The crowd parted, even though most hadn’t acknowledged her, nor the men flanking her with body armor and shields, yet. Only the three yellow letters on the sew-on patch on her vest let them know, they were FSB.
A pillar brushed on Olga’s side as she stepped into the main hall, mimicking the agility of a panther. The loud music swallowed her, drum beats booming like rolling thunder, electronic music like lightning discharge. She fought through the fog and smell, breaking into the crowd, all hands up. And still they hadn’t seen her.
She tapped the phone in her vest and leant down, weapon raised. Her nails were freshly cut, her hair kept short. “Now. Now! Kill it.”
She moved in. The music didn’t stop. Instead, the lights went on. A floodlight flashed on and burnt itself with a bright smack into her eyes. The beat drummed on, letting people stutter to staccato flashes of light.
Olga knew in a nanosecond what it meant. In the adjoining room, the club manager was making problems. He hesitated to cooperate, with a colleague having him by the throat, pressed against the bar counter. Bad timing. It would make things bad for him and worse for her.
A glass shattered on a tray in front of her, spilling champagne like a wet spray of gluey sparks. More shots punched through the thick air, their booms drowned by thunder, their muzzle flashes veiled by lightning. Someone had spotted her and raked the floor with bullets. More spray splashed against Olga’s visor. Crimson blurred her sight. The agent next to her had been hit.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LIGHTS OUT
“Turn out the lights, the party is over.” - Don Meredith
Saint Petersburg, Russia
“Now! Kill the lights!” Olga repeated.
The music ebbed, replaced by a hurried voice, sounding through all the speaker boxes.
“Attention all, this is a FSB raid. Stand down! Drop your weapons and lay on the floor, I repeat!”
Olga didn’t wait for the second time. Colleagues in body armor flowed into the establishment.
The madman was shooting again.
This time she saw him, staggering back, hiding behind a woman. He opened up on full auto.
She threw herself forward, landing on top of the bar. She rolled off for cover. Glasses, ashtrays and bottles fell with her. Spilled liquor rained from overhead like a leaking drain.
A hail of bullets lashed in horizontally. They punched into the bar, shattering glass and sending shards flying. Splinters of blood trickled down her neck.
Suddenly the world went dark. With a clack, the light and the music stopped. Screams and the staccato of muzzle flashes filled the void.
Finally, the owner of the establishment had complied. Olga looked to the side. FSB units were advancing. Guests and dancers scattered in their wake. Everyone sought shelter in the darkness.
Olga switched on her light, spearing through the blackness and heralding the muzzle of her shotgun. The light caught the madman and a henchman at the same table. Her redpoint-visor aligned. The stock of her gun felt cold against her cheek. She didn’t even think. She pulled the trigger and braced against the incoming blow. The Benelli bucked and sent a thick slug filled with ten iron-balls into its target, the spread wide enough to fill out most of the light cone. It caught one thug’s shirt, staining it red and slamming him into the wall. The other ran. Two more emerged, opening fire. Olga threw herself sideways, then scrambled towards a table. Adrenaline made her numb. Tomorrow she would feel it, if she lived through the night. She peeked between the table legs and put two well aimed shots at the enemies, winging one and felling the other with a headshot.
The dance floor was in mayhem. Figures spread out in all directions, getting caught in the crossfire.
A bullet punched a hole as big as a fist through the bar only a handbreadth away from her face.
A man in FSB body armor and helmet huddled against her cover.
“That won’t last forever.”
Olga nodded. The direct fire would soon stop, as the criminals tried to get away. Hopefully they would run into the units positioned at the back exits. It took her a moment to see, it wasn’t what the operative meant.
“This cover will be blown to bits.” He held up a tactical shield in between her and the incoming fire. Bullet tips punched through the table and clanged against metal.
Olga remembered the flash bang grenade stashed in her vest and drew it out. She pulled the pin and threw it in a wide loop. She waited for the sound of sucking air and the bullets to stop, before she swung out from behind the shield. She raked the air with gunfire, sending three bullets towards the cover where the goons were hiding and another into the gallery above them.
“Forward,” she said.
In the wake of her colleague, she swooped through the room, braced against the shield. The field of vision through its cracked glass slit was limited. She trained her weapon on targets with her laser sight. Her units would secure the entries to underground levels as well as the back doors and keep the main entrance locked down. The only way left for the thugs would be up. Death and worse awaited them.
A head peeked out. Olga took the chance and made it count. She let two more shots follow, showering the remaining gangsters in a cloud of chippings. A second man bolted for the stairs, gunfire chasing his tail. He dove towards the staircase and scuttled on all fours up the steps.
“Let’s go,” Olga said.
She found him on the next gallery, heading for the far end. Olga knelt down, drew a bead, breathed out and pulled the trigger. A mule-kick slammed into her shoulder. The gangster’s feet were ripped apart and suddenly gave in. He fell, but not without having the full force whirl him to the back of the room against a waist-high gallery wall. He grunted, as he tried to get up on the wall, his legs useless. He saw Olga closing in and went for his weapon.
