“Zero-One, One-One. Secure from Overseer position. Heading to rear of target building. Confirming four targets down including the primary, over.”
“Thanks for the late report, One-One. I’m having your pay docked.”
Footfalls hammered down steps on the opposite side of the wall in front of them. He exchanged a look with Atlas, who readied his M4. Dawson stepped back from the wall to get a better angle on the door, his Glock aimed at the opening. The footfalls fell silent and Dawson cursed at the distinctive sound of the pin being pulled from a grenade. A hand appeared for a moment through the door frame and the RGD-5 grenade was tossed inside, the metal ball of death bouncing on the floor.
Dawson rushed toward it and the table that stood between them. He grabbed the heavy piece of furniture and tipped it over on its side, hitting the ground behind it as Atlas dove from his position, sliding backward, his M4 belching lead at the wall that at least one Russian was using as cover. Dawson reached out and grabbed Atlas, hauling him the rest of the way. The grenade detonated, the concussive force enormous in the confined space, and Dawson thanked God for the ear protection he wore. The table shoved against them as a ball of flame whipped around its edges and Atlas cried out.
Dawson was immediately concerned for his friend, the toughest man he knew, but for the moment, he couldn’t tend to him. A hostile emerged in the door frame, his AK-74 swinging in ahead of him, the muzzle flashing with each round erupting from its barrel. Dawson calmly placed two rounds in the man’s chest, readying for the next attack, but none came. He pushed to his feet, glancing to see Atlas still breathing and grasping his calf, a large shard of wood from the table embedded in it.
“You okay?”
Atlas gave him the stink-eye. “What do you think? My leg looks like it should make the Property Brothers demo day blooper reel.”
Footfalls overhead indicated they still had more in the house to deal with. Gunfire rang down the stairwell and Dawson jerked back. It appeared their enemy was making a stand on the second floor, which suited him just fine.
“Control, Zero-One. ETA on that package?”
“Two minutes, Zero-One. Suggest you evac now.”
“Roger that.” Dawson eyed the big man on the floor as he examined his leg. “Bravo Team, Zero-One. Evac to containment positions, over.”
A string of acknowledgments were quickly received as he fired several rounds blindly up the stairwell to make anyone upstairs think twice about coming down the steps. He extended a hand and Atlas grabbed it. Dawson hauled the big man to his feet and slung a muscled arm over his shoulders. They left through the door they came in, but the moment they reached the courtyard, gunfire from the second floor tore up the cobblestone in front of them.
Dawson pressed against the chipped and cracked stucco wall. “This is Zero-One. We’re pinned down in the courtyard and Zero-Seven has a leg wound. We need some suppression fire on the second floor, front windows, over.”
Spock immediately replied. “Zero-One, Zero-Five. I’m on my way. Stand by.”
Dawson glanced at Atlas. “You ready for this?”
“No, carry me.”
Dawson chuckled as he adjusted Atlas’ arm, prepping for the race across the courtyard. “Control, Zero-One. ETA?”
“Sixty seconds, Zero-One.”
“Bravo Team, Zero-One. Fall back to safety positions immediately, over.”
Confirmations came through then gunfire from an M4 chirped to their right, bullets spraying against the walls and through the windows overhead as Spock provided the cover they needed.
“Let’s go, big guy.” Dawson pushed away from the wall and Atlas hopped one-legged beside him as they covered the short distance across the courtyard toward the closed front gate. A second M4 opened up, and the Russian positions’ sporadic gunfire fell silent with the addition of Jagger’s weapon. They were soon at the gate and Dawson reached forward and flipped the latch aside, yanking the wrought iron out of the way. As they stepped through and onto the street, they cleared the gate and reached the cover of the wall.
“This is Zero-One. We’re clear. Everybody break away immediately.”
“Zero-One, this is Control. You’ve got ten seconds.”
