by Peter Nealen
“So, how did you make it out?” Mark Van Zandt asked.
Brannigan sipped his bourbon. The two of them were sitting in The Boar’s Tooth, a bar not far from Sterling, Virginia, where Van Zandt and his nameless agency had set up for the moment. Most of The Boar’s Tooth’s clientele tended to be those in the same business; various flavors of what had been termed “The Army of Northern Virginia.” Exactly where the term had originated was as obscure as who exactly it signified. It had been used to refer to the CIA, the Army’s Intelligence Support Activity, Joint Special Operations Command, and just in general for the various secretive agencies and contractors that all seemed to work out of the area just outside the Beltway.
“Dalca came through, believe it or not,” Brannigan said. “Sent a chartered plane to meet us in Chisinau. We didn’t even have to go near airport security.”
“Nice of her,” Van Zandt said, tossing his own glass back. “I’m surprised you trusted her that far.”
“I didn’t,” Brannigan said. “But it was worth a shot. I didn’t want to call you except as a last resort.”
The skin around Van Zandt’s eyes might have tightened slightly. The two of them still weren’t friends, not exactly, but two major jobs for the Blackhearts, including one where Van Zandt could easily have left them stranded, had developed at least a grudging professional respect. At least it was better than what they’d had when they’d both been Marine officers.
“Don’t take it the wrong way,” Brannigan said. “This was dicey enough as it was. Bringing even ‘black’ American assets into this would have just made matters more difficult if the Russians got wind of it. This had to happen, but it had to happen in such a way that there was as much distance as possible between us and the US.”
“I get it,” Van Zandt said, waving to the bartender for another drink. “I do wish you’d talked to me before you took the job.”
“You need us to be deniable,” Brannigan said. “You’ve made that clear enough. If we clear everything past you, then sooner or later, somebody’s going to figure out that we’re just another arm of US clandestine operations.”
“Don’t bullshit me, John,” Van Zandt said, though his tone was somewhat more bantering. “You took this job because you wanted Codreanu.”
Brannigan didn’t say anything right away, but his gaze got momentarily distant and cold. “Yeah,” he said, taking another swallow of his whiskey. “Yeah, I did.”
“Well, we’ve got people looking into Burkholder Limited,” Van Zandt said. “If there’s anything to find there, we’ll find it. And then maybe I’ll have some more names to add to your target deck.
“Unfortunately,” he sighed, “the other aspect of the op didn’t turn out so good.”
“I’m sure all that violence in Transnistria was just what the Russians ordered,” Brannigan said grimly.
“It was,” Van Zandt confirmed. “Moscow announced that they’re deploying another battalion of ‘peacekeepers’ to, and I quote, ‘Protect the minority ethnic Russians of the Pridnestrovian Moldavian Republic from aggression.’ And of course, they paraded pictures of the dead shooters as proof that the West is actively pushing into the Russian sphere of influence, trying to destroy the Russian culture. Or some such.”
“Any ID on ‘em?” Brannigan asked.
“Nah, not from the photos. They’re not good enough to try to pick out identities. And with just the pictures?” He shook his head. “Not a chance. The Burkholder Limited angle’s going to help a lot more, I think.” He changed the subject. “How’s Childress?”
“Alive,” Brannigan said huskily, “but that’s the best that can be said, at the moment. He’ll never walk again, short of a miracle. One of the bullets severed his spine. And that’s not getting into all the other damage. He’s got a long road ahead, if he pulls through.” He glanced at his watch. “He’s scheduled for another surgery in about fifteen hours.”
“We’ll make sure he’s taken care of, John,” Van Zandt said. “We’ll do it quietly, but we’ll make sure of it.”
Brannigan didn’t look at Van Zandt as he tossed back the last of his drink. Their newfound professional relationship notwithstanding, any favors from Mark Van Zandt still rankled, just a little. “It’s appreciated.”
Van Zandt finished his own drink and stood back from the bar. “I’d better be getting back,” he said. “Take care of yourself, John. I’ll be in touch.”
“Mark?” Brannigan said, turning to face Van Zandt as the other man turned to leave.
Van Zandt met his eyes, and nodded. “I’ll let you know what we find,” he said. “You can trust me on that. This entire thing is compartmentalized, but you’re a different kind of asset. I’ll keep you in the loop as best I can.”
“When we find ‘em, I want in,” Brannigan said.
“Count on it.” Van Zandt waved a two-fingered mock salute and turned to leave the bar.
Brannigan turned back to the bar, hesitated, then ordered another drink. He needed it.
***
Flint looked up from his cot as the cell door opened. A small, wiry man in a cheap suit stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The man stood there and watched him dispassionately for a moment. Flint just returned his stare, unblinking.
