by Will Jordan
They didn’t waste a heartbeat.
‘Go! Go!’ Drake yelled, ducking beneath the doors that were still rising, his weapon immediately sweeping the interior of the storage lock-up. The reek of burned chemicals from the grenades stung his eyes and nostrils, but he ignored it, concentrating instead on taking in his surroundings.
The big storage lock-up, bare brick walls and a corrugated-metal roof, was dominated by the blue Chevrolet Express van that sat to one side, its bodywork still dripping from the recent rain. The engine was idling, the headlights almost blinding in their intensity, yet even as he advanced he saw a figure stagger out from behind the vehicle.
Dressed in a set of plain blue overalls that reminded Drake of a courier or delivery company, he was holding one hand against his ear and blinking furiously. Clearly the blast from the flashbang had deafened him and probably overloaded the photoreceptors in his eyes. His unsteady gait suggested the grenade had also disturbed his equilibrium.
‘Don’t move!’ Drake yelled, levelling his weapon at the man’s centre mass. ‘Get down on the ground!’
But his target had no intention of surrendering. Drake saw him reach for something in his overalls, saw the glint of a weapon as he brought it up to fire.
There was no choice. Without hesitation Drake put two rounds in his chest, the Sig kicking back in his hands as the rounds discharged. He saw an explosion of red mist exit from the man’s back, heard an almost surprised grunt, and just like that he went down.
‘Tango down!’ Drake shouted, advancing towards him and kicking the weapon clear of his grasp. He didn’t have time to examine it in detail, but it looked like an automatic of some kind. ‘Secure the van!’
‘Roger that,’ O’Rourke replied. ‘No other Tangos in sight!’
Drake’s eyes swept the darkened room, looking for more targets. As O’Rourke had suggested on the way here, the storage lock-up was one big open space about 8 yards square. Big enough to hold a couple of delivery trucks parked side by side, but in this case more or less empty. Nowhere to hide.
The internal lights were switched off. The only illumination was provided by the dim red glow of the van’s rear lights.
‘Clear left!’ another operative called out.
He heard a click and a faint groan as the van’s cargo doors were hauled open. ‘Vehicle’s clear. Nothing inside!’
But that didn’t interest Drake now. His attention was focused on the lone figure strapped to a cheap plastic office chair in the far corner of the room. The prisoner wasn’t moving, and from what he could see in the crimson glow of the vehicle tail lights, he doubted he or she ever would.
‘I’ve got something over here,’ he called out. ‘Far corner. Bring some light.’
Flashlight beams pierced the gloom around him, illuminating the chair’s inhabitant, though Drake quickly caught himself wishing they hadn’t.
They had found Demochev all right, or what was left of him.
Stripped to the waist, his expensive suit thrown idly to one side, the FSB’s director of counter-terrorism bore the grim hallmarks of the torture he’d endured. His head lolled back, no longer supported by conscious effort, his eyes staring blankly at the roof as raindrops continued to patter off the thin sheet metal.
His face was battered, bruised and swollen, rendered almost unrecognisable by the terrible beating he had taken, while three fingers of his right hand were missing, sliced off by a pair of wire cutters that was now lying on the concrete floor, covered in blood. Looking down, Drake could see that the man’s left foot had been given similar treatment. All five digits had been crudely snipped off.
His throat too had been cut; likely to finish the job. The angle of his head had pulled open the gaping wound, exposing the torn flesh and severed windpipe. Drake opted not to devote too much attention to that.
Instead he tried to take in the scene as the sum of its parts, concentrating on each detail and gleaning what information he could from it. Out of all the injuries inflicted on him, the one which drew Drake’s attention was the series of deep lacerations across Demochev’s chest. Carved into his flesh with a sharp blade was a single word written in Cyrillic:
повинный
Drake was familiar with a few words in that language, but this wasn’t one of them.
He inhaled, tasting the pungent odour of human excrement. He guessed Demochev had soiled himself, probably at the point of death. It was an unpleasant reality of executions like this, and far from rare.
