Sedona AZ (March 8, 2015) – The following has been taken from Collins Rhōg’s private journal, and reproduced exactly as it was written, by his own hand. The date has been omitted, at his request, but Collins view is always captivatingly honest, full of depth and color, heart and perseverance in times of struggle. Collins spills his soul and captures his feelings with vivid imagery and heart felt emotion that oozes from the pages of this historic text.

The following is but a portholes view, from across the room of “The Life and Times of Collins Rhōg“:

If you are new to the story, it all begins at this link (click here). In previous weeks, our readers were introduced to Rhōg’s story as written in his journal. Join us as we return to the Life and Times of Collins Rhōg, now 38, while he surveys the gates of Hell:

– Cambire, The Story Part 14 –

 “A bio weapon?”

“Yes!” Reegan shrieked then paused, trembling her eyes filled with terror and her voice quivered, “What have you gotten into Collins? Who have you become?”

“Stop it!” I yelled back. “I’m not delivering Ebola to anyone!”

Reegan screamed, “Who are you Collins? What do you call this?” She shook the small glass vial in her fist, “Your payday?”

I roared “Stop it!” as I ran toward the porch and grabbed the vial from her hand, “Do you really think I would be in on this?”

“Who are you?” She screamed before pushing me away and running into the house.

It was small, the opaque liquid leveling as I tilted the vial. Its label  printed in English read:

“HF : EBOLA ZIARE / MARBURG 

Vial contains 1.5 mL.

Vial No. 735  Air Dispersal 5-15 Microns Lot No. 372-500

Adrenaline siphoned through my veins. Remembering the note from the Russian woman’s wallet I pulled it from my coat pocket and examined each side, one reading “collins rhog  –  military container  –  €1,000,000  –  alive” and the other bearing the scribbled bio-hazard symbol with the words Ebola, Ezadeen, and Blue Sky M written between its horns. Holding the note high in one hand and a vial in the other, I tried to piece the puzzle of this job together.

Reegan returned and wrenched the paper from my hand, “What’s that?”

Scowling, I grabbed her wrist. “Give me that!” and repossessed the note. That’s when I noticed the indentations on the paper. Something had been erased.

“Do you see that?” I asked Reegan, holding the paper up to the light.

“Something was erased?” she replied.

“Can you grab me a pencil?” Reegan went into the house, emerging a moment later with it in hand. I rubbed the lead over the paper to reveal the following:

“DUMA

Andrey Lugovoy”

“What’s that? Who is that?” Reegan repeated when I didn’t respond.

“DUMA is the lower house of the Federal Assembly of Russia and Andrey Lugovoy is deputy of DUMA. He’s ex-KGB and has been charged with the well-reported assassination of Alexander Litvinenko via polonium-210 poisoning.”

“I’ve heard of that. Litvineko was a spy for MI5.”

“And MI6 in exchange for asylum. He was spying on the Russians.”

“I can’t believe it.” My hand moved to my forehead, over my hair and down to the back of my neck.

“Believe what?”

“Russia’s really going to do it!” I replied.

“Do what?”

“In November of 1987 Mikhail Gorbachev gave a speech to the Soviet Politburo. I read about it after the fall of the Soviet Union and it sent a shiver up my spine. It still does. So much so that I memorized it. It goes like this…now remember, this was before the fall of the Soviet Union. Gorbachev said:

“Gentlemen, comrades, do not be concerned about all you hear about Glasnost and Perestroika and democracy in the coming years. They are primarily for outward consumption. There will be no significant internal changes in the Soviet Union, other than for cosmetic purposes. Our purpose is to disarm the Americans and let them fall asleep.”

“Collins, what does this mean?” her eyes raised to mine.

“I’m not sure.”

“You have to go the Feds, you could save a lot of people!”

“I know that! I know what I have to do. Do you know what a one-time-use pad code is?”

“What?”

“Listen. This is extremely serious. You need to know how to use a pad code so we can communicate privately.”

I moved into the house.

“What?!” Reegan exclaimed, “What the hell are you talking about?” but she followed me back into the house.

