Chapter 3

A Costly Escape

Slowly, ever so slowly, the door opened in Luciano’s room and in crept a silent killer, a stealthy murderer, a professional hit-man who has obviously got much experience in the field. A rare kind.

Too late, Luciano noticed this movement and before he could do anything the man wound cheese wire around his neck and slowly started to choke Luciano to death. Gah, he’s got me, damn, gotta get him off my neck. Grasping at the cheese wire around his neck he struggled to get a breath of air. Slowly it came away from his neck and Luciano could breathe again.

One swift punch at his oppressor and he was free. Now he could let his brute-force and aggression come to bear. Strangling the would-be assassin with one hand he punched him straight in the face with the other, repeatedly, until he was dead or unconscious. Picking him up he whispered a promise right in his ear, a promise of malice and vengeance if he tried anything again, “You come after me and Vostok again, you little worm and you will know true pain.” Then he threw him back to the ground.

Furious, he barged through his door and walked straight to the room of Spyro Salonen. Through the labyrinthine corridors of the institute he walked, fire in his eyes and boiling blood in his veins. He was extremely annoyed; woe betide anyone he comes in contact with.

Besides the door were five guards armed with Uzis and MP-60s, with an eight-clip Beretta for close combat and self defence. Not thinking he walked directly towards them, took out his pump action shotgun and pumped two shots into each of them, watching them all slowly slump to the floor. “Losers,” he muttered mockingly under his breath.

Listening by the door he thought he heard a small army of guards harassing Spyro. Looking closer he thought he saw Spyro chained up to the wall with seemingly unbreakable ropes. “So, where is the little runt you sent after our boss, boy?” someone with a Jamaican voice shouted, “Answer me, man.”

A tired and beaten Spyro sort of smiled and laughed, “Probably doing what he was meant to do, finishing him off, killing him and freeing the world from such a parasite.

“Do you want to face more torture, we’d gladly administer some more to you.”

“Get lost copper!” Spyro spat in his face. “You won’t break me, I’ve been tortured by people more often then you’ve had hot dinners,” looking at a big, round American he adds, “And you’ve probably had quite a few.”

The American guard punches him in the stomach, lifting Spyro off the ground. “Hah, so where is he, huh? You gonna tell me or do I have to beat it out of you?”

Spyro gets all the power he can into his left foot and kicks the American right where no-one should have the discomfort to be kicked. Cringing, the American drops to the floor, cursing silently through the pain.

For that Spyro gets charged on by the guards and attacked from all sides, left almost hanging unconscious. The Jamaican lifts up his head and holds him by the ear. Whispering with malice coursing through his voice he says, “Well, where’s the little errand boy, then? Tell us if you don’t want to get even worse.”

Knowing that he was going to spill everything to them soon he decided in a last ditch effort to take them down the wrong route he started to say a pack of lies. “I…”

Barging through the door in the nick of time was Luciano with so much force it flew off its hinges. The 2 guards directly behind the door flew backwards into the wall on the other side. Spitting with rage Luciano swung a left hook and an uppercut at the Jamaican’s still smirking face. He was propelled a few metres in the air then Spyro kicked him in the back, right into Luciano’s waiting elbow. You heard his ribs crack and he started coughing blood on the floor.

Luciano shoved every guard out of his way to get to Spyro. Unhooking him from the ropes he fell to his hands and knees, groaning in pain. “That was close, too close. I almost gave in that time.” Smiling faintly he whispers “Must be going soft.”

As he watched the jackals circle around their victim, intent on scavenging on whatever they could, Luciano thought of a last ditch plan that might, just might get him, and Spyro, out of there alive, or at least allow him to take care of a few more guards before crunch time.

Grabbing the nearest guard to him he threatened, “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot his damn head off. Come any closer and the odds will be one more in our favour.”

The guard garbled something in sheer fright, hoping his mates would have a shred of remorse, or at least a sympathetic feeling and let them get away unharmed, and with his neck still firmly attached to his body. “Please don’t let me die, please, please, have mercy on my soul, please don’t let me die.”

