Russian Roulette - A Mike Ducane Adventure: Shadow Force Series

by Sean Wilson

  ‘We already know a great deal about you and your mercenary activities. Your former companion, the lovely Major Trigo, has kept us up to date on your recent operations so you’re not going to tell us anything that we don’t already know. You’re here simply to confirm a few details.’

  Another lie. Fatima had known about his departure and return dates but he’d never divulged anything about his missions. Ever. Yes, there was always the risk of gossip and loose talk around a base camp. He had to assume she’d picked up information that must have been used to compromise his last two missions - whilst happily driving him wild on the floor of his cramped, military tent with a sexual expertise that had taken his breath clean away. She was good. No question about that. But then he had to concede that she’d probably been trained to be that good. And there was no denying she certainly seemed to put her heart into the job. If it had been a well-laid honey trap, he couldn’t imagine anything tasting sweeter.

  The officer leaned in a little closer. ‘We have plenty of time to find out what we need to know, Michael.’

  Interesting. That usually meant they were in a hurry.

  ‘I want to spare you the unpleasantness of unnecessary suffering. You know in the end you will tell me what we need to know. It’s only a question of time and,’ he smiled with all the charm of a crocodile biting down on its prey, ‘no one is coming to rescue you, are they?’

  That meant there had to be a sense of urgency somewhere. Probably higher up the food chain. Perhaps there was another agenda playing out here that Mike was unaware of. Perhaps Mike’s discovery had compromised a Russian-ISIS operation and the bad guys had been forced to move quickly to limit the damage. He said nothing, tasting the blood inside his mouth and focusing on anything he could pick up from his interrogator. The choice of questions could tell him about their operations. They obviously intended to kill him so they might become careless about sharing information. It gave him something to concentrate on whilst the seconds passed and the prospect of a pistol round to the base of his skull drew ever closer.

  Michael slowly sat upright on his chair and was stunned by a sudden blow to the back of his head from a rubber truncheon. ‘Do not move, Michael. Do. Not. Move. Do nothing unless I tell you to.’ Just a painful reminder of who was in control here. The officer stood up from the desk and nodded to the two Spetsnaz troops standing behind Michael’s chair. ‘These gentlemen are very experienced in obtaining information from reluctant guests.’ He smiled and nodded again, prompting the two soldiers to snap plasti-cuffs around Mike’s wrists and ankles, securing him firmly and painfully to the chair. Things were about to get interesting.

  If you had enough time, all you really needed to break a man’s resolve was to deprive him of sleep and he’d eventually start to get confused, maybe even hallucinate and then, before you knew it, he’d start talking. But that took time and the Russians were clearly working to a tight agenda. They’d decided to opt for a less subtle approach than sleep and sensory deprivation. As far as Mike was concerned, things had suddenly become a little too interesting.

  Mike gasped as the Spetsnaz troops took turns to punch him in the solar plexus with weighted leather gloves. It was getting harder to breathe. He wanted to scream but he didn’t have the breath. He couldn’t protect himself and was forced to endure every punch, unable to tense his muscles and powerless to deflect the blows. The pain was excruciating and these guys were just getting warmed up. This was only the appetiser.

  ‘Michael? Listen to me, Michael. Tell me what you know about the heroin shipment you found. I want you to tell me everything.’

  The dumb fucks had left him so painfully winded, he couldn’t even speak. He blinked away the tears of pain and shook his head. ‘Can’t…..fuckin’……speak!’ he managed to croak between gasping breaths. The officer stepped back and signalled the two soldiers to stop, allowing time for his victim to recover a little.

  Being brave and defiant would only bring you more pain. You had to exaggerate the pain to make them think they were succeeding. Mike didn’t need to pretend. He was suffering and he knew he had to offer something, anything to give himself more time to recover from the beating.

  ‘Heroin’ he rasped. ‘Pure. Lot of packages. Can I have some water, please?’

  ‘Who did you tell? How much do the DIA know about the consignment?’

