by Eric Meyer
He heard a door open, and he whirled; two men with pistols drawn, two of Malenkov's guards. Pavel's men were running for the stairs, and a half-dozen of them opened fire. The guards didn't stand a chance, and they went down with a dozen bullets in each of them. Raider ran on.
They reached the front lobby, an area as big as the entire floor space of an American family home. It was a circular room with sculptures artfully placed on pedestals around the walls. Before he reached the lobby, he stopped at a partly open door. He snatched it open. Stairs, leading down.
"This is it! Pavel," he shouted, "Cover these floors. I don't want to find we're cut off when we come back. We're going down."
"We will do our part, American. Good luck with your girl, and kill a few of the bastards for me."
That's the plan, buddy.
While the Mafiya soldiers fanned out around the house, he led his men down the long flight of stone steps into the basement. The staircase was long, and when they reached the bottom, he estimated they were about ten meters below ground level. Unlike the rest of the house, it was cold, bitterly cold. They entered a passage at the bottom, and twenty meters away he saw the outline of a door backlit by light from inside.
God, she could be in there!
He raced at the head of his men along the tunnel. The walls were bare concrete, with the remains of armored cables hanging in untidy loops from the ceiling. It was obvious the basement had been the underground emergency control room for the fighter base.
He slowed before the doorway, the others caught up, and he spoke in a whisper.
"She could be the other side of this door. Waite, get the door open. Al, we'll go in and clean out the room, take the right. Joe, watch our six. Let's do it."
He shouldered his VSS Vintorez and cocked the Stechkin. Waite was already pounding toward the door. He hit it, tumbled inward, and he and Al followed him inside, rolling on the floor and keeping their weapons ready. He saw her immediately.
"Abigail!"
"Stoy!" Stop!
The Russian guard was holding his daughter with one hand. The other held a combat knife ready to slice across her windpipe. Her eyes were wide with terror, and she whispered a single word.
“Daddy…”
“I’m here, darling,” he grinned at her. He winked, and she responded with an uncertain smile.
It was a huge room, maybe thirty meters long. At the other end were the remains of radios and electronic equipment. Probably the old Russian Air Force radio room. There were four bunk beds alongside one wall, which would have been for off-duty radio operators.
For several seconds, it was a standoff. If the guy holding his daughter used the knife, he'd be a dead man. They knew if they made a threatening move, he'd kill Abigail. The Russian gabbled something unintelligible, but his meaning was clear. Throw down the guns or the girl dies. He had to think fast, and he could only arrive at one solution. Joe.
If there ever was a time you were listening, make it now.
A gun battle was raging above them. At any moment it could spread into the basement, as men dived for cover and sought a place to hide, or to gain a tactical advantage.
"Look, pal, we're not carrying anything heavy, like a SNIPER RIFLE," he shouted, "If they did, they could come through that door and put a bullet through your brains. But seeing as we're in here, it's not likely, is it? There's no need for anyone to get upset. We can talk about this."
It didn't work the way he intended. The guy went crazy, shouting, screaming, and raging. His eyes almost popped out of his head, spittle splashing out of his mouth. With a sense of shock, Raider realized the man was high. Spaced out on something like coke or amphetamines. It made him more dangerous, more unpredictable. Finally, he screamed orders that were crystal clear. Drop the guns now, or she dies.
He gently put his Stechkin on the dusty, concrete floor. More shots rang out from upstairs, this time closer, and orders were shouted. They were coming down the stairs. There wasn't much time. The man gestured to Al and Waite, and obediently they laid their Bizon machine pistols down. He gestured again, and they moved backward. He grinned, a crazed, mad rictus of stretched lips and bared teeth, as he picked up the weapons and continued to scream and rave. It was obvious to them he was working up his courage to start the killing. His drug fueled monologue raged at them, and they only had seconds before he killed them all. Abigail would die with them.