‘Poor bastard,’ he heard one of the operatives remark. ‘Carved up like a fucking roast.’
‘It’s in Russian. Any idea what it says?’ O’Rourke asked.
‘You got me, sir.’
Drake was no longer listening. Instead his attention had been drawn back to the floor at Demochev’s feet, where the wire cutters and the body parts they had been used to remove were lying scattered around. Amongst the gruesome remains he saw something else. Small and black, gleaming in the glow of the operatives’ flashlights.
Something that had no rightful place there.
‘Give me your torch, would you?’ he said, motioning to O’Rourke.
The man glanced up, disturbed from his inspection of the body. ‘Huh?’
‘Your flashlight,’ Drake repeated irritably. ‘Hurry.’
Catching the portable light that O’Rourke tossed to him, Drake knelt down to examine what appeared to be a black wooden chess piece sitting alone on the floor. It was a rook, intricately carved and quite old, judging by the wear around the top where countless hands had picked it up and moved it over the years.
O’Rourke knelt down beside him to examine it. ‘Whoever did this is one seriously messed-up individual,’ he decided. ‘This a Russian thing, leaving chess pieces at murder scenes?’
‘Russian Mafia,’ Cartwright said, nodding sagely as if he was an authority on such matters.
Drake said nothing as he considered everything he’d seen. Like the word carved into Demochev’s chest, the chess piece clearly meant something to whoever had planted it. What he needed was to understand the message this person was trying to convey, and why.
‘There was more to this than a simple murder,’ he said at length. ‘This man was tortured systematically. They wanted information from him.’
O’Rourke had heard enough. His job had been to secure the scene, not to ponder the motivation of the men who had created it. Leaving Drake, he rose up and hit the transmitter on his radio. ‘Charlie, you copy this?’
‘Roger that,’ came the reply.
‘Call it in. We’ve found the hostage, he’s confirmed KIA. One Tango down. Get forensics down here to start a sweep.’ He released the transmit button on his radio. ‘And will someone kill that goddamn engine before we all suffocate.’
The van’s exhaust fumes were slowly building up inside the lock-up, creating a choking haze that was making it difficult both to see and to breathe.
As one of the team leaned into the cab to switch off the idling engine, Drake made his way over to the man he’d just taken down. He was lying sprawled on the ground where he had fallen; his blue overalls were stained crimson with blood from the twin chest wounds, and his eyes were blank and staring, seeing nothing.
Drake felt no remorse at having killed him. The moment he’d gone for his weapon, he’d sealed his fate. Instead Drake concentrated on examining him.
As far as he could tell, the man was in his mid-forties, neither tall nor short, though with a noticeably stocky build. His receding hair was close cropped, his face wide and strangely flattened. His ruddy complexion was already starting to pale from blood loss.
Drake was about to unzip his overalls to look for some form of ID when the engine at last fell silent.
Drake, however, made no move to continue his examination. He had stopped, head cocked slightly as he listened for something. A muted thumping sound; the hammer of fists against metal. It was coming from inside the van.
His eyes opened wide
r as he looked up at O’Rourke. ‘You said the van was clear?’
‘It is,’ he confirmed. ‘There’s nobody in there.’
Frowning, Drake rose to his feet and strode over to the vehicle, pulling the doors open once more to survey the interior. As O’Rourke had said, there was nobody inside. The only thing in there was a loose piece of plastic sheeting laid across the floor, perhaps to protect delicate cargo from damage during transit.
The banging was more noticeable now, accompanied by a muffled groan. A hostage, gagged and bound, desperately trying to be heard. O’Rourke and the rest of the team had gathered around, all of them having heard the same thing.
‘Shit, we’ve got a live one,’ Cartwright said, raising his weapon.
Grabbing the edge of the sheeting, Drake pulled it aside, revealing a metal hatch welded into the centre of the floor. A simple deadbolt held it shut, though the hatch reverberated from time to time as something struck it from within.
