by Peter Nealen
Somehow, Redrum doubted that it would be that easy. If these guys were Americans, then they wouldn’t be just any scrubs hired off the street. If US SOF was coming after them, they’d be cautious. Especially right in the Russian backyard. Things had been tense enough between Washington and Moscow, the last few years.
But he didn’t have a better plan. Except maybe to finish up with Codreanu, put a bullet in his head, and disappear. But he knew Flint too well to think that would work. The man was bloodthirsty as hell, and he wanted their competition dead.
He studied Flint surreptitiously for a moment. There had been something, some flicker of recognition, when Gogol had mentioned the black man. He realized that Flint wasn’t just being himself, right at that moment. He was eager to come to grips with these guys, and not just because they were rivals for Codreanu.
Are these the same guys who killed most of his team in Mexico? He was actually kind of surprised; he didn’t think that Flint was so sentimental to want revenge for dead teammates. Of course, he realized as he looked into the other man’s dead eyes, that wasn’t really the reason. They crossed you and got away alive. That’s why you want them dead.
He suppressed a shudder. He knew what he was; he was no saint, that was for sure. He didn’t even really believe in saints, or God, or any higher morality than what he could get done for the right price. But looking at Flint, he believed in evil. And Flint was the closest thing to a truly, deeply evil man he’d ever met.
He waved at Flint to precede him out into the main room. Flint didn’t look at him, but just took the phone out of his hand and walked out to face Gogol.
He held the phone out. “Call ‘em back,” he said.
Gogol looked at the phone, then back up at Flint. His eyes were wary, and even from several feet away, Redrum could see that he was calculating. Gogol might be skinny and weak, and no match for any of them in a fight, but Redrum knew better than to doubt the man’s animal cunning. He was a career criminal, and a dangerous one; he’d never have survived on the streets otherwise. The Bratva was a Darwinian existence. All organized crime was.
Keep thinking about how to sell us out, fucker. I’ll put a bullet in your brain as fast as Flint will.
Gogol reached out and took the phone. “What do you want me to tell them?”
“Tell ‘em that you’ve got new information, but you don’t want to pass it over the phone,” Flint said. “Where’d you meet with them the first time?”
“They had a contact from Chisinau who brought them to one of my organization’s stockpiles in Ribnitza,” Gogol said, still sounding wary. “We did a deal, then we killed the contact after they left. He was one of Petrenko’s suki.”
“Tell them you want to meet there,” Flint instructed. “Set the meeting for tonight, but late enough that we can get there ahead of them.”
Gogol looked up at him, his eyes narrowed. Redrum could see the wheels turning in the gangster’s head. “Not sure that is such good idea,” he said. “Stockpile has already been compromised once. We have not found place for replacement yet. Firefight in stockpile not good. Would attract authorities.”
“Let me put it this way,” Flint said dangerously. “Not following my plan is not such good idea. Because if you don’t do exactly what I tell you to do, I’m going to kill you. Right here, right now.”
Gogol studied him for a moment, and Redrum could see the realization dawn in his eyes, even while he kept his pointed face impassive. He redialed and brought the phone to his ear.
***
The burner phone buzzed in Brannigan’s pocket and he dragged it out. He’d disabled the backlight, but the screen showed that it was Gogol.
He held the phone in his hand for a moment, hesitating. He looked over at Hancock, who had turned to look at him at the small noise. The phone’s “vibrate” setting wasn’t loud, but out in the woods, small sounds seemed louder. Even to battered hearing like most of the Blackhearts suffered from.
Finally, he hit the green “Answer” button and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello, Gogol,” he said. His voice sounded thick in his own ears; the cold was stiffening his cheeks.
“Hello, my friend,” Gogol said, false cheer in every syllable. “I was about to call you. I have information you might find valuable.”
Brannigan almost hung up right then and there. He didn’t consider himself paranoid, but this was raising his hackles. Still, it might be the only way forward. Gogol probably did know something, and if worse came to worst, they’d see if they could take him alive and let Herc work him over. Somehow, the Georgian medic seemed like the type who wouldn’t object to putting a bit of “pressure” on a Russian gangster.
