The Plan
Heinlein and Swede took her car up to Warren early the next morning. He didn’t miss an opportunity to drive the beast. A BMW M28 is a race car with license plates on it. It made police cars look like limp penises. Any factory GPS and Bluetooth circuitry in the Beemer was disengaged by experts and replaced with surveillance signal blocking software long before she’d taken possession of it. Nobody was going to track them or listen in on what they were talking about as they drove up NJ Rt. 202 or anywhere else in this car. Their “smart” phones were also similarly defanged by their BratvaVarang guardian angels in Lambertville.
These security guys were the smoothest he’d ever seen – or, rather, not seen. They were everywhere – but nowhere. Heinlein had a suspicion about the two BMW motorcycles a few cars back that seemed not to be driving “aggressive” enough for bikers out on a recreational spin. But then again – maybe they were accountants playing out some old Easy Rider fantasy. Who knew? That was the point.
Swede gave him an earpiece to wear that was smaller than the lump of wax his ENT pulled out of his ear last month. It worked beautifully. His police department had stone age tech compared to these people. Warren PD were a bunch of well-meaning local LEOs with average proficiencies. Swede’s crew were another level. Professionals. Hard core.
Last night Swede felt the need for “walk” around her Lambertville neighborhood – at 9:00PM. Heinlein knew that her organization was making contact. He didn’t cramp her style. She was never in any danger. When she came back, he could see she wanted to talk.
“The bottom line is this: your conclusion that Shinski’s basement cave-in unveiled a portal to the Yakwahe’s world is solid. It’s a crime scene, so people aren’t tramping through it – and now that Strater has been arrested for the Yakwahe’s crimes, Warren PD isn’t going to be wasting assets keeping an eye on the place. Our technical and logistics crews will be positioned in a residential property right behind it – a cul-de-sac called Prince Circle. A contracting company – Aldieri Construction – is doing a renovation and “flip” project on a bank-foreclosure 1950’s split-level house back there. Aldieri’s crew have been paid to go missing – and our trucks are moving in as we speak. Ryder-leased straight jobs filled with everything we’ll need to create a trap in Shinski’s basement for the Yakwahe. And that basement is easily accessible – right across the abutting back yard of Aldieri’s renovation project property.
Our Doctors – and I agree with this – have decided against doping the “bait” that we’re using to lure the Yakwahe back topside. It can’t be Thorium – or any heavy radioactive Isotope for that matter. Catastrophic morphological or genetic changes may be triggered that we can’t contain. Catching the Yakwahe the “old fashioned way” is best: Camouflaged, winch-cable pinions shot from concealed locations, triangulated for maximum accuracy. Shafts that will pass through the Demon’s body and outwardly expand into hooks – like an undersea spear gun. But this is big-game hunting hardware that can bag Rhinos. Special, military-grade steel cables that can be winched-in and secured, locking the Yakwahe in place. On camera. It’ll all be monitored from a distance and preserved on a digital record. Hazmat crews can move in after the kill to clean up and ship the carcass away in a hermetically sealed container. Then they’ll detonate explosives and destroy the place forever. Sealing the Yakwahe’s portal. Warren Police can blame in on a gas leak. ”
“Ship it away to where, exactly?” Heinlein asked.
“NordPharma Laboratories in Serbia with biohazard isolation and containment facilities. All under the security and protection of BratvaVarang. They’ll fly the dead Yakwahe out of Morristown Airport on a NordPharma Gulfstream within hours of its collection. In-flight surveillance and security will be guaranteed by BratvaRus in cooperation with space and defense assets of the Russian Federation. The Gulfstream will land in Oslo, Sweden, and a new crew will fly our cargo to Serbia in a European Union plane supposedly carrying “Diplomats”. This sort of operation cannot be accomplished without worldwide connections and well-greased confederates.
Heinlein had one last question. His priority.
“If this dead Yakwahe turns out to be the genetic and medical miracle we think it is…, can you give me your word that its organs and fluids, if possible, will be used to make medicines and vaccines that can save people? And maybe shine some light on a cancer cure?”
Swede answered definitively. Authoritatively. She spoke as Ilse Sommerlund, MD.
“I give you my word – because I am going to be in charge of the entire project for NordPharma. My father has given me carte blanche. I am now Director of Reasearch and Development for NordPharma Worldwide Operations. I will not betray you, my dear. You must trust me in this.”