  ‘No one,’ he lied. ‘I took one pack.’ He knew they would have seen that one pack had been taken. ‘Kept the smack for myself. Planned to sell it Stateside to raise some cash.’

  The officer hesitated. ‘You didn’t report the find? And why do you need the money?’

  ‘Gambling. Bad debt. Had to pay off a loan shark.’

  There was something almost plausible about the story. The officer nodded once and the two goons started punching Mike in the solar plexus again. He was doubled over in agony, struggling to breathe, tears streaming down his face.

  ‘Tell me again, Michael. What did you do with the packet of heroine you stole from the consignment?’

  Mike wheezed, heaving to get his breath, coughing up bile and spitting the bitter gobbets of liquid onto the floor.

  ‘I took it to the States. Gave it to the loan shark to clear the debt. Get him off my back.’

  The Russian officer scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘A gambling debt, you say? A loan shark?’

  Mike nodded, sucking in air against the pressure of his protesting ribs.

  ‘And what is the name of this loan shark?’

  ‘Eddie,’ Mike stammered. ‘Eddie Carbonelli. Italian. Mob. Dangerous guys to mess with.’ Even in this extremely uncomfortable position, Mike’s imagination was working overtime. He had to buy himself time. Give them something. Anything. He kept breathing, forcing the air into his lungs.

  The officer nodded again. Slowly. Deliberating. ‘And what kind of gambling got you into this debt, Michael?’

  ‘Poker. Game was rigged. Never saw it coming. First I was winning. Then I was in a hole.’

  He was still breathing hard.

  ‘Interesting,’ drawled the officer. ‘But I can’t believe you would fall for such a simple and obvious deception.’

  Mike looked up, still struggling to breathe. ‘Huh? You gotta be kidding.’ He winced with the pain in his abdomen. ‘These guys were pros. And it isn’t the only time I’ve been set up and conned, is it? I fell for Fatima, didn’t I?’

  The Russian looked at him and smiled, conceding the point. ‘That’s true, Michael. Yes, you’re right. You were completely fooled. Perhaps you are far more stupid and naïve than I thought. As if such a beautiful woman could really fall in love with a muscle-bound, ignorant, hired terrorist like you.’ The Russian laughed as if the idea was truly ridiculous and Mike couldn’t stop himself from imagining the guy’s warm and bleeding head perched on the top of a freshly sharpened pole. ‘But how much did you owe this mythical Italian loan shark, Michael?’

  ‘Hundred g’s. Big stakes game.’

  ‘Your stolen kilo was worth much more than that, Michael. Why did you give all of it to this imaginary loan shark?’

  Mike was about to answer when the officer stepped forward and kicked him hard in the chest with the heel of his boot, upending the chair and sending his prisoner sprawling on the floor.

  ‘Do not waste my time with your lies!’ The voice was loud and angry. This was the first time that Mike had seen the Russian officer come anywhere close to losing his cool. This was the first hint that the Russian might be capable of losing his temper. He was stunned by the kick, bruised and dazed, unable to breathe, gasping and trying to suck in air as the plastic restraints bit into his wrists and ankles. The two guards grabbed the chair and hauled it upright, Mike’s head lolling as he strove to breathe again, stars and crazy patterns dancing in front of his eyes. This was worse than water-boarding and a lot more fun for his sadistic torturers. He shook his head to try and clear his thoughts. He had absolutely no illusions about his situation. He knew that this was just the s
oftening up process. But then he felt something unexpected. The fall had loosened one of the chair’s wooden arms from its dove-tailed socket. Mike could feel the movement. The arm was definitely loose. He started to rock from side to side, pretending to be distressed, moaning and wailing that it wasn’t fair, that he was telling the truth, that they should stop hurting him. The officer sneered. ‘American special forces. Puffed up like balloons with your swagger and fake bravado. And so easily deflated.’ He pointed at one of the guards. ‘Spetsnaz. The best of the best. They caught you and made you look like the pathetic amateurs you are.’