“Is that the best you can do?” a German ex-soldier asked. “We would sacrifice ourselves to capture a victim. You won’t get any help from us. In fact, you guys circle the big-guy. I’ll take on the martial arts weed.”
Going for Spyro the German brought out some cheese-wire and Luciano’s hostage ended up a smoking heap of blood on the floor. “Told you I would shoot him.” The German simply shrugged his shoulders and walked purposefully towards his intended victim, still trying to regain some pretence of consciousness.

Realising he was as close as he’d ever be to dying, Spyro concentrated on the German in front of him, trying to find any weakness, hidden or apparent. He gave up, trying to find weakness in someone when you had barely regained focus was an almost impossible job. Remembering his katana in the back room he sprinted as fast as his weakened legs would carry him and brought it out.

It was curved and slightly thin, but the blade was so sharp it could cut straight through the bark of a fully grown tree. He did a few experimental swings while the German was edging closer towards him, then did a double somersault and cut through the top of his head, from nose to skin on the other side. The German slowly slumped to the ground, but before he did he shot right into Spyro’s pelvis. The pain woke him up, sending waves of agony up to his brain, he groaned then he fainted, blacking out for a long time.

 

Meanwhile, Luciano was swinging one of the guards around by his long hair. Round and round he went, more and more hairs flying out and more and more screams and curses as he went through more and more revolutions. Turning green he abruptly stopped cursing, started to retch and was sick, churning out yesterdays well digested lunch. Letting go, Luciano watched silently as he flew straight into another guard, knocking him flat on to the ground.

Almost instantaneously he heard the countdown of a bomb, slowly, uncaringly ticking its way down the numbers, bleeping as every second went by. “Oh, no!” screamed Luciano. He picked up the almost critical Spyro and ran his way through the labyrinth. One way or another, he would get out of here. The question was; alive or dead.

Everyone was evacuating, or at least, attempting to evacuate, and going, even for a seasonal veteran like Luciano, was tough.

The guards that were ‘looking after’ Spyro came out of the room and followed, shooting whenever Luciano and Spyro got within range. They all missed, I mean hitting a moving target moving away from you is tough, but you’d have thought that at least one would’ve hit.

No such luck, though. Luciano used the few remaining shots of his Luger to take out a few of the guards in the front, temporarily increasing their cautiousness, but not for long. Soon the chase was on in earnest and the guards continued to shoot at Luciano and Spyro until they’d ran out of bullets. Sprinting, they slowly caught back up with Luciano and quite soon, sooner then they’d expected, they had surrounded him and his friend.

“The odds are out of your favour, you big oaf. Surrender, or be punished for your mistake.”

“Believe me, I could take you on with my eyes closed and my hands stuck in my pockets. Not only that, I could still beat you.
Outnumbered I may be, but like the bear, I take out far more wolves then they take me.”

At that exact moment he grabbed the nearest guard by the throat and snarled, “You may take me down, but I’m taking you down with me, sucker!” Pulling back his arm he threw the guard at the nearest wall. You heard a crack, which you can only assume was the breaking of a skull, and saw a small, head shaped indent in the wall.

Like a pack of hungry wolves they started to hit and run, attacking then quickly getting back out of range before Luciano could hit them back. Anger started to surge through Luciano, outnumbered and the enemy was pressing every advantage Luciano didn’t have. He hand swiped one of the guards and sent him flying backwards, his body twisting slowly in the air.

Taking out his rifle he quickly grabbed the muzzle of his gun and swung it around wildly. Striking one across the head, he heard a loud crack and smiled, “Another one bites the dust.”

Five were left; all were slightly more wary then before. “I’ve got you guys on the ropes. So far I’ve defended brilliantly and you can’t get through the barricade. You guys had better be ready for round two.”
 

While Luciano and the guards were battling, Spyro finally drifted back to consciousness. It took him a while to focus back on the world, and even then it was a bit of a blur. Steadying himself by the wall he eased himself up, gasping for air which he was denied while out cold. Suddenly it hit him, This building is gonna blow any minute now, I’ve got to sacrifice myself to save my friends.

Using his hearing he pinpointed the rough direction of the bleep and ran towards it. Still bleeding heavily he ran as fast as his battered body could take him as he hurtled himself through the labyrinth. As the bleeps came louder he knew he was close. In front of him were two pass ways, one to the left and one to the right. He had to choose one, to save his friends.