Or just about any Russian, for that matter.
“Just how valuable?” he asked.
“Very valuable, my friend,” the gangster replied. “Too valuable to discuss over phone. Meet me back at warehouse, where we made first deal. Tonight, two hours after dark. Da?”
“Fine, we’ll be there,” Brannigan said. “I hope your information is as good as you say it is.”
“Better, my friend,” Gogol replied. “See you soon.” He hung up.
“I don’t like this,” Hancock said.
“There ain’t much to like,” Brannigan replied, pocketing the phone after turning it off. He didn’t want to chance anyone else getting a ping off of it, especially not now.
“Think it’s a trap?” Santelli asked.
“I’m almost sure it’s a trap,” Brannigan said. “But on the off chance that it ain’t, we’re going to go in anyway. Except we’ll be there early, with overwatch set. If it is a trap, we’re gonna spring it the hard way.” He turned grim. “If he’s setting us up, Gogol’s going to pay.”
***
The sun hadn’t quite set by the time they arrived. They left the UAZ vans several blocks away, with Curtis and Bianco staying behind with them. The RPDs would be of limited value in the close quarters of the warehouse and the yard outside it, and they needed someone to guard the vehicles anyway. And Curtis would stand out a lot more than any of the rest of them, walking down the street in the late afternoon.
They’d broken down the weapons and were carrying them in a couple of backpacks. Their chest rigs were under their coats, and the bedsheet camouflage ponchos had been left in the vans, except for two.
Before they got to the gate, Flanagan and Gomez split off, pulling their suppressed Uzis out of the packs, somewhat disguised by the shadows under the leafless trees. It was starting to get dark; they didn’t know for sure how much time they had, but Wade had suggested that it was probably less than an hour, provided their rivals weren’t already in place. The two of them slipped around the corner, heading for the far side of the warehouse. They’d get high, up onto a roof, where they could see down into the yard and warn the others off if there were bad guys inside.
Brannigan pulled his radio out of his coat as they waited, turning it on low. He wasn’t expecting either man to talk, but they’d need the comms for signaling. There were too many trees and too many buildings for visual signals.
He looked around. They were back in the shrubs growing alongside the fence, away from the lone streetlight just down the street. There weren’t many people out on the street, and they hadn’t seen pedestrians or vehicles for the last several minutes. That part of town seemed to be pretty dead past a certain time of day.
Even so, he was getting nervous, the longer the wait stretched out. They were exposed, and wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny if somebody tried to find out who the men loitering on the street were. Loiterers didn’t seem to be uncommon in Ribnitza, but in that particular part of the industrial district, and at that time of day, they were still out of place.
The radio clicked twice. Clear. Flanagan and Gomez hadn’t seen anything in the yard; the warehouse appeared to be abandoned. Brannigan pointed to Jenkins.
The man hurried around the corner to the gate and went to work on the padlock. Getting it open wasn’t co
mplicated, with the right tool. In moments, the chain was hanging from one side of the gate and he’d pushed it open just wide enough for a man to get through.
The Blackhearts slipped into the yard, strongpointing just inside the gate long enough to get the weapons out, reassembled, and loaded. Then, as Jenkins re-secured the gate, the rest swept toward the warehouse and the pair of smaller outbuildings.
It took less than five minutes to determine that the warehouse was clear. Hancock immediately started assigning pairs of men to defensive positions in and around the buildings. They could have company any minute, and they wanted to be ready to kill that company if the situation called for it.
It wasn’t an uncommon attitude among them, but it was somewhat more urgent now.
The trap within a trap was set. Now all they could do was wait.
