Cyprus Rage

by J E Higgins

  Having cooled off enough, she headed through the glass double doors of her building to the elevator. Pressing the button for the third floor, she stepped into a large, barren corridor with white stucco walls and light colored flooring. Still feeling the effects of her run, she moved down the hall at a lethargic pace. She was thankful she had no pressing issues on her schedule for the next few days and no recent messages from Carzona regarding the operation in Cyprus.

  She reached the door to her apartment, her mind focused on the protein shake and vegetable juice she intended to mix up as a reward for the effort she expended. Key in hand, she stopped short noticing a series of scratch marks that she hadn’t seen before. Her instincts sent a warning shiver down her spine. For someone in the Philippines coming from wealth, kidnapping or assassination was a constant concern. Those concerns had forced her to hone her survival instincts.

  Pulling her arm back, she used her free hand to investigate further. A slight twist of the knob told her it was still locked. She studied the scratches more closely trying to figure out if she was being paranoid. This was a big city in Germany, not the conflict-riddled world of her homeland. She finally inserted the key into the lock and retracted the bolt guarding the door. With a turn of the knob, she pushed it open.

  The unnerving feeling remained with her as she tiptoed through the doorway. Her room looked as she had left it, yet something seemed off. She stopped dead in her tracks as she explored the room. Then it hit her ─ the curtains in the main room were closed. She remembered leaving them open when she left. Convinced something was wrong, she slowly backed toward the door. It was then that she caught sight of it. In the hallway leading to her bedroom in a framed picture that had mirrored glass reflecting, she saw the man hiding behind the wall.

  Keeping her composure, she backed outside, slamming the door behind her. With her heart pounding in fear, she sprinted down the hall. She had made it halfway toward the elevator when she heard the door behind her fly open and the sound of men shouting. She reached the end of the hall and saw three large men pursuing her out of the corner of her eye.

  Forgoing the elevator, Morayo bolted for the fire escape just a short distance away. She pushed the large steel door open and raced down the concrete stairwell. She was barely down the first flight stepping onto the landing to make for the next when she heard the same door burst open with even more explosive force followed by shouts echoing loudly in the chamber as they started after her.

  She could hear them gaining on her as their footsteps became louder. In an attempt to gain ground, she jumped the last portion onto the next level. Landing hard, but still on her feet, she didn’t pause to feel the pain, she sprinted. Halfway down the stairs, the door behind her flew open with a man shouting at all of them in German. His shouts changed in mid-sentence from clear, coherent words to a deep gurgling choke. She looked back quickly to see that one of her pursuers had lunged at the man, driving a knife into his stomach just up under the rib cage and into his chest cutting off the man’s ability to speak or scream. She didn’t have time. The killer’s companions rushed past him and the victim continuing their chase.

  It was clear to Morayo that these men intended to harm her. She made it to the first floor and charged for the door. She barely slipped through when one of the men grabbed the door and reached his arm out nearly grabbing her by the sleeve. Racing with all her energy she made for the front door. As she did, she screamed for help as loudly as she could in the hopes that someone would respond or call the police. The hallway was empty except for her and her aggressors. With no stairs to deal with, she was able to gain some distance on the flat ground.

  She was within inches of the door when she heard a loud sound of what could only have been a gunshot. She felt something whistle past her cheek. Her adrenaline was pumping harder than ever. Grabbing for the doorknob she pushed on the door with all the strength she could muster as she desperately tried to get the door to move. Behind her, she heard the loud thumping of men’s boots behind her as they charged down the hall.

  Frantically she pressed on the door with to no avail. Her heart was racing as was her hysteria. Then, in a moment of clarity, she remembered the door pulled open. Reversing her force, the door pulled open leaving her free to make it outside just in time to feel a hand brush past her arm. She continued on in a fast sprint, screaming as she ran down the walkway leading to the street.

  People on the street were beginning to look in her direction. A few registered looks of concern as they watched the drama unfolding in front of the apartment building. A tall and rather brawny older man started across the street in her direction. He was waving his arms to get her attention.

  Then she heard another cracking sound like the one she heard in the hallway. This time, it didn’t culminate with a force cutting past her face, she felt something powerful hit her squarely in the back. She could feel the piercing metal digging into her spine before it tore through the tissue into her internal organs and finally exit through her lower stomach. It took a few seconds for the pain to supersede the numbness generated by her adrenaline. When it did, the gut-wrenching pain swiftly slowed her run to a weak trot. She heard more crackling sounds and more metal cut through her torso, shoulder, and thigh ─ each one delivering excruciating pain that dragged her to a complete halt.

  Instinctively reaching down to feel the injuries, Morayo felt warm blood pouring over her hands. She started to look down but another gunshot sizzled through the air and tore through the back of her head. It was the shot that delivered the deathblow to the young woman, and her body dropped to the ground landing in a distorted heap.

  Everyone who had been watching the poor girl get ripped apart by gunshots froze in their tracks. The killer had wisely taken his shots from inside the doorway of the apartment, giving him protection from being seen by the witnesses outside.

