Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  "Copy that."

  He led the way out of the office and down the staircase. Behind him, he could hear the footsteps of Elena leading Zefirov, and Waite bringing up the rear, clutching one of the unused RPGs. They reached the lobby just as the last of the troops were racing out of the door to defend the building they believed was under attack. Their eyes fell on the huge iron safe built into the wall on full view. Raider guarded the door with his submachine gun as Waite began placing charges around the door. When he was ready, he looked up.

  "You know when this detonates, they'll come charging back inside."

  "I know. Which is why I know you're not going to miss with that RPG. I'll spray them with the submachine gun, but you can be sure Al and Joe will do their stuff. That big Kord machine gun is likely to dissuade anyone from getting too close. And as soon as we have the file, we'll hightail it out the back way."

  "If they see us leaving in the limo, it'll be a turkey shoot for them."

  "Which is why we'll take one of their BTRs."

  He smiled. "I reckon you got it figured out, Boss. Hit the deck. I've packed in enough explosive to destroy a tank. That's one heavy door."

  "Elena, take Zefirov and get behind cover."

  She dived behind the lobby reception desk, pulling the Pamyat leader with her. Raider joined her, and then Waite vaulted over the counter.

  "Fire in the hole!"

  The explosion was as he had promised, a massive blast that shook the foundations of the building. The heavy iron door sailed over their heads and smashed into the wall behind them. As the smoke and dust died down, they saw the safe contents exposed to them. He rushed over and rummaged through the papers and files. There was money, hundred of thousands of rubles, piles of dollar bills. It probably ran into the millions, together with Euros and even Chinese Yuan.

  He ignored them all and looked through the piles of documents. At first, the Cyrillic writing on each bundle was incomprehensible. Then he came to one where even in Cyrillic, the name on the front was recognizable. Vladimir Putin. He took it to Elena, who was still covering Zefirov with her pistol.

  "Take a look at this."

  He covered the Pamyat leader while she scanned through the papers. Finally, she nodded.

  "There's no doubt. The material here is enough to bring him down. Faked contracts, property deeds, numbered accounts in the Cayman Islands, a few in Switzerland. It has everything, names, dates, places, and amounts. It's the Putin file."

  "Good enough. Waite, we need to…"

  He didn't finish. They could hear the tramp of heavy boots from men rushing toward them. However, these were not the troops from outside. Pamyat was coming at them from inside the building. He called to the girl.

  "Elena, I'll take care of Zefirov. Go find Al and Joe, and tell them to bring that machine gun down here. We're about to be surrounded. Waite, how're things outside?"

  "Not good. They're wondering where we came from. I guess we have a minute, no more. Then they'll come inside, and we'll have a war on our hands."

  "Understood. The moment they head inside, hit them with the missile. Al and Joe are on the way. They can keep back the men coming from the back of the building."

  Waite stared at him. "Isn't that the way we were going out?"

  "We'll deal with that when we come to it. For now, just make sure no one comes through that front entrance."

  He had the file stuffed inside his camo jacket. With his left hand, he gripped Zefirov to make sure he didn't try to make a break for it. Elena rushed back into the lobby, followed by Al and Joe. They set up the heavy machine gun to cover the rear, and he felt they'd be safe from the initial attack. All they needed now was a way out. And they had the answer. Zefirov.

  He dragged the Pamyat leader to the front of the building. "Waite, I'm going out there to show them Zefirov. Either they let us go, or I put a bullet through his head."

  "And if they say no?"

  "I'll improvise."

  Waite raised his eyebrows. "That fills me with confidence."

  Raider dragged the man out the front entrance. Immediately, a score or more of assault rifles leveled at him. They jerked away when they recognized the prisoner. He spelled it out to Zefirov.

  "You know how this works. Tell them to move out of our way, or we kill you, right now!"

  Zefirov nodded. He shouted to his men, and a man at the front shouted back to him, a big, angry man with a jutting beard, and it looked as if they were arguing. The others watched the bearded man, as if they would defer to him. He was probably Zefirov's second-in-command. Raider decided enough was enough.