“Don’t do it,” she said.
The thug brought up his Uzi and fired wildly. Olga silenced the clatter with a roar of her Benelli. She hurried over and kicked the gun out of his grip over the blood streaked floor. Radio transmission went back to normal. It was over.
“Miss Kovalenko,” her colleague said, indicating down the gallery. “We got something in the main hall.”
The prisoner knelt in the middle of the stage with his hands cuffed behind his back. He reminded Olga of a theatre performer in a particularly bloody play. Five or six FSB operatives stood around him. They opened their circle for her. She always wondered why captured men didn’t run. He must know by now that there was no way out for him, no way to have this end well, so might as well try. Maybe his spirit was broken.
Olga raised the Benelli tactical shotgun and held him at gunpoint, just to emphasize her position.
“Where is the bomb?”
In an attempt to hide his illicit drugs, he’d ingested all of them. The man sweated even though it was freezing.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” the man said. His mouth was starting to foam. His bloodshot eyes rolled back. “Go to hell!” He began to cackle. He was still laughing as the drugs fried his brain.
***
Vienna, Austria
Rose sat in her chair at home. It was the end of a long work day. She leaned back, put her mug and teapot on the side table and turned on the television. Blue light flickered in her face. She turned down the saxophone music in the background and the news speaker’s voice drowned it out.
“Tensions rise, as the FSB, Russia’s Federal Security Service announces a successful raid,” the news reporter said.
Olga had made her move.
“It happened during the president’s visit to St. Petersburg, in a crowded nightclub. Caught in the bust, is what seems like an organized crime ring, with several leaders captured and impressive amounts of drugs secured. Although the night club had hosted meetings of organized crime ring members in the past, the FSB has struck them down with one decisive blow.”
Rose poured the tea, hot vapor rising. She was waiting for one word: Bomb. It never came. The
y wouldn’t keep it a secret, if they found one. The publicity would be too good.
Distracted, she overfilled the cup and burned her fingers.
No mention in the news meant the bomb wasn’t found. Olga was left empty handed. The bomb was still somewhere and the attack was going as planned.
Rose grabbed her phone. She needed a line to Moscow.
***
Georgian Military Road, Georgia
Antoine heard static on the line.
“I just got off the phone with my source in the FSB,” Rose said.
“Any news?”
“Well that is just it. No news is good news usually. Olga’s raid netted only guns and drugs. But Tanya would not pop out of nowhere just to hand weapons over to the Russians. It was a big raid, but let’s not forget, Tanya wanted it to happen. I fear that there is something else at stake. I do not know if there are people working with Olga on the inside, or if she is working alone, but she is in control of the situation. On one side, they might actually be onto the bomb and downplaying it. But if they are not, then the FSB is sleepwalking into a disaster. Once poked who knows how the bear might react. We have to get back on this and gather our own intel.”
“So basically, the world needs saving and we have to do it ourselves,” Antoine said. “Wouldn’t it be great if we had more boots on the ground so we could take some action.”
“I agree,” Rose said. “There is no beauty like the beauty of action. But I haven’t got the resources to muster more people on such short notice.”
“I know. That’s why I will get some old friends to help us. I have to go.”
Antoine wanted to say more, but turned away and left, hanging up the phone. His steps echoed on the concrete of the vast mountainside. There was nowhere to disappear, except the slope where the road vanished behind. It took a long time till he got there and he knew that the other team members kept watching him until he reached it.
“Where are you going?” Priya asked.
“Calling some friends,” he said without stopping. The time had finally come. They would need someone to count on, baring all the risks it took for him.
“I didn’t know you had friends,” Priya said.
Antoine ignored her and looked at his phone. Once he contacted them there would be no way back. They would think he had risen from the dead.
He searched through his old contacts, recalling his Delta Force comrades like they were brothers. Antoine stopped at the last name. Gabriel Hunter, his best friend. They were his squad. Fate and time had broken them up and scattered to the four winds. But maybe some would return.
***
Vienna, Austria
Rose pushed away from the tactical display table.
“Satellite uplink live in three, two, one.” Bekkend counted down the seconds until they would get a stable transmission.
The feed on the glass screen along the wall lit up. Life breathed into the sterile surface. The satellite zoomed and focused, finding the right spot. The mountainous border between Georgia and North Ossetia sharpened in the image.
“Olga sent out an order authorized by the FSB to let all vehicles through in a time period of forty-five minutes at this certain time,” she said.
“I’ll get the license plates of all vehicles in question,” he explained. “Then cross-check to see where those plates next popped up. We should be able to find all of them, but only one will be the right one.”
“How do we find a needle in a haystack?” Rose said.
“We use a big magnet,” Bekkend answered.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
KING RAMZAN
“There are two types of people in this world. Those that conquer their fears and those that don’t and suffer and die because of them.” - Alexander the Great
Langley, The United States of America
The smell of gunpowder clung to the insulated walls. Bright neon lights flashed the eyes. Ear protection dampened the ambient sound. It made Don feel centered. He felt only the recoil of his weapon and the changing rhythm of his pounding heart. His breathing pattern adapted to his finger brushing over the trigger.