“I’m talking about the only cipher that cannot be broken by any agency. I’m talking about a one-time pad code. Nothing can touch the enigma held within a one-time pad code. Nothing.”

“Collins, this sounds like spy stuff, what the F!”

“It is. Agencies like Britain’s MI6, America’s CIA, Russia’s MBRF, China’s Cheng Pao K’o, France’s DGSE and Germany’s BND, to name but a few, rely on the absolute security granted by the one-time pad code.” I paused, and spotting a notepad on the kitchen counter top, picked it up, exhaled, and continued, “Let me teach you.”

I sat down at the nearby table and began to write, “The first step is to designate a random two digit number to represent each letter in the alphabet. For example – A: 17 B:14 C:11 D:83 E:59 F:72 G:41 H:37 I:29 J:38 K:92 L:78 M:09 N:50 O:66 P:61 Q:30 R:22 S:57 T:77 U:51 V:03 W:49 X:85 Y:54 Z:44.”

Pointing to the letters and numbers with the pencil, I continued her lesson, “Say I want to tell you ‘meet me at hangar” then M equals 09, E equals 59, E equals 59..” I went on, reading out the entire list, until the numbers read 09 59 59 77 09 59 17 77 37 17 50 41 17 22.

“These numbers spell out the code, however we need to break it up into two letter blocks. And for larger messages, we would insert the letter X or rather the number 85, to represent a period. Now the message will look like this..” and I rewrote the message in four letter blocks, inserting X for period. “Now the two letter blocks read 0959 5977 0959 1777 3717 5041 1722 8591. I used 91 at the end because it doesn’t exist in our cipher. Now we need to encrypt the message.”

“Isn’t it already encrypted?” she asked.

“Yes, but that was just one layer, we need at least two layers. Your birthday’s March 12, but that can be figured out. Let’s go with where we met…Noc Noc’s in Seattle. I’ll never forget it was 1516 Second Avenue. 1516 is your key,” I explained.

Reegan just looked at me, and then said, “Okay, what do I do with it?”

“You take the key, in this case 1516, and place it beneath each block of numbers, then add them together using Fibonacci addition, which means, you don’t carry any numbers. For example 8+5 would equal 3 not 13, and 9+9 would equal 8 not 18. Got it?”

“I think so.”

“So it would look like this,” and wrote, “0959    5977    0959    1777    3717    5041    1722    8591 + 1516 +1516  +1516  +1516  +1516 +1516  +1516  +1516 1465    6483    1465    2283    4223   6557    2238     9007. And that’s the code.  To decipher, you simply subtract the key, using Fibonacci subtraction  from each group of numbers ending up with 1465    6483    1465    2283    4223    6557    2238    9007 -1516   -1516   -1516   -1516  -1516   -1516   -1516  -1516 0959    5977    0959    1777    3717    5041    1722   8591…and there you have it…the numbers to decode the cipher.”

“I get it. I understand. How do you know this stuff?” she asked.

“I just do. I need to go. Don’t talk to anyone about this. If you get a coded message from me, you’ll know how to decipher it.”

“This is a nightmare, Collins!”

“I’m sorry I got you involved. I’ll take care of things and we’ll pick up where we left off. Can Shugo stay with you for a bit?”

“Of course,” she softly replied, while looking away. “How are you going to take care of things?” then, looking straight at me she screamed, “How are you going to make this right?!”

“I’ve got to figure this out!  Tristan is the key.”

“Tristan?”

“Tristan.”

“Last time I saw him we were at your condo.”

“That was a while ago,” I replied.

“We waited a few hours for you to get home. I remember he ended up fixing the railing on your balcony.”

“What?”

“The railing on your balcony was loose or something, he asked for a wrench. I gave him your tool box and he fixed it for you. I told you about it.”

“No, you didn’t!”

“I did!” Reegan exclaimed.

“Why would Tristan give a shit about anything at my condo?”

Then it became apparent, “The text!”

“What text?”

“He texted my address yesterday to this phone!” I pulled out the Russian woman’s phone.

“Whose phone is that?”

“It doesn’t matter, I need to get to my condo asap!”

