Black Flagged

by Konkoly, Steven; A. Sullivan, Felicia

  **

  Marko dropped to the soaked gravel near the front left tire of the Range Rover and rolled over onto his left side, which gave him easy access to the hip satchel containing the second ammunition drum. The gun’s barrel sizzled as the rain struck the dangerously overheated metal. A hundred thoughts and stimuli flashed through his brain, which were immediately prioritized and processed for his use. His trance reduced useless distractions like emotion, hesitation or fear, and enhanced his focus on the highly specialized skills required to survive.

  “Reload weapon” was at the very top of the list. His weapon wasn’t empty, but he knew that seventy five rounds didn’t last very long at the rate he had fired. In the flash of a synapse, “driver still alive” was also broadcasted, and his eyes narrowed. He had fired long bursts into each passenger as he moved counter-clock wise around the SUV. After targeting the rear right guard and Radovan, he fired a lengthy burst at the driver through the rear right door window. Marko knew the bullets had passed through the seat and connected with the driver, but the man’s demise was not conclusive, and he knew it.

  He detached the drum magazine, and threw it out of the way. The second drum was out of the satchel and attached to the light machine gun in a blur of his hands. Marko popped up from the ground into a low crouch, keeping well below the window, and fired a sustained burst through the center of the front driver door.

  **

  The silence felt like an eternity to Jorji, but he knew his lifespan was now measured in seconds, unless he could take the offensive. Jorji lifted his head up far enough out of Radovan’s blood soaked lap to catch sight of the assault rifle jammed against the door by Radovan’s leg. Jorji knew this was his only hope. His only weapon, a small semi-automatic pistol, was jammed under is right armpit in a concealed holster, and he couldn’t lift his body to free it. Not that it would have matter if he could. Jorji was left handed, and a bullet had passed through the back of his left elbow, rendering his arm useless. He strained to slide his right arm free, and his hand managed to reach the rifle just as several bullets punctured the driver door, and put an end to any hope that he might survive.

  **

  He raised his body enough to see into the Range Rover, keeping the gun aimed forward. He saw the driver leaned over Radovan’s lap, but couldn’t be sure the man was dead. Through his weapon’s sight, he centered the red dot on the back of the man’s skull. One quick trigger pull put an end to Radovan’s security team.

  He pulled back up against the house and absorbed the entire scene. The carnage resembled a well-executed ambush, and there was little chance that anyone would suspect the attack was perpetrated by one person. The vehicle was shredded on all sides by bullets, and most of the safety glass lay shattered on the packed gravel. He fired from nearly every angle around the car, leaving shell casings scattered everywhere.

  He saw that two of the guards behind the rear SUV had fallen on top of each other, and immediately decided that he’d stuff one of them into the trunk of the luxury Mercedes in the garage. He’d dump the car into one of the lakes near Belgrade. The absence of a junior member of Radovan’s inner sanctum would lead Hadzic to suspect that this was an inside job, and if anyone took a close look at the ground around the bodies, they would only find the washed out evidence of three deaths.

  He decided to skip any further house surveillance, and moved toward the door. He had done a mixed job of keeping the noise level down, and didn’t want to waste any time if Pavle’s bodyguards had been alerted.

  The silencer had worked perfectly, and ensured that the automatic weapon would not draw anyone’s attention. He could barely hear the gun’s internal mechanisms over the rain storm. The Range Rover was a different story, and he was not at all satisfied with the noise created by the bullets that impacted with the SUV’s heavy steel frame. To Marko, it had sounded like multiple, low speed fender benders, and it nearly jarred him out of his operational mindset. He had backed up against the house more out of fear than a rational tactical decision. It was the right decision, but this was not how he had been trained to operate.

  He reached his right hand over to the door knob, and tried to twist it. It didn’t move. Wasting no time, he reached into his hip satchel and removed an object that resembled a small plastic explosive charge. He tightly jammed it between the door knob and door trim. He pulled a small plastic device out of a pouch on his vest, and slid it upward along the door from the first small charge. The device’s LED turned green about two feet above the door knob. Dead bolt. He placed a second charge against the trim, right where the LED flashed green. He quickly pulled a small cotter pin on each of the homemade devices, and pressed himself flush against the paved stone wall of the lodge.