Heinlein turned on to Mount Horeb Road from US Route 22 East. Once he crossed over the highway, he drove up the “Mountain” to Warren. Within minutes they were scoping out a ramshackle, overgrown property that looked abandoned. 7332 Mt. Horeb – the home of recently massacred, eaten and departed Adele Shinski.
They slowed down in front of the residence, satisfied themselves it was well and truly abandoned and then took their first turn to get off Mt. Horeb and wind their way to the Prince Circle cul-de-sac behind it. Like Swede said, The Shinski house and a renovation project on Prince Circle shared a large common back yard. This contiguous meeting of the properties provided an easy back-yard access to Shinski’s basement Yakwahe portal. It was perfect.
Sure enough, two big Ryder Straight-Job Trucks were parked in the driveway of a split-level house renovation project. A sign out front read: “Valley Union Bank Mortgage Company. For Information, Call Aldieri Construction…” Men were off-loading large transport boxes of equipment everywhere, looking like a bunch of average Joes. It was a beehive of activity. Heinlein and Swede parked and watched the scene for a few minutes then thought it best to move on. The guys were really cookin’. It looked like a military operation manned by authentic construction workers. Soon they would transform the inside of Shinski’s creepy basement into an execution chamber worthy of an Edgar Allen Poe nightmare.
“I need to stop by my house on Vosseller Avenue…pick up some clothes and things. Maybe check my mailbox, too” Heinlein said. “Ok by you?”
They once again jumped on Mt. Horeb Road and turned on to Washington Valley. Heinlein’s 50’s rancher was on a street heading down to Route 22 off of Washington Valley Road called Vosseller Ave. It was a two-acre property – deep, not wide – and had a gravel horseshoe driveway that circled past the front door. It was a low cinderblock structure – a typical post-World War II homestead – brick with white trim, about two hundred feet from the road. Neat and tidy. But it was a fishbowl that anybody could see straight inside.
“Wow – this is cute” Swede said. Heinlein just shrugged. Actually, compared to her Lambertville palace, his place was a dump. But was home.
“Keep your ears on” Heinlein told her as he exited the posh BMW battlecruiser.
Heinlein turned his front door key and pushed it inwards. It always stuck. As soon as he entered, he smelled something. A sickeningly sweet scent. There was a dining room chair pulled away from his table facing his front Bay windows that overlooked his horseshoe driveway…. like somebody was watching and waiting for him to get home.
He instinctively reached for his Glock 19.
“STOP! NOW!”
The words shattered the silence of the moment.
“CAREFULLY LIFT YOUR WEAPON OUT OF ITS HOLSTER, DROP IT ON THE RUG AND KICK IT OVER HERE”.
When he looked “over here” Heinlein saw swarthy, somewhat muscular man with a few days beard growth in a worn a leather jacket and jeans. His eyes were sharp – and in his right hand he held a Berretta 9-millimeter automatic. A military gun. Standard issue.
The man moved forward to get a better look outside the Bay window. Then he spoke again – this time softer.
“Reach in your pocket. Get your phone. Dial your girlfriend and tell her to leave. You’ve decided to stay in tonight. Get rid of her. Do it. NOW!”
Heinlein did what he said. Swede answered immediately and played along. He voice could be heard over Heinlein’s phone as she whined and laid it on thick…
“Honey! You promised! I want dinner! I’m hungry! Why are you such a piece of shit??? I hate you!”
With that she got behind the wheel of the BMW and gunned the motor, tearing up gravel as she fishtailed out the other side of the horseshoe driveway in a faux pissed-off rage.
The swarthy man watched all this, seemingly contented.
“SIT DOWN!” he yelled.
Heinlein sat down at the dining room table. The man inched closer to him, never changing his aim. He pointed the Berretta at the detective’s forehead. A particularly putrid cologne smell clung to him – mixed with sour sweat. With his left hand he slammed down on the dining room table a small case.
“OPEN IT!”
Heinlein snapped it open. Inside was a syringe filled with some yellowish liquid.
“This, Detective Heinlein, is a potent cocktail of Scopolamine and Sodium Amytal. I’m going to plunge it into your neck and you’re going to tell me everything you know about the Cryptoid – the subject of your conversation with Herr Doktor Professor August Beirling of OTRAG and Mr. Jack Tenerife of the NSA……and you will answer all of my questions. And then, perhaps, I will let you live.”
Heinlein tried stalling for time.