He reached the end of his maddened speech, and they tensed, his next step was not in any doubt. The muzzle of the Stechkin raised, and he pointed it at a spot that roughly equated to Raider's belly. His finger moved a fraction as he took up the pressure on the trigger. Raider steeled his muscles, readying himself to jump at him; it was all he had left. Except to die.
The sound suppressed shot almost went unnoticed. The man's eyes opened wide, and his lips formed a look of astonishment. A trickle of blood came down from his forehead. Joe had drilled him with a single shot, a bull's-eye, straight through the skull and into the brain. He began to topple, although he still held the knife in a dead man's grip. Raider raced forward and snatched Abigail out of his arms.
"Daddy."
He couldn’t help it; tears were rolling down his face, and he wiped them away.
"Yeah, it's me, darling. I've got you. We're going home."
She fainted, and he held her close, grateful she would at least be spared some of the horrors they still had to face before they got out of this place. Waite rushed out of the room and came straight back.
"They're retreating down the stairs, a bunch of Malenkov's guards. Pavel's men are right on their tail. If we're not careful, we'll get caught up in the crossfire."
"Copy that. Tell Joe to get his ass in here. We'll leave the door open a fraction, and you can use the grenade launcher. Lend Pavel a hand."
"I like it." He raced outside, and they heard him shouting to Joe. Both men dived inside the room, and Waite readied the launcher. He looked at Raider, an eyebrow raised.
"They're getting close."
"Do it."
He pointed the barrel through the partially opened door and fired four rounds. Al was waiting, and he slammed the door shut. The explosion rocked the foundation of the building as the first grenade detonated, and the following three missiles detonated a microsecond later. A single grenade in the confined space would have done terrible damage, but the four grenades became a monstrous metal scythe, slicing through skin and bone, reducing human beings to strips of unrecognizable gristle. Waite popped his head out the door as the vibrations died down and fragments stopped whistling through the air. When he looked back at them, his face was pale. He'd seen more bloodshed than most would see in a score of lifetimes, so it would be bad.
"If Abigail wakes up, I'd keep her eyes away from it as we leave."
"I will."
Al took the point, and they left the room, running back along the tunnel and up the stairs. Bodies were strewn over the steps, over the floor, and strips of flesh hung from the cables on the ceiling. No one said a word. When they stepped out into the hallway, Pavel was waiting for them.
"We were lucky. They didn't expect an attack in such large numbers. A few of Malenkov's men counterattacked, but I got the impression most of them were high on something; they were so slow to respond. By the time they pulled on their pants, most of them were dead. The rest took off. You want me to send men after them?"
"I want Malenkov."
He nodded. "We all do. We believe he left the house with his men when they began to fall back. He may have gone to the gatehouse to direct the fight. Grigory is having a tough time out there. I need to join him."
He nodded. "Go, Pavel, and thanks for what you've done here. I'd be with you, only I have her," he looked down at the child in his arms.
"We'll finish them, never fear. It's lucky it was a drug outfit we were up against, and not one of our Mafiya armies. They'd have fought harder."
"Drug outfit? I don't get it."
He looked puzzled.
"It was Malenkov's sideline, supplying coke and heroin to the Moscow club scene. He had the monopoly, with Putin's Kremlin guards to back him up."
Something clicked into place, although at that moment, Raider wasn't sure what it was. He filed it away in his mind for later. Pavel shouted an order to his men, and they rushed away to join the pitched battle at the gates. Raider hugged his daughter, who was still unconscious. Her breathing sounded normal as far as he could judge, but her skin was pale and clammy, her hair matted after so long in captivity, and her hands covered in grime. He felt his anger surge at Malenkov for doing this to a child and regretted he wouldn't be in on the final kill.
Waite touched his arm to get his attention without waking her. "We'll need something more comfortable than a truck to take Abigail away from here. How about Al and me confiscate one of Malenkov's limos. I doubt he'll object, not any more.
"Sure, that'd be good. Where's Joe?"
"He went upstairs, something about looking for documents. You know Joe; he sold his soul to CIA a long time ago. I guess they told him not to miss any opportunity. It's not a problem. When we needed him, his priorities were to his friends, not to those fucksters at Langley."