  Satisfied he had eliminated his target, he retreated inside. His colleagues were guarding the halls ready to kill anyone who dared stick their heads out to witness the shooting. The halls remained empty except for the three men. They were soon joined by the rest of their team, who came through the door leading to the fire escape. Of the two, the bigger one, a man with a head and face that resembled a bulldog came up to the three. “The woman?” He barked in his native Hungarian.

  The man who had served as Morayo’s executioner lifted his hand and made a cutting motion across his throat which served as the answer.

  “Very well,” the bulldog nodded. “If we can’t get anything from her, then we have all we came for,” he said turning his attention to the other man who had come with him. He dangled a black bag he had slung over his shoulder in response to the bulldog.

  The men said nothing more as they proceeded to disappear into the streets behind them where the populace had not yet understood what had just occurred.

  Theo Kalopolis was burning with anger as he paced back and forth across the wood floor of his office. “That idiot and his wild living!” He screamed to no one in particular as he lifted his gaze then lowered it, eyeing his attending operatives randomly. He walked stiffly along, his hands folded tightly behind his back as if he were a general in an army relaying plans to the troops before battle.

  He was, of course, speaking of his once right-hand man, Prokopis. A man, who had inconveniently gotten himself killed in what appeared to be some idiotic bar fight. “A man in his position, holding such important information to some of my most essential dealings, and he feels the incessant need to trawl clubs that cater to the city’s riff-raff. And, at this most ill-conceived moment when we’re on the cusp of conducting a major deal,” he ranted.

  “Sir,” one of his subordinates humbly spoke. “That club was a center for many business dealings and provided a place to conduct sensitive business with people whom discretion was essential.”

  The arms merchant glared at his subordinate who ducked his head in a submissive and apologetic way. “It still does not excuse his reckless behavior. Gett
ing a beer bottle in the throat! That is the action of someone acting on a personal matter. Perhaps it was over a petty slight that the idiot caused when he felt up the wrong woman and her man retaliated. He was a good man for logistical work; an absolute incompetent when it came to behavior. I suppose it was only a matter of time until this happened.”

  “What is our next step sir?” A thin skeletal man, wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and a tight-fitting grey suit, asked in a somber manner. This question seemed to feed Kalopolis’ irritation. “I mean, in the next few days we still have the ships coming in, and our lead manhandling this deal is now lying in the morgue.”

  “I’ll have to see to this one myself,” the arms dealer growled as he flung back a few locks of his long golden hair that had slipped over his face. “I’m the only one who’s had enough involvement and familiarity to know what’s going on.”

  “That is taking a serious risk for a man in your position,” the skeletal man reminded him in a tone that suggested that he was utterly indifferent to the decision.

  “I have no choice,” Kalopolis stated in a calmer tone. “Prokopis’ death has forced my hand. I’ll take appropriate measures and bring ample security. Right now, I am the only one who can handle this operation so late in the game.” He paced the floor looking down as if expecting the answer to come from the hardwood paneling he was walking across. “As I said,” he sniffed, “I will handle this affair myself.”

  26

  “Do we know for sure he will even be there?” De’vor tried hard to contain his fury and not shout, but he was finding such a feat impossible, and his voice continued to rise. He had not been keen on killing the gun runner Prokopis. For him, the cold-blooded way Sauwa had dispatched him was grizzly, to say the least. He turned and looked at her, his eyes angry and judgmental.

  “It had to be done,” Tarkov reminded him as he watched the Frenchman carry on in his characteristic sanctimonious manner.

  “You can tell yourself such things!” De’vor pressed the issue. “I’m a soldier, we’re soldiers.” He waved his finger in all directions except for Sauwa’s. “When I kill, it is on a battlefield against other soldiers. Even when I worked for gangsters, I still only killed when on a mission and then they were men who carried guns and played the same game I did. I never sliced some man’s throat and spilled his guts out on the floor while he was enjoying a drink at the bar.” He turned to face Sauwa. “But you didn’t even give it a second thought, did you. You just slaughtered him right there, and it meant nothing to you.”

  Sauwa casually rose from her chair and started to walk away. “Believe what you want,” she replied with indifference. “He wasn’t some innocent widow or orphan. The man I killed was a gangster playing in the same world as you and me. If he had been holding a gun and standing at the pier getting ready to attack you, you would have slit his throat just as easily as I did even if he was just standing around at the time. Your idea of morality based solely on locations is truly remarkable.” She walked away not giving the Frenchman a chance to respond. His opinion was of no consequence to her in the slightest.

  She walked past the team and went to a far table ladened with an assortment of food from a take-out joint. Surrounding the table were a number of men filling their plates. The recent additions to the team were enjoying their supper after a day spent going over the plan and conducting rehearsals. They were former members of the elite Force 17 unit, the Special Forces arm of the Palestine Liberation Organization ─ a unit that had been founded by the infamous Ali Hassan Salameh. They had received top-notch commando training from nearly every Middle-Eastern Special Forces group as well as most of the naval commando forces of every communist country one cared to name. It had been formed in response to the professional response to the elite commando units of the Israeli military, the Shayetet 13 and the Seyret Matkal; often conducting its own daring and complex commando operations into the Jewish state.