I left Shugo with Reegan and flew back to my cabin, to ditch the military case with Daniel O’Neil, still wondering how things became so convoluted. Before hiding the package within O’Neil’s marble spire, I pulled a vial and stashed it in my pocket.

The next day I was back in Vancouver, Canada.

Parking two blocks from my condo I started walking. Just then my phone rang, it was Greg saying through my earpiece, “Three guys just entered your building…oh there you are, I can see you bitch!” He was positioned atop one of the local sky-rises and obviously looking at me through the scope of his long arm, “They exited from a pair of black Suburbans, one of which is heading towards your position as we speak.”

“What?” I questioned. Just then a black SUV pulled into the parking lot.

“Fall back Collins! Fall Back NOW!” he ordered in his usual, calm firmness.

I looked for cover as two tall men wearing ski masks and trench coats emerged from the vehicle. Moving to a defensive position, I put a minivan between us and skinned my Beretta from its shoulder rig.

“Gun! Gun!” Greg yelled through the earpiece.

From behind the van, I saw both men pull Mac 11 sub machine guns which simultaneously burst in my direction. Diving to the ground, I heard a gunshot in my earpiece and the tandem gun spray was cut in half.

“One down,” Greg informed me. Then the roar from his .50 cal, that did the cutting, echoed through the purr of the the remaining 9mm. An instant later, the second machine gun fell silent as pieces of bone and flesh scattered past the van.

All was quiet until the .50 cal’s familiar roar, once again, resonated through the area. “He lost his head in the moment,” Greg’s voice broke the silence in my earpiece, “and now he’s beside himself.” Seconds later Greg added, “You’re clear.”

Alertly rising, I replied, “Thanks man. I owe you.”

“The slates clean, just watch your back.”

I cautiously peeped around the corner.

“I said you’re clear, you fucker!”  I smiled up at the high rise sheathed in green glass three blocks away.

“Just a habit my friend, just a habit.”

“They’re in your place,” Greg reiterated.

“I need to retrieve something Tristan hid on my balcony. Can you cover me on the ninth floor?”

“Hurry up! It’s time for me to bust camp and boogie. I only have vantage of the living room balcony and part of the bedroom from here.”

“Roger that, stay on the line,” and began running toward my building two blocks away. “I may lose you in the elevator, ” I said.

The lift opened on the ninth floor, with my Beretta locked and loaded. Stepping into the hallway, my gut told me to drop and hit the deck as several rounds immediately splintered into the wall. Rolling around the corner, I heard the sound of glass shattering and the gunfire halted.

“One down,” Greg announced in my earpiece.

“Uh huh,” I replied from the ground with my Tomcat ready. Just then I heard the 50 cal’s thunder.

“Guess you didn’t lose me,” Greg remarked.

I entered the stairwell directly across the hall, having no idea how far behind they were. If they didn’t hear the door close, they might think I retreated down the hall, though unlikely. Grabbing the Tomcat, I cycled the slide and ejected an unspent .32 down the stairs, then turned to ascend and wait, rather than race down nine flights of stairs with Russian assassins on my six.

Just as I rounded the second corner, the door opened. I lay against the concrete wall listening, which way would they go? All was quiet. “There!” spoken in a thick Russian accent followed by the echoes of the two men running down the stairs.

They took the bait, my gamble had paid off and I knew, like I knew, like I knew, that they were now dead men. Tactically, I needed to move and I needed to get to my condo to search the balcony. Quietly I crept back down the stairs.

My condo door was open. I had no sooner entered when I heard someone behind me. With barely time to duck into the hall, a large man burst through the door. The second he passed me, I unloaded on him.

The Russian hulk held his throat as rounds from my Tomcat pummeled his body at close range. He collapsed in the kitchen. I quickly frisked and disarmed him, pulling a thick black wallet from his coat pocket. To my surprise he carried a picture of his family. I held it in front of him as bubbles of blood popped out his neck within the tributaries.

“Who sent you? Tell me now and I will leave them alone.” He stared at me, then at his family in the picture.

