Red War

by Vince Flynn

  With no way practical way to get in touch with the Russian, she’d sent Rapp and Coleman’s team for an operation that should have been easy. Extract Azarov and stash him in a safe location until the Agency could figure out what the hell was going on. As always, they’d been prepared for anything, but showing up at the same time as the Russian armada was a serious bit of bad luck.

  And that bad luck seemed to be holding. The lead man burst back into view for a moment before disappearing beneath the canopy again. Rapp had hoped the men in pursuit would turn back to join their comrades, but it was obvious now that it wasn’t going to happen.

  He played absently with the CamelBak hose, mentally reeling through his options. He could catch up with Azarov and significantly increase their pace by carrying Cara himself. Even at full gas, though, it was hard to do the math in a way that ended with them keeping ahead of the man chasing them. Best-case, they’d make it to the chopper and have a few additional shooters on their side when the inevitable clash came. It wasn’t like they were flying a gunship, though. One stray bullet could strand them.

  Rapp let out a long breath and reluctantly started crawling sideways along the steep slope, staying ten yards above the trail. Moving through the dense foliage was a constant battle, particularly when his mind was consumed with estimating the approaching man’s progress.

  All he needed to do was to find a practical place for an ambush—something high enough to keep him out of sight but not so high that he had a chance at missing his one chance. If that asshole got by him, it would be a tall order to catch him before he overtook Azarov.

  Rapp reached out to push back a thick branch and saw a flash of movement at its base. He tried to draw his hand back but was a fraction too slow. The snake hit the side of his palm and hung there, its fangs trapped in the glove’s Kevlar but not fully penetrating. He’d been wondering if they were worth the added heat and loss of dexterity, but fortunately had trusted Azarov’s gear choice.

  Rapp dislodged what he assumed was one of the pit vipers Claudia had warned him about and was about to kill it, but instead, threw it over the foliage and into the trail. It had been a pretty shitty day so far, but if one of the local reptiles took out Nikita Pushkin for him, it might just be salvaged.

  CHAPTER 7

  “MAJOR Pushkin. Do you copy?”

  Pushkin slowed and moved off what barely passed for a trail. His breath was still controlled when he responded—the terrain was too complex to achieve a speed that would tax his drug-enhanced cardiovascular system.

  “Go ahead.”

  “The drone has made contact with your trailing target again. He’s approximately one hundred and fifty meters to the southeast. A few moments ago he took a ninety-degree turn to the west and started up a steep, open slope.”

  “And now?”

  “We’ve lost him again in the canopy.”

  Pushkin scanned the jungle through his night-vision monocular and then took a few steps back, penetrating deeper into the vegetation. Who was this man? He’d walked knowingly into an ambush carried out by highly trained operatives and was now diverting from the path Azarov had taken with the girl. Was he concerned that he wasn’t fast enough and was now trying to escape? It was possible but Pushkin’s gut said no. He wasn’t trying to escape. He was going for high ground.

  The muffled crunch of footsteps on the jungle floor became audible to the north, followed by the sound of labored breathing. Pushkin remained utterly still as his man passed and faded back into the night. After about a minute, he stepped back onto the trail and started out again. This time at three quarter speed.

  • • •

  Rapp took advantage of a rare patch of rocky terrain and managed to accelerate a bit. Still, the steepness of the slope and the fact that he had to stay beneath the canopy limited him to a slow jog. He was about to vault a massive downed tree but then stopped, sighting along it. The extensive root system had ripped up the ground around it, while its trunk had crushed the vegetation where it had landed. Combined with its elevated position, the view was surprisingly unobstructed.

  Instead of moving downslope to find an ambush site, he climbed, swinging around the upended roots and scanning the shallow hole they had left. No obvious snakes and no evidence of the venomous spiders that Claudia had warned him about, so he dropped into what turned out to be a good six inches of muddy water.

