she advanced to the airport runway, eager but somewhat reluctant to meet her new body guard, straight out of the Kremlin in Russia.

“Elliot Cernasov, at your service”, the tall, muscular Russian introduced himself. Helen was impressed by the man’s civility and punctuality, close to on time in spite of the difficulties he’d had from flight delays. He was visibly sweating, due to his heavy Russian military jacket, and furry hat. He towered over her, and yet she got a feeling of protectiveness, not intimidation. She had to admit, she was impressed, even more so than when she had gotten the news while at college, all those years ago, that she had inherited her parent’s nigh limitless fortune in one fell swoop. During that time, more than anyone, Alfred, her old butler, had helped most. She was ecstatic that she had convinced him into staying, to care for her and help her through, especially by maintaining her family’s estate for her, until she could return permanently. She was forced to rise out of her memory, however, and dragged herself out. Her husband would be waiting.

The drive home was uneventful, and all Helen could do was ask Elliot about his past, his heritage, and life in general. She found him to be a serious type of man, about most things, his job especially. But, she had to admit, his laugh made her happy. Not as happy as her husband’s, certainly, but it was good to know that John had made a good choice of guardian. Elliot, too, was happy to know he would be working for a compassionate, loving couple, one in which it seemed they intended to “take him in”, regardless of what the husband might know of his past…

As they pulled up, they found Ernest Decateur, Helen’s husband, lying on the front yard, feet from the driveway, staring up at the beautiful, cloudless sky. “Hey, hon”, Helen said, in a soft voice, her slight Georgian drawl accenting the love in her voice. Ernest rose, and kissed her. “Just wanted to be here, to meet our new man!”, he enthusiastically said, rising easily and fluidly from the soft grass. He kissed her, softly, and moved to Elliot, holding his hand out to shake the massive Russian’s hand. Elliot, slightly surprised by the man’s apparent excitement, took Ernest’s hand into both of his, and shook solemnly. He had to admit-living with this couple, with a wing of the mansion to himself, should be interesting…

“Where the FUCK is that van!?!?”, exclaimed Vlad Troyostky, a Russian man, who was waiting for his friends. He had been waiting for almost an hour since his flight arrived, and his target had long escaped. He was pacing, and people coming off of other flights were staring, increasing his irritation. He shot a caustic glare at the other passengers who were waiting, as well as one who stared at him and his ranting, sending the poor man scampering away. A white van, loaded with at least three other people pulled up next to him, and honked, its horn sounding like a dying goose. Vlad opened the side door, and the men inside loaded his overly heavy bags, including one that jangled, like brass bells were inside. “Hey V! Popping in for a visit? Or is it business?”, asked Simon Belmont, the flamboyant British arms dealer, a well-known womanizer and generally a “smooth” type of guy. The man in shotgun called out to Vlad, and Vlad responded curtly, telling the man to, in no uncertain terms, to “Shut the fuck up.” John, the now red-faced man, turned forward again, and double checked the map. “Target lives about an hour from here, man.”, John pointed out. “And when do we start going?”, Vlad asked. Simon shifted the car into gear, and pulled out onto the highway, making his way straight for the Decateur Estate…

Dinner ended well, and the group moved around the house, showing Elliot his way around the house, and finally retiring to the first floor sitting room, lighting the fireplace and sitting to relax. The wind whistled around the window, gently caressing the entire property like a finger on silk. They spoke about Ernest’s upcoming trip, and Helen noted that Ernest needed a driver for later that night, to take him to the airport for his 11:00 flight later, which would take him to the starting point of his new promotional book tour. They said their “good nights”, and Elliot left with Ernest. Helen sat at the window for a while, looking out longingly for her husband and new guard, and hoped for their safety. Standing, she stretched her limber, shapely figure, and moved off to head towards her bedroom. She made herself comfortable, turned on the TV, and relaxed. She waited for Elliot to return, and hit the alarm switch in her room. Lying back, she propped herself up on some soft pillows, and watched some TV.

“Hey, V! We’re here, man.”, announced Simon, opening his door. The myriad thugs pulled their weapons from the bag that Vlad had managed to bring, rifles and shotguns abounding. Simon moved out, to find the alarm wiring, since he saw lights on in the house, and didn’t want to alarm whoever was actually in the house by setting off a blackout, as there was no storm. He found it, and sliced through the wiring, leaving the other wires intact. “Damn I’m smooth!”, he quietly exclaimed, as Vlad replied that he needed to be faster, or the payoff would be less. The price on Elliot Cernasov was high indeed, and Simon couldn’t help but lick his lips at the thought of his share. Well, his share, and the woman inside….

Helen awoke to hear the TV still going, a news report detailing the murder of an airport security guard railing on, in a boring tone. Helen turned off the TV, and sighed. It was 11:00, and Elliot had not yet returned. She found that she liked the immense Russian, but sensed he was hiding something. “Whatever it is, I hope eventually he’ll be comfortable enough to share…”, sighed Helen, wistfully. She heard a car ignition stop, and hit the button to unlock the front door and cellar door, expecting Elliot to announce himself. The voice she heard over the speakers wired throughout the house was Russian, but completely devoid of the warmth and care of Elliot’s.