Chapter 17
Flanagan watched as the ZIL truck pulled up just outside the gate. He was flat against the warehouse roof, just the top of his head and the muzzle of his Uzi over the peak. It had taken some doing to get up there, but he and Gomez had managed it, with the help of some quickly rearranged crates and tires. He was reasonably sure he was, if not invisible, at least really hard to see. His bedsheet poncho was draped over his head and his weapon, and the trees at his back would shield him from all but the closest scrutiny from that direction.
The guys in the winter camouflage weren’t exactly being subtle. They pulled right up to the gate, piled out, and moved to breach. Jenkins had jimmied the lock open without breaking it, so he’d been able to re-secure the gate after they’d gotten through. So, the bad guys found nothing especially amiss when they tested the chain.
One of them turned back toward the truck and said something. Flanagan had his weapon trained on the gate and the men just on the other side of it. The more he watched, the more he saw that they’d been more careful than he’d initially suspected; they were out in the open by the gate, but the ZIL was blocking the view of the gate from the road. What was happening wouldn’t be immediately obvious to any casual observer.
At least, it wouldn’t be until the shooting started.
The passenger door opened, and a man came down out of the cab. Flanagan didn’t need much light to identify Gogol; he was a keen enough observer that he’d memorized the man’s general characteristics and mannerisms at their first meeting. He was also expecting him; the ZIL had given the game away as soon as it had pulled up to the gate. Their suspicions about the phone conversation with the gangster had been correct. Gogol was playing both sides.
That was going to cost him, Flanagan decided.
He was momentarily tempted to open fire right away. He had a lot of them in his sights, and they seemed to be confident, relaxed. The still-closed lock must have told them that they still had plenty of time.
Patience. Let the coyote stick his whole head in the trap before you spring it.
Even so, he leveled the suppressed 9mm submachinegun at the men at the gate, even as Gogol unlocked the padlock and pushed the gate open.
He knew that the 9mm was outranged and outgunned by the AK variants the guys in the white-and-gray camo were carrying. That was the other reason he was waiting.
Slowly and carefully, he took his hand off the submachinegun’s forearm, drawing it back down to his chest rig. Finding his radio by feel, he keyed the mic four times. Company’s here. And it wasn’t friendly.
The men in white and gray slipped through the gate, their weapons up and ready, spreading out across the yard. Two of them moved toward the outbuildings, stacking up on the doors. They were going to be careful. These were pros.
It only further cemented his certainty that these were some of the same bastards they’d faced on the Tourmaline-Delta platform. Whoever they were, they were as well-trained as they were well-equipped.
Getting his hand back on the Uzi’s forearm, he focused on the two farthest. The Uzi wasn’t the greatest long-range weapon, but it was less than thirty meters. He’d be able to drop them both easily, provided they weren’t wearing much in the way of body armor. He should probably assume that they were.
The two at the outbuilding kicked the door in and flowed inside. The other four were nearing the entrance to the warehouse. They were still being professional, but clearly, they were just clearing the compound to be on the safe side; they didn’t think anyone was there. He put his weapon’s front sight on the rightmost man at the gate, behind Gogol and his handler, figuring that Gomez, off to his left, was going to handle the other one. He slowly let out a breath, hoping it didn’t smoke too much in the cold air, and his finger tightened on the trigger.
Then the situation abruptly went sideways. It wasn’t announced by a hail of gunfire, but by the rumble of diesel engines and the flashing of blue lights.
The Transnistrians had been patrolling more aggressively after the firefight at Codreanu’s dacha. The Blackhearts had narrowly avoided at least two of the patrols in and around Ribnitza on the way in. They should have expected that even the back streets were going to get some extra attention.
One of the winter camouflaged figures at the gate yelled, bringing his rifle up. The rest of them froze for a second, and then turned and started to dash for the gate, taking up what could only be defensive positions around the broken-down vehicles and outbuildings in the yard. The two who had gone into the first outbuilding came rushing out, posting up on the corner, aimed in at the gate. The ZIL truck was still blocking most of it; they hadn’t bothered to bring it inside yet. Flanagan’s best guess was that they’d planned on doing so after they cleared the compound. They wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave it out there for the Blackhearts to see on the way in.