“Copy that, Control.” Dawson hauled his impossibly heavy friend toward their SUV farther down the street, but there was no way in hell they were making it. Not in ten seconds. Spock and Jagger burst from the alleyway just ahead and sprinted toward them. Spock took Atlas’ other arm and Jagger grabbed Atlas by the legs, and together the three of them carried the wounded warrior as Leroux’s voice echoed in Dawson’s ear.
“Three, two, one…”
“Everybody down!” shouted Dawson, and they hit the deck hard as the AGM-84K SLAM-ER cruise missile slammed into the compound behind them. The eruption was enormous, the shock wave sending debris in all directions, the heat from the blast engulfing them as he held his breath to prevent searing his lungs should the momentary flash prove too hot.
And as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Though it wasn’t. Car alarms, screams, the cries of terrified children, the continued sounds of the building behind them collapsing, along with secondary explosions from stored ordnance, wouldn’t let anyone witness to this day forget the destructive power America could unleash on its enemies.
Dawson quickly assessed the situation around them as he took a knee. “Everybody good?”
“I’m good,” replied Spock.
Jagger patted himself down and confirmed the boys were intact, giving a thumbs-up.
Atlas stared up at them from the ground. “I’m glad you guys are, but what about me?”
Spock cocked an eyebrow. “You do know that if you’re injured twice on the same mission, you still only get one purple heart?”
Atlas flipped him the bird. “If I knew it was safe to do so, I’d yank this thing out of my damn leg and plunge it into your heart, though I don’t think it would have any effect because you clearly don’t have one.”
Niner and Jimmy appeared, having to take a longer route from the rear of the now-destroyed building. “What the hell’s going on here?” asked Niner, the concern for his best friend evident in his voice.
Atlas glanced over at Niner. “Spock’s being mean to me.”
Spock held up both hands. “Not true. I was just reminding him of the regs.” He jutted his chin toward Atlas. “Why don’t you go sport hump your buddy? That always seems to cheer him up.”
Atlas shoved both hands in the air. “Get me up!”
Dawson laughed then helped Spock haul the big man to his feet as Jagger retrieved the SUV. Moments later, Atlas was loaded in the back and they were underway, driving past the scene of devastation. The compound where the Russian Spetsnaz unit had been holed up directing an operation that had led to the murder of dozens of American soldiers was flattened, a rubble-strewn crater where the home had once stood, several mangled bodies evident.
Justice.
Dawson activated his comms. “Control, Zero-One. Inform Diggler he can deliver his message.”
44 |
Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia
“Copy that, Zero-One. Proceed to exfil point Alpha. Extraction team is en route. Control, out.” Leroux switched frequencies as Morrison entered the room, waving off any acknowledgment. “Diggler, Control. Secondary operation a success. Ready to proceed with primary upon your signal, over.”
Kane’s reply was immediate. “Control, Diggler. Ready to proceed, over.”
Leroux glanced at Tong. “Ping it again. Make sure it’s still where we think it is.”
Tong relayed the instructions to Moscow Station then moments later gave a thumbs-up. “Confirmed, the phone is still in the same area. It’s impossible to pinpoint, but it’s still pinging off the same towers.”
The display curving across the front of the operations center held half a dozen images of the parade grandstand. Everyone in the room had their assigned angle to examine, the operations cente
r now packed with every analyst that had been working the various shifts, everyone privy to what had been going on now observing.
“This is it, people.” He snapped his fingers at Tong. “Make the call.”
She tapped a key as Leroux adjusted his headset, his heart hammering harder than it ever had. He could be about to start a war, one that could go nuclear if it got out of hand. The call was played on the speakers overhead and rang three times as Leroux stared at the gathered privileged few, searching for any indication that someone was about to answer a phone.
“Camera three!” shouted Therrien, and Leroux adjusted his gaze to see someone reach in their pocket and pull out a phone.
“Control, Diggler. I’ve got him. Taking the shot.”
