He navigated to the neatly digitized files and quickly pulled up information regarding known safe houses. After scanning through several dozen entries, only two locations stood out. A heavily defended compound in a sketchy industrial zone on the western outskirts of Buenos Aires or a tight cluster of Bratva-owned apartment buildings, clubs and storefronts in a Russian-dominated neighborhood south of the city. He studied the intelligence collected for each place, quickly drawing a conclusion.
The Bratva-owned city block presented a costly nightmare for any attacker, but the same features that made it a death trap could ultimately be turned against the Russians. The area was too porous. The right unit, using the right tactics, could rapidly access the main building—where suppressed weapons, practiced tactics and expert marksmanship would dominate. Prerovsky shook his head. Too risky for a valuable asset like Reznikov.
The compound west of the city made the most sense. Long sight lines for spotting an incoming attack. Three hundred and sixty degrees of open space immediately surrounding the outer perimeter. One access point at a manned, retractable gate. Heavily defended. If Reznikov ended up in Buenos Aires, the Bratva would bring him here. Of course, he didn’t think like a Bratva Avtoritet or a special operations planner, so maybe it would be prudent to let the beneficiaries of this information make the decision.
Prerovsky spent the next several minutes taking screenshots of the files and saving them directly to a thumb drive, which he’d deliver directly to Kaparov within the hour. Before he left his desk to make his usual rounds through the department, a “top priority” email hit his inbox. He read the flagged email, shaking his head.
“Looks like this might not matter either way,” he muttered, pocketing the thumb drive.
Regardless of the email’s obvious implications, he’d deliver the information. Better to let the interested parties sort it out.
Chapter 19
Jessica paced back and forth across the worn carpet, casting a glance at the satellite phone on the nicked dining room table. Dammit, Berg. How long could it take?
“He’ll come through with the intel,” said Melendez, wiping the sweat off his face with a dirty towel.
He sat in a chair leaning against a water-stained wall, his eyes drifting shut every few seconds.
She checked her watch. Almost five in the morning. Close to eleven o’clock in Moscow. This was taking too long. They’d been up all night anticipating a call. Sanderson promised he’d call as soon as Berg passed along the information. Movement in the French doors caught her attention; the thin white sheer panel parted to reveal Talia’s face. The door handle moved next.
“I don’t have anything to report yet!” said Jessica, annoyed with this bitch’s insistence on checking every few minutes.
She hated feeling helpless, but there was nothing she could do at this point. The Mossad had Daniel, and they wouldn’t release him until she delivered the information—assuming Berg’s intel was good enough for them. And that was a big assumption. She didn’t want to think about that scenario yet, because she was hot, exhausted and unlikely to come up with a plan that didn’t involve gutting the woman opening the door.
“We’re running out of time,” said Talia, pushing the door open a crack. “The Russians won’t stick around for long.”
“I don’t have any control over the flow of information,” said Jessica. “And if you open that door any further, I’m going to knock your head in.”
The door flew inward hard enough to break several panes of glass—revealing the presence of more Mossad agents. A brutal-looking, over-testosteroned man with a thick brow stepped over the broken glass.
“You’re alive because we need information,” said the operative.
Melendez had already left his seat, circling behind Jessica with a pistol he had retrieved from one of the safe house’s hidden wall compartments.
“It’s fine, Rico,” said Jessica, surprised by her own rational approach. “They lost two of their own yesterday.”
The man eyed her with murderous contempt. “You don’t have to look your friend’s murderer in the face. A mercenary’s face.”
“Only one person in this room has been paid to be here, and it’s not me or my friend with the pistol,” said Jessica.
The man’s eyes darted to Melendez, who stepped into the light from the adjacent room, holding the pistol low.
“You know what I mean,” growled the Mossad operative.
“Not really,” said Jessica, turning to Talia. “Is your team going to be a problem moving forward?”
“You’re not exactly winning them over with your warm personality,” said Talia.
“I thought I was being downright friendly given the circumstances,” said Jessica. “Did I somehow miss the part when you released our operative?”
“He’s fine,” said Talia.
“Yeah, he’s in really good hands,” said the man standing inside the doorway.
The satellite phone chimed, stopping her from making a threat. Jessica grabbed the phone off the table, without taking her eyes off the Mossad operatives, and pressed “connect.”
“What’s up?” she said.
“Looks like you’ve made some new friends,” said General Sanderson. “Don’t answer that. The less they know about our surveillance capabilities the better. I received the data package. Reznikov is being held in Buenos Aires. Tell them we’ll transfer the information in exchange for our operative.”
Jessica turned the mouthpiece away from her face. “Reznikov is in Buenos Aires. You get the data when we get our operative.”
Talia ignored her, instead addressing an unseen Mossad agent in the other room. “Buenos Aires. Get everything moving in that direction.”
Feet shuffled outside of the dining room as the Mossad team responded.
“I’m going to assume you heard me,” said Jessica.
“I heard you fine,” said Talia. “We’ll release your guy after a successful operation. Can’t be too sure.”
Jessica tensed, but before she could fire off an angry response, Sanderson’s voice of reason spoke over the phone.