  They had arrived shortly ahead of the break-in of the townhouse. Tarkov and Carzona had found it strange how fast Valikov had been able to assemble a group of quality warriors in such a short time and arrange their transport from Beirut, Lebanon into Cyprus within a few days. It was as if he were expecting the request the whole time. Most of the Palestinians appeared to be in their mid-twenties ─ a few looked even younger. They may have had ample training and some actual experience in combat but were probably limited in any leadership capacity.

  Sauwa figured Carzona’s organization had little intelligence on their adversary or the area they were operating in. A man as skilled and experienced in the realm of black operations as Valikov could have easily predicted that many last-minute additions were going to be needed. It was those skills that made him so successful in arms trafficking. Unfortunately, when her boss seemed to answer Carzona’s requests so quickly, Sauwa suspected that the arms trafficker had a potential spy in the unit.

  Tarkov was aware of his old comrade’s skills and abilities when it came to running covert operations. He was inclined to believe that Valikov could have foreseen the complications that would force major alterations in their plan and prepared accordingly. Carzona, on the other hand, only accepted such an answer at face value. With his years in espionage, he was more inclined to come to a different conclusion. In either case, it didn’t matter. Everyone that was now on the team was needed, and the mission superseded any concerns about Valikov having a mole in his operation. Still, the Filipino was suspicious.

  After she had enjoyed a rather tasty dinner of falafel and a Greek salad, Sauwa crossed the warehouse entering through the back hallways. For their training, Carzona’s German contact had obtained another warehouse in a remote, run-down part of the city. The building was a great place for them to train. Not only was it in a location that was primarily deserted ─ run-down structures that hadn’t seen much use in years ─ they were located next to an old pier they could use to rehearse the assault on the port harbor. The adjoining area was a field of old rotting boats stacked high along with vacant structures and a network of forgotten roadways giving them several places to train.

  She reached the back room where she found Sacchini and two of the Palestinians standing over a stack of wood pallets covered with a long plastic tarp. The tarp was flipped over on the corner closest to them revealing a series of firearms lined up across the pallets.

  The three weapons that she could see were Russian made AKMS 47 assault rifles, the rifle favored by the old Soviet naval infantry. Unlike the AKM variant that had a steel framed stock that collapsed along the side of the rifle, the AKMS model collapsed underneath the weapon and could be extended when deploying the weapon. Soviet armaments were the most widely used in the hot spots around the world and the adopted weapon of the militaries of former communist client states. They were also the most easily obtainable on the black market. For this reason, it was essential that a mercenary had a working knowledge of such weapons and was comfortable in their use. It was generally what mercenaries had to work within their business.

  Given the close operating range they would be in, Sauwa, like the others, hoped to get 74 models with their Kalashnikovs. They were 5.56 caliber and more practical for close quarter combat. The AK-47 models they were looking at fired the 7.62 caliber that was more practical when operating in open environments and engaging targets at a longer range.

  Sacchini was handling a small PM-63 9 machine pistol, a Polish design used by the Polish airborne units and police. He handed it to her. “I imagine you’ll want to work with this a bit more.” She took it from his hand and examined it. It was a small pistol-like weapon that had a collapsible stock similar to the AKMS. This made it the perfect weapon for carrying it discretely. She pulled back the upper receiver to examine the chamber. Ensuring it was empty, she began practicing her drills. She aimed in a direction that didn’t put anyone in her sights and began dry rehearsals pulling the weapon from its concealed position and bringing it into action. She had only worked with this sort of w
eapon a few times and had been reintroduced to it a few days ago when the team began rehearsing for their mission.

  The weapons had been smuggled into the country through a barge welded tightly shut and dropped deep into the water and held up by a few narrow cords of strong wire. This was similar to how South American drug organizations smuggled large quantities of cocaine across the Caribbean to avoid American coastal patrol and surveillance satellites flying overhead. Just as the team had been brought into the country. A ship had come from Turkey close to the Cyprus territorial waters where it was met by the fishing boat that had met them.

  A barge was dropped into the water a few nautical miles out and towed until retrieved by the fisherman who hauled it by the cords the rest of the way. Only in the safety of the secluded harbor did they bring it to the surface. The weapons were retrieved from the barge and taken to the warehouse in bundles wrapped in canvass covers. Initially, Tarkov had wanted to keep the weapons on board the ship to avoid the danger of constantly moving them to and from the warehouse. This idea was rejected when the ship’s captain explained that his daily fishing schedule made such a consideration impossible. Tarkov agreed to keep the weapons at the training warehouse where it was close enough to the water for transport and easy to abandon if there was a threat of a police raid.