  "What's going on?"

  "They don't know what to do. Ivan, he is my military commander, insists on forcing you to surrender. He says there's no way he'll give in to Ukrainian bandits."

  "We are not Ukrainians."

  "He probably knows that. But he's looking for an excuse to start shooting." Zefirov grimaced, "You have to understand; if I die, he'll take command of the organization."

  Stalemate. Raider rapidly ran through the options left to them. It would most likely be best to hit them with a couple more missiles, slice through them with heavy machine gun fire, and then try to make a break for it.

  But we won't make it. There are too many of them, and our chances of getting away are almost nil. That would be a death sentence for Abigail. Somehow, we have to get these men to agree.

  He turned back to Waite, watching from just inside the doorway.

  "The big bearded guy at the front. Do you have a shot?"

  "No sweat."

  "Kill him."

  He fired. The single shot echoed around the silent square in front of the museum, and the man slumped to the ground, Waite's bullet in his brain. The Russians raised their rifles and shouted protests. At first, it looked as if they were about to open fire. He snarled at Zefirov.

  "For Christ's sake, man, you have to calm them. You want to live. Tell them anything."

  The man nodded and began screaming at his men in incomprehensible Russian. At first, the bunch of armed men seemed to calm down, and he had hopes they might make it. Especially now the main obstacle was dead. And then a second shot rang out in the square. One of the Pamyat soldiers had come to a decision; the leader was expendable. His bullet took Zefirov in the center of his chest, a heart shot. He dropped to the ground, and for a few seconds, everyone stared, astonished at the death of their leader.

  He didn't know if it was intentional, or someone had been aiming at him and hit Zefirov by mistake. None of it made any difference. All that mattered was they'd lost their ace in the hole. The hostage was dead, and with his death went any chance of them escaping alive. He ducked back inside, as the enemy started shooting and bullets peppered the woodwork. Waite stared at him.

  "I guess we're fucked, Boss."

  He nodded. "Looks that way, Waite. We're not going anywhere."

  Neither is Abigail. I've failed her.

  Chapter Eight

  The lobby echoed with the roar of heavy machine gun fire, as Al opened up on a concerted rush of a dozen Russians coming at them from inside the building. Their only way in was along a narrow corridor, and they attacked in a bunch, firing from the hip. When the Kord machine gun stopped firing, ten bodies lay in bloody ruin on the floor, and only two men had managed to escape, protected from the hail of lead by the bodies of their comrades.

  "They'll be coming in through the front before long. We can't hold them all off," Al said urgently, "Neither do we have much ammunition. The only thing that'll get us out of here is a miracle."

  Raider didn't reply. He was listening to the boots of the troops in the corridors behind them and trying to count the numbers they faced.

  Too many! It’s true. We need a miracle.

  "Al, miracles are in short supply, especially in Moscow."

  But Al wasn't listening. He was staring out the front. Raider turned to follow his gaze. Visibility had decreased, the weather had worsened, and it had started to s
now. This was no ordinary snow. It was Russian snow, the kind that defeated Napoleon's army and led to the devastating retreat from Moscow, costing his Grand Army half a million deaths. The temperature had dropped even more, to the kind of levels that froze a quarter of a million German soldiers before their surrender at Stalingrad. Heavy, thick flakes came down like grapeshot, and inside of a few seconds, it was impossible to see more than a meter in front of them. He made an instant decision.

  "It’s now or never! They don't stand a chance of seeing us if we get out now. Let's get out of here, and make it fast."

  They looked out through the entrance doors, and faces that were resigned to death lit up with hope. As one man, they started to move, racing after him as he sped outside and began picking his way through the snowstorm. Shots rang out, but each time the bullet was badly aimed and came nowhere near them. The enemy knew they were escaping and were forced to shoot blind. They were almost clear of the area when they ran straight into a line of men feeling their way forward along the side of a building. He didn't hesitate. Raider pulled the trigger, loosed off a burst that knocked down the first two men, and the rest of them opened fire. The Russians went down, poleaxed by the unexpected attack from out of the snowstorm.

