Covenant

by Steven Konkoly

  Talia nodded, wondering where Yoshi had gone. Without communications, Yoshi could complicate matters.

  Chapter 11

  The staccato sound of distant automatic gunfire resonated throughout the suite, drawing Daniel’s attention toward the balcony. He mentally pictured the resort layout, concluding that Reznikov had three possible escape routes. Since they didn’t have enough operatives to preemptively deny access to each option, he’d moved Melendez into a position to better determine the Russians’ next move. Daniel would respond accordingly, working with a slim time margin to intercept the group. Jessica and her mystery “friend” would do the same. Everything hinged on Melendez’s report.

  “Rico, what are we seeing down there?” said Daniel.

  “I’m not in position yet,” said Melendez.

  “Are you crawling there?” said Daniel.

  “I’m moving as fast as I can without looking suspicious,” said Melendez. “I’m the only one moving toward gunfire, and if you didn’t notice, I’m wearing a Speedo.”

  “I’ve done my best not to notice,” said Daniel, pausing. “We’ll send someone back for Jeff.”

  “We need to focus on Reznikov,” said Melendez.

  “Right,” said Daniel. “You good?”

  “I learned from the best,” said Melendez. “Hold on, I have something—targets entering the eastern gardens, heading north. Three armed men pulling a reluctant fourth along.”

  “Reznikov. I’ll head toward the marina through the western gardens. We’ll coordinate a two-pronged attack when I arrive,” said Daniel, shouldering a tan backpack. “Jessica, what is your status?”

  “Exiting the stairwell. We’ll pick up the pace,” she said.

  “Watch your back,” he said.

  “I always do,” said Jessica.

  “Graves, how are we doing with the police response?” said Daniel, opening the suite door and quickly peeking outside.

  All clear.

  “Local authorities have been notified. They’re coordinating a larger response with the city of Maldonado’s metropolitan police force and the county’s special response unit. Right now, Punta del Este police have units headed into blocking positions around the resort. Given the reports of automatic gunfire, I suspect they will hold those positions until reinforcements arrive. I give you ten to fifteen minutes before police start moving on the resort,” said Graves.

  “Is there any way to delay them?” said Daniel.

  He pulled the private stairwell door with one hand, steadying the SOCOM 16 with the other. Clear.

  “I could call and report a hostage situation, but that would draw a lot of attention to the resort. Federal antiterrorism task force level attention.”

  “Do it. We’ll need the buffer,” said Daniel. “And start monitoring maritime frequencies. I don’t want any surprises on the water.”

  “All clear so far,” said Graves.

  “One more thing,” said Daniel. “Notify local paramedics that they have a gunshot victim in the poolside stairwell off the hallway leading to Reznikov’s suite.”

  “Is that a good idea?” said Graves.

  “Better he ends up in police custody than dead,” said Daniel. “We can deal with police custody.”

  “Copy that,” said Graves.

  Daniel took the stairs two at a time. If he moved fast enough, he should be able to flank the Russians before they reached the hotel’s private marina entrance. If not, they would take the fight to the floating docks—not an ideal situation for either group. He reached the ground floor and hit the glass door’s crash bar with his left arm, holding the rifle in the other.

  When Daniel pushed through the door, a figure stood to his right. Before he could react, his body stiffened, the crackling sound of electricity reaching his ears a fraction of a second too late for him to escape. A solid blow to his right forearm knocked the rifle loose; its synthetic polymer frame rattled behind him on the concrete floor. Unable to move, the figure slid behind him, pressing a blade under his chin.

  Chapter 12

  Enrique Melendez stumbled over an uneven stone in the walking path, pitching forward before quickly regaining his balance.

  “Son of mother,” he mumbled, hoping the sudden movement didn’t attract the Russians’ attention.

  Not that they would have given him a second glance. He was dressed in a skimpy turquoise Speedo-type suit. A “banana hammock” they had called it at West Point, where far less stylish versions had been standard issue for the freshman class. When he’d enthusiastically placed his “hammock” in the trash at the end of plebe year, he never imagined he’d wear one again under any circumstances. Wrong again.

