by Flynn Vince
Azarov had turned his back on the man who had given him everything. He’d failed to carry out his mission in Saudi Arabia and allowed himself to be shot by Mitch Rapp. Then he’d run in terror from the broken-down CIA man, abandoning one of the most critical operations in Mother Russia’s history.
Yet despite his cowardice and betrayal, his shadow continued to extend darkness over everything. Pushkin’s trainers constantly held up Azarov’s natural athletic gifts, his icy personality, and his robot-like ability to analyze tactical situations. All while dismissing the things he lacked: Belief. Gratitude. Patriotism.
Like his infamous predecessor, Pushkin had come from nothing—the fourth son in a family that had spent generations toiling in a forgotten corner of Russia. He had joined the military as a way out, but also out of a desire to be part of bringing his great country back to its former glory. He’d been accepted to the special forces and worked harder than anyone else around him. He had the ability to ignore pain and fear, and had never experienced the paralyzing effect of doubt.
After three years of distinguished service, Pushkin had been separated from his unit and put into a far more rigorous program overseen by some of the top people in the world. Weapons, tactics, extreme physical training aided by performance enhancing drugs. Language and cultural lessons that allowed him to disappear into the countries he operated in. Even instruction in literature, art, and elocution to help him navigate the social strata he was now a member of.
Everything he’d ever wanted was his at the snap of his fingers. The money, women, and power that had once been Azarov’s were now his.
“Report,” he said into his throat mike.
“We’re in position and setting up the spotlights.”
They would project a wavelength that was invisible to the human eye but still capable of penetrating glass. His sniper would soon have a view of the interior through his specially equipped scope.
After a few minutes the voice came over his earpiece again. “Lights are active.”
Pushkin wiped at the perspiration rolling down his forehead. He wanted desperately to go down there and do it himself. To throw open the door, look into Azarov’s terrified eyes, and put a bullet between them. To show Krupin that his former enforcer was less than nothing.
“Sniper. Report. Is the interior of the structure visible?”
Silence.
“Sniper! Report.”
The response had a slightly stunned quality, audible even over the heavily encrypted radio frequency. “The target is standing directly in front of the north windows.”
It was Pushkin’s turn to sink into shocked silence. This was the man that the great Maxim Krupin feared enough to disable a quarter of Costa Rica’s power grid? The man whose name was spoken only in hushed tones and behind closed doors?
“Take the shot. Now!”
There was a flash in his peripheral vision, but no sound. He turned toward the dark knoll where his sniper was set up, confused. At the very least, the crack of the round breaking the sound barrier should have been audible.
“Sniper, report.”
Nothing.
“Report!” he repeated, looking through his binoculars. They weren’t capable of picking up the infrared floodlights and registered only the darkness enveloping the house.
Again, no answer.
“Ground team. What’s your situation?”
“No impact on the glass, but Azarov is on the ground and out of our line of sight.”
Pushkin hesitated, his mind unable to make sense of what had just happened. In the end, though, it didn’t matter. Going back to Russia having failed to deal with Azarov wasn’t an option.
He turned and ran toward the Jeep he had hidden in the jungle. “Move in and take out the target. You have permission to fire.”
CHAPTER 4
THE all too familiar din of machine gun fire and shattering glass made everything else around Azarov seem to disappear. He flattened himself against the floor and slithered toward the kitchen island, focusing on staying as low as possible. The shooters had managed to climb the steep, tangled slope north of his house and were now coming across his purposely expansive yard. So far, their rounds were only pulverizing his appliances and cabinets, but that wouldn’t last. Based on an assessment made during the design of the house, he knew that when they got within seven meters they’d be able hit the floor near the island that was his objective. Five and a half meters if they were willing to lift their rifles over their heads and fire blind.
He could feel the turbulence from the bullets passing a few centimeters over his head when he finally reached the island and slid behind it. The dull thud of rounds hitting metal plate was added to the cacophony as the approaching men adjusted their aim toward the armored-enhanced cabinets he’d taken refuge behind. Azarov shoved up against the granite overhang and began tipping the entire island.
It fell, slamming down against the concrete floor, and the thud of steel was replaced by the sound of rounds hitting stone. He grabbed the pistol set into the bottom but ignored the extra magazines. He was wearing nothing but a pair of cutoffs and flip-flops. He had nowhere to carry them.
His phone, though, was still with him. He used it to activate a bank of powerful LED spotlights aimed outward. The glare would blind anyone approaching.
As expected, the incoming fire faltered and he rose from behind cover, firing two rounds in quick succession. Both hit center mass, but to no effect. The men were wearing state-of-the-art body armor designed to protect them from far more hard-hitting weapons than the custom pistol Azarov had designed more for stealth than power.
The sound of shattering glass returned, but this time behind him. The sliding doors that led to the south deck collapsed and a similarly armored man lurched through the hole. A second held back, covering. Trapped, Azarov dropped to the floor again, staying between the overturned island and a line of cabinets that housed what was left of his sink and dishwasher. He managed to get off a round that hit the approaching man’s helmet near the attachment for his face shield, but did little more than snap his head back into the Kevlar collar protecting his neck.