  They reached the main street, feeling their way along building-by-building, and fence-by-fence. All they knew was they were putting distance between them and the vengeance of Pamyat. The snow continued falling for a further half-hour, and as it started to ease, Elena read the street signs, and they made it back to the Dragan warehouse.

  Yet even when they were nearing safety, he felt uneasy. Something was very wrong, something he couldn't put his finger on. They were all exhausted, lack of food and little sleep. They were also bitterly cold and soaked to the skin from the wet snow that saturated their camos. It made it almost impossible to think, and they were dropping with fatigue when Elena pushed open the door.

  It took Raider a couple of seconds before it clicked. Why was the door unlocked, and how did she know it was unlocked? He suddenly understood why he felt so uneasy. The escape from the Pamyat headquarters; it was true it had been made possible by the snowstorm, but the place should have been staked out by Russian security troops. The file was too important to them to have left the building unwatched and unguarded.

  Unless Malenkov already knew what had happened, so there'd be no need to keep a watch. By the time his exhausted mind worked it out; it was too late. They almost fell through the door into the warehouse, desperate to be out of the freezing, life sapping cold. Straight into the muzzles of a dozen assault rifles, and Yuri Malenkov, head of Putin's Presidential bodyguard. Unmissable, a huge man, built like a battleship. His black eyes were blacker than the pit of hell. His usual dark menace was mixed with a degree of amusement.

  "So, you made it back. Welcome, my friends."

  "Fuck you," Joe snarled. He received a rifle butt to his head in return, and he slumped to the floor, semi-conscious. Al held him to stop his head hitting the concrete. Raider felt like an idiot. He should have known back there. He also should have known they'd have been watching every building belonging to Dragan.

  Although how did Malenkov know to be in this place, right now, at the exact moment of our return?

  Elena was staring at the floor, and the last part of the puzzle fell into place.

  Elena! Of course, they got to her. She’s the only outsider who knew we'd retrieved the Putin file from the safe, the only Russian speaker.

  "You had a cellphone, I guess. With Malenkov on speed dial."

  She nodded but didn't look up.

  "So it was all a lie, everything you said to us. About the way you felt about Putin, about Moscow, about the crappy way people live in this country. You're on their side."

  She looked up sharply. "A lie! Everything I said was the truth, just not all of the truth. I didn't tell you about my mother. She lives outside Vyborg. They arrested her two days ago on charges of corruption and theft. She would have gone to the gulag. They would have linked me to the charges as well, and I would have followed her. I had no choice."

  "We all have a choice," Waite snapped, watching her as if he was waiting for the opportunity to strangle the life out of her.

  She didn't reply.

  "Search them thoroughly, then put the cuffs on them," Malenkov ordered his men. He spoke in English, so there was no room for doubt. "If anyone tries to resist, shoot him in the kneecap. If he still resists, shoot the other kneecap."

  Two soldiers rushed forward carrying steel restraints. They locked them onto their wrists behind their backs, and then they fixed more steel restraints on their ankles. Within minutes, they were helpless, handcuffed, and hobbling in leg irons. Malenkov watched with an amused expression, sitting on a wooden crate. When they were bound and helpless, he gave them a beaming smile.

  "Good, now we can discuss our business. The Putin file, where is it?"

  "Putin file?" Raider put a helpless look on his face, "We didn't find it. It must have been hidden somewhere else in the building."

  The Russian nodded. "Five seconds, and then I will instruct one of my soldiers to put a bullet through the kneecap of the black monkey." He checked his watch, "Four, three, two..."

  "In my jacket."

  He stepped forward and ripped the file out of his clothing, briefly examined it, and nodded. "Excellent, it appears to be complete. I must give the news to my boss. He will be pleased."