“I…I….can’t remember what I said to those guys…..I was drunk”.
Bad idea. His interrogator lunged at him and slammed Heinlein’s head with the Berretta – a move he’d done before considering its precisely targeted impact. Heinlein’s head exploded into a blinding burst of light, searing pain leaching from the back of his head into his eyes. He could feel blood soaking through his hair and collar… The room looked like a Picasso painting, splintered and off-center. Everywhere were flashes of lightening and white starbursts. He felt like he was going to pass out.
Then he saw it. Of all the white lights – one was red. And it was focused right on the swarthy man’s chest. Heinlein watched it migrate to the man’s shoulder and then stop.
A muffled “SNAP” shattered the glass of his living room Bay window and blew his captor backwards. Simultaneously with the explosion two of his security detail bounded through his front door and laid hands on the dark stranger. They were obviously Special Forces trained – probably by Spetsnaz – and they didn’t look or act gentle. They pushed Heinlein out of the way and took hold of the intruder who was bleeding all over Heinlein’s favorite carpet.
Out of nowhere Swede walked in and put her hands on Heinlein’s head. “You, OK? I’m going to get you some ice – or at least a bag of frozen peas – for that lump…”
Heinlein was slowly coming around but events around him were unfolding in a dreamlike haze. His head ached like he’d been rammed into a brick wall.
Swede shouted in rapid fire Russian to the Security Guys, barking orders like a general. She pointed to the syringe – and called out a name: “Janusz”. The biggest dude in the room – obviously Janusz – pounced on the intruder and set him up against a chair. He then pushed the syringe into the intruder’s neck.
“Good” Swede announced. “Let’s make him sing…”
She pressed a towel into his shoulder – making him howl – and shouted questions at him inches from his face…in Russian.
Soon the swarthy thug was talking. Rambling in short gasps. His name? Jakob Anekschteyn…IDF. Israeli Defense Forces. This guy was Mossad.
Swede yelled more questions in Russian. Anekschteyn rambled almost incoherently, his speech so slurred that even Swede was barely making sense out of it. The drugs were turning him into a babbling fool. She turned to Heinlein.
“He’s Mossad. Their labs want the “Cryptoid”. They want to make a race-specific bug to eradicate their Middle Eastern “enemies”…. The bullet passed clear through his shoulder. It’s a clean wound. A good shot. I told Janusz to have it field stitched to stop the bleeding. No pain killers. We need him alive and aware for at least another twenty-four hours. We can move ahead with our plan. What a stroke of luck…”
A DHL Van pulled up Heinlein’s driveway and two more big Special Forces guys with Slavic-looking faces got out. They came into the house and dragged the wounded Mossad agent about sixty feet to their truck. More hands appeared reaching out of the rear doors of the vehicle and pulled Jakob Anekschteyn inside. Then they left.
Swede gently took Heinlein by his arm and led him to the passenger side door of her BMW.
“Look – I’m green-lighting our operation. We know the Shinski house is a deserted crime scene and that our guys can get access to the Portal the Yakwahe came out of. Our specialized equipment will be set up by tonight. And chained within five feet of that basement Gateway to Hell will be our bait: Jakob Anekschteyn. Winner, winner – Mossad for dinner.
This is our best chance – Anekschteyn has fallen right into our lap. The Yakwahe has a taste for human flesh now….it probably won’t emerge from its subterranean lair for anything less. It’s a territorial eater – like a shark – that has cultivated a preference for people. This is a prehistoric phenomenon we’re dealing with here. It’s a dinosaur-era brain neural network that compulsively tracks what it has eaten before.
We’ll watch it all in real time from Lambertville. Let’s go home.”
“How did you know our Mossad boy spoke Russian”? Heinlein asked.
Swede’s answer was curious. “I can smell an Israeli agent a mile away. Especially his kind. I’ve dealt with them before. And they all speak Russian.”
Heinlein’s head was spinning. But it was out of his hands now…. if he was going to ever going stop this Yakwahe from terrorizing Warren, NJ, he needed Swede’s help. And the pain in his head left him no sympathy for that prick of a Mossad Agent. If the state-of-the-art equipment BratvaVarang was setting up in Shinski’s basement was as good as he thought it was, the Yakwahe didn’t have long to live. Swede’s Viking Blood was ready for War.
Copyright, Jon Croft 2025
www.bogironpatriot
vlchek1@gmail.com