  Not particularly comfortable for a man accustomed to fighting in the desert, but the vantage point turned out to be even better than he’d hoped. It took less than thirty seconds to pick up the lead chaser through Azarov’s night-vision gear. He was staying to the bottom of the draw where intermittent runoff had cleared the ground cover to some extent.

  The man was moving slower now, something that wasn’t surprising as the slopes on either side steepened and made an ambush more likely. As Rapp continued to watch, though, he started to rethink his assessment. The reduced pace was easy enough to explain away, but there was more. The man he’d seen earlier seemed to float over the obstacles in the jungle floor, covering ground with an effortlessness that was more professional athlete than soldier. By contrast, the man he was tracking now seemed bent on overpowering the terrain instead of using it.

  Rapp adjusted his focus to a small, unavoidable clearing well behind the lead man. The second man in line appeared after about a minute, moving at a cautious pace but with the easy grace Rapp remembered from earlier.

  “Clever boy,” he muttered under his breath.

  His knee jerk reaction was always to handle these kinds of situations as quietly as possible. A suppressed shot to the head. A knife under the chin or snapped neck. But in this case his bias was probably wrong. The locals probably hadn’t overlooked the fact that Azarov’s house was throwing flames a hundred feet in the air. Stealth wasn’t the word that came to mind to describe this clusterfuck of an operation.

  He unslung the RPG from his shoulder and hung it on a branch within easy reach. The next task was harder—finding a comfortable position in the rocky mud puddle. Once done, he found a stale energy bar in his CamelBak and waited.

  • • •

  The sound of running feet below didn’t materialize and instead Rapp heard a barely perceptible rustle carried by the humid air. With the help of the monocular, he was able to pick out a man inching along the edge of the trail, ten meters below and twenty to the north. His sudden caution confirmed what Rapp had already suspected. The Russians had some kind of overhead surveillance—likely a drone similar to the one Coleman would be flying if this hadn’t been such a last-minute operation.

  It seemed likely that he’d been spotted when he’d crawled up that open mudslide and the Russians had correctly assumed that he was setting up an ambush. The man passed by and eventually started picking up speed again, assuming he was beyond the point of immediate danger. And for the moment he was right.

  Instead of chasing, Rapp concentrated on preparing the unfamiliar Russian launcher to fire. Once he was sure he understood its operation, he turning his attention north again. It wasn’t long before he saw a brief flash of the trailing man, still dancing over the jungle floor but even more slowly now—he’d let his interval almost double. Undoubtedly he was on the comm confirming that his lead was still alive and planning his next move.

  Rapp was getting sick of these drugged-up, thirtysomething terminators whom Krupin was churning out. Azarov was bad enough. The world didn’t need another one.

  Sitting in a puddle and aiming through a light amplification monocular didn’t exactly make for precision targeting, but that was the beauty of these types of weapons. What was it they said about horseshoes and hand grenades? Close was usually good enough.

  • • •

  Pushkin’s body reacted even before his mind fully registered the sudden flare to the southwest. He dove right, bouncing off a tree and going limp, letting gravity pull him into a vine-tangled creek bed. Earlier, he’d identified the feature as a potential threat. Now it would li
kely become his savior.

  The blast struck some five meters away, creating a powerful shock wave full of hot, pulverized vegetation that sprayed him through the vines. The jungle had taken the brunt of the blast, but not all of it. Pushkin lay still in the deep gouge in the earth, closing the eye served by his night-vision scope and using his naked one to scan the shadows created by the flames. Finally, he sat up and aimed his assault rifle over the edge of the depression. As expected, there was no human activity. The rocket had been fired from the last reported position of the man working with Azarov. It had been an attempt to dissuade further pursuit, not the first volley in an ambush.

  Pushkin fell back against the bank, examining his bleeding side and pulling out a three-centimeter splinter of wood that had wedged between his ribs. That and the ringing in his ears appeared to be the worst of the damage, but it was enough. His situation was simple to evaluate but excruciating to accept. He had failed. He was temporarily deaf, his radio appeared to be badly damaged, and the injury to his side wasn’t life threatening but was severe enough to slow him down.