Gripping the Sig tight, Drake clambered up into the cargo area, reached out and grasped the bolt. He took a breath, readying himself, then slid the bolt back and hauled the hatch open in one quick movement.
‘Oh shit.’
Chapter 9
The compartment hidden beneath the steel floor was dark and cramped, much of its space taken up by a bound figure that was now writhing and kicking against the sides of the claustrophobic prison.
He or she was dressed in what had once been a smart business suit, though the fabric was ripped, torn and stained with blood in places. Muffled cries echoed from the burlap sack pulled over the head, but the pitch and timbre of the voice confirmed that it belonged to a woman.
‘Jesus Christ,’ O’Rourke gasped.
Leaning in, Drake reached down and pulled the bag away, revealing a tangled mass of shoulder-length black hair, matted in places with congealed blood. A pair of dark eyes glared back at him; a mixture of anger, fear and pain.
‘It’s all right,’ Drake said, still startled by his discovery. ‘We’re here to help you.’
Glancing at O’Rourke, he held out a hand.
‘Give me a knife, mate. Now.’
He felt the haft of a knife pressed into his hand, and immediately went to work on the bonds securing her wrists and ankles. The blade was as keen as it looked, and a few quick thrusts were all it took to saw through the ropes.
The instant her limbs were free, her arm shot out, pushing him back. Her other hand reached up and tore away the gag. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, blinking in the harsh glare of several flashlights now pointed right at her. ‘What do you want with me?’
She was on the verge of losing it. Drake had no idea what she’d just been through, but having men with guns crowding in close wasn’t helping matters.
‘O’Rourke, back these guys off, okay?’ he instructed, waving the team back. ‘Give her some space.’
‘Who are you?’ the woman repeated, teeth bared like an animal.
‘My name’s Ryan Drake. I’m with the CIA. We’re here to help you,’ he explained, holstering his weapon. ‘Are you hurt?’
She frowned, as if failing to understand.
‘Are you injured?’ he repeated. He saw lots of cuts and bruises, but it was hard to tell if there were more serious injuries to contend with.
‘No … No,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘You’re FSB, right?’
She nodded slowly. ‘Part of Director Demochev’s security detail.’ Suddenly her eyes lit up as awareness returned. ‘Anton! Where is Anton?’
Drake winced, regretting the news he was about to deliver. ‘I’m afraid he didn’t make it. We got here too late.’
The woman let out a breath as if she’d just been punched in the gut, though she seemed to recover her composure quickly. ‘I want to see him.’
‘Probably better that you don’t.’
Anger flared in her eyes as she began to pull herself out of her makeshift prison. Drake moved forward to assist her, but she angrily shoved him away.
‘Get off me!’
With difficulty she managed to clamber out and rose unsteadily to her feet. For a moment she seemed to falter, clutching the side of the van for support, but somehow remained on her feet as she stepped down on to the concrete floor of the lock-up. The rest of the tactical team, obeying Drake’s instructions, backed up to give her plenty of room.
Straight away her gaze fastened on the body strapped to a chair in the corner of the room. Walking with faltering steps, she approached her former commanding officer and let out a strangled breath that might have been called a sob.
‘I’m sorry,’ Drake said quietly, wishing there was more he could offer her.
She swallowed hard. Even in the poor light, he noticed how pale she looked. ‘I heard gunfire,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the body.
‘We arrived just as your captor was leaving. We took him out, but I’m afraid we were too late to help Demochev.’
She said nothing to that.
‘Do you know what this word means?’ O’Rourke asked, pointing to the gory symbols carved into Demochev’s chest.
‘“Guilty”,’ she said after a moment. ‘It says “guilty”.’
The tactical team leader frowned. ‘Guilty of what?’
The woman was breathing harder now, her balance growing unsteady. She staggered sideways a step, and Drake quickly moved in to support her.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, gently but firmly steering her away from the scene of her boss’s gruesome death. She didn’t need to see this any longer.