“Stay where you are, and you will continue to keep your life, as well as safeguarding your husband’s. Move, or attempt to escape or call for help, and we will kill you, slowly, painfully, and degradingly. Then, we will slaughter everyone you hold dear, piece by piece. Then, and only then, will you die at my hand.”, Vlad commanded and warned. Simon led a group of thugs outside, and left orders with John, their American-born lookout, to shoot and apprehend anyone that came up to the house. John nodded, and the group, led by Simon, fanned out to find Helen. When they did, they found her sitting on her bed, back rigid, and with as much dignity as she could muster. Simon whistled appreciatively. “I’m gonna enjoy her…”, he whispered. He lifted his walkie-talkie, and informed Vlad that “Target number two has been found, and captured”. Vlad gave the order to wait, and continued his search of the house.

Elliot pulled up slowly, headlights off, sensing danger at the estate. He spotted the lookouts, two inside, and one between the cellar and front door. He recognized the layout, as well he should have…he had been part of a similar operation, once. And he had an idea as to who it was that was after him. He exited the truck, prayed, and crept up on the unsuspecting lookout. He slinked up behind the man, and deftly snapped the first and third vertebrae in his spine, rendering him dead in less than an instant. Elliot dragged the man’s limp corpse into the bushes near the cellar door, and crept inside. Inside the cellar, he heard two men talking loudly. He exited, and took the lookout’s handgun, which was engraved with the name John Hardingson. He grimaced, knowing he just killed an ex-military scout, but smirked at the man’s incompetence. “Lack of training will do that to you…”, Elliot thought to himself. He took the gun, lined up a shot through a wine barrel, and fired a single 9mm round into one of the guards, striking him square in the right sinus. His second shot proved fatal, as he struck the man in the heart as he reared back in pain. The thug’s partner reached for his AK-47SU submachine gun, but never got the chance to use it, as Elliot caught him in the left eye with a bullet, the round exiting out the back of his head. The small amount of noise echoed in Elliot’s ears, due to his heightened sense of awareness, the adrenaline pumping into his muscles, lungs, and heart, while his cool, calm, other personality took hold. The other’s training would do well here, and it was looking forward to a game….

Vlad was sitting in the sitting room, sipping a cognac, and waiting for the report from the men as to what was going on with Helen. He thought her beautiful, but unlike Simon, he could actually exercise restraint. So he perused the shelves of books lining all four walls of the fire and moonlit study, looking for something, anything, to calm his nerves. He knew Elliot would be back soon, within the hour, and needed something to calm him, so he could actively plan and switch plans in an instant. Vlad was a man who kept many, many plans, always shifting, like sand in an infinite sea. But right now, he was nervous. He had spent so much time figuring out Plan A, that he had only a half-assed Plan B. So here he was, knowing Elliot’s capabilities, and attempting to maneuver another plan out of his labyrinthine mind, counting the minutes along with the grandfather clock in the corner…

Elliot popped out the magazine from the 9mm at the top of the cellar stairs, and counted the shots he had left. He still had 12 rounds from the 15 round clip, and now he also had a knife, a walkie-talkie set to listen only mode, and an AK-47SU, with a full 30 rounds. He listened at the door, and heard the trained, cold, calculating voice in his head whirr softly as he “breathed”, and counted out the men on the other side. He counted two, one by the kitchen counter, and one at the window. He burst through the door, shot the one at the counter square in the forehead with the 9mm, painting the pristine white wall a deep crimson, and then jammed the knife up and under the other man’s floating ribs, piercing through his side, before Elliot pulled the knife out and gave the man a Jack the Ripper style slash, cutting the jugular vein and carotid artery on either side, killing the man noiselessly and quickly. The other in Elliot’s voice was soaking up the violence, analyzing it, and dissecting it, to continue to subconsciously plan. He snickered inside Elliot’s head, and together, they continued towards Helen’s room…

Helen glared at Simon as the young Brit moved forward with tape to secure her arms. “If you have all these thugs, and guns, why do you need to tie me?”, asked Helen, a slight tremor of fear evident in her voice. “Why? ‘Cause we do, lass. Tha’s all.”, remarked Simon, the eagerness in both his voice and eyes clearly apparent. Helen decided to use that to her advantage, and seduce him. “Aw, what, sugah? You into bondage or somthin’?”, she breathily asked, notice a reaction in his pants. “Well, no, but boss’ orders…”, Simon replied. He leaned in close, and she smashed her glass against his face, and then stabbed him with the shards. He fell to the floor, and she pounced on the young man, taking his head and smashing the back of it into the floor, until it was a sopping mush. She stood up, and took in the horror of what she had done, freaking out. She turned, flailed her hands a bit, and took off running, smashing the doors open so hard that it knocked one of the sentries unconscious. The other one, recovering from the blow, aimed his M4 Carbine at her, fired, and missed. Pissed, he took off after her, chasing her into the West Wing of the mansion.

