Over his shoulder, he saw that his efforts had done little to stop the boarding process. The two Russians on the pier had temporarily taken cover behind one of the waist-high pilings, but were trying to board the boat again. Bullets pinged off the handrail supports, sparking as they ricocheted into the teak deck. With supersonic cracks passing inches from his face, he used the rifle to push himself onto his right side. He fell over, landing flat on his stomach, which luckily put him in the position he wanted. If he’d toppled onto his back, he would have been stuck like a turtle.
Graves inched forward far enough to slide the rifle over the metal toe rail and brace the weapon against one of the vertical stanchions. He eased his left hand over the pistol grip and leaned his head behind the EOTech sight. The rifle trembled from the excruciating pain in his arm, making it difficult to find his target. When he finally regained the previous sight picture, Reznikov’s hand extended across the two-foot gap between the pier and the boat, stretching to reach one of the hands eager to pull him on board.
He pressed the trigger in panic, seeing the bullet strike the glass in front of the driver. The boat lurched forward at full throttle, striking the main pier moments later with a devastating crunch. Graves lowered his head to the blood-slicked deck, listening to the gunfire intensify on the dock. He’d given the team a chance.
Chapter 14
The pier buckled under her feet from the force of an unseen impact, knocking Jessica off balance. Talia caught her by the arm, steadying her before continuing down the pier.
“Slow down,” said Jessica, turning to give a hand signal to Melendez.
The group spread out, moving from piling to piling toward the source of panicked shouting down the pier. She assumed that Graves had somehow wrecked the boat. The cigarette boat’s powerful engines roared just before the pier shook, indicating a crash. If the boat was disabled, they had a good chance of ending this in the marina.
The pier system didn’t leave many options for escape without a working boat, unless you were willing to get wet. She somehow doubted Zuyev would take that chance with Reznikov. Neither struck her as proficient swimmers. She carefully advanced down the pier, searching for the Russians with no success. The dock was crowded with luxury sailboats and cabin cruisers, completely blocking her view of the access piers. The best she could hope for was a quick spotting between boats.
She glanced at the massive yacht ahead and to the right, searching for signs of Graves. The second deck aft had taken the brunt of the Bratva’s gunfire. Half of the long, tinted windows lining the superstructure were shattered, dozens of bullet holes evident underneath the jagged openings. A blood splatter was visible against the white metal superstructure, just above a protruding rifle barrel. Graves was down.
“Gupta, I need you—”
Gunfire interrupted her sentence, bullets clacking into the wood piling in front of her. Talia and Melendez immediately returned fire, their bullets tearing into the fiberglass hull of a squat motorboat four piers down. Jessica leaned around the piling, searching for a target. The Russians popped up and fired at staggered intervals, making it nearly impossible to return a properly aimed burst. She counted at least three different shooters, leading her to believe the Russians had managed to offload reinforcements before the crash.
“We’re not making any progress!” said Talia.
Jessica pressed the UMP against the right side of the piling and waited. A Russian peeked around the corner of the motorboat, firing a quick burst at her, but she didn’t flinch—or adjust her sight picture to fire at him. By the time she moved her weapon, he would be gone. She waited. Moments later, a shooter rose above the stern, appearing off-center from the red dot in her reflex sight. She nudged the weapon right and fired a single shot, catching the man on his way down. A splash of red exploded behind his head before he vanished behind the boat.
“How’s that?” replied Jessica, the piling in front of her absorbing another hail of bullets.
“Not bad, but we need to move forward before the next boat arrives!” yelled Talia over the booming of Melendez’s rifle.
She was right. All the Russians had to do was keep them busy long enough to put Reznikov on the second boat. Time wasn’t on their side.
“Melendez, I need some tight firing while we move up!” said Jessica.
“I have about forty rounds left in this drum, so you better make it happen soon,” he said, firing a short burst. “Thirty-seven.”
“Moving,” said Jessica, sliding around the piling.
Melendez and Talia fired simultaneously, suppressing the Russians long enough for her to reach a double piling at the head of the next pier branch. She glanced down the long row of boats to her left, making sure their flank was clear. Graves didn’t think the cigarette boat stopped at one of the closer piers, but she couldn’t trust her life to his assessment, even though he had demonstrated an unusual aptitude for tactical decision making a few minutes ago.
“Clear!” she said, squeezing off three successive bursts of .45-caliber bullets at the Russians.
Talia slammed into the wooden posts on the opposite side of the main pier, drawing an angry beehive of rifle fire.
“Three more piers to go!” said Jessica.
“They won’t make it easy on us,” replied Talia. “One more pier, and they’ll adjust.”
Jessica fired a long burst and dropped to one knee, reloading the UMP.
“Then we’ll adjust with them,” she said. “Rico, can you swim with a rifle?”
“Not very fast,” he said. “I didn’t grow up with a pool.”
“Like all of the white Serbian princesses you know?” said Jessica, slapping the weapon’s bolt home.
“White privilege is a bitch,” said Melendez, firing two rapid shots down the pier.