Around him were the members of his team. The sound of guns firing was a constant drum like music in his ears. Shells tingled on the floor. Thick smoke surrounded him. There wasn’t anyone in here who didn’t enjoy shooting a sleek masterpiece. Much like driving a fast car or flying a plane, there was something beautiful about the merging of man and machine.
Don pulled the trigger. He fired the same kind of weapon used to murder his colleagues: A Glock 19.
Si vis pacem, para bellum. If you seek peace, prepare for war.
The bullet’s load ignited with a drumbeat, exploding with a fire burst deep in the gun’s chamber. It accelerated the Parabellum tip, projecting it out through the muzzle in another compressed fireball, while the slide snapped back and ejected a heated brass hull. The hand-formed grip held steady in his hand. Don kept his eyes lined up over the iron sights. Another boom, then another and another sending home bullets against the target one by one. He accelerated his rhythm, intensifying the thunderclaps till the magazine ran dry. A dull sound stayed in his ears even behind the ear guards, as a cloud of gunpowder-filled smoke lifted.
It was good, but it wasn’t the same as before. Over the last few weeks he fought to regain what he’d lost after the incident.
He looked over to his new colleague Stacy who had finished the drill the same time as him. She smiled even before she laid down her pistol on the preparation desk.
Don ejected the empty magazine.
“Let’s see who’s better this time, shall we?” she challenged him and activated the calculation program. The screen showed the targets and their kill-hits on both shooting lanes. She had greater accuracy and precision in the same amount of time. Don was off his peak.
Stacy took off her ear protection.
“Looks like I’ve got the calmer hands,” she said.
Don’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He grabbed it and checked the display.
“The Colonel” flashed on the screen. It was Brenneman’s nickname in the CIA.
He unloaded his gun and put it on the table, walking out through a sound-proof door to answer his phone.
“Is this a bad time to call?” Brenneman said.
“Not at all sir, just give me a moment. I’m at the range, looking over the new crop. These guys are good. Perfect shooting. Once they get our man in their sights, he’s gone.”
“Good. I told you, whatever you need. If he’s still alive, Dwayne Carter is just as lethal. The stakes have just become higher.”
“Thank you, sir. In that case, I would ask for a second team for surveillance. Hunter looked suspicious. I couldn’t read him. I just want to make sure he wasn’t hiding anything. I would need a surveillance team for him and someone in the office checking the person the street camera caught the night our colleagues were murdered.”
“The Dog of Paris?”
“Yes, sir, him.”
“You got it,” Brenneman said. “Make it count. Remember the main target is still Dwayne Carter. But find this guy. If he is somehow associated with Mr. Carter, I want him questioned.”
***
Shanghai, China
Pudong tower had broken conventions since it was built. The view over the European consulate quarter that morning was especially promising, as Zhou sipped his hot soy milk.
“We haven’t been able to trace the funds that went into Chen’s account yet,” Mei Ling said.
“Problems?” Zhou asked.
“The bankers are very good,” Mei Ling replied. “The payments are jumping around. There’s an unusual level of banking security. We’re not dealing with normal banking. Whoever took our tech, is now in our suits. The money is the only trace we have.”
Zhou wiped his lips and faced her.
“There are no problems, only challenges. I want to make sure the HQ is stocked and the latest equipment inside. Assemble the crew, I want a fu
ll time staff.”
Mei Ling nodded.
“Lao ban.”
“Prepare the generals,” Zhou added. “As soon as we have a target, we will send them out.”
Mei Ling stopped. “But, lao ban, we don’t even have a trace yet.”
“We will have one soon,” Zhou said. “A victorious warrior wins first and then goes to battle. I want my generals.”
***
Vienna, Austria
“We have a possible match. There’s a truck moving inland. It entered while the border control window was open,” Bekkend confirmed.
“On the screen! Satellite!” Rose said.
A truck from aerial perspective showed up, driving on the road in Chechnya. The zoom got it closer and closer. The hawk had found its prey and bore down on it.
“Give us thermal view,” Rose commanded.
The satellite opticals switched to infrared. No traces. The truck showed normal heat signatures, engine blazing. The back was covered and insulated.
Rose shook her head.
“Gamma ray,” Rose ordered.
The feed switched. The truck was now a pale ember, glowing faint but visible.
She stared at it in disbelief. They had found it.
It hadn’t gone to St. Petersburg. It went right to Grozny, into the heart of Chechnya and the Chechen leader’s stronghold.
“What are you going to do with it?” she mused aloud.
Rose followed the truck. What she would have given for an authorized drone-strike or a collaboration with the Russians. But with FSB agents working against them, she couldn’t know how deep this was going. She could just lock the satellite with the vehicle and see where it ended up. There was a prison complex just outside Tsentaroy. It was surrounded by minefields. She prayed they wouldn’t take the bomb there. Anywhere else and they had a remote chance of reaching it, but not there.
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