  At least he wasn’t wearing one of those thongy things making the scene. Jessica had suggested he adopt the newest Mediterranean beach craze, no doubt to further humiliate him, but Jeff intervened. The Speedo was bad enough, he had told her, sharing a smirk with her. They always messed with him, especially Jeff.

  He refused to believe the guy was gone. No time to process that now. He couldn’t afford to let the rage building inside to cloud his judgment. His situation was precarious, requiring concentration to stay alive. Dressed in nothing but a Speedo and leather sandals, he wasn’t in a position to make a useful difference with the suppressed pistol tucked into his straw beach bag. Not yet. For now, he was the eyes and ears of the team. The rage could come later.

  He kept them at a distance, doing his best to put as much lush foliage between himself and the heavily armed men as possible. Even if he caught their attention, he couldn’t imagine they would perceive him as much of a threat. Not dressed like this. Then again, Solntsevskaya Bratva thugs didn’t need a rational reason to kill someone, especially under the circumstances. His best bet was to stay out of sight.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Jessica and a woman dressed in a hotel uniform sprinting down one of the easternmost paths—apparently obscured from the Russians. He checked on the Russians again, seeing them turn right toward the central path leading to the marina. Running the map of the resort’s grounds through his head, he determined that they would pass through the marina entrance before Jessica could intercept. Unless Daniel was close to setting up an ambush position from the western side of the gardens, Melendez was about to make program history—in a Speedo.

  “Jess, you’re gaining ground, but it won’t be enough to intercept,” said Melendez. “Daniel, are you in position?”

  Jessica waited a few seconds before responding. “Something’s wrong. Daniel’s comms worked fine a minute ago.”

  “We don’t have time to figure that out,” said Melendez. “I have to slow down the Russians.”

  “I don’t think that’s a smart idea,” said Jessica. “You’re outgunned and underdressed.”

  “Funny,” said Melendez. “I’m buying you and your new friend some time. I suggest you take a more direct approach.”

  “Rico, just give us a second—”

  Graves spoke over her radio transmission.

  “All stations, I have two go-fast boats approaching the marina. Each boat is loaded with armed men. Whatever you’re planning to do, you better do it now. They can pull those right up to the docks.”

  “Engaging,” said Melendez. “Get your asses in position.”

  He ignored Jessica’s whispered curses as he pulled two spare 9mm magazines from the straw bag and tucked them into the left side of his barely stretchable swimsuit. With the extra magazines in place, he gripped the HK USP and let the bag fall to the ground behind him. Dashing forward, he settled in behind a thick palm trunk and centered the pistol sights on the partially obscured group more than fifty yards away.

  A red blotch appeared in the cluster of shirts, followed by yelling and gunfire. Melendez pressed against the palm, exposing enough of his face to gauge the Russians’ response. Given the fact that the palm wasn’t taking repeated hits, he guessed that they didn’t know his location.

  The men crouched low, firing
on full automatic. Screams erupted from the hotel: resort guests responding to the renewed shooting spree. The flowers and bushes around them danced and snapped for a few moments until a harsh order instantly silenced the guns. They were disciplined. Many of them were former Russian Special Forces, making them all the more dangerous.

  When the group started moving again, Melendez crouched and sprinted to a tree trunk down the path, staying below the foliage line. Hitting the rough palm bark with his left shoulder, he peeked around the corner with the pistol and squeezed off three bullets in their direction. The tree thudded with return fire, the Russians now wise to his position. He squatted lower, not wanting to test the palm’s resistance to a heavy volume of high-velocity bullets. He’d seen similar calibers penetrate harder woods after repeat hits.

  The sound of the gunfire shifted, initially confusing him. For a moment, he thought a second group of Russians had joined the fight. A quick glance around the opposite side of the tree revealed that some of the Bratva guards were firing in a different direction.

  “They stopped our approach,” said Jessica.

  “I see that,” said Melendez, firing the rest of his magazine. “I don’t have a good view of their group. What are they doing?”