He’d been in this cell in Sevastopol for three days. He’d told the Russians who to contact, and had been, apparently, brushed off. He’d raged at his own helplessness, but the Russians had watched him like a hawk the entire time, clearly ready to shoot him at the drop of a hat. A couple times on the way out of Transnistria, he’d expected them to drop the hat themselves.
Now, maybe, his time in limbo was going to come to an end. One way or another.
The man didn’t look around for a place to sit, but just stood inside the door, his arms folded.
“You are going to be released in next couple of hours, Mr. ‘Flint,’” the man said in accented English, the stress on the name “Flint” making it abundantly clear that he knew it wasn’t Flint’s real name. “Only reason you are being released is so that you can carry message back to your masters.”
Flint just stared at him, looking bored.
“Arrangement between SVR and your organization was clear, Mr. Flint,” the man said. “As long as you kept your activities out of Russian sphere of influence, we would not act against you, and would lend support when strategically valuable to Russian Federation. You have broken arrangement.
“This is your one warning: keep your activities limited to Western powers, and out of Russian territory. If this happens again, arrangement is null and void. Any of your operatives caught in Russian territory will be imprisoned, interrogated, and executed.”
He turned to leave. “Tell your masters, Mr. Flint,” he said. “Do not make Russian Federation your enemy. You will regret it.”
Flint stood and stretched as the door closed behind the Russian agent. Sure, we’ll see how that works out, asshole. I think you might be surprised.
He’d tell the Board, though, along with the somewhat edited version of what had happened in Transnistria. He was already planning just how he’d tell them. At least Codreanu’s dead. He can’t breathe a word to anybody now. He’d seen the body get tossed in the back of a truck as they’d been getting ready to leave Hrustovaya. I’m still safe. They need me more than they need to make an example. Redrum and the rest of those dipshits were the example.
Once he’d smoothed things over with the board, though, he had another task in mind. An increasingly personal one.
This is twice some mysterious Americans have tried to fuck with my op. I’m going to find out who they are, and I’m going to take them off the board. Permanently.
Look for more hard-hitting action soon, in:
BRANNIGAN’S BLACKHEARTS #5
HIGH DESERT VENGEANCE
They’ve always fought for pay…until now.
Mario Gomez hasn’t ever been particularly open about his family, even among the Blackhearts. Most of his teammates k
now next to nothing about him. But now he has no choice. He’s going to have to bring the personal and the professional together.
His family’s troubles with the Espino-Gallo Cartel started before the Transnistria mission. His father’s New Mexico ranch lies right on the fledgling cartel’s infiltration route into the United States. It hadn’t gone much farther than threats and trespassing. But while Mario was in Eastern Europe, Old Man Gomez was murdered, and Mario’s sister Sonya kidnapped.
There’s no paycheck to be had. But John Brannigan has always been the sort of leader who takes care of his own, and Mario is one of his boys. The Espino-Gallo Cartel is about to learn the high price of messing with a Blackheart’s family.
AuthoR’s Note
Thank you for reading Frozen Conflict. This one did bring a bit more real-world geopolitics into the fictional world of the Blackhearts and their shadowy nemesis. Transnistria is a real place, and it’s started to draw some more scrutiny as the Russian Federation annexes more of the old Soviet Empire. I hope you’ll continue to come along for the ride.
To keep up-to-date, I hope that you’ll sign up for my newsletter—you get a free American Praetorians novella, Drawing the Line, when you do.
If you’ve enjoyed this novel, I hope that you’ll go leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Reviews matter a lot to independent authors, so I appreciate the effort.
If you’d like to connect, I have a Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/PeteNealenAuthor. You can also contact me, or just read my musings and occasional samples on the blog, at https://www.americanpraetorians.com. I look forward to hearing from you.
Also By Peter Nealen
The Maelstrom Rising Series
Escalation
Holding Action
Crimson Star
Strategic Assets
Fortress Doctrine
SPOTREPS – A Maelstrom Rising Anthology
The Brannigan’s Blackhearts Universe
Kill Yuan
The Colonel Has A Plan (Online Short)
Fury in the Gulf
Burmese Crossfire
Enemy Unidentified
Frozen Conflict
High Desert Vengeance
Doctors of Death
Kill or Capture
Enemy of My Enemy
The American Praetorians Series
Drawing the Line: An American Praetorians Story (Novella)
Task Force Desperate
Hunting in the Shadows
Alone and Unafraid
The Devil You Don’t Know
Lex Talionis
The Jed Horn Supernatural Thriller Series
Nightmares
A Silver Cross and a Winchester
The Walker on the Hills
The Canyon of the Lost (Novelette)
Older and Fouler Things