  "My daughter," Raider said quickly, "You have what you wanted. There's no need to hold her any more. Let her go, and return her to her mother. She's not a part of this."

  "Let her go?" His gaze was incredulous, "You don't play chess, Mr. Raider. You think I would sacrifice a valuable piece for no return."

  "You have a return. You have the file and you have me."

  "Yes, I have you, so there is no need to me to sacrifice any of my pieces. Abigail Raider will remain in my custody until such time as the Americans offer me something in exchange."

  Raider glared at the Russian. "Malenkov, if you don't let her go, I promise you, I'll hunt you down and kill you, no matter how long it takes."

  He chuckled. "I doubt that. Your friends will be in a gulag, and they'll not survive for long. The other prisoners will not take kindly to Americans. As for you, you may remember the last time you were here. You were tried in your absence for crimes committed against the state and sentenced to death. As soon as I have verified the authenticity of these documents, the sentence will be carried out." He nodded to the guards. "Take them away."

  "Where are you taking us? Siberia?"

  Malenkov chuckled. "Not yet. My boss wants you out of Moscow, so you'll be imprisoned in St. Petersburg for the present, until it's appropriate for your sentences to be carried out."

  "Why St. Petersburg?"

  He sighed. "Why? It is out of Moscow, of course. I also visit that charming city at least once a week, so it means I'll be able to question you about your activities here."

  "Is that where you have Alexander Dragan and David Brackman? Are you sending them to a gulag, too?"

  A strange expression came over his face. "That's none of your business." He barked at the guards, "Take them away."

  Three men frogmarched them through the door and roughly kicked them up into the rear of an open top truck. The soldiers fastened their shackles together, and then to a steel hoop in the back. Grinning, they jumped down and climbed into the cab. The engine started, and they had to struggle to prevent the violent motion pitching them to the hard bed of the truck.

  Their nightmare journey began through the heart of Moscow. There was little traffic as it was still the early hours of the morning. Occasionally, the occupants of a passing vehicle would stare at the shackled men, but the transport of chained prisoners on an open truck was obviously of little novelty. The truck left the suburbs of Moscow behind, and they began traveling through the freezing Russian countryside.

  The cold was even more intense. By the time they were half
way to their destination, a distance of more than six hundred klicks, they were numb. All feeling had left their limbs, and they huddled together in the bed of the truck, trying unsuccessfully to stay out of the worst of the bitter chill.

  "How cold do you guys reckon it is?" Waite asked through chattering teeth, "I've never known anything like this."

  "Thirty below," Joe hazarded a guess.

  "Celsius or Fahrenheit?"

  "Who gives a shit? It's cold."

  The journey took them more than twelve hours. They arrived in the city, and the soldiers deliberately took a route that detoured past the Winter Palace, to make sure the locals could enjoy the spectacle. They eventually wound up inside the grim, gray stone walls of their temporary place of confinement; Kresty Prison, on the outskirts of the city, a building converted in the 19th century to incarcerate Tsarist prisoners and later, victims of Stalin's vicious oppression.

  The vast, echoing space was almost empty, after the Russians built a new facility elsewhere in the city. They later found they were the only prisoners in the entire building, which was awaiting demolition. The soldiers dragged them to an ice cold, tiny cell, tripping them to the stone floor. They removed their manacles, the iron door clanged shut, and they were alone. The freezing temperature was twenty degrees warmer, or at least less cold than it had been on the back of the truck, and they worked hard to restore some circulation.

  Several minutes later, Waite, the toughest of them spoke first, "I take it you have a plan for getting us out of here, Boss." He smiled as he said it, "Apart from a firing squad."

  "I'm working on it."

  All through the rest of the day, the long night, and the following day, they waited for someone to come. The cell stank. All they had was a bucket to use as a toilet, and there was no sign of their jailers emptying the full bucket. They were hungry, freezing cold, and Raider knew beyond any doubt if they didn't get hot food and maybe a blanket or two, the death sentence on him was academic. They'd be lucky to survive in this place for more than a week.