  Suppressed gunshots competed with the automatic fusillade.

  “They’re shooting at us,” she said. “From covered positions. I don’t think this is going to work.”

  “Hold on,” he said, hoping they were distracted enough by Jessica’s fire.

  Melendez slid around the tree, heading down the path with a freshly reloaded pistol. Bullets whipped through the leaves lining the walkway in front of him, rapidly moving toward him. He fired his pistol and dove for the stone surface, scraping the skin off his knees and elbows. Projectiles fanned the bushes next to him, miraculously staying a few inches above his back.

  “This is going to hurt,” he muttered, low-crawling toward the nearest tree.

  “They’re moving!” said Jessica.

  A long burst of gunfire penetrated the bushes around him.

  “Doesn’t sound like it,” said Melendez. “I’m completely pinned down.”

  “I think they left two behind to slow us down,” said Jessica. “Graves, what are you seeing?”

  “One boat speeding toward the inner marina. Six armed men on board,” said Graves. “The other boat is holding outside the entrance.”

  “We’re going to push through, Rico,” said Jessica. “Reload and get ready to empty your pistol.”

  “Where the hell is Daniel?” said Melendez, thinking out loud.

  “No time to think about that,” said Jessica. “We move in three. Two.”

  Melendez reloaded the pistol and fired the entire magazine at a rapid, sustained pace—never hearing the end of the countdown. The return fire was sporadic, indicating that they had caused some damage.

  “One down. One wounded,” said Jessica. “We’re coming at him from two directions.”

  Melendez reloaded his pistol with the last magazine in his Speedo, while the furious gun battle continued. Intermittent torrents of AK-74 gunfire mixed with quieter suppressed cracks, leading him to believe that the guard’s full attention was devoted to the two women trying to kill him. He sprinted forward during the guard’s next extended burst, staying low to avoid detection. The next tree stood adjacent to the central garden valley, giving him an unobstructed view across the entire north-south axis of the resort.

  He glanced behind at the hotel, catching a glimpse of smoke drifting from the upper level of the eastern wing. A few people dressed in bathing suits or hotel uniforms dashed back and forth across the pool deck, dodging pool chairs and tables. With no threat inbound from the hotel, he turned his focus to the marina entrance.

  Roughly seventy yards away, the gardens opened to the glistening, dark blue water of the bay superimposed with a sprawling dock system. Two men, one with a bloodied shirt, stumbled onto the wide stone walkway, pausing momentarily. The bloodied man swept a shortened AK-74 back and forth, checking for pursuers, before shoving the other man toward the marina. Melendez waited until both of their backs had turned before bracing the pistol against the tree and aligning the pistol’s sights center of mass on the unarmed Russian. This will be one hell of a shot, he thought, pressing the trigger.

  Both men spun immediately, the bloodied man spraying bullets down the central path. Melendez had missed—not a surprise given the range. Bullets thunked into the tree from Jessica’s direction, causing him to drop to the stone and flatten his body. The palm trunk wasn’t thick enough to block bullets from two directions. Moments later, the gardens fell silent.

  “Target down. Thanks for the distraction,” said Jessica. “We’re moving to your location. Where’s Reznikov?”

  “Marina entrance. Be careful approaching the central path. I’ll try to hold them in place.”

  Melendez peeked around the tree, drawing aimed fire from the shooter near the marina entrance. The stones next to his face chipped, spraying his face and right shoulder with sharp fragments. He squinted and fired toward the source of gunfire, hoping to keep the shooter in place until Jessica arrived. A few seconds later, Graves brought them some bad news.

  “Two men just barreled through the marina gate. They’ll be gone in less than thirty seconds,” said Graves.

  Jessica burst onto the central path, firing her UMP on fully automatic toward the gate. Her newly found partner, an exotic, dark-haired femme fatale, stopped in the middle of the path, firing on semiautomatic. In the distance, their bullets clanged against metal and shattered glass in the marina guard shack.

  “We won’t make it,” said Jessica.

  “This is your backup?” said the other woman.

  Jessica turned to look at him. “Good god. Talia, meet Rico.”