Elliot moved upstairs stealthily, sneaking up on the last lookout, placed at the front window. He stabbed the man upwards, through the spot where skull and spine meet, ending the thug’s life instantly. Elliot took a clip for his 9mm, and moved on. He saw the unconscious man outside Helens room, and lifted his foot. When he brought it down, the man’s head was no more, smashed to pieces on the expensive marble of the hall. He flattened himself against the wall, then swung inside, 9mm held out and at the ready. He saw the carnage, and knew he had to get to Helen. Based on where the unconscious man had been, he calculated that she would move for the West Wing. He looked for the stairs to the third floor that Helen had in her room, at the back of her walk-in closet, and ascended them, heading for the West Wing, third floor.

Vlad snapped awake. “Gunshots? No…that cannot be, can it? Damn it! How could I have fallen asleep, with Elliot, of all people, as my nemesis?”, Vlad questioned. He rose, and pulled his .50 caliber Desert Eagle from his shoulder holster. He cocked it, and left the sitting room, headed for the front hall, and the subsequent stairs. He got to Helen’s room, and was shocked when he saw the headless corpse at the entrance, and the mangled corpse of Simon. He rushed out of the room, and realized he had not run into the front lookout. “Has he eliminated so many, so soon? I shouldn’t be surprised, given the trained personality inside his head, but still…he is evidently viewing this as a bloody game!” Vlad was furious. He heard another gunshot, to the West, and took off running in that direction.

Helen was gasping. “That bullet was too fucking close! Lucky I made it up the stairs to the West Wing when I did!! Why me?! Why?!”, she gasped, breathless and in tears. “Where is Elliot? This is his JOB, damn it!”, she thought, ideas racing through her head at insane speeds. She crouched in the closet, and heard a gag, and a sickening pop and splash. Someone else had obviously met death, and she bet it was the thug who had chased her, but it couldn’t be at Elliot’s hands. “How is it, that in the span of a half hour, I have gone from being unable to imagine death, to sickened and well acquainted with it? Am I now a monster?”, Helen wondered. She heard footsteps in the room, and in the name of safety, stayed crouched, hidden in the closet.

Elliot wiped the blood of the last thug from his hands, and discarded the 9mm. it had jammed when he had put it against the burly man’s skull and pulled the trigger. He scanned the room, and noted that nothing looked disturbed. More likely that the thug had lost Helen, and was checking every room on the third floor. He shrugged, and left, heading for the center of the West Wing, the foyer.

Helen peeked out of her hiding spot, and noticed the gun nearby. She grabbed it, and ran for the only room she knew that had a phone, easily accessible-the third floor foyer…

Vlad roared, when he saw the damage the bullet from the M4 had done to the banister of the ornate stone handrail of the West Wing stairs. He dashed upstairs, and noticed two sets of bloody footprints leading away from what appeared, to him, to be a spare bedroom. He sprinted in their direction, leaving no time for planning. He had to eliminate both the woman and Elliot, and he had to do it quickly...

Elliot passed through the foyer, to do a sweep of the adjacent rooms. He heard slight footsteps when he was three rooms away, and swung back, hearing Helen’s slight drawl, although he couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. He made it to the door of the foyer when he heard a gasp…

“Please pick up, please pick up…”, Helen whispered. The line went into a busy signal, and she quietly cursed small-town cops and their inefficiency. She heard heavy footsteps, and swung around, aiming her pistol at the door, to confront whoever it was that was coming…

Elliot smashed through the door, to see Helen pointing a familiar looking gun at him…”Nyet! Do not…” He never got a chance to finish the sentence, as the jammed 9mm backfired, sending the bullet straight into Helen’s heart, killing her. “She was so close to rescue…”, Elliot wept. But the other, the cold, mechanical, calculating figure in his head continued to plan. There was someone else coming, at high speed, down the hall. Elliot rose, and fired the AK-47SU at the wooden door, striking someone low. Vlad burst in the door! “Congratulations, you sly dog! You managed to cripple me! The KGB implanted personality is still in effect, I see!”, Vlad commented. Elliot simply stared. Why would his former trainer and handler, no, his own brother, come after him? He couldn’t fathom it. Vlad laughed, and said “This is goodbye. Mom needs the money, and so do I. Besides, you never did want heroism and adoration like I do…” Vlad aimed his Desert Eagle, but never got the chance to fire it, as Elliot emptied what was left of the AK-47SU’s magazine into his brother’s chest.

“What do I do now? I am a monster, again!!” The other personality whispered to him to stop blubbering, to accept his “talents”, but Elliot shakily threw away the empty AK-47SU, and crawled over to Helen’s limp body, sobbing. He cradled her small porcelain colored frame in his massive hands, and wept. When he heard the sirens, however, he knew how it would look to the police, so he took the combat knife, and stabbed himself, right through the soft spot behind and under the chin. As he did, as he aimed and thrust the knife that would end his life into his skull, he swore he heard the beginning of “Moonlight Sonata” playing, somewhere beyond him. It was a fitting song to play, as the grandfather clock initiated it’s midnight chord, wired to the speakers in the house…