A thickly muscled Bratva soldier stumbled onto the central pier, holding his neck. Jessica and Talia reacted immediately, sprinting forward while firing. The man shook from multiple .45-caliber impacts, dropping to his knees. Melendez fired a single shot that struck his forehead, snapping his head back. The body remained upright for a few seconds before toppling sideways with a heavy thud. A rifle poked over the top of the motorboat’s stern, wildly spraying the pier.
“Rico, keep up the pressure on the last shooter,” she said, walking briskly forward with her weapon leveled at the corner of the boat.
With all three of them firing every time the remaining Russian tried to fire, they managed to cross two more piers before stopping to strategize how to approach the docked motorboat. They had reached the point where moving any closer exposed them to fire from the well-covered position behind the boat. The Russian could fire on them without risking a bullet to the head from Melendez. Talia nodded once, giving her a “what’s next?” look.
She peeked around the thick wooden post, expecting to see the business end of a rifle. Instead, the marina quieted. She listened intently over the ringing in her ears from the gunfire, hearing a faint thumping sound.
“They’re on the move,” she said, stepping into the open. “Cover me.”
Jessica reached the top of the shooter’s pier unopposed, swinging the barrel of the UMP around the stern of the motorboat. Several boats away, the same two men she’d seen leave the hotel’s central garden scrambled toward a waiting boat at the far end of the pier. The man with the bloodstained shirt turned and fired his rifle on full automatic with one hand, his other holding a cell phone. She quickly stepped back, the bullets rattling off the pier and boats docked between them. Talia sprinted across the pier, barely avoiding a second burst of gunfire.
“Do you hear that?” yelled Talia.
“Get ready to fire. They’re thirty meters out!” said Jessica, ignoring Talia’s question.
She moved a few feet beyond the stern of the boat and crouched, rapidly acquiring the back of Reznikov’s yellow shirt. Before she pressed the trigger, the faint thumping she had mistaken for footsteps turned to thunder, and the Russians flattened th
emselves on the pier. A silver-gray helicopter roared past the trees lining the cove beyond the awaiting cigarette boat. She fired once at her quarry before instinctively turning the UMP skyward.
The helicopter yawed left and appeared to skid in the air toward her, exposing the open starboard-side passenger compartment. Two men sat on the edge of the compartment floor, with their feet on the skids—firing light machine guns. Jessica reacted instantly, dropping into the water between the pier and the bullet-riddled motorboat.
Jessica pressed her arms against the sides of her body and bore through the water like a torpedo, sinking as far below the surface as possible. Her world had been instantly quieted under water, intensifying the shrill ringing in her ears. The salt water burned her eyes, but she forced them open to search for the nearest submerged pier footing. Finding one nearby, she dropped the submachine gun and wrapped her arms around the sharp, barnacle-encrusted post.
Bullets hit the pier above her, sounding like a muted woodpecker underwater, the staccato impacts vibrating through the submerged piling she embraced. She held tight as dozens of bullets swished through the water next to the pier, travelling erratically until they lost all velocity and drifted to the bottom of the marina.
Her lungs burned from the excess carbon dioxide buildup, but she stayed under until the bullets stopped, and the sound of a powerful engine dominated her ears. She slowly rose along the post as the underwater vibration weakened. The cigarette boat was headed out. Jessica delayed breaching the surface until the spasms in her trachea and ribs threatened a forced inhalation of water. Her mouth found air first, greedily sucking in a short breath. The rest of her head followed as she normalized her breathing and scanned the marina.
“What are you, a free diver in your spare time?” said Talia, holding on to a metal ladder leading up to a wooden trapdoor. “I almost swam down to get you. The helicopter’s gone. So is the boat.”
“Shit,” hissed Jessica, her mind swimming with conflicting thoughts.
Daniel was nowhere to be found. Munoz was critically wounded. Graves was likely dead on a bullet-riddled yacht that was supposed to remain a secret. And she didn’t trust this woman not to cut her throat in the water.
“We need to get out of here,” said Talia, climbing the ladder.
“You think?” said Jessica, scissor kicking toward her. “First priority is finding my other operative. Second is getting the yacht out of here.”
“First priority is going after Reznikov,” said Talia.
“The op is done,” said Jessica, grasping the slick ladder.
“I didn’t lose half of my team just to give up. My mission remains intact,” said Talia, pushing on the trapdoor with her right hand.
“Good luck with that,” said Jessica. “I’m cutting my losses here.”
The trapdoor opened suddenly, causing Talia to slip a few rungs on the ladder.
“Don’t shoot,” said Melendez, slowly easing his face into view. “We need to get out of here muy pronto, ladies. Gupta deep-sixed all of the laptops. He’s trying to figure out how to launch the yacht’s tender.”
“I need to find Daniel,” said Jessica.
“Daniel can take care of himself,” said Melendez. “Graves is critically injured. We need to get him to a private medical facility. We’re thirty-five minutes by boat to one of our planned fall-back points. La Paloma Marina. We can transfer Graves to a car there and drive him fifteen minutes inland to a private doctor in Rocha.”
“You need to use that boat to pursue Reznikov,” said Talia, climbing onto the pier.
