“The celebration is cancelled, but I still plan on drinking myself into a coma, and after you hear what I’ve just learned, you’ll want to do the same,” Kaparov said.
Epilogue
2:14 PM
Caribbean Sea
Five nautical miles north of Cartagena, Colombia
The smell of diesel fuel and industrial disinfectant permeated the air, sticking to his clothes and saturating his hair. Even his skin reeked of it. Six days hidden away in a cramped cabin aboard a Liberian flagged container ship hadn’t exactly been what he had envisioned for his first week of freedom. His dreams of booze and prostitutes, compliments of his new Solntsevskaya friends, had been replaced by strict house arrest under the watchful eyes of three stern-faced commandos, who continued to remind him that they lost three of their comrades because of him.
Fucking babies, he thought. They should be celebrating. Now they had more money to split among themselves. He guessed they were too stupid to do basic math. To add insult to injury, the quack doctor hired to examine him in Halifax had insisted that he avoid excessive alcohol consumption throughout the healing process, which his “captors” had interpreted to mean no alcohol at all. How was he supposed to heal without drinking? None of it made any sense.
He stood up and glanced at his watch. The ship had slowed several minutes ago, on their approach to the port. He had been assured by the ship’s captain, who was well aligned with the Solntsevskaya Bratva, that he would be free to move about on his own once they cleared customs and spirited him off the ship to a waiting van. He apologized for the second-class treatment, saying that the instructions for his transit had been clear. He was to avoid contact with members of the crew, who could only be trusted as far as their paychecks lasted.
The Port of Cartagena had a bad reputation for draining a sailor’s wallet, and despite the bratva’s influence throughout the dock area frequented by ship crews, the Americans had no problem throwing money around through their proxies. They needed to get Reznikov as far from the port area as possible. He was still highly recognizable at this point, thanks to Karl Berg.
He turned to face a small square mirror fixed to the bulkhead by two metal clamps. The dirty surface revealed a gaunt, slightly jaundiced face covered in stubble. His left cheek was buried under a large, dingy medical dressing that ran from the edge of his mouth to his ear. He gently pulled the gauze tape from his chin and lifted the bandage to expose Berg’s handiwork. A long, jagged red scar extended across most of his cheek, the skin still held together by black stitches.
He received little more than basic first aid until they arrived in Halifax, several hours after his escape from Vermont. By then, the deep slash caused by one of Berg’s bullets had started to fester, making it nearly impossible for the sham of a doctor the Russians had kidnapped to neatly sew his face back together.
The thought of living with this hideous scar for the rest of his life evoked a murderous rage against the backstabbing son of a bitch who had come to murder him that morning. There was no other explanation for the suppressed pistol Berg produced at a moment’s notice. He should have known better than to trust the man who had authorized his torture at the hands of two maniacs in Stockholm and then had the nerve to put him in the same room with one of them in Vermont. His heart had nearly exploded at the sight of the dark-haired, smarmy psychopath, who so casually toasted to stuffing his head in a toilet. He’d eventually find all of them, starting with Karl Berg. Nobody fucked with Anatoly Reznikov. No matter how long it took, he would patiently wait for the right moment to make them all pay.
THE END
If you’ve made it this far in the series, I can only assume that you’ve enjoyed reading the Black Flagged world as much as I’ve enjoyed creating it. Thank you! Without dedicated readers, the daily “zero dark thirty” wakeups would wear on me very quickly. Because of you, I look forward to tiptoeing around my house in the morning, careful not to wake the rest of the clan. Of course, I would love to dedicate more of my time to the writing. One of the simplest and most effective ways you can help me achieve this dream of writing full time is to leave reviews on Amazon.