Raider nodded. "You're right. I'll find some blankets to keep her warm and wait inside until you find the car."
They walked out of the rear door and left him alone. He carried her up to the second floor. In one of the bedrooms he found a made up bed and ripped the blankets off to wrap around her. Suddenly, he thought of Joe.
I haven't heard any sounds. Where is he?
He went to the door. "Joe? Whereabouts are you?"
Nothing. The silence mocked him. Carrying Abigail, he walked along the soft carpet on the second floor landing, looking into each room. He wasn't there, wasn't anywhere.
Could he have got past me and be back downstairs?
Finally, he walked into a sumptuous bedroom.
"Joe? Where are you?"
"He's on the floor, recovering from a blow to the head," a voice said softly from behind him.
He whirled and stared into the smiling face of Yuri Malenkov. He was holding a Bizon, the wicked submachine gun Al and Joe had used.
"Mr. Raider, how nice of you to visit my home. A pity you won't be leaving it. Turn around. I need to search you."
A stage conjurer would have been proud. He obeyed the Russian and turned, transferring the Stechkin underneath Abigail's dress in a single, flowing movement. As he was searched, he kept up the conversation.
"How did you get past Pavel's people, Malenkov?"
He sneered. "That bunch of Mafiya scum? Did you think they could beat me?"
He finished the search, removed the Vintorez rifle and stepped back, ordering him to turn around. When he didn't speak, Raider played for time.
"Looks like those Mafiya scum did a pretty good job, Malenkov. You're finished here."
He snorted. "It's nothing. I have other resources, other regions where I can transfer my business. Everything will continue as usual. This," he waved his hand to indicate the house and grounds, "This is no longer necessary, now that Putin has replaced me. It would only have been a matter of time before he sent his people to arrest me. You have achieved nothing."
"What business will you transfer?"
The Russian looked puzzled. "What do you mean, what business? The drugs, of course, I supply much of Eastern Europe. It is a vast business, one that will go on regardless of these nuisance raids."
"I'm guessing you fly the drugs in from Mexico, via Ukraine."
He chuckled. "How perceptive of you, Mr. Raider. Yes, that's how it works, something like that."
"I take it Dragan is involved, where is he?"
"Alexander Dragan? No, he is not. Do you think I'd trust a fucking Ukrainian?"
"Is he dead?"
"Dead?" He chuckled, "No, he is not dead. I have Alexander Dragan in, shall we say, protective custody. I wanted him out of the way while I finished this business. There are certain aspects I did not want him to see. The fool thinks I am actually helping him, saving his life. Afterward, he will be more than useful to me. However, it is time to put an end to this nonsense, Mr. Raider. I'm sorry about your daughter, but she has to die with you. She could identify some of my associates, and maybe even cause the FSB to begin hunting for me. I cannot allow that, so you have to die."
So Dragan isn't involved. Interesting.
He was almost at the point where he could take him. All he needed was a few more seconds.
"Malenkov, a last favor."
He sighed and glanced out of a window. "I need to leave now before they find the entrance to my bolt hole. My men are running, the cowardly bastards. What favor?"
"Let me put Abigail on the floor. Shoot me first, so I don't see her die."
"If that's what you wish, go ahead. I'm getting bored with this, Raider. I have a business to run, and time is money. Five seconds, and I don't care if she's on the floor or not, I start shooting."
"Okay, okay. Let me just settle her down here."
He gently placed his daughter on the carpeted floor, shielding what he was doing by turning his back to Malenkov.
"Three seconds, hurry it up."
"If you say so, pal."
He still had hold of Abigail's dress. He gripped it and hurled her away across the room. At the same time, he turned. Malenkov was fast, as slippery as a snake, and his finger was already tightening on the trigger. Too late. Raider pulled the trigger of the Stechkin. He'd already used the safety lever to select full auto, and a full clip of bullets ripped into the big man, the heavy impacts jerking him back toward the window. As he rocked backward, he picked up momentum, and his heavy body crashed through the glass. There was no scream as he fell to the ground. He was already dead.