  He pounded his fist into the dirt until it came back bloodied. The operation had begun with everything in his favor. Now he was bleeding uselessly into the mud while his men tried to evacuate their casualties. At great cost, all he had managed to accomplish was to wound Azarov’s woman—an affront that his predecessor wouldn’t take lightly.

  The smoke thickened to the point that it was becoming hard to breathe and Pushkin returned to the trail, reluctantly heading back the way he’d come. He’d reconnect with the man protecting his flank and regain communications. From there he could determine whether his lead was still alive and coordinate a retreat.

  Then it was simply a matter of crawling back to Russia and delivering his report to its president. Azarov was still alive. And he would be seeking revenge.

  • • •

  Rapp slid headfirst down the slope on his stomach, finally finding what he was looking for—a sturdy tree hanging about fifteen feet above the trail. He scaled it and slithered out onto a thick horizontal branch, hugging it with one arm while holding the Beretta in the other.

  He was covered in sweat and mud, wearing a helmet tailored to someone else’s head, and fairly certain that some unidentified tropical creature had attached itself to his ass. It seemed impossible that his mood could get any worse until it started to rain. Hard. The branch was getting increasingly slick but he hung on as the water soaked his beard and worked its way into his mouth. Waiting and swearing under his breath.

  It seemed longer than it probably really was, but he finally spotted a hazy outline through the sheets of rain. The man who had passed by earlier had heard the RPG impact and was coming to the aid of his comrades. The cover of the rain had made him far less cautious than he’d been the first time. His focus seemed to be on keeping his footing in the deepening mud and not on potential threats in the trees.

  Rapp had no choice but to aim the Beretta awkwardly under the branch, but at least a few of the rounds from his burst found their target. Without the body armor his teammates had been wrapped in, the man crumpled and slid on his face through the mud.

  Rapp dropped to the ground, sinking a good six inches as the runoff from the storm gained depth and force. A quick glance at his watch confirmed what he already knew. If this weather kept up, catching Azarov before he reached the LZ was going to be tight.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE rain had lasted only about ten minutes and the jungle floor was already beginning to dry. Despite the improved footing and improved light, Azarov had to admit to himself that it was time to stop.

  His chest had constricted in a way that he’d never felt before in his years of training, operations, and athletic competition. He’d developed an ability to push beyond what his mind wanted to allow but then again he’d always done it while in peak condition.

  Was it possible that at thirty-five years of age his heart was giving out?

  He shifted Cara’s weight to a less agonizing position and supported himself against a tree. His legs were trembling badly but he refused to sit, unsure if he’d be able to get up again. Instead, he gripped the branches and tried to gain control of his breathing.

  Was she dead?

  He pushed the thought from his mind and focused on the mission as he had been so meticulously trained to do. The only thing that mattered was getting her to the evacuation point. All other considerations were either irrelevant or could be dealt with later.

  A distant flash turned the grays and blacks around him to dull yellow and green. He turned only his head, unwilling to expend any energy that wasn’t directly related to enhancing Cara’s chance of survival. Flames erupted from the canopy to the northwest and then just as quickly disappeared again.

  What did it mean? Had Rapp fired the RPG? Or had he been the target? He was certain that the team that had attacked his home was Spetsnaz, but there was no way to know their strength or capabilities. Did they have drones? Helicopters? A hundred men closing from every direction? Had the CIA man been hopelessly outnumbered and finally met his end?

  Azarov began coughing uncontrollably and bent forward at the waist, feeling Cara’s limp body shift as he did. If Rapp was dead, his debt was paid. His team would do nothing further to help. Claudia Gould was terrified of him because of a confrontation he’d had with her late husband and he’d nearly killed Scott Coleman. He would arrive at the rendezvous location to find only a dark, empty road.