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A bonus excerpt from the next book in the Black Flagged series, Black Flagged Reprisal and an excerpt Steven’s first novel, The Jakarta Pandemic immediately follow:
Black Flagged Reprisal excerpt
The Jakarta Pandemic excerpt
Cast of Characters
(In alphabetical order)
Dmitry Ardankin – Director of Operations, Directorate S, Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR)
Arkady Baranov – Director, Center of Special Operations (CSN), Federation Security Service (FSB)
Sevastyan Bazin “Seva” - BF Russian Group Demolitions/Assault
Audra Bauer –Deputy Director, National Clandestine Service, CIA
Viktor Belyakov – Russian bioweapons scientist, Vektor
Karl Berg – Assistant Deputy Director, National Clandestine Service, CIA
General Robert Copely – Director, CIA
Vadim Dragunov – Zaslon operative, Directorate S, Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR)
Richard Farrington “Yuri” – Black Flag, Russian Group Leader
Alexander Filatov “Sasha” – Black Flag Russian Group Assault
Erin Foley – CIA agent assigned to Black Flag Russian Group, aka Katie Reynolds
Luc Fortier “Luke” – Black Flag Electronic Warfare Team, Europe
Lieutenant General Frank Gordon – Commander Joint Special Operations Command
Maxim Greshnev – Chief Counterterrorism Director for the Federation Security Service (FSB)
Jared Hoffman “Gosha” – Black Flag Russian Group Sniper
Konrad Hubner – Black Flag, European Group
Darryl Jackson – Brown River Security Corporation executive
Alexei Kaparov – Deputy Director, Bioweapons/Chemical Threat Assessment Division Federal Security Service (FSB)
Major General Bob Kearney – Defense Intelligence Agency Director
Reinhard Klinkman – Black Flag European Group
Dima Maksimov – Solntsevskaya Bratva, Pakhan (Leader)
Thomas Manning – Director, National Clandestine Service, CIA
Nikolai Mazurov – Deep cover Black Flag operative, Moscow
Mikhail Nesterov “Misha” – Black Flag Russian Group Tech/Assault
Mihail Osin – Spetsnaz operative, Directorate S, Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR)
Lucya Pavrikova – Technician, Center for Special Operations (CSN), Federation Security Service (FSB)
Matvey Penkin – Solntsevskaya Bratva, Avtorityet (Brigadier)Daniel Petrovich – Black Flag operative, retired
Jessica Petrovich – Black Flag, retired
Yuri Prerovsky – Federation Agent, Federal Security Services (FSB)
Stefan Pushnoy – Director, Russian Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR)
James Quinn – National Security Advisor
Jacob Remy – White House Chief of Staff
Anatoly Reznikov – Former scientist at Vektor
Brigadier General Terrence Sanderson - Black Flag Leader
Grigory Usenko “Grisha” – Black Flag Russian Group Assault
Feliks Yeshevsky – Field Agent, Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR)
Valery Zuyez “Viktor” – Solntsevskaya Bratva, Boyevik (Warrior)
Excerpt from Black Flagged Reprisals
United Nations Detention Unit
The Hague, Netherlands
Srecko Hadzic shuffled impatiently along the pea green linoleum floor toward his cell. He’d just finished another unsatisfying meal of unidentifiable meat, mashed potatoes and soft green beans in the cafeteria. He craved a cigarette, but this pleasure would have to wait. He’d waited all day for this moment. After dinner, the Detention Unit’s staff invariably left him alone until the first evening room check around 7:30.
His attorney had passed him a small USB drive, which contained an encrypted digital file from his nephew. Srecko had received an email from Josif a few days earlier, confirming that “production of the documentary was complete,” but he gave no indication of when the film would be delivered. The suspense had aggravated Srecko’s heart palpitations, as he anxiously awaited the video of Zorana Zekulic’s gang rape and murder.
The thumb drive had arrived earlier today at his attorney’s office in Amsterdam, via DHL Overnight Delivery from Buenos Aires. A message from his nephew’s email account apologized for the delay and provided a decryption key for the thumb drive. He tried not to skip back to his cell. The mood in the detention unit ranged from dour to utterly depressed, and he didn’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions, including his fellow prisoners. He wanted a solid hour or two to enjoy Zorana’s last miserable moments on earth. He wasn’t sure how long the video lasted, but he intended to savor it over and over again, fast-forwarding to the good parts…unless they were all good parts. He really hoped Josif had edited the final cut.
He walked into his cell and closed the heavy metal door behind him, making sure to shut the small observation hatch. They could open the peephole, but generally respected the detainees privacy during daytime hours. He couldn’t remember the last time one of the detention center guards had checked on him between dinner and the evening room check. Still, his computer monitor was fixed facing the door, so he would have to be careful. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to watch the video with his pants down. He’d save that for later, after he found his favorite scenes.
He walked through his room, which resembled a decently appointed college dorm. A spare bed with clean linens sat across from a wall mounted desk unit housing his computer. A simple hard plastic backed metal wire chair was pushed under the desk. He moved the chair back and sat in front of the desktop, eagerly pushing the thumb drive into the single USB port on the ancient machine.
The screen activated and he quickly navigated to the contents of the thumb drive, which contained one file. He removed a scrap of paper from a folder next to the computer and clicked on the file. He was immediately prompted for the decryption password. Once entered, Windows media manager launched, recognizing the file as an MPEG. When the MPEG launched, the status window indicated “20:17.” A little short, he thought. He had expected more than twenty minutes, but then again, a well-edited effort could be more rewarding than hours of drawn out torture and drama. He clicked on the play button.
The video started with a panoramic view of a neatly arranged bedroom, eventually settling in on a stainless steel contraption that Srecko immediately recognized as some kind of restraining device. It looked extremely durable and sturdy, with thick straps affixed at several points along the suspension bars. He tried to envision how she would be strapped into this contraption. The video stayed focused on the device, teasing him. His nephew produced superior work. He glanced at his cell door and reconsidered his clothing options. No. He would wait.
The image faded, replaced with a close up shot of a bloodied woman that he immediately recognized. She looked like she had been beaten and strangled for hours, her clothing and skin slick with blood. She stood there for a moment with a blank look on her face, like she had given up. He kind of wished that they hadn’t skipped the beating part of her experience. Maybe Josif would use flashbacks to show this. From what he could tell, his nephew had quite an artistic talent.