“You’re going to die. If you know your enemy, you know I’m honorable. Was it Tristan?”

He widened his eyes before closing them.

“Tell me who hired you and I will leave your family alone, or I will kill them all!” spit splayed as I heard myself scream. He gurgled, in vain, swallowed, turned his head, raised his arm and wrote in his own blood “Lug…” on the cold slate floor.

“Andre Lugovoy! If what you say is true, know that your family is safe. If you are lying to me, you will see them soon.” My Beretta hopped as I put three rounds in his noggin, then dropped my clip and skinned a new one from my harness.

“Would you really kill his family?” Greg asked.

“Still there, eh?” as I repositioned the earpiece. “What do you think, they’re innocent.”

“Think he bought it? Oh, there you are…” I had stepped over Greg’s handiwork in my living room and moved out onto the balcony with wrench in hand.

“You’re cleaning lady’s gonna hate…Gun!” Greg yelled. I heard him fire through the earpiece and turned to see a large man in my living room catch a .50 cal in his chest. The sound from the shot hit the building about the time the Russian hit my carpet with a flop beside his comrade.

I looked towards Greg, “Thanks.”

“You’re clear. I’m breaking camp, over and out.” The line went dead.

Tossing a quick salute in Greg’s direction, I began disassembling the railing and, as luck would have it, inside the closest end cap’s tubing was a small blue thumb-drive. I had found what was so important to Tristan and hoped it would hold the key to what was happening.

I rang up Russ.

“Hello mate, I’ve locked myself out.”

The line was momentarily silent.

“Right,” he replied and hung up.

The lift opened on the ground floor. I stopped at the kiosk in the lobby to eject all six CDRs from the security camera’s computer towers.

A moment later, Russ met me on the corner in his beat up old Jeep Grand Cherokee with Greg in the back. I piled in as Russ pulled from the curb.

“Hey Greg.”

“Hello Collins,” he greeted pulling off his balaclava.

I sighed and stretched out a bit as we sped away.

“You don’t say bloody hell to me?” Russ retorted. “I’m taken for bloody granted?”

Realizing that he was a bit serious, I calmly answered “Hello Russ” and placed my hands on my lap while nodding at him. He had my full attention.

“Screw you, Collins!” Russ turned the Jeep into the freeway on-ramp.

“Hello Russ!” Greg piped up from the backseat as sirens could be heard over the noise of him zipping gear into bags.

“Ha ha, dickhead!” Russ wasn’t happy.  “Did you get the bloody mystery item?”

“I got it. It’s a thumb-drive.”

“Who are those guys anyway?” Russ asked.

“Let me out here!” Greg interrupted.

“What? We’re barely on the effing freeway!” Russ exclaimed.

“Pull the bloody truck over now!”

“Fine!”

Russ pulled to the side of Highway One which traversed the mountains above North Vancouver.

“Talk later!” Greg said, slapping Russ, then me, on the back as he piled out of the Jeep. Leaving his door open, he bound over the cement divider to disappear in the woods.

I bewilderingly turned to Russ, “Was Greg just here, or am I losing it?”

“I know..it still effing creeps me out every time he does that shit.”

Russ accelerated back onto the highway, slamming Greg’s door closed as he did. Three squad cars screamed past, headed in the opposite direction. I looked back, there was a pile of tan canvass bags beside Greg’s seat.

“You got new tool bags?”

“I did.” Russ didn’t bother to add more.

“What was wrong with the green ones? I like green better.”

Russ turned to me, shrugged, then focused back on the road.

“How did they know where to find me, Russ?”

“They tracked the Russian woman’s phone.”

“The Russian woman’s phone?” I mused in the same moment. “Shit, that means they know about Reegan’s place,” and pulled out the slain woman’s phone, its battery showed a 25% charge.

“What should I do about this?”

“Leave it with me. I’ll throw them off your scent,”  Russ replied.

“Here you go,” and tossed the phone onto his lap. Russ shoved it, microphone end first, into one of the Jeep’s air vents and turned the fan up to high.

“Really?” I asked.

