Chapter 8
Terrance Beard

The smell of fear was so present in the conference room that it was almost real. Warren King basked in the feel of it, relishing the sight of the Russian government cowering in their chairs around the conference table.

One of the officials, the Russian President, finally found the courage to speak up. “We’ve done as you asked. All the airports… have been rerouted. When can we go free?”

King’s answer was to put a bullet through the table in front of the President, who cowered. “Shut up,” he hissed. Then he reached into his coat and produced a laptop computer. Keeping one hand leveling the gun at the officials, he turned the laptop on and spun it around so that it faced the assembled the group.

Now for the fun part. Words began to appear on the screen.

HELLO EVERYONE.

The President spoke up again. “Who… are you?”

I AM CZARON. I WAS A MOB BOSS. NOW I AM THE LEADER OF RUSSIA.

“You aren’t-”

AND IN A FEW WEEKS, I WILL BE RULER OF THE WORLD.

The President stood. “You can’t just proclaim yourself leader of Russia!”

WHY NOT?

“Because we are!” He indicated to the people around him.

WARREN?

Warren bowed his head. “Yes, master?”

PUT A BULLET IN HIM.

Warren complied, raising his gun and firing. There was a flash of light, and the Russian President collapsed to the ground, bashing his head on the table as he went. The spot where he hit was covered in a red liquid. Blood.

ANYONE ELSE WANT TO QUESTION ME?

No one spoke.

WARREN KING HERE WILL NOW BE THE RUSSIAN PRESIDENT. AND AN AMENDMENT WILL BE MADE GIVING HIM EMERGENCY POWERS. UNDERSTOOD?

Everyone nodded.

KING IS MY EYES AND EARS. NOW, GET TO WORK, AND BUILD ME AN EMPIRE.

The computer shut off.

* * *

Corn. Lots of corn. And beans. And all of it was in PhilÂ’s face.

He ran through the fields of corn and beans and other stuff that smelled really good but that he didnÂ’t have time to stop and eat. He was too focused on what was behind him. Close behind, Martin followed as fast as he could. Phil was still ahead of him, but just barely.

The two emerged in an aisle in the middle of two fields. Phil looked around. “Did we lose him?”

Martin bent over and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yeah. I think we did.”

A dark shape moved at the end of the aisle, and a dark figure emerged from the field. It was Ivan. One of his hands was clamped onto his side, which had been sliced open by a piece of metal in the crash. Blood spouted from the wound and slipped down the Russian field commanderÂ’s fingers. The other hand was clutching a long knife.

“Run!” Phil shouted, and the two took off into the fields again. Leaves and stalks whipped Phil’s face and body, leaving behind red lines. Martin was close behind him, and behind him, Ivan forced his way through the field.

Phil emerged from the field at the same time as Martin. He frantically looked around for somewhere. The only place he could see was a small house. He pointed to it. “Inside there!” he shouted, and he and Martin took off towards it. By the time Phil reached the door, Martin was only about halfway there. He was tiring fast. Phil pounded on the door with his fist. “Help us! Help!”

There was a loud thump from behind him, and Martin shouted out in fear. Phil turned. Ivan had tackled Martin and was raising his knife to drive it through his throat.

“You cost me my crew, my glory, and possibly my position,” Ivan hissed. “In payment, I’ll take your life.”

The door to the house flew open, sending Phil flying. A literal giant emerged from the darkness, raised a shotgun, cocked it, and fired into the night.

IvanÂ’s head exploded. The body collapsed on top of Martin, who nearly puked.

Phil ran over to Martin and started to help him out from under the body. He had Martin about halfway out when they heard a click above them. Phil looked up, and right into the barrel of the shotgun.

“Don’t shoot me!” He covered his head with this arms, not taking his eyes off the shotgun.

“Why not?” In the moonlight, Phil got a better look at the man. He was about eight feet tall, with a long beard. “Miserable spies from M.O.R.D.O.R. deserve to be shot.”

“We’re not spies!” Phil insisted. “We’re from America! We’re on a mission from the government.”

The man lowered his gun just a little. “Since when did America use people as young as you?”

“Well…” Martin thought for a second. “We kind of insisted.”

The man raised the gun again. “Get up.” They stood, Martin taking a little more time because he still needed to get out from under Ivan. The man motioned behind him. “Into the house.”

“Who are you?” Martin asked.

“Strange place for that question,” said the man. “But I’ll tell you. My name is Terrance Beard. I’m a farmer. Now, get in the house, so we find out if you’re a spy or not.” The two nodded and headed for the house. When the three of them stepped through the door, Terrance motioned to two chairs. “Sit.” Martin and Phil sat.

Terrance picked up the phone, dialed a number, and spoke for a minute in a strange language. Then he turned and thrust the phone at Phil. “He wants to talk to you.”

Though he was a little bit confused, Phil took the phone anyway. “Hello?”

“Hello Phil. Who have you gotten killed this time?”

Phil nearly dropped the phone. His face lost all color, and his hands started to shake. It didnÂ’t seem true, but there was no mistaking the voice, or the sarcasm.

“Greg?”

To Be ContinuedÂ…