The scene changed again and Zorana was strapped into the contraption, but something wasn’t right. Why did Josif dress her up in white coveralls? He saw Zorana struggle and twist to no avail, which eased Srecko back into his chair for a moment. The writhing stopped a few seconds later, and she lifted her head above the horizontal plane of her body. He violently launched the chair back against the bed and stood up with a disgustedly confused look on his face. Josif was strapped into the harness with duct tape across his mouth. What in the hell was wrong with his nephew? This was the person he had groomed to run the show while he was temporarily stuck in prison?
He suddenly understood what he was watching, when Zorana Zekulic appeared and took a seat on the bed next to his nephew. She grinned madly at the camera and effortlessly twirled a wicked looking, black serrated knife in her right hand. He sat back down and gripped the sides of the chair, squeezing them as Zorana went to work on Josif. He forced himself to watch the rest of the video, feeding the rage that raised his blood pressure and heart rate to dangerous levels. Several minutes later, he watched helplessly as one of her accomplices summarily executed his nephew. Josif had still been strapped to the harness when the man sprayed his brains onto the bedroom wall.
He twitched in the seat, wanting to rip the computer from the wall and smash it over the nearest prisoner’s head. He wanted to kill everything in his path, using everything at his disposal. He was wheezing at this point, breathing through his mouth. This travesty of a video was almost finished. The digital time counter in the lower left corner of the screen showed less than ten seconds remaining. He stared at the screen, as Zorana suddenly appeared, covered in blood and smiling like nothing had happened.
“Hope you enjoyed the video, Srecko. Josif didn’t get to deliver his lines, but I do like the pattern his brains made on the wall. Very artistic. What do you see when you look at the splatter? Quick. First impression. A butterfly? A waterfall? Do you know what I see? I see a good start. You’re next.”
She kissed the camera lens, leaving a smudge that blurred the screen. A few seconds later, the video ended.
Srecko sat down in his chair and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. He ran his stumpy, mottled hands through his thick silver hair and closed his eyes. One thing was certain. He was going to kill that bitch and her traitorous husband in person. Josif had proposed a plan to get him out of here, which made more sense now than ever before. He’d spend every last penny…every last ounce of his energy, making sure they paid dearly for this.
He pulled a gnarled cigarette from the crumpled pack in his shirt pocket and gripped it between his lips. He didn’t care if the cells were designated as non-smoking. Not today. He searched around for matches, but found none. On shaky legs, he rose and searched his pockets, still finding no way to light the cigarette he desperately needed. He crushed the cigarette in his hand and threw it against the wall, fully intending to rip his room apart. Instead, he calmly walked toward the door, opting to ask nicely for a new matchbook from his captors. He would need to be on his best behavior to get a chance to put his late nephew’s plan to the test.
COMING in May of 2014
Excerpt from The Jakarta Pandemic
Prologue
Alex checked his watch for the tenth time in less than twenty minutes. 5:50 p.m.
Where are they?
He had started to lose his patience early, which came as no surprise. He had been lying under the McCarthy’s play set for nearly an hour, as a vicious Nor’easter dumped thick waves of snow on him. This would be enough to test anyone’s patience…and physical limits.
He lowered his night vision scope for a moment and rubbed his eyes. Now, even the green image in the scope added to his discomfort. He just hoped that Charlie was keepin
g a better watch over the stretch of ground that defined the ambush site.
He’d better be, or they could stumble right through here undetected.
Alex had doubts about spotting them with his night vision scope. The near absence of ambient light combined with a blinding snowstorm continued to degrade the already grainy image formed by the inexpensive first generation night scope.
He twisted open the green ceramic thermos and poured the last of the hot tea prepared for him by Kate. He sipped the steaming tea from the thermos cap, placed the cap down next to the rifle in front of him, and took another look through the night vision scope. He could still see the Hayes’ house, but the image was even grainier. He knew the batteries were not the issue; he’d just changed them. Soon enough, he’d have to rely solely on Charlie to spot them in time to spring a coordinated ambush. If not, he’d have to take the three men down himself, which wasn’t optimal, but was still well within his range of capabilities. He didn’t want to think about what could happen if they slipped by him. Nothing would stand between these psychopaths and his family.
As long as I see them before they’re right on top of me, I’ll be fine.
Alex swigged the rest of the warm tea and replaced the lid. He tucked the thermos into his backpack and checked his rifle again. Looking through the Aimpoint scope, he saw that the red dot still glowed brightly in the center of the sight. He pulled back on the AR-15’s charging handle and ejected the bullet loaded in the chamber, leaving the brass cartridge in the snow where two other bullets lay. He’d ejected one bullet every half-hour to ensure that the freezing temperatures had not affected the weapon’s mechanical action. A malfunction tonight would spell disaster.
He suffered a sudden, violent, and insuppressible full body shiver, which rendered him useless for a few seconds. He couldn’t last out here all night, and he knew it. He looked through the night vision scope again, and the green image confirmed that he was still alone. Staring through the scope, he wondered how it was possible for things to have spiraled so far out of control.
Black Flagged Vektor (4) Page 44