The Boy from Reactor 4 Read online

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2013 Orest Stelmach

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612186085

  ISBN-10: 1612186084

  For Robin

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  CHAPTER 80

  CHAPTER 81

  CHAPTER 82

  CHAPTER 83

  CHAPTER 84

  CHAPTER 85

  CHAPTER 86

  CHAPTER 87

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  HE CAME FROM nowhere. No one had ever heard of him or seen him before. No one knew who he was.

  On the first day of tryouts for the hockey team at Fordham Prep School in the Bronx, he dazzled the coaches with speed, agility, and puck-handling wizardry that belied his age. They whispered giddily to each other and scurried for their cell phones to call friends and wives. They knew they had just witnessed the arrival of a future pro, and possibly a once-in-a-generation talent. They needed to share the news with someone. They needed to share the news with everyone.

  He had the uncommon name of Aagayuk Kungenook, and he was an orphan from the Arctic Circle along the northwest coast of Alaska, an Inupiat from Kotzebue, population three thousand. In addition to their Inupiaq names, Inupiat take on a given English name later in life. This name is often based on someone the person admires. In Aagayuk Kungenook’s case, his given English name was Bobby. Hence, his full name was Aagayuk Bobby Kungenook.

  Bobby made the varsity team as a sixteen-year-old walk-on. During his first four games, he scored seven goals and assisted on three others. This would have been a staggering achievement for any center or wing, let alone a freshman, but he was neither. Bobby was a defenseman. He wasn’t expected to score any goals.

  Prior to this offensive outburst, his teammates kept their distance from him. At school, kids called him “Shark Bite.” Half ears jutted out from the side of Bobby’s head, with jagged, square tops that ended just above the canal. Some said a shark had attacked him while he was swimming in the Kotzebue Sound, while others insisted his father had cut them as punishment for not listening to him and then committed suicide.

  Once the team opened the season undefeated, however, Bobby’s teammates stopped calling him Shark Bite. The upperclassmen began confronting anyone at school who dared speak disrespectfully to their young star. Assuming he’d taken his English name from the greatest defenseman ever to play hockey, his teammates modified it further to fit his talents. They combined a living legend’s first and last names, rolled them into one, and created a new moniker for their prodigy. They began to call him simply “Bobbyorr.”

  Every December, the New York Rangers hosted their annual Ice Hockey Night in Harlem, featuring current and former players. During that event, at Lasker Rink in northern Central Park, sixteen-year-old Bobby Kungenook took on Ranger superstar Martin Gaborik in an impromptu one-lap race around the rink.

  Gaborik, previously the NHL’s Fastest Skater award winner with a lap time of 13.713 seconds at the all-star game, finished with a time of 13.736 seconds outdoors. Bobby Kungenook, previously unknown, unseen, and unheard of, finished the same lap with a time of 13.573 seconds.

  The conclusion was obvious yet unfathomable to everyone in attendance: the sixteen-year-old orphan from the Arctic Circle was arguably the fastest hockey player in the world.

  Within a week, three videos of the race surfaced on YouTube and collected 230,000 hits around the world. The sports network aired the video on its news shows. It also dispatched Lauren Ross to the next Fordham game to interview Bobby. Lauren was determined to someday become a prime-time news anchor. She’d spent ten years in the business and had won three Emmys, but was still looking for a story to catapult her out of sports and into the upper echelons of mainstream broadcast journalism.

  A standing-room-only crowd jammed The Ice Hutch in Mount Vernon for Fordham’s game against archrival Iona Prep, the first since the Gaborik race. The game began sloppily, as though both teams were distracted by the publicity. A collective murmur of expectation rose from the crowd whenever Bobby took the ice. He was about six feet tall on skates, with a body that looked as though it had been spliced together from two separate molds. Above the waist, his jersey hung loosely on sinew and bone. Below the waist, quadriceps and calf muscles bulged against the fabric of his pants, as though he’d been building up his legs since he’d left the womb.

  With Fordham trailing 1–0 in the second period, a bruising Iona forward crushed Bobby against the boards. Bobby lost his balance and tumbled. Rather than get up and resume playing, however, Bobby stayed on his knees and began searching frantically for something on the ice. A necklace had fallen from his neck and spilled to the ground. During the ensuing five-on-four, Iona scored another goal to go up 2–0.

  Boobirds rang from the stands. Bobby found his necklace and limped to the sidelines. The coach chewed him out and benched him for the rest of the period.

  During the second-period intermission, Lauren asked her cameraman to replay the incident. Fortunately, he’d kept his lens on Bobby the entire time
, even while Iona scored its goal. Lauren thought she’d seen something interesting that could distinguish her interview from others. The video confirmed her suspicion.