“Don’t respond to that. Just nod and put me on speakerphone,” he said. “And Jessica, I need you to go along with whatever I say or propose. I will not let you or Daniel down. Start nodding like you’re agreeing with me.”
She tightened her face and nodded, adding a little dramatic flair to Sanderson’s instructions.
“Understood,” said Jessica, pressing the speakerphone button. “He wants to talk to you.”
Talia shrugged her shoulders. “We’re not handing him over until the operation is finished.”
Sanderson’s voice filled the room. “I’m not going to bullshit any of you. What happened yesterday sucked for both of our organizations. Good people died because our respective agencies don’t share critical intelligence. That’s the bottom line—so get it out of your heads that the woman holding the phone murdered your friends. Fortunately, we both get a second shot at taking out the Russians. ”
“You don’t get a second shot,” said Talia. “Our teams will handle the takedown.”
“Fine. You release my operative, and the data file is yours,” said Sanderson. “You can do whatever you want with the intelligence.”
“We’ve been through this already,” said Talia. “At the successful conclusion of the op, you’ll get your man back.”
“Frankly, I’m not optimistic about your chances of success without our help, which is why I’d prefer to get my operative back in advance,” said Sanderson.
“I think you underestimate our capabilities,” said Talia.
“I would never underestimate the Mossad,” said Sanderson. “But after analyzing the target area data, I stand by my assessment. You either release my operative in exchange for the intelligence, or we plan and execute this mission together.”
“We have more than enough people to carry out the attack,” said Talia.
“You’re going to need my
operatives to get close to the safe house,” said Sanderson. “We’re talking about a full city block owned and operated by the Solntsevskaya Bratva—set in the middle of a predominantly ethnic Russian neighborhood. You don’t exactly fit in,” said Sanderson.
Jessica stifled a laugh. Sanderson was right. The Israeli strike team looked very—Israeli.
“We’re not planning a gradual infiltration,” said the Mossad operative standing next to Talia.
“The Bratva is at war with the Chechens for control of the Andean cocaine supply lines. I can almost guarantee an RPG up your ass if the plan involves SUVs with tinted windows,” said Sanderson.
“How would you do it?” said Talia.
“Are we working together?” said Sanderson.
“Screw this guy,” said the other Mossad agent. “He’s running a South American mercenary shop. Some of us speak Russian.”
“I guess it’s disco ball time,” said Sanderson.
Jessica reacted instantly, lowering the phone and burying her eyes in the crook of her elbow. Even with her eyeballs pressed into her arm, she could detect the Xenon strobe lights. Despite the safe house’s dilapidated appearance, several expensive, high-tech modifications had been made to enhance its security. On top of a sophisticated audio and video surveillance system was the latest in nonlethal, light-pulse incapacitation systems.
Yelling and chaos erupted inside the house as feet scrambled and bodies toppled furniture. The noise settled moments later, replaced by swearing and angry threats. Russian voices bellowed throughout the house.
“You can open your eyes now,” said Sanderson.
She lowered her arm and smirked. Talia and her mouthy companion were down on their knees, eyes squeezed shut, with suppressed AK-74 rifles pointed at their snarling faces. The men holding the rifles were dressed in neutral street clothes. Cargo pants, khaki or gray, with untucked, loose-fitting shirts. Dark tattoos ran the length of their exposed arms, disappearing under short sleeves and reappearing on their necks.
“They sold us out,” said one of the Israelis.
“No, they didn’t,” stated Talia. “They’re making a point. A rather brilliant point.”
“I wouldn’t say brilliant,” answered Sanderson. “But my Russian Group operatives can tip the scales in your favor on this mission. I highly suggest you use them.”
“All right,” said Talia. “We can work with this.”
“Stand down,” said a familiar voice.
Jessica shook her head. “Not until they release Daniel.”
The “Russians” lowered their weapons and stepped back, maintaining a ready posture.
“We’ll get to that,” said Richard Farrington, passing the open door to the cellar on his way from the kitchen to the dining room.
The team must have slipped into the basement during the night. Farrington winked at her as he entered the dining room. She interpreted the wink the only way she could under the circumstances. Play along.
PART THREE
ALWAYS BET ON BLACK
Chapter 20
Reznikov leaned his head against a thankfully odorless pillow and stared at the ceiling of his latest accommodation, marveling at the absence of a ceiling fan. Over the past year, the absence of this seemingly ubiquitous South American fixture meant one thing—stifling heat. No longer.
A rectangular air-conditioning unit mounted high on the wall of his room kept him pleasantly cool. He wished it was secured to a window, but Zuyev had insisted on a completely contained environment, for security reasons. A view would come later, along with an unlocked door, or so he was promised. At least they had gone to some lengths to make his temporary stay pleasant.
The space contained basic, yet comfortable modular furniture, resembling a college dorm. A separate, closable enclosure held a small washbasin and a toilet, another luxury that hadn’t always been guaranteed during his exile to the “tri-border” region. A half refrigerator at the foot of his bed hummed, competing with the air conditioner. It came fully stocked with assorted jars of pickled fish, cheeses and other savories that he had requested.