  In rapid succession, each device ignited, and burned intensely for five seconds. The thermite packages created very little noise, but generated an incredible amount of smoke, usually on both sides of the door. He pushed firmly on the heavy oak door, which gave way now that the locks had been melted. He held his breath and stepped into the house. The caustic smoke obscured his vision and burned his eyes momentarily, but he immediately recognized that he was on a small landing. Several stairs led up into the house through an enclosed stairwell that separated the landing from the main house, and kept him out of sight.

  His ears picked up a familiar sound, which relieved him of any fears that his attack had been compromised. A hardcore rap song from Dr. Dre’s Chronic album vibrated throughout the lodge. His mouth formed a thin grin as a Serbian accented “Yeah motherfucka” echoed alongside Snoop Dog’s lyrics.

  He eased up the stairs, and peeked around the corner. The lodge’s ground floor was an open concept space, which gave him a clear view straight through the kitchen, into the great room. He didn’t see any smoke detectors in the kitchen, which allowed him to relax the pace slightly.

  The ceiling opened up just past the eat-in kitchen area to form a two-story great room, with floor to ceiling windows on the far wall facing Marko. A dark gray slate fireplace and chimney split the middle of this wall, and disappeared into the timber framed ceiling. The men were stationed around a rustic, dark wooden coffee table, which was centered on the fireplace, and littered with a pile of mixed currency. A dimly lit chandelier hung low over the coffee table, attached to the ceiling by a thick, black chain.

  He spotted Pavle immediately, which was not a difficult task. Pavle was paralyzed from the waist down and confined to a wheelchair, which currently faced the fireplace. Both of Pavle’s outstretched arms embraced the deep hip hop beat with a slow, synchronized wave. Each hand held a thick stack of American bills.

  He assessed the bodyguards. A large, stocky man in a black turtleneck sweater and brown jacket stood in front of Pavle, bouncing up and down completely out of rhythm. The second bodyguard sat on a dark, rich leather couch to the left of the table, nodding his head to the steady rhythm and rolling what Marko assumed to be a marijuana joint. He didn’t see any obvious weapons, and chuckled at the pathetic crew in front of him.

  Ready to make his move, he took the time to touch the razor sharp edges on both the front and back of the climbing axe. The axe would provoke the final outrage. The inevitable civil war between two of Slobodan Milosevic’s largest paramilitary groups would tear Belgrade apart from within, and give Marko the cover he needed to tie up a few more loose ends before vanishing. For the first time in several years, he felt hopeful.

  His time in this shithole of a region was rapidly coming to an end, and he intended to walk away with a little more than just the satisfaction of a job well done. Pavle held the key to his brother’s vast criminal fortune, which would soon belong to the United States government - minus a small finder’s fee. He caressed the axe’s blade once more before he lowered his body to a full crouch, and slipped into the kitchen. He still had a long day ahead of him.

  BACK IN BLACK

  May 25, 2005

  Chapter One

  2:35 PM

  Portland, Maine<
br />
  Daniel sat at a brushed metal, modernist workstation in his expanded cubicle, staring blankly at a sleek flat screen monitor. An MBA from Boston University’s School of Management had earned him a little extra space in one of the outer cubicles, and a partial view of the tall pine trees behind the building’s rear parking lot. His one hundred square foot home at Zenith Semiconductor was as close to the “corner office” as modern workplace design theory would allow, and he had fellow MBAs like himself to thank for it. At least his position entitled him to a frosted glass “privacy door,” which he could slide shut to emphasize his desire to remain undisturbed. Few of the staff and entry level management had this option, and were therefore vulnerable to constant, unannounced intrusion.