Either way he wouldn’t get out of here alive, he knew that now. He could still save his friends, though. Which way? I thought I knew this place like the back of my hand. Hell, which way?! The bleeps started to get louder again, entering the final stage.

Right, has to be. Gunshots started ringing all around him. Of all the nerve. Sneaking in the shadows he ran towards the shooter, then elbowed him in the stomach. Collapsing on the floor, he choked and sputtered. “Idiot!!!” Running with a superhuman effort and speed he ran through the right passage. Only a few minutes to disarm the bomb. This was gonna be close. He found it, bleeping happily away, signalling doom to all who knew it was there.

One minute, all I have is one minute. Ghah! This is impossible! Sweat was trickling down his forehead, as he pressed the code and cut the wires to disarm the bomb. Cutting the green wire he then pressed the code X1304. Slowly the bomb disarmed, six seconds remaining.

Staggering, he ponderously made it through the labyrinth, almost fainting with the effort.

Waiting at the other end were three armed guards, sneering and smoking whatever gunk they’d cooked up. Cocking their Kalashnikovs, they aimed right at Spyro. Most shots missed but the ones that hit were quite deadly.
 

Back to Luciano though, he had taken care of all the remaining guards, all bloody remains on the floor. Grabbing an ancient MP-43 assault rifle he ran through in the rough direction he presumed Spyro went, he was a bit pre-occupied at the time. Roughly going in the direction he heard the bomb from he ran, strafing through the labyrinth that is the Vostok Institute.

After what seemed like hours he met up with the guards who almost slayed Spyro, smoking away on their current fix. In an almost dreamy state they turned around and looked at their next opponent. In surprise their mouths slowly opened and dropped the drugs they were smoking.

1 shot each to the head finished them off and by the end they were bloody heaps all contorted on the floor.

Somehow he managed to revive Spyro, and slowly he opened his eyes and spluttered, coughing up blood. “I did it. One minute and I did it, almost broke my own record. It’s too late for me, Luciano, too late for me, but it’s not too late for you.”

“No, you’ve got to be kidding; I’m not leaving you here, not now and not ever. Even if you die, you’re going to be dying in my attempt to save you. I’m not going to quit yet, and I’ll be damned if you die under my watch.” A burning intensity appeared in his eyes, his eyes slowly misting over, glistening softly and he turned away. “I’ll be damned, you saved me and this Institute, I’m damned if I don’t save you now.”

“Too late! Anyway, you already have saved me, and all the people who work here as well, you’ve also made sure that Gustav still has a family, it might not be his real one but it’ll be the closest thing he’ll ever get to a mother and a father, and a brother.”

“Keep awake, Spyro, I’m still not done yet. Hang on with your life.”

At that moment Luciano gently raised him on to his shoulder and quickly carried him through . Slowed slightly by the weight of the almost dead Spyro he ran, shuffling slightly as he struggled to keep the limp Spyro balanced on his shoulders.

“You still hanging in there?”

There was a slight grunt of affirmation from his shoulder as he ran. Picking up the pace, he skidded through the nearly demolished institute. Nearly meaning, almost obliterated into tiny molecular sized pieces. Using the map of his mind he wormed his way through the passageways, one false move and Spyro could be dead before he got any help.

Still barely clinging on to consciousness he gritted his teeth and through the dull pain muttered, “Your delaying actions before were what saved the institute, I just used my explosives skills to finish the job.” Whimpering slightly through the pain he spoke what would most likely be his last words to anyone, let alone Luciano. “Remember that you saved us, Luciano, I just helped put the final nail in the coffin. Tell Gustav that he was the best student I ever had, and tell him about his brother.” Finally, he slumped into the darkness of twilight and unless he got help, extremely fast, night would soon fall.

Damn you Spyro, just a few more minutes and we could’ve got help for you. He slung Spyro right over his shoulder and ran off, trying to get out. The building might not explode any minute but he still had the life of his friend hanging in the balance.

 

Outside there was an Apache helicopter which Gustav had conveniently borrowed off Gregor, and along with the Welshman who’d saved his life, had piloted to the Institute to warn them that Gregor was after them. Of course most of Vostok already knew, having a narrow escape from a bomb which almost blew in their faces.