Of course, the crown jewel of his “apartment” was the makeshift liquor cabinet above the small kitchen efficiency area. He’d sacrificed most of the kitchen storage space to accommodate this critical addition to his living space. If they meant to keep him sequestered until the danger passed, he intended to make the best of it—at least that had been his justification for demanding several hundred dollars’ worth of premium booze.
The bottles rattled in the cabinet, drawing his attention. He was tempted to indulge, but his head throbbed, and the queasy nauseous feeling showed no sign of abating. It would all subside eventually, leaving him free to obey the dark masters clinking in the latched cabinet.
He needed them after yesterday. Needed them desperately. No matter how indifferent or cruel his Bratva captors could be, they paled in comparison to the American psychopaths. Flashes of Stockholm made him reconsider his decision.
“A drink or two to help me forget,” he whispered, knowing the final drink tally would fall more in the bottle or two range.
Kaparov’s voice of reason didn’t counter the argument. In fact, that voice had long ago died—snuffed out by the same dangerous concentrations of heavy metals that erased nearly every trace of his humanity.
Chapter 21
Deep shadows blanketed the narrow street, rendering the Cyrillic graffiti mostly unreadable. They had entered “Little Moscow” a few blocks northeast, noticing a significant decline in property upkeep the further they walked. Rusted gates, broken windows covered by cheap iron bars, weeds growing through cracked concrete slabs. Subtle signs of urban decay punctuated by the obvious—several shuttered businesses. The neighborhood had an empty feeling. No doubt the result of the Bratva’s power grab.
“I suggest you start cussing in Spanish. Maybe grab at Grisha’s crotch a few times,” said Jessica. “Keep it authentic.”
Talia shook her head and muttered a few choice slurs in Spanish.
“I’ll pass on the grab,” said Talia, swatting the “Russian” operative’s behind and cackling out loud in Portuguese before whispering, “Probably not working with much down there.”
“Nice,” whispered Grisha, grabbing Talia and pushing her up against a graffiti-covered concrete wall.
He pretended to kiss her neck, instead whispering instructions that every operative heard through their earpieces. They rapidly approached one of the Bratva’s soft checkpoints, on the southeastern outskirts of the Solntsevskaya’s urban stronghold. They’d gone as far as they could go in the neighborhood—without getting into a fight. Hopefully a silent, one-way fight. They needed to get closer before moving up the assault team.
Her small group drew little noticeable attention on the way in, the locals turning a blind eye to their arrival. The visible tattoos on Grisha and Vanya marked them as Bratva, ensuring zero street-level interference. The people glanced at them long enough to determine they weren’t Chechens, but not a moment longer.
Grisha and Vanya had been picked for their lighter skin color and obvious Slavic features. Ash brown hair. Blue eyes. Thin lips. Nobody could mistake them for Chechen infiltrators, which got them this far. The disguise would actually work against them when they reached the checkpoint. The tattoos would raise questions, along with suspicions. It was up to her to get them past the first checkpoint.
“You ready?” said Grisha, grinding her against the wall.
“I hope you’re enjoying this,” said Talia, wrapping her arms around him and reaching up under his loose shirt.
“Part of the job,” he said. “Take your time and do it right.”
“You wish,” she said.
Grisha turned her toward the Bratva soldier twenty feet away as she slid a suppressed, compact pistol out of his hidden beltline and lowered it tight against the left side of her miniskirt.
“Done,” she whispered.
Grisha pushed her back against the wall,
keeping the pistol side turned away from the sentries. Talia’s pulse quickened as he stepped back and laughed at her in Russian before continuing down the street. She walked behind and to the left of the operative, switching the pistol to her right hand to keep it out of sight.
In addition to the two men hidden in an upcoming porch alcove, another Bratva soldier sat on a dilapidated concrete stoop directly across the street. Jessica blocked his sight line to the pistol swap by walking next to her, speaking rapid Spanish and laughing. The American team moved naturally. She had to give them that much.
“Do we have clear shots?” said Grisha.
“Zulu One clear,” she heard.
“Zulu Three clear.”
“Zulu Two standing by to engage identified targets.”
“Team is set,” whispered Grisha through the microphone, picking up the pace. “Engage on my mark. Three, two, one—”
One of the Bratva soldiers emerged from the alcove, speaking Russian. She eased her grip on the pistol and shifted her left hand in front of her.
“Mark,” he said.
Grisha quickly shifted left, clearing her line of fire. With a practiced combat efficiency, she pressed the trigger as the pistol’s green tritium sights came into alignment. The first bullet caught the approaching guard in the face; his body dropping as she made a minor adjustment to her aim. The second Bratva soldier reacted to the pistol shot by leaning forward, out of the shadows cast by the alcove. The next bullet hit him in the middle of the forehead, exiting the back of his head and smacking loudly into the door behind him.
Movement across the street drew her attention in time to see a pair of feet fall into the thick stand of unkempt bushes behind the iron fence. A few branches cracked as the weight of the guard’s lifeless body thumped to the ground.
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