  His door had only been closed for fifteen minutes, and he’d already counted at least five lingering shadows behind the translucent glass. He continued to stare at the market analysis presentation on the screen, unmotivated to continue. His indoor soccer team pulled the late slot the night before, and he still hadn’t recovered from a three hour sleep deficit. He shook his head and decided to take a walk around the ten thousand square foot cubicle “ghetto,” known more formally as the third floor.

  He stood up from his sleek designer chair, and surveyed the immense room. At six feet tall, Daniel could effectively see over the cubicles. Just as he slid the door open, his phone rang.

  “I almost escaped,” he muttered, and plopped himself back down into the soft chair.

  He put his headset on, and pressed a button on the gray desk phone. “Daniel Petrovich.”

  “Daniel, it’s Sandy. I have a call for you from Azore Market Solutions.”

  “Do you know who it is?” said Daniel, surprised to be hearing from Azore so soon.

  “They didn’t say,” said Sandy, one of the junior assistants assigned to the marketing department. “Just that they needed to talk with you immediately.”

  He had contracted with Azore Market Solutions to provide raw data for an overseas regional marketing analysis, but didn’t expect to hear from them for another month. He usually conducted business with them via e-mail, so he was slightly concerned about the call. If Azore couldn’t deliver the data, he’d have to start the process from scratch, which would put Zenith’s South American market expansion efforts behind schedule, and his job at risk.

  “Alright. Put whoever it is through. And Sandy…would you please ask who’s on the line next time? I don’t know if I’m talking to the CEO or a janitor,” he lamented.

  “I don’t think it’s the janitor, but I’m not sure. Do you want me to ask who it is before I put the call through?”

  “No, don’t worry about it this time,” he said, and hung up.

  Several cubicles away, Sandy shook her cropped brown hair and rolled her eyes. ���Fucking janitor bullshit,” she mumbled as she transferred the call.

  Dan shut the door to his cubicle, and pressed the button to connect the call. “Daniel Petrovich.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I was hoping to reach Marko Resja,” the male voice said, betraying no emotion.

  Daniel felt a surge of adrenaline fire through his central nervous system, and his brain switched over to a long dormant mode of operation, instantly ceasing to function as Zenith Semiconductor’s Emerging Markets’ Analytical Lead. He stood up slowly, glancing down the vast sea of cubicle tops.

  “I’m not in the building, so you can sit back down,” said the voice.

  Daniel remained standing and opened the cubicle door.

  “Are you sitting?”

  “I am,” replied Petrovich.

  “That’s better. Do I have your attention?” said the voice, which confirmed that he was not under direct surveillance.

  Daniel activated the “wander” function of his headset.

  “You never lost it.”

  As long as he remained on the third floor of Building A, his headset would function without a hard wire connection. He might be able to get a slight head start on whatever was coming his way. He opened the top drawer of his desk, pocketed his keys and cell phone, and started to walk toward the nearest staircase.

  “The general has a proposal for you,” said the voice.

  “I’ll be sure to look him up the next time I’m the D.C. area,” said Dan, approaching the door to the stairwell.

  “This proposal is extremely time sensitive.”

  He wrapped his hands around the staircase door handle.

  “I don’t really care.”

  “He thought you might say that. He told me to tell you that ‘he knows everything,’” the voice said with a slight hint of impatience.

  “I’m still not impressed,” said Petrovich.

  “Zorana Sekulic,” uttered the voice.

  Daniel paused for a few seconds. Sanderson hadn’t bothered him much since they parted ways. A Christmas card one year, a birthday card the next. Just a friendly reminder that the general was still out there. Using Zorana’s name was more than a nudge. It was more like poking him with a knife.

  “Where do we meet?”

  “Starbucks. A few blocks from your building. Five minutes.”

  “No good. I’m a regular there. I’ll meet you inside the Starbucks at Northgate Plaza,” countered Daniel.

  “Where is that?” said the voice.

  “Figure it out,” Daniel said, and disconnected the call.

  He stuffed the headset in a trash bin by the door and took three flights of stairs running. He felt slightly panicked by the brazen use of Zorana’s name. He’d taken extreme measures to bury that name in the past, but apparently he should have dug the hole a little deeper. He opened the door to the lobby and walked briskly toward the rear security station, which would lead him directly to his car in the back parking lot. He’d call his assistant as soon he was on the turnpike, and make up some excuse for vanishing.