  A dim flicker became visible to the south, likely a single kerosene lamp lit by someone who had been woken by the explosion. He knew the house well, having run past it hundreds of times during training. It was enough to give him a sense of his position on the trail.

  His hand rose hesitantly, activating the throat mike Rapp had given him. “I’m fifteen minutes from the LZ.”

  The silence that ensued dragged out long enough that his mouth started to go dry. Then, finally, Claudia Gould’s voice cut through the static.

  “Copy that. Our chopper’s inbound. ETA twelve minutes. I’ll slow it down a little.”

  It was enough to get him stumbling forward again.

  The slope turned steeply downward as it plummeted to the roadbed below. Azarov used one hand to keep Cara on his sweat-soaked shoulder and the other to grab trees in an effort to slow his descent. He slipped on a loose rock and managed to avoid falling only by intentionally colliding with a low stone outcropping.

  In the moment it took him to regain his balance, a dull hiss behind him began to rise over the pounding of blood in his ears. He froze, listening as the barely audible static transformed into the familiar slap of wet leaves and breaking branches.

  Someone was coming up behind him. Fast.

  He moved into a dense tangle of bushes, laying Cara on the ground and gripping the MP7. The speed that his pursuer was sustaining over the difficult terrain would have normally been telling, but now it meant nothing. Rapp was one of the few men alive who could maintain it in a combat situation—something Azarov had been unlucky enough to experience personally. Unfortunately, Nikita Pushkin was one of the others.

  Azarov moved to a defensible position behind a tree and aimed through the branches. When he did, though, the footfalls slowed and then disappeared into the light rustle of the breeze. It seemed impossible, but he’d been heard.

  He continued to aim through the foliage, but there was nothing to see in the filtered moonlight. It was a stalemate that he couldn’t afford. If he wasn’t there when the chopper arrived, they’d turn back. The risks of landing and waiting would be too great.

  “Mitch!” Azarov said in a harsh whisper.

  The answer came a few seconds later, but instead of emanating from where the footfalls had gone silent, they came from behind him.

  “Yeah.”

  The CIA man emerged from the jungle a moment later, crouching to again take Cara’s wrist in his hand—something Azarov hadn’t found the strength to do. His stomach tightened but
then Rapp lifted her onto his shoulder and tossed Azarov the night-vision-equipped helmet.

  “Lead us out.”

  Azarov started down the slope again, maintaining a better pace without Cara’s weight. Rapp, who hadn’t been burdened by her during his run through the jungle had no problem keeping up.

  “I’ve rejoined Mitch and we’re five minutes out,” the Russian said into his radio.

  “Copy,” Claudia said simply. A more elaborate response wasn’t necessary. The beat of chopper blades was already becoming audible.

  The small sightseeing helicopter was only a few meters from the ground when they burst from the jungle and onto the poorly maintained road. Scott Coleman jumped out before the skids had fully touched down and helped put Cara inside.

  “Only one of you can come! We’re getting too heavy!” he shouted before jumping inside and cutting her shirt off, leaving her naked except for the stained bandage on her back. There was a blood bag hanging from the bulkhead and the former SEAL was already working to get the IV catheter into her arm.

  Rapp grabbed Azarov and shouted into his ear. “You go.”

  “What about you? Do you need a pickup?”

  “No. We need everyone at the hospital. I doubt the Russians will move on it but I’d have bet against that shit they pulled at your house, too. I’ll find my own way.”

  CHAPTER 9

  QUEPOS

  COSTA RICA

  “HEY, we’re here, man!”

  Rapp woke, lifting a hand to shade his eyes from the lights illuminating the hospital’s modest grounds. He pushed back a surfboard that had tipped onto him and climbed out of the open bed of the pickup.

  “You sure you’re gonna be all right?” a young American said, leaning out the driver’s side window.

  Rapp grabbed some cash from his pocket and shoved it in the breast pocket of the kid’s shirt. “For gas. Thanks for the lift.”