Spotlights danced against the truck, and a voice called out over a megaphone in Russian. When there was no response, the challenge was repeated, in more strident tones. The lights were still flashing, but seemed to have stopped moving.
Flanagan couldn’t see anything else, but he could picture it. The truck and the open gate were out of place, and the Transnistrians were probably piling out of their vehicles, AKs in hand, to investigate. Transnistria might be a “frozen conflict,” in a perpetual state of official war since 1992, but that didn’t mean it was in anywhere near the chaos of the Middle East or even Burma. Incidents like the raid on Codreanu’s dacha were going to elicit responses, and heavy-handed ones, given the historically paranoid nature of Soviet-style regimes.
He watched the white-clad shooters. The one who seemed to be in charge was pulling the men back from the gate, getting them back into the shadows and away from the spotlights. They were moving well, never dropping their coverage of the gate, which was the one way in or out of the yard.
His gaze flicked to Gogol. The little man was easy enough to pick out, especially since he was still dressed in his cold-weather greatcoat instead of the white camouflage the shooters were wearing.
He was also nervous as hell and looking for a way out.
Without being able to consult with the others inside, or even with Gomez, a few feet away, Flanagan hatched on a plan. As easy as it might be at that moment, with all the opposing force shooters focused on the gate, to just massacre them all, it could, ultimately, turn out to be counterproductive. Unless he was in the truck, they hadn’t brought Codreanu with them. Which meant that they’d just have a bunch of dead bodies, a lot of pissed-off Transnistrians breathing down their necks, and that the remaining OPFOR could vanish with Codreanu, knowing that they were well and truly blown.
But Gogol…if Gogol was working this closely with them, he might know something. He might even have found their bolt-holes for them. If they paid well enough, he was sure that Gogol would have done it easily. If they could get their hands on Gogol, they might have a chance to actually pull this off.
With all eyes below focused on the gate, he took the risk and turned his head to look over at the white lump on the roof that was Gomez. After a moment, he saw the man turn his own head, and while it was too dark to see his face,
he knew that he was looking at him.
He pointed to Gogol. Gomez followed his finger as best he could, then nodded slowly and carefully. Quick movement draws the eye. But the signal was clear. He got the message. Gogol was their target, if at all possible. They just had to wait for their chance.
The first Transnistrians appeared in the gateway, bulky figures in dark camouflage and fur hats. Two had AK-47s in their gloved hands; the third had a pistol and a flashlight. He was playing the light over the ZIL, shining it into the back. There was no change in his demeanor, and the rifles didn’t come up, so Flanagan decided that his earlier assessment had been accurate; Codreanu wasn’t in the truck.
More were coming into view behind them as the three of them pushed through the partially-open gate, the flashlight blazing brilliant white in the dark and reflecting off the snow. Including the fresh footprints in the snow, that the OPFOR shooters hadn’t apparently noticed. Fortunately, even if they thought to look at that point, they’d already trampled over the Blackhearts’ tracks so thoroughly that they wouldn’t be able to be sure that someone had been there before them.
The flashlight beam swept across the yard once and settled on Gogol and his handler for a second before all hell really broke loose.
A thunderous fusillade of gunfire cut the five men in the gateway down, muzzle flashes flickering in the dark and bullets punching through thick coats, folding the Transnistrian soldiers and policemen over in agonized sprays of blood. The flashlight beam spun crazily as the man carrying it fell backward, his legs no longer able to support his body, and the light landed in the snow next to him, pointing at the trees off to his right.
The soldiers or policemen outside the gate must have already been nervous. And after what they’d seen at the raided farm, every Blackheart could have predicted what came next.
Heavy machinegun fire thumped in the night, the flicker of the muzzle blast visible even over the wall and through the skeletal trees. Heavy caliber bullets tore through the ZIL truck long-ways, making the vehicle shudder and shake, bits of debris, snow, and dust blasted off the metal as the 14.5mm slugs tore through steel like it was cardboard.