‘I just need some air,’ she said, backing away and heading towards the doors. It was cold, dark and wet outside, but anything was better than the stench of blood and shit in that lock-up.
A short while later, the woman was sitting in the rear of the van that Drake and the tactical team had arrived in. After paying a quick visit to the security hut at the entrance to the storage facility, Drake returned with a steaming Styrofoam cup of instant coffee. She was shivering from a combination of cold and thinning adrenalin in her bloodstream. Survival was less of a priority now; shock was taking hold.
‘Here,’ he said, gently handing her the cup. ‘You look like you could use it.’
She glanced up at him, her dark eyes reflecting a moment of surprise, but she accepted the drink all the same. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me till you’ve tried it,’ he warned, then held out his jacket to her. ‘I’m afraid the CIA haven’t got their own clothing line, but this’ll keep you warm at least.’
He saw a glimmer of a smile but nothing more. He couldn’t blame her, given what she’d been through today.
‘Sorry, bad humour,’ he amended.
‘I appreciate the gesture anyway, Agent Drake.’ She held up the cheap cup he’d given her. ‘My first American coffee.’
‘Yeah? How does it taste?’ he asked as she took a sip.
She paused for a long moment, considering the question. ‘Like shit.’
Despite everything, he couldn’t help but smile at that. At least her sense of humour was intact. ‘Do you feel up to answering a few questions?’
She took another sip of coffee, grimacing at the taste. ‘Yes.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Miranova,’ she answered. ‘Anika Miranova.’
‘What happened on that freeway, Anika?’
Sighing, the woman looked down for a moment, trying to piece together the hazy memories of the crash. ‘We were hit by sniper fire. Our driver was killed. We crashed … I think I was knocked unconscious for a few moments. When I came round, that was when I saw the ambulance.’
Drake’s brows rose. ‘What happened then?’
‘When they pried open the door and I saw the paramedics’ uniforms, I thought we were safe. Then I saw the guns in their hands.’ He could see the pain and grief in her eyes as she replayed the encounter. ‘They executed Andre Lagonov, Demochev’s aide. One round, right between the eyes. Then they turn
ed the weapon on me.’
He looked at her, intrigued by how the attack had played out. ‘But you survived.’
‘I made a grab for the weapon, tried to break his arm. The gun went off.’ Reaching down, she pulled her shirt up to reveal the slate-grey material of a Kevlar vest. ‘The vest stopped it, but I was thrown to the other side of the car and winded. By the time I recovered, they had bound my hands and thrown me into the back of the ambulance along with Demochev. We changed vehicles at some point, because the two of us were forced down into that … compartment beneath the floor. I could hear him breathing beside me, though I suppose he had been gagged just as I had. Then when we arrived here, they took him.’ She clenched her teeth, impotent anger flaring up inside her. ‘It was my job to protect him, and I did nothing.’
Drake sympathised, but self-pity would have to wait for now. He needed information. ‘How many were there?’
‘Three that I saw before they put the hood over me. There may have been others.’
‘And were they speaking English or Russian?’
She shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t know. I heard none of them talking. They knew what they were there for – they did not waste time communicating.’
‘Do you think you could describe them to one of our artists?’
Again she shook her head. ‘They were wearing surgical masks. I did not see their faces.’
Drake thought it over for a moment. Clearly this had been a well-planned and well-executed hit. With Anya involved, he would have expected nothing else.
‘Look, I know this doesn’t mean much, but I’m sorry about your boss,’ Drake said. ‘That can’t have been an easy thing to see.’
‘I have seen worse,’ she assured him, a flash of defiance showing in her dark eyes. ‘Russian Mafia do similar things to informants, though they usually don’t stop with fingers.’
Drake decided not to dwell too much on that one.
‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Demochev dead?’ Drake asked quietly.
She shrugged. ‘We have many enemies at home and overseas. Just like the CIA, I imagine,’ she added. ‘We will find them.’