Meeting light resistance from the rest of the guards in the area they used the front mounted machine gun to mow them down. Landing was an easy job for the Welshman, his codename: Dafs. As soon as they landed and their engines were off they were met with a bit more resistance. Whipping out his few remaining daggers he threw them at their new enemies. Three daggers, three shots, three dead men lying on the floor.

Now, it was Dafs’ turn to attack. Picking out his HK-33 assault rifle from off his back he moved into position behind the Apache, loaded his gun with a 7mm clip and gave a small burst of fire. Picking off two, he leant back on the Apache to shorten his profile as the remaining fighters returned fire. As they reloaded Gustav took out his Luger Mk20 and shot three bullets at the enemy, two in the chest and 1 in the head. Checking his pockets for anymore clips he ducked back behind the helicopter. “I’m out of ammo, daggers and all.”

One of the daggers flew directly at Gustav, just hitting the armoured body of the Apache defending his neck. He patted it gently, picked up his dagger and threw, a loud grunt of pain emanated from the guard that threw the dagger and slowly, wincing with pain, took the dagger out of his shoulder. Red blood oozed out from the gaping wound and he cursed, whimpering softly.

His pain coursed through the shoulder and he grasped at it. Slowly, rage replacing the pain he picked up his gun, took quick aim and, gently placing the butt of his gun on the uninjured shoulder let rip with a hail of fury. Once he’d used up his bullets he reloaded, anger refusing to let him hide. The loud click of his gun being reloaded brought a quick, evil smile to his face.

Dafs let rip with his weapon. Ducking and dodging the angered guard showed a small amount of surprise then with a cold and calculating fury shot at him, missing his head by millimetres. “This is it, Gustav, our fight is done, we’re finished.”

The guard walked slowly, with a deadly purpose around the Apache, advancing on the now defenceless would-be saviours of Vostok. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you, give me one good reason why I should let you suckers live.”

Out of the doorway, a panting Luciano walked out, staggering slightly under the weight of Spyro. “I’m the reason you should let them go, punk! I’m Luciano Boccielli and unless you let them go, you’re mincemeat.”

“Luciano Boccielli? The only Luciano Boccielli I knew died when I was twelve, drowning in the lake by our old town. He was eighteen at the time, he drowned. My brother drowned and I couldn’t save him.”

“You did everything you could.” Luciano said, feeling all the love and respect for the brother who saved his life.

“How do you know, you weren’t there! He, he, you have no defence, my brother is dead, we even had his funeral, even though his body wasn’t there.”

“Believe me, I was, I was the eighteen year old drowning in the lake, and it was the quick actions of my twelve year old brother that managed to tip the balance in my favour. If it weren’t for him, the doctors wouldn’t have found me in time. Of course, I was in a coma for the next few weeks but accidents do happen.”

“Oh, yeah? Tell me then, if you're my brother, what colour was the water that you drowned in and how close were you to dying.”

“Like I said, I nearly died, I ended up in a month long coma, the water itself was fairly clear, but it had an unidentified chemical substance in it, later the doctors assumed it was a largely unknown toxin called P2O3, a highly deadly form of potassium oxide. Tell me, what happened to the girl who was down there with me?”

“She had no chance, like you. Unlike you she didn’t make it. She died on the way to hospital, the substance starting a bodily reaction that slowly shut down her bodily functions. I believe her last words were ‘Where’s Luciano, I want to see him. What happened to him?’ Of course I told her what I believed to be the truth. When I’d finally finished she’d started to cry and simply said, ‘Well, either way he’s gone, I’ll see him in, ah, heaven.' Then she simply slumped. We all presumed she’d died, the doctors turned off the life-support system but, even though we had a funeral, she was missing.”

Luciano slumped slowly on the Apache, “Have you got any medical skills? It’s just that I don’t want another friend of mine dying while I can’t do a thing about it. Can you save him?”

“Medical advisor to Yugorovski’s mercenary army until around a few minutes ago. I’ve got the skills to delay his death, but unless you’ve got hi-tech medical equipment on that killing machine over there, you’ll have to wait until we gat him to hospital. I can temporarily freeze his body for a few minutes. I need a small dosage of liquid nitrogen, around 3.2 milligrams.”

Luckily for them the helicopter had ammunition with the required dosage of liquid nitrogen. “Ok, Giordino, you do what you can. We’re airlifting Spyro to the nearest hospital; hopefully they can save him before it’s too late.”