“I doubt it, given that the battery still has a charge. Had it been transmitting this whole time, it would’ve juiced by now but I know mic’s can be remotely turned on. Better safe than sorry.” Russ concentrated on driving, but glanced in my direction when I unfolded the crumpled paper from my shirt pocket, “What’s that?” he asked.

“A number to someone that can help.”

Grabbing my phone I dialed. It rang and then connected.

“Deacon?”

“Who’s asking?” a raspy voice questioned.

“It’s Shaun from the Dodge, a couple days ago.”

“Shaun…right…what can I do you for?” I could hear commotion in the background, he was still likely at the Dodge.

“I need a favour. It pays.”

“I’m listening.” A crack from a pool table break could be heard over the phone.

“I’ve got some heat on me. I need someone to check on my girlfriend, to make sure she’s safe.”

“Okay.”

“It pays $2,500….and $20K if you need to take care of any business. Are you picking up what I’m putting down?”

“I got your 10-4 partner. What else should I know?”

A voice was heard in the background, “You’re up Deacon!”

“Gimme a minute, I’m on the phone,” he called back into the noise.

There was a heavy silence between us, then I spoke, “The $20K is twenty thousand for a reason. Don’t go alone and don’t bring a knife to a gun fight.”

The pub chaos resonated through the phone before Deacon finally replied, “Who are you, Shaun? How do I know I can trust you?”

“Deacon, if you don’t know the cloth that I’m cut from.. well…then I’m wasting my time and yours. I’ve got $50K at my hangar and when this is over, take what you have coming your way and leave the rest. And Deacon?”

“Yea, Shaun?”

“I’m not going to tell you that I’m not the kind of cat you don’t ever want to cross. I’m simply gonna say that I may be the single most important guy to have in your corner when shit comes down.”

He said nothing to me.

“Are you gonna shoot pool or talk on the damn phone?” someone yelled in the background.

“Shut the f-up! I’ll be there when I get there, now shut up!” Deacon bellowed and then went quiet again.

“I’m hanging up now,” I finally said.

“Wait, Brother!”

“Wait?” I questioned.

“I’ll do it. We’ll square up when she’s safe. Where do I find her?”

A black Suburban was parked in front as the two dark silhouettes riding Harley’s rumbled into the drive. The kickstands hissed a devilish choir, back lit by strobing muzzle flashes erupting from the nearby cabin. With sawed-off in hand, the sole of Deacon’s size thirteen Angel booted the front door. It flailed with a tremble amidst the splintered debris that burst from the jam. Two large men turned as their guns swept towards the bikers, but they were too slow. The twelve gauge lurched back into Deacon’s hand as the muzzle flash captured wretched expressions resembling a Polaroid snap shot. Deacon’s sidekick, Candor, simultaneously fired quad rounds from his 454 Casull amidst the twelve’s second explosion. Tristan’s men were cut down, lurching before the canvass of their own blood splatter splayed across the room.

The assailants were dead. They had picked up and shaken the home, now filled with gun smoke hanging in the air as a specter. Beneath the overturned couch, spent brass shells and broken glass from a mutilated lamp peppered the cream carpet. Picture frames sprawled about, crippled and bent, one against the wall reaching toward heaven. The slashed canvasses portrayed misery in their ghastly forms, crumpled on the floor.

Atop the pale bamboo flooring, Shugo’s body twitched, eyes wide open, black stripes on fawn in a puddle of crimson. Candor and Deacon searched for Reegan. She was on the bed, her breathing slowed by the gunshot wound spilling blood from her right breast. With eyes closed and her motionless lips bloodied, a cluster of bubbles heaved and burst with every shallow breath.

Candor held his hand over her injury while Deacon skinned the cellophane wrapper from his cigarettes, plugging the wound. Police and ambulance arrived later to find Reegan and Shugo lying in pools of blood, alone with two dead men and a black Suburban parked in the drive.

-Collins Rhōg

Cambire, The Story continues in the SedonaEye.com. Some SedonaEye.com scenes have been edited due to content. Look for the unedited Cambire, The Story, available at booksellers and retailers in the fall of 2015 to be published as Change of Allegiance.