A few seconds later Waite raced up the staircase and barged into the room. "What happened up here?"
Raider was settling Abigail back into his arms. "You saw the body?"
"Yeah, Malenkov, where did he come from?"
"He came from hell, and he's gone back there." They both looked up as someone moaned. It was Joe, starting to recover. He shook his head and wiped a streak of blood from a cut where Malenkov had hit him.
"You okay?" Raider asked him. His face was covered with streaks of dirt and drying blood.
"Where's Malenkov?"
"Out the window, weighed down with several Stechkin bullets."
He smiled. "In that case, I'm okay. I'll head down and see how Al is getting on. That guy never did have an eye for a good car."
"You're sure you're okay?"
"I have a head like a cannonball. I'm fine."
He went off down the staircase, and they both looked at Abigail.
"You think she'll recover?" Waite asked, showing a surprising degree of concern for such a bruising fighter.
"She will. Cover me while I get her out of here. I don't want any nasty surprises. Did you find a car?"
"Oh, yeah, we found a car, a Rolls Royce, no less. Your daughter is riding out of here in comfort."
"She deserves it."
Waite went ahead and made sure the way was clear. The shooting had died down around the gatehouse, and Grigory was chatting to Pavel. He saw them exit the house and waved. Raider waved back, and they climbed into the car Al had uncovered. A beautiful Rolls Royce Phantom, a hand built luxury limo dating back to the 1930s. He carried his daughter into the back, and the door closed with a reassuring thunk of expensive, precision-engineered steel and leather. Waite climbed in the other side and sat on a jump seat to face them. After an argument about who would drive, Joe won. He put the gear lever into drive, and the big, heavy car purred away from the house. Grigory and Pavel gave them a cheerful wave as they exited onto the main highway.
"Where to, Boss? Dinner with President Putin?" Joe joked.
"He's the last person I want to see. We'll start with the local hospital. There has to be one in Gelendzhik. I want her checked out. As soon as we arrive, I'll give Mariyah
a call and let her know she's okay."
"I can hold her for you," Waite offered.
He shook his head. "Now we've got her back, I don't intend to let her go."
They followed the signposts with the red crosses and found the hospital. While the doctor was checking her out, he called Mariyah on the satphone.
"We got her. She's fine."
"Oh, thank God. I thought they'd kill her. I thought I'd lost my little girl. Was it bad?"
He decided she didn't want to know the gory details.
"Not too bad. We're at the hospital in Gelendzhik, if you want to come and see her."
"We'll be right with you."
"Bring Paul with you."
"Paul? But of course, he'll be desperate to see her."
"We'll see you soon." He ended the call, and as he sat in the stark, clinical waiting area, he marshaled his thoughts, wondering if he was mistaken. He doubted it. The other men left him alone, knowing he'd be suffering a whirlwind of emotions after getting her back. Joe was outside, standing guard on the Rolls Royce. He'd become more than a little attached to it.
Mariyah arrived with Paul Vann, who had acquired a posse of hard-eyed, tough looking bodyguards, all of them armed. They made no secret of the weapons, carrying them openly in their hands. Mariyah and Paul went in to see Abigail. Paul came out and rejoined his bodyguards after a few minutes, and they shook hands.
"You did a fantastic thing, John. You pulled off the impossible, getting her back. How can we ever thank you?"
"I did what any father would do for his kid."
He shook his head. "What you achieved was a miracle. Tell me, what can we do for you? We'll arrange to get you guys home, of course. Just as soon as we know more about Abigail's condition. Anything else I can do for you?"
He stared at the corporate lawyer, and his gaze bored into the man's eyes.
"You can start by handing over the Putin file."
"What?"
"The Putin file. I know you have it, Paul, so don't fuck me around."
"But, how?"
"It was a simple process of elimination. I guess I worked it out the way the cops would do it. Means, motive, and opportunity."