“Ok, you two knuckleheads, pilot this baby home. It’s airlift time.”

This Apache was extensively modified, the only part of it still factory-spec was the radar system, and the only reason that wasn’t changed was because it was the best they could get. Its engine was tweaked beyond the safety parameters and the cooling had to be upgraded to, you guessed it, liquid nitrogen, as it was the coldest of non-volatile elements.

Thus the speed was extended from 193 mph to 241. Its front mounted gun turret was turned into a thousand round armour piercing machine gun. It also had side mounted rocket-pods and the prototype shield projector Yugorovski had been working on.

As for that piece of equipment, it has a niggling problem with it; it disengaged when a beam of artificial light hits it. So much for cutting-edge technology, but that was why it was called a prototype. Prototype means, in layman’s terms, that it’s something that’s still in the development stage. Well, it had a long way to go to fix that problem.

Apparently that bollixes up the projector itself as it works with waves of artificial light, an artificial wave from a different source distorts it so that holes start to appear in it. When the shield integrity is down to 80% it switches off to repair itself. A good idea, just not one that’d see much light in a combat zone. And neither would its pilots.

Another problem is that, even though it can apparently de-atomise small objects the things which are human sized just get slightly frazzled. Not much use against a missile, or a tank shell, if one got close enough. Every small object that hits weakens the shield slightly, each bullet knocking off 0.18% of the shield integrity. Not much, but remember, all that the person shooting needs to get the shield down to is 80%. Of course it would be easier to send an AMRAAM missile after it, but if you haven’t got one all you can do is gun it down by pepper spraying it with bullets until the shield falters. Once that happens, just a few shots in the right place, boom, and one less helicopter to worry about.

Enough about the helicopter specs, now it’s back to the flying. Easterly winds were making heading in the right direction difficult, even for a helicopter of this calibre. Luckily for them, the nearest hospital was a few miles away. Then, for Gustav and Dafs, Luciano and Giordino it would be time to go their separate ways, for now at least, to minimise the danger.

From the rear of the helicopter the low thrum of an approaching jet came louder and louder. Quickly it let off one of its missiles. “We’ve got company and it’s not friendly. It’s trying to blow us out of the sky. Only three more missiles left after this one, though. We’ve still got a chance to show them we’ve got teeth.”

There was no way the helicopter could outrun the missile, but it could outmanoeuvre it. After a lot of jinxing and turning the missile behind them exploded, knocking the helicopter momentarily out of control. The pilot of the Su-29 let another missile go, knowing that in close combat the Apache could prove deadly.

Firing its last two in succession it flew away to a safe distance to witness the firework display. What it saw was un-comprehendible, the helicopter jinxed and juked it’s way through, miraculously dodging the incoming missiles then shooting one of them down. The odds were evening up, targeting another missile it let two of its rockets go in a quick burst. No chance of any escape the missile flew right into them and exploded, three bright flashes briefly brightening up the sky.

Using the front mounted gun-turret it sprayed the last one with deadly needles, each piercing the metallic shell of the missile, destroying the core inside. One last explosion and then the Apache targeted the plane with the last six of its wing mounted rocket pods, and shot, twenty-four heat-seeking rockets speeding towards the Sukhoi fighter-plane. Probability of successful evasion: nil, all the pilot had time for was an ear-piercing scream.

Finally, a few miles left to go to the hospital and they made it unhindered. After hearing confirmation that Spyro would just about survive, even though he’d be out of it for months, they left, Luciano and Giordino getting a rental car and driving back to Vostok. Gustav and Dafs still had a long way to go to get back to Italy, where Yugorovski was still hiding.

They both went back into the hotel, under secret aliases of Manta and Hulk. Booking two different rooms, they both sent a call to the Englishman to check on Spyro. The answer was not at all what they were hoping. “He’s critical, getting several litres of blood pumped into him. Gradually, he’s getting better, stable at the moment. I doubt though, that even if he gets better, he won’t ever be mentally the same. Death might be a preferred option to the possible outcome of what they’re trying. Sorry it can’t be better, but I’m just the messenger.”

“Looks like we’ll need to stake out Yugorovski ourselves.”

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