  The necklace had broken into two pieces. The first was a long gold strand. The second was a locket that must have been attached to the necklace. It landed between Bobby’s skates. Lauren asked the cameraman to zoom in, and saw Bobby scoop up the locket. He fired a quick glance in each direction afterward, as though he feared someone were going to steal it from him.

  There it was. Her edge. The other reporters wouldn’t even notice it. They’d give the necklace short study, thinking the orphan couldn’t stomach losing one of his only material possessions, perhaps a family heirloom. But that wasn’t the case. What Bobby feared losing was the locket. That meant there was something precious inside it.

  With five minutes left in the intermission, Lauren went down to the visiting coach’s office. Coach Terry Hilliard looked as though he’d allowed too many sirloin hockey pucks past the crease of his lips since his days as a Rangers goaltender.

  “Is Bobby okay after that fall?”

  “Oh, sure. Kid’s tough as nails. Or ice picks. Or whatever the heck they use up there in Alaska.”

  “So we’re still good for that interview after the game?”

  “You bet. As long as I’m present and the cameras are off and you take it easy on him. He’s just a kid, Lauren. He’s been through a lot. You brought an interpreter, right?”

  “What?”

  “Your people told you, right?”

  “Told me what? Bobby doesn’t speak English?”

  “I wouldn’t say he doesn’t speak English. He’s picking it up quickly. But he’s not fluent enough to make it through an interview without some help.”

  “You’re kidding me. What does he speak, then? Some Eskimo language?”

  “Nope. His first language is Ukrainian. Second is Russian. English is third.”

  “Ukrainian and Russian? You’re kidding me. Why?”

  Hilliard shook his head. “Not entirely sure. It’s a Jesuit school. The priests only told us so much. And you don’t push around a Jesuit priest. He’s such a good kid. We don’t want to pry. The priests said the Russians discovered part of Alaska. I guess there’s some history there.”

  “Huh. Interesting. But how am I supposed to conduct an interview if we can’t communicate?”

  Hilliard scratched one of his chins. “Bobby’s guardian is here tonight. Her name is Nadia Tesla. She’s a young woman. From the city. Like yourself. I could ask her. She might be willing to translate.”

  “Would you, Terry? That would be really kind of you, thanks.”

  As the third period began, Lauren wondered how an orphan from a small town in Alaska had learned to play hockey so well. She wondered why he spoke Slavic languages better than English. She wondered who his guardian was and how he had ended up in a prep school in New York City.

  But most of all, Lauren wondered what was in that locket.

  CHAPTER 1

  EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER

  ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN in New York City. Any dream can be fulfilled.

  After a punishing winter, April revitalizes the dreamers. Scarves loosen, steam evaporates. Subways and sidewalks buzz with renewed hope.

  Nadia Tesla bounded through the East Village, soaking in the scene. Tourists mixed with Ukrainian immigrants and rambunctious NYU students in Japanese noodle shacks and bodacious tattoo parlors. Soon she would have reason to party, too. A man had called. A man had called with the answers she needed.

  Seventh Street was deserted compared with St. Mark’s Place. A pair of black torches illuminated the sign for The Bourgeois Pig with burgundy-colored light. Nadia peeked inside the wine bar. Still early, a sparse crowd. The oldest guy looked Nadia’s age, mid-thirties. She glanced across the street.

  A sliver of a man stood on a corner beside a charcoal garage door, a plume of smoke twisting from his hand. He looked more like a shadow than a person, the offspring of Marlene Dietrich and Checkpoint Charlie, born with a genetic predisposition to survive in the catacombs.

  He took a final drag on his cigarette. The tip flamed orange-red. He tossed it to the ground and stomped on it. Inched out of his nook and glanced in each direction, as though confirming he wasn’t being followed. Nadia wondered if something was wrong or if he was just a paranoid old soldier. As he limped quickly toward her, Nadia scolded herself. The man was just crossing the street carefully. She was the paranoid one. After the last six months, who could blame her?

  “Mr. Milan?” Nadia said in Ukrainian.

  He nodded. His peppercorn eyes were kind but steeped in worry. “Nadia Tesla?”

  “Yes.”

  “The mathematician?”

  “Well, I majored in math.”

  He peered over his shoulder again. “The odds are not in my favor.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We have to keep moving. This way.”

  He pointed toward Avenue A. They walked side by side.

  Nadia hugged herself. “Is something wrong?”