Leroux stared at the image as Tong zoomed in on it, and as the pixelated face resolved into a crystal-clear image, his heart nearly stopped. “Diggler, Control. Abort! I say again, abort!”
45 |
The Ritz-Carlton Moscow, Russia
Kane removed his finger from the trigger as he cursed. “Control, Diggler. Why are we aborting?”
“The person who answered the phone can’t be our target,” replied Leroux in his ear. “He’s too young. We’re running the ID now. Stand by.”
“Too young?” asked Sherrie.
Kane peered through his scope again. From this distance, he couldn’t make out the man’s face well enough to say one way or the other. All he could confirm was the man’s hair wasn’t gray. But for all he knew, the man could be using the Russian equivalent to the Grecian Formula for Men. But Langley had better images and wouldn’t abort without cause. If this were a young man, he could be the aide to the person actually behind this. Taking him out would send their target into hiding, perhaps never to be found. Justice had to be delivered, a message had to be sent, and that meant the proper target had to be eliminated.
“Diggler, Control. We’ve identified the man as Dmitri Sokov. He’s the adjutant to General Utkin.”
Kane knew the name, and it was who he suspected was behind this as soon as he found out Spetsnaz was involved, as the Russian Special Forces ultimately came under his command. He was a hardliner, fiercely loyal to the Russian president, and known for his brutality.
“Is he on that stage?”
“Stand by, Diggler, we’re checking.”
Kane readied himself again.
“Diggler, Control. He’s behind the president, over his left shoulder, flanked by two civilian males, black suit, blue tie on the left, dark gray suit, red tie on the right.”
Kane aimed directly at the Russian president, the temptation to shoot the man almost irresistible. But that would mean war. He adjusted slightly and spotted the two civilians flanking General Utkin.
“Copy that, Control. Behind the Russian president, military uniform, flanked by two men in suits, one black with blue tie, one dark gray with red tie. Am I cleared to take the shot?”
“Affirmative, Diggler, you’re a go for the shot.”
Kane checked his settings one final time, something he normally wouldn’t do. They were correct, but this was the most important shot he had ever taken. “Now.”
Sherrie leaned forward and yanked on a suction cup placed on the window earlier, pulling away a neatly cut circle of glass, giving him an unobstructed shot. He drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled as he squeezed the trigger, the rifle butt slamming into his shoulder. He readied for a second shot, but as he peered through his scope, it was clear it wasn’t needed. Utkin had collapsed to his knees, a hole in his chest, blood rapidly staining his uniform. He was dead, though his brain might not know it yet.
Chaos erupted on the grandstand.
Kane rose and placed a fresh bullet atop a note he had written earlier on stationery from the hotel, the final part of their message delivered.
46 |
Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia
Cheers erupted as one of the cameras zoomed in on the corpse of General Utkin. Others showed security forces rushing the grandstand, the Russian president grabbed and taken to safety as others scrambled to get off the platform. It was pandemonium, signaling that part of the mission was complete. But now, as far as Leroux was concerned, the most crucial part began.
Coordinating the safe escape of his best friend and his girlfriend.
The question was, what would the Russian reaction be? At the moment, they wouldn’t know who was responsible, though they would certainly lock down the city. He had wanted to arrange a foolproof means of escape. They could do it. They had done it before. But Kane had refused. He had his own plans, and they were plans that Leroux disagreed with, especially with Sherrie involved. Unfortunately, Morrison had okayed them.
“If it works, then we know it’s over,” he had said.
He turned to Tong. “Monitor their locations. I want a fix on them at all times. The moment we have any indication something’s going wrong, I want every camera in Moscow hacked so we can see where they take them.”
“You got it.”
Morrison turned to him. “I’m going to go brief the President.”
“Bravo Team is in friendly airspace,” reported Therrien in the back. “The medic says their injured man will be fine.”