  Mike whimpered. His voice was still croaking. ‘I know. I know. Please? Please can I have some water, Sir?’

  The Russian stared hard at the pathetic figure sobbing in front of him and decided that this would be a good moment to offer the appearance of kindness, a softening up approach that might encourage the prisoner to tell him whatever he really knew. He was very short of time. He nodded to one of the guards and spoke quickly in Russian, ordering a bottle of water from the canteen. He folded his arms and then took out a cigarette, taking his time to light the end with a small gold lighter, blowing blue smoke at Mike and considering how much resistance was left in his prisoner. He felt he was getting close to the answers he needed. Perhaps another half hour and then they could put the snivelling dog out of its misery. Refining and distributing heroin in Syria had become a major industry and careers were on the line if anything went wrong. Not just careers. Failure would mean a Makarov round in the back of the head for anyone who failed to protect the business. Failure was not an option. The Russians needed to know how far their operation had been compromised. And they needed to know before their convoys were intercepted by hostile forces. The stakes could not have been higher. This business went all the way up to the highest echelons of government and the military.

  Mike looked up at his captor, humility and pleading in his eyes and started whispering.

  The officer looked at him and told him to speak up. Mike made the same noises, as if he was struggling to make himself heard. The officer tutted in irritation and stepped closer. Mike had tears running down his face. He seemed to be pleading, repeating the same words over and over again, like the litany of a condemned man. He was rocking from side to side as if in great distress and the Russian was suddenly worried that he was having some kind of breakdown, that he’d maybe pushed him too far too quickly. He leaned in to Mike, telling him to slow down and speak clearly, staring into the wild eyes of a man who looked as if he had finally cracked. The sound of splintering wood was followed by a gasp of utter shock and disbelief as Mike wrenched the chair arm out of its broken socket and ploughed the short wooden spar into the officer’s throat. As he withdrew his arm, he rocked the chair forwards and used his gathering momentum to spin round on the chair’s front legs and drive the flailing wooden bar with maximum force into the remaining guard’s unprotected groin. In a heartbeat, he rolled the chair together with his half-tied body over onto the collapsed guard and used the detached wooden arm to smash with all his strength into the guard’s throat. He was breathing hard and the sight of the dying guard’s crushed windpipe gave him a sense of grim satisfaction. With his free arm, he reached for the guard’s razor sharp combat knife that was secured on the back of his belt and, with a couple of well-directed slices, he was finally free of the plasti-cuffs. Not a lot of time and not a very high probability that he was going to get out of the base alive. Yet he’d narrowed the odds down to two opponents by getting the officer to send one of the guards out of the room to bring water. The broken chair arm had been a lucky fluke. But in combat, they always said that fortune favoured the well-prepared. He looked down at the officer, sprawled on his back and trembling with the effort to breathe. He couldn’t speak and he probably knew he was dying. Mike bent over him, still rubbing the life back into his limbs and spoke in perfect Russian. ‘You chose a good day to die, you murdering son of a bitch. Looks like American special forces still have the edge over you Spetsnaz pussies. And this, you sack of shit, is for my team.’ He placed the tip of the combat knife beneath the Russian’s chin and looked into his terrified eyes. Slowly and deliberately he pushed the blade up until it had passed through the roof of the officer’s mouth. Then he withdrew the knife because it was too useful to leave behind. ‘Goodnight, asshole. Special forces are now leaving the building.’ The officer’s eyelids fluttered and he died with a throat filling with his own blood.