  “Let’s speak in English.” He spoke with only a slight accent, suggesting he’d immigrated a long time ago. “You work on Wall Street?”

  “No. I used to work for a private investment firm, but my job was eliminated. I’m starting a business on my own as a forensic security analyst.” Nadia didn’t add that she was starting her own business because she couldn’t find another job. There were always too many applicants.

  He turned to her and frowned, as though that were the wrong answer. Shrugged and kept moving.

  “You knew my father?” Nadia said.

  “What?”

  “How did you know my father? When you called and offered to meet me, you said you knew my father back in Ukraine. That you could tell me stories about him. Were you in the Partisan Army with him?”

  “Oh. That. No. I’m afraid I wasn’t being honest.”

  Nadia stopped in her tracks. “What? What do you mean, you weren’t being honest?”

  “I know of him. But I didn’t know him. It was just an excuse to meet you.”

  Nadia stepped backward. Now she was the one glancing over her shoulder. There was no one behind her. “Meet me? Why?”

  “To discuss a matter of the utmost importance.”

  “Uh, I don’t think so.” She forced a smile. “I don’t know what you want from me, but you’ve made a mistake.”

  “No. You must listen for a moment.” Milan’s eyes shone with intensity. “The fate of the free world depends on it.”

  Nadia croaked with laughter. The man was nuts.

  Her giggling must have sounded rude. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth. “I’m so sorry.” She took another step back. “Really, I am—”

  Nadia bumped into a display window. A sign said MUSEUM JEWELRY REPRODUCTIONS. The name of the store was stenciled in tiny white print: THE SHAPE OF LIES.

  When Nadia turned back, Milan was a foot away from her, the creases in his face looking like a grid of tunnels. “I beg of you, please—”

  A car backfired. Milan collapsed to the pavement.

  “Oh my God.” Nadia dropped to his side. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  Eyes wild, mouth agape, he clutched the left side of his chest.

  Heart attack. Had to be a heart attack. Nadia leaned over. Her shoulder bag slid to the ground. She opened his gray sports jacket.

  His crisp white dress shirt was drenched in blood.

  Nadia screamed. Not a heart attack. He’d been shot. By whom?

  A symphony of horsepower rose to a crescendo.

  Her head swiveled to the street.

  Ten feet away. Big old American sedan. Driver’s window open. Barrel of a gun aimed at her.

  A finger squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER 2

  A SECOND CAR crashed into the rear of the sedan. A clap of metallic thunder erupted. The big old American sedan lurched, sputtered, and quaked.

/>   The barrel of the gun disappeared, as did the hand that held it. Tinted windows prevented Nadia from seeing more.

  The second car was a muscular coupe. Its nose was smushed, but the engine was still burbling, ready to go again. The door opened—

  Nadia’s head snapped downward. Milan’s hand grasped her collar. He pulled until his lips almost kissed her ear.

  “Find Damian,” he said, his spittle warm and disgusting as it rained against her flesh. “Find Andrew Steen…They all…Millions of dollars…Fate of the free world—”

  His hand fell limp to his abdomen. His chest stopped heaving and his eyes went dead.

  “Mr. Milan!”

  Nadia grabbed her shoulder bag and tore it open. Get cell phone. Dial 911. Check pulse, check airway, begin rescue breathing—

  A man in her peripheral vision. Coming at her from the sports car.

  Nadia looked up. Blue jeans. Long legs. Cobalt button-down shirt stained with white chalk. Short dark hair, touch of gray on the side. Face practiced in composure. Moving fast.

  “He’s been shot,” she said. “I don’t know if he’s—”

  “I called for help,” the man said, his tone even but incredulous. “They were going to shoot you next. I’m a doctor, let me—”

  A second gunshot exploded.

  Nadia ducked. The doctor did the same. A man in the American sedan pointed a weapon through his window at her. Nadia caught a glimpse of a round face and a shock of red hair.

  A third gunshot.

  Nadia fell flat to the ground.

  “My car,” the doctor shouted. He grabbed Nadia by the arm and urged her toward his car, shielding her from the gunman. “Let’s go.”

  A fourth gunshot.

  Nadia grabbed her bag, kept her head low, and raced around the car. The doctor flung her door open. She jumped in.

  The interior smelled of talcum powder and gas. A partially deflated airbag hung from the center of the steering wheel. Nadia tossed her bag between her legs and strapped on her seat belt.

  The doctor jammed the gear into reverse, put his right hand behind Nadia’s seat, and sent the car hurtling backward. He swerved onto Avenue A, powered into second gear, and took off uptown.

  Nadia grasped a door handle and kept her eyes glued to the side-view mirror.