  Daniel approached the security exit with nothing for the guards to search. Normally, they would take a cursory look inside of his briefcase, but this time he wasn’t carrying anything. He addressed the single guard, who swiveled in his chair as Daniel reached him.

  “No need to get up, Harry. I’m just running a quick errand at Target before I forget. I have a pick-up soccer game after work, and if I don’t do this now, it’ll never get done.”

  Harold Parsons eased back into his chair. He barely turned his head far enough to watch Daniel move swiftly through the sliding door, and nearly break into a run.

  **

  Daniel strained to keep from breaking into a full sprint toward his BMW 545i sedan, which sat three rows deep in the lot. Though he was out of Harold���s sight line, five levels of windows faced the back lot, and the sight of anyone sprinting in the parking lot was sure to attract the wrong kind of attention, especially in the middle of the afternoon.

  He fished a ring of keys out of his front pocket as he approached the back of his car, and remotely unlocked the doors. As his hand reached for the door handle, he pressed the ignition button on his key fob, and the BMW���s powerful 325 HP engine roared to life, and settled into a low hum. Seconds later, Daniel screeched out of the parking lot, headed for the Turnpike entrance.

  **

  James Parker tossed the burner cell phone onto the passenger seat, and began to program the dashboard mounted GPS system as if his life depended on it–which it did. After pushing several buttons, he located the Starbucks store in Northgate, and activated the navigator, which was programmed to take the shortest route to the coffee shop. He pulled his Grand Cherokee out of the parking lot in which he was sitting, and wove through traffic on his way to Congress Street, where he���d be able to pick up more speed without running the risk of attracting the attention of local law enforcement.

  Roughly one minute after speeding out of the parking lot, his SUV passed the entrance to the Zenith Semiconductor Industrial Complex, and Parker glared at the closer of two glass encased office buildings. A few weeks earlier he might have spotted Daniel in the bu
ilding’s parking lot, but May had unleashed thick rows of brilliant yellow Forsythia bushes, which completely obscured his view of the complex’s ground level. He leaned on the accelerator and shot toward Maine Mall Road.

  **

  Daniel’s car arrived at the Maine Mall Road stoplight, one series of lights behind Parker’s Grand Cherokee. As soon as the BMW came to a stop at the light, he reached under his seat and drew a compact Sig Sauer pistol from a hidden holster. He pushed the pistol under a newspaper on the front passenger seat and considered his next move. One thing was certain for Daniel. If this contact had any information regarding Zorana Sekulic, beyond her name, that information would die in the parking lot outside of the Northgate Starbucks.

  The light turned green, and Daniel sped down toward Western Avenue, banking on the likelihood that the General’s man wouldn���t take the turnpike. Just as the BMW’s tires squealed through the turn onto Western Avenue, Parker’s Grand Cherokee passed the turnoff leading to Interstate 95, and pushed forward on the shortest, but not quickest route to its destination.

  Daniel arrived at the Northgate shopping complex less than ten minutes later, and parked his car at the back of the Shaw’s parking lot, to the far right of the store. He could think of no conceivable way for his adversary to spot the car from any of the three approaches to Starbucks. He reached into the back seat and grabbed a dark blue, zippered nylon jacket and a dirty Red Sox ball cap. He opened his door and stood up to put on the jacket, followed by the hat. Before jogging across the parking lot toward the entrance to Shaws, he tucked the pistol into the rear belt line of his dark brown wool pants and pulled the jacket down to ensure that it was concealed.

  He arrived at the automated entrance and glanced around. Starbucks was to his left, and there were three open parking spaces in front the coffee shop, directly off the covered pedestrian walkway linking together the strip mall’s business fronts. A dozen more spaces sat unoccupied among the three rows of parking available further back from the store fronts. He didn’t have much time to position himself, so he trusted his instincts, and walked briskly into the field of cars across from the coffee shop.