  Training and the honed instincts for survival kicked in. Mike’s senses were switched on to max and tuned into the highest state of alertness. He checked the door. No one was outside and there was no sign of the guard coming back with the water. Time to clear up the mess. He quickly stowed the broken chair beneath the old, battered desk and dragged the two bodies behind the door. There was nowhere else to hide them. He’d removed the officer’s pistol, a reliable and well-oiled Makarov plus a spare magazine and slipped the combat knife into the back of his belt. He had no idea about the base’s layout but he assumed that security around the facility would be ferociously tight. Getting out through the main gate seemed a little over-ambitious. Shooting his way out like a hero in a cheap Wild West novel was not a serious option. Though he was determined to survive, he also accepted that he would not allow himself to be captured again. Better to go down with guns blazing and take out as many of the sons of bitches as possible, booking them on a non-refundable, high-speed express ride to Hell. For reasons that the only the Company shrink would fully appreciate, the thought really cheered Mike up. In fact, it cheered him up a lot. After the horrors of an unforgettable night, he found himself grinning as he moved out of the office. With the pistol held out in front of his chest, he ran in a low crouch all the way to the back of the hangar.

  It took another three minutes before the alarms began to wail across the base. Mike shrugged, wedged between a stack of fuel barrels a good fifty meters behind the hangar. The returning guard had obviously discovered the two dead bodies. Searchlights powered up and scanned the interior of the base, truck engines roared and armoured personnel carriers belched clouds of choking diesel smoke as they raced their cargos of troops to their battle stations around the base’s heavily fortified perimeter. Officers barked orders and dog handlers trotted with their snarling animals towards the fences. Dogs could always be a problem and Mike had decided to take advantage of the inevitable confusion and head towards the docks. Once the security screen had secured the perimeter, they’d start to move in towards the port facilities, covering every square inch of ground until they’d found their quarry. Once again, Mike knew he didn’t have a lot of time. The searchlights were crossing the base with their powerful beams and Mike had to use all the cover he could find to keep himself hidden. One mistake and it would be over. He covered his face and hands with the oily residue he found near the bottom of the fuel barrels, smearing dust and a black, greasy film on his skin. Crawling and sometimes scurrying forward in a crouching run, he made his way towards the water. He could smell the sea. The distant searchlights had picked out the outline of a Russian destroyer. He was heading in the right direction. Guards were running everywhere, following the shouted orders of bull-necked NCOs. Dogs barked. A pair of heavy battle tanks switched on their searchlights and machine gunners stared over their gun sights, searching for a target. Dawn would soon signal the end of the game. The sun was almost up and Mike was running out of time. He rolled behind a pallet of wooden crates, breathing deeply, and checked the distance between his position and the nearest destroyer. In a moment of complete insanity, he saw himself single-handedly commandeering the Russian vessel and sailing out of the port like a latter day pirate captain. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Stress and the imminent possibility of being killed could certainly mess with your mind. He had about eighty yards to cover and was wondering how he would ever make it when he looked at the palleted crates and suddenly had another crazy idea. He was running out of options and, once the sun was u
p, he’d have nowhere to conceal himself. Slowly and carefully, he rose up onto his hands and knees and risked a quick look behind him. No one in the immediate vicinity. Leaning into the pallet load, he shifted a crate and levered it out of its position. In one smooth movement he stood up and hoisted the crate onto his shoulder and began marching purposefully towards the destroyer, walking along as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It wasn’t daylight yet but it was getting lighter in the east. A searchlight caught him, paused for a moment and passed on. He was twenty yards from the bow of the destroyer when a voice rang out in challenge. ‘Halt!’ Mike shifted the crate, keeping his face concealed, and turned unsteadily to see who had called out to him. The guard was a good fifteen yards away and gripping his assault rifle with grim determination. ‘You there! What ten fuck do you think you’re doing? There’s a full alert! Why aren’t you at your battle station, you mangy dog?’

  Mike adjusted the crate again, as if it was heavy. His Russian was flawless. ‘Sure. No problem. I’ll just drop this case of vodka right here and go and report to the barracks. And maybe you can carry this vodka all the way to the officers’ mess.’

  ‘Don’t you take that tone with me, you filthy mongrel, or I’ll have you on fatigues till you’re shitting blood!’

  ‘Look, I’ve been ordered to deliver this vodka and, if I don’t do it, someone else will have to. That’s all.’