“And get lit up by their helicopter?” said Jessica, emerging through the trapdoor. “What part of mission scratched don’t you understand?”
“That’s it, then?” said Talia.
“That’s it,” said Jessica, turning her back.
“The fearless CIA just folds on a mission?” challenged Talia.
“We’re not really CIA or any agency for that matter,” said Jessica.
“Then I guess killing Daniel won’t be a problem between our countries,” said Talia.
Jessica stiffened. Something was off. Her suspicion was immediately confirmed when Talia smirked, tapping her ear.
“My earpiece is fine,” she said, walking toward her. “Daniel was taken by my people when he exited the western wing of the hotel—carrying a SOCOM 16 rifle.”
“You bitch!” snapped Jessica, rushing toward her.
“No time for that,” said Talia, holding up a hand. “Here’s the deal. You and Speedo agree to help me take down Reznikov and Zuyev, and your operative leaves the hotel in an ambulance driven by my people. If not, he leaves in a body bag with the medical examiner.”
Jessica bristled at the threat. “I’ll dedicate the rest of my life to killing you.”
“Join the club,” said Talia, glancing back at the hotel. “Time’s ticking.”
“You get my other operative out in the same ambulance,” said Jessica. “And we have a deal.”
“If it’s not too late,” said Talia, waiting a few seconds. “I’ve just been told they can get him out.”
“Then we have a deal,” said Jessica. “But what makes you think we can help you find the Russians?”
“I know an off-the-books CIA op when I see one. You may not get a monthly paycheck from Langley, but I’m guessing you know people that can make shit happen,” said Talia. “The Russians will go to ground at a safe house in Montevideo or Buenos Aires. We need to figure out where they’re headed.”
“And your agency doesn’t have resources?” said Jessica.
“I can assemble a strike team within a few hours, but we lack wide-scale intelligence regarding worldwide Solntsevskaya Bratva activities. Any help would be appreciated.”
Jessica glanced at Melendez, who nodded his approval.
“I’ll get the ball rolling,” said Jessica.
PART TWO
BLACKOUT
Chapter 15
Karl Berg’s cell phone buzzed, displaying an anxiously awaited number. He’d just received a call from Audra Bauer requesting an immediate status update on the Uruguay operation. Sanderson had been stingy with the details surrounding the take down, which didn’t sit well with him or Audra. Reznikov’s continued ability to draw oxygen represented a serious black eye for the agency, not to mention a clear and present danger to the world. The investigation into his escape from custody pointed directly at the Solntsevskaya Bratva. A painful revelation given the Bratva’s involvement in Berg’s plan to destroy Vektor Institute.
He should have known better than to trust an organization built around a “thieves’ code.” Technically, the Bratva had honored their word, enabling Sanderson’s team of operatives to wipe out the Russian Federation’s secret and highly illegal bioweapons program. They had jacked up the price at the last minute like any thief would, but he’d been ready for that—had built it into the budget. What he hadn’t anticipated was a complete end run by the Bratva to steal the grand prize right under his nose. Pure genius on every level, which led back to Reznikov.
Bratva leadership was crafty—not crazy. Breaking into a heavily defended CIA compound to retrieve a man at the top of every nation’s watch list was the definition of crazy. Something tipped the scales, and he was willing to bet Reznikov had planted that seed long before his capture. What else was growing out there? Nothing good, he thought, swiping the phone from his cluttered desk. He hoped this call represented the end of a very ugly chapter in his CIA career.
“Tell me he’s dead,” said Berg, holding his breath.
“We ran into an unexpected complication,” said a vaguely familiar female voice.
“Nicole?” he said.
“I prefer Jessica,” she said.
“Uh-huh. How complicated—Jessica?” said Berg, not sure why he wasn’t communicating directly with Sanderson.
“On a scale of one to ten, I’d give this a ten,” said Jessica.
“Where’s the general?” said Berg, s
tarting to feel flush.
Something was way off here.
“Sanderson told me to deal with you directly on this,” she said. “Reznikov escaped.”
“Fuck,” whispered Berg. “That’s more than a complication. How the hell did this happen? The intelligence was up to date and verified by a highly trusted source.”
“We didn’t have a problem with the target intel. We had a problem with the Mossad team sent to kill Zuyev,” she said. “It got a little crowded at the resort.”
What the hell was she talking about? Mossad? They weren’t even looking for Reznikov. Shit. Zuyev had been photographed with the Iranians recently. What were the chances of a simultaneous operation? Double Shit. Their intelligence source had double-dipped. Both agencies had been tipped off simultaneously.
“Jessica, what exactly happened at the resort?”
“The Mossad team hit Reznikov’s suite at the same time,” said Jessica.
“As in the same exact time?” said Berg.
“As in Jeff and Graves are seriously wounded. We’re hiding out in some country shithole in Uruguay. Both Russian targets escaped. And the Mossad has Daniel,” she recited.
“How do you know the other team is Mossad?” he said.
“I’m standing next to one of their operatives right now. Calls herself Talia,” she replied.
A female voice protested in the background of Jessica’s phone call.
“You took one of their operatives hostage?” said Berg.
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