Leroux gave a thumbs-up over his shoulder without turning, his eyes glued to a map of Moscow, two red dots showing the most important people in his life leaving the hotel. And he said a silent prayer that Kane’s foolhardy plan didn’t mean the death of both of them.
47 |
The Ritz-Carlton Moscow, Russia
Agent Oleg Gridnev of the Russian FSB stepped into the hotel room and assessed the crime scene, his expert gaze taking in everything from his vantage point. The single, fatal shot had been fired from this room on the top floor of the Ritz-Carlton, approximately one kilometer from the parade grandstand. The room was neat, orderly, with no evidence anyone had even laid on the bed. A table had been pushed over to the window where a hole had been cut out, no doubt so the bullet’s path wasn’t interrupted.
It should have taken them hours, if not longer, to find this place, yet an anonymous tip had been called in from a lobby phone with a cryptic message.
“The albatross is now around your neck.”
It meant nothing to him, but it also meant it wasn’t an innocent bystander phoning in a tip about something they saw that they shouldn’t have. Whoever made the call was involved.
He stared at the sniper rifle still set up on the table. American. An M24 Sniper Weapon System. Would they be so stupid to use their own weaponry, or was someone else framing the Americans? There was no way he could see the American government doing something so foolish, something that could lead to war. A spent shell casing sat on the table, which surprised him. Normally, snipers policed their brass, but then again, normally snipers left with their weapon.
His junior partner cleared his throat behind him. “Sir, I’ve got the names of the people who were checked into this room. They’re Canadian.”
Gridnev’s eyebrow shot up at his partner’s revelation. “Then we should be expecting an apology shortly.”
Everyone in the room laughed.
“I assume they have them on camera when they checked in?”
His partner shook his head. “They didn’t check in together, but they did check out together.”
“They checked out?”
“Yes, sir. According to the desk clerk, they said they didn’t like the view, so had decided to switch hotels.”
“How did they leave?”
“They asked for a cab then made a phone call before leaving.”
Curiouser and curiouser.
“So they phoned in the tip. They’re acting as if they don’t expect to be touched,” muttered Gridnev.
“Then they’re fools, sir. They just tried to kill our President. They think they can get away with it?”
Gridnev eyed the man. “Do you think that’s what’s happened here?”
“Of course. He w
as aiming for the President but missed, and instead hit the General.”
Gridnev shook his head, waving his arm at the weapon and the setup. “A man like this doesn’t miss, but if he does, he takes a second shot. No, the General was the target. The question is why, though that’s a question for another day. Right now, the only thing we’re focused on is capturing those responsible.”
He stepped closer to the table and leaned forward, peering through the cut glass, revealing a clear line of sight to the grandstand. The room had been chosen for this very view, and the fact these people had checked out complaining about it was a further indication they were toying with them.
And it pissed him off.
He looked down at the spent shell casing sitting beside an unfired round, both atop a folded piece of hotel stationery. “Gloves,” he said, holding his hand up. Someone rushed over and slapped a pair of latex gloves in his hand. He snapped them on then moved the rounds and lifted the paper. He unfolded it, surprised to see that it was written in flawless Russian.
Albatross is finished, or you’re next.
His eyes narrowed. What the hell did albatross mean? And who was next?
Someone rushed into the room. “Sir, we’ve got them at the airport!”
He spun toward the new arrival. “We have them in custody?”
“No, sir. They’re sitting at their departure gate. The commander on the ground is awaiting your instructions.”
“Good. Keep them under observation. If they try to leave or board the airplane, arrest them. Otherwise, wait for my instructions.” He strode from the room, fishing his phone from his pocket as he dialed the number of the man who had assigned him the investigation. It was answered immediately. “Sir, we’ve got them at the airport. We can take them down at any time, but there’s something you need to know first. The shooter left a message with the spent shell casing and a fresh bullet sitting on top of it.”
The Messenger - Special Agent Dylan Kane Series 11 (2021) Page 18