  “I told you the Speedo was a stupid idea,” he said.

  “Better than the man thong,” she said, tossing a loaded AKS-74U rifle at him.

  He snatched it out of the air, still grumbling as they took off for the marina.

  Chapter 13

  Timothy Graves hesitated. He knew it was a seriously flawed idea, but what choice did he have? He tore his headset off and stood up, throwing them on the steel desk in front of his chair.

  “I’m going out there,” he said.

  “It’s like ninety-five degrees outside,” said Anish Gupta, closely studying the three screens arrayed in front of him.

  Graves unzipped the long black nylon duffel bag sitting on the couch behind the communications suite and dug through the bag. Gupta’s head swiveled at the sound of metal scraping against polymer, his eyes going wide.

  “That’s not what we get paid to do,” he said.

  “We’re part of the team,” said Graves, removing a short-barreled M4 rifle equipped with an EOTech holographic sight.

  “That is a really bad idea,” said Gupta, trying to divide his attention between Graves and the screens. “And you can barely fire one of those.”

  “I’m better with this than you think,” said Graves, inserting a magazine and charging the weapon.

  Through the tinted windows lining the yacht’s communications suite, he saw the fast boat plying through the crowded water of the inner marina. He needed to do something within the next several seconds. With a quick flick of his thumb, he changed the selector switch from safe to semiautomatic.

  “Dude, you’re black hat, not black ops,” said Gupta.

  “I just need to slow them down,” said Graves, slipping a few spare magazines into his cargo pockets.

  “That’s the definition of a speed bump,” said Gupta, pushing his glasses up his nose.

  Graves rushed toward the open hatch leading to the bridge, his eyes tracking the boat through the long window.

  “You’re serious,” stated Gupta, now half standing and half sitting.

  “You’re the team’s eyes and ears now,” said Graves, stepping through the hatch.

  “Shit!” said Gupta, immediat
ely passing Graves’s intentions to the team.

  He opened the bridge wing door and stepped into the stifling heat, perspiration immediately forming on his face. The last thing he heard before the door closed was Gupta yelling something about “Jessica denied your request.”

  Standing on the starboard side of the upper deck, he was shaded from the sun by the flying bridge level above him. He kept the rifle low and jogged aft, watching the boat approach the two men. They scrambled down the first branching pier on the left side of the hotel marina, searching for an empty slip long enough to accommodate the craft. Not finding one close enough, they started down one of the slip dividers, headed for the end, where the boat could come alongside. The man with the rifle appeared wounded, the entire left side of his white, short-sleeved shirt stained dark red. The boat driver adjusted to the Russian’s strategy, speeding toward the end of the divider.

  Jessica’s group hadn’t reached the marina gate when the bow of the sleek cigarette boat passed the end of the dock. Graves immediately stopped, steadying his rifle on the varnished wood handrail and searching through the holographic sight for the boat. The boat came into view through the unmagnified EOTech, but he didn’t see the green sight reticle—because he hadn’t powered the device.

  “Shit,” he muttered, briefly wondering if Gupta had been right.

  The bloodied Russian dropped his rifle on the pier, grabbing the other man as the boat eased alongside. Graves put the boat in the middle of the rectangular picture and pressed the trigger. The rifle bucked into his shoulder, a sensation he never seemed to anticipate correctly. By the time he reacquired the boat, bullets started to puncture the thin metal superstructure next to him with a hollow popping sound. He pressed the trigger repeatedly as glass shattered behind him and the wooden railing splintered.

  A sharp pain fired up his right arm, followed by an odd sensation in his hips. His left hand still held the rifle as he helplessly stumbled backward into the superstructure. Graves slid down the side, his legs and feet extending neatly in front of him as his bottom came to rest against the scorching teak deck. He glanced at his right arm long enough to know that it had been mangled by a bullet that passed through his elbow. Any attempt to do more with the arm than shrug his shoulder was rejected. Same with his legs. They moved, which was a good thing, but didn’t obey his commands. He was essentially stuck sitting against the superstructure with bullets hitting all around him.