Free Dark Eyes by William Richter Page A

labored, uneven.
    All at once, Tiger was unsure of his plan, unsure whether he should have come at all. The stories he had heard about Klesko depicted a man of supreme strength and determination, a man who would rather die than give an inch of ground. Stories of fighting his way up through the ranks in Piter and holding point on border runs into Bulgaria and Slovenia, striking fear into the hearts of the local militia. Where was that man now? Everything about this Alexei Klesko—the one standing before him now—seemed defeated.
    Klesko raised his eyes and stared through the razor wire perimeter. There was a long moment without recognition at first; then it came upon him, his eyes darting over Tiger’s features, cataloging and comparing, testing them against an image in his mind of the boy, five years old. Twelve years gone.
    “Tigr …”
    Tiger just nodded.
    Klesko stood silent and motionless, his eyes still studying the young man before him. His mind raced with questions, with possibilities. With the guard still hovering nearby, the two men spoke in English.
    “How much did he take?” Klesko asked. “The guard.”
    “Five hundred, U.S.,” answered Tiger.
    Klesko snorted his disgust. “Hooi morzhoviy,” he spat the curse.
    Tiger could see something emerging behind the man’s eyes now, a flicker of life as his mind began to work again. Klesko’s back even straightened—just a little—as his eyes scanned the yard around him.
    “A stone has surfaced,” said Tiger, feeling proud that he could bring this news and wanting Klesko to feel that pride in him also. He watched for Klesko’s reaction and was not disappointed; the man’s eyes locked on him now, intensely, searching for confirmation that the news was true.
    Tiger nodded. It was true.
    Klesko was quiet for a moment, and Tiger realized that he was calming himself, controlling his excitement. The moment was everything Tiger had hoped for.
    “One only?” Klesko asked with outward calm.
    “One,” answered Tiger. “In America.”
    Klesko nodded, absorbing the information.
    “These stones,” he said, “they are a legacy, yes?”
    “Da.”
    “For you. They belong to you. Understand?”
    “Yes,” Tiger agreed. “They are mine.”
    Klesko studied Tiger, as if looking for a sign of something. Resolve? Rage?
    “You deserve less?” Klesko asked. “Less than what is yours?”
    “No.”
    Klesko nodded, still unsure. “You have papers?”
    “Yes,” Tiger answered. “Arrangements have been made.”
    “Money?” asked Klesko.
    “Some.”
    Klesko nodded.
    “Good,” he said, meeting Tiger’s eyes once more before turning and walking away from the wire. Tiger turned away as well, as if returning to his car, but after a few steps he suddenly turned back toward the perimeter and in a flash his hand was out of his coat pocket, holding a gun. He hurled the weapon into a high arc over the razor wire barriers. Klesko looked up and saw the gun tumbling toward him through the cold air, a beautiful new Pernach.
    Klesko threw off his blankets and reached out his hand, finding the grip of the machine pistol in mid-air. He spun toward the stunned guard and within a fraction of a second the Pernach’s automatic blasts ripped through the man’s throat, decapitating him. Klesko saw the gate guard turn and move toward him, the terrified man now flailing for the sidearm that he had probably not removed from its holster in five years. The delay was fatal; Klesko fired on him, spraying a lethal auto-blast of bullets across the guard’s chest.
    Just that quickly, Tiger’s doubts were answered. The Alexei Klesko of legend— of Tiger’s boyhood dreams —had been a dormant spirit all these years, laying low and feigning defeat, waiting for an opportunity to emerge again. Now he was back. Tiger’s heart thrummed as he watched Klesko rip a key chain free from the guard’s belt and step calmly to the front gate. Klesko used the key to trip the locks and then kicked