Azarov continued to fire as the shooter swung his assault rifle toward him, but there was little hope. He was inadequately armed and surrounded by a heavily armored, well-disciplined incursion team.
His magazine emptied and he was preparing for the impact that would end his life when a flash of color appeared in his peripheral vision. He tensed even further when he recognized the bright red T-shirt with the ironic letters CCCP across the front.
Cara slammed into the man at a full run, actually managing to do what the bullets hadn’t and knock him over. She rolled awkwardly over top of him and for the first time in his life, Azarov panicked. He was about to break cover to draw the men’s fire when he saw her body jerk with the impact of a round hitting her back. She skidded across the floor and came to a stop, utterly still with a blood streak smeared across the floor behind her.
His stomach revolted at the image, pushing its contents into his throat. He looked right, wild eyed and confused as he saw the two men to the north find their angles and calmly take aim at him. He wanted more than anything to cross that concrete floor and to take her in his arms. To know if she was dead or alive. But it was impossible. His neighbors, distant as they were, would come to investigate and these men had no reason to harm her further. They’d leave when he was dead and the people who lived around him would take her to the hospital. And then she’d be fine. Right? She had to be.
The men’s fingers tightened on their triggers and he found he didn’t even care enough to brace himself. The shot that came, though, wasn’t from them. The chest of the man on the right suddenly exploded as a round passed through his armor and then hit the refrigerator hard enough to slam it back into the wall.
Azarov still couldn’t think clearly, but he managed to wake from his stupor enough to let instinct take over. The man who had come through the back was still stru
ggling to his feet and his aim was partially blocked by a tree growing from the living room floor. He could wait. Azarov went right, charging the surviving man to the north, taking advantage of the fact that he’d turned to fire into the darkness in hopes of hitting the sniper who had taken out his companion.
Azarov grabbed him by the side of his helmet and dragged him down, twisting his head a full one hundred and eighty degrees before sprinting toward the shattered north glass. If he could get to the jungle, they would have no choice but to follow. He’d draw them away from the house and Cara.
His plan was initially hindered by his lack of physical training over the last year and then completely derailed by the appearance of another man to his right. This one was different, though, wearing only jeans and a T-shirt and with hair that partially obscured his face as he swung an MP7 level with Azarov’s chest.
The Russian was about to dive into the shattered glass at his feet, but instead of firing, the man released his weapon. It arced toward Azarov, turning in the air to reach him butt first. He had no idea what was happening but caught the gun and spun toward the man behind him. A controlled burst defeated his armor and he collapsed against the tree next to him.
The long-haired man let his momentum carry him toward Cara and he grabbed her by the shirt, dragging her behind the granite island as Azarov laid down suppressing fire at the remaining attacker now pulled back out of sight to the south. The Russian made it to the island, letting his back slam painfully into the shattered cabinets as the man who had come to his rescue used a dishtowel to cover the wound in Cara’s back. When his head turned, the hair fell away from his face, making it recognizable.
“I’ve got a sniper near that obvious knoll to the northwest,” Rapp said in the sudden silence. “But your friends out there will know that by now and they’ll figure out how to stay out of his line of sight.”
As if punctuating his words, a window on the west side of the house imploded and a grenade sailed through.
“Inside!” Azarov shouted, helping Rapp drag Cara’s limp body into the open bottom of the kitchen island. It was a tight fit with the remaining pots and pans but they managed to get in before the explosion.
The room went dark as the bulbs were blown out but then began to glow with the light of various small fires. Azarov felt the burn of shrapnel in one of his bare legs but it wasn’t serious. Rapp seemed unharmed and the Russian could see that he had Cara’s left wrist in his hand. It wasn’t to comfort her, though. He was checking to see if she was coming with them or staying there.
Azarov found himself unable to breathe until Rapp dragged her out and threw her over his shoulder. “I hope you have an exit, because these sons of bitches don’t look like they’re in the mood to quit.”
The Russian nodded. “Do you have men out there? Other than your sniper?”
A short volley hammered the countertop from the north, forcing Rapp to shout his answer. “Yeah, but I’m not bringing them in any closer. I owe you. They don’t.”
The CIA man adjusted the cloth keeping Cara’s life from leaking out of her and Azarov’s eyes locked on it, becoming trapped in the image. Rapp reached out with his free hand and grabbed him by the hair. “Grisha! Our exit!”
“Down . . .” Azarov stammered. “Downstairs. We have to get to the storage room.”
Rapp activated his throat mike. “We’re headed to the storage room on the lower floor.”
“Copy that,” came Scott Coleman’s immediate response. “Do you want us to move in?”
“Have you been able to determine the strength of the Russians?”
“Somewhere between four and four thousand. You could lose New York City in this jungle.”
“Then negative. Stay put.”
“Mitch . . .” Claudia’s voice broke in on the satellite link from Coleman’s Baltimore headquarters. “Confirm you said the downstairs storage room.”
“Affirmative.”
“There are no doors leading outside from that room and the windows are heavy glass block. You’ll get cornered in there.”
The CIA had information on the house in case Azarov ever needed to be dealt with, but it had been compiled only from architectural drawings and a single drone flyover. Better than nothing, but not exactly authoritative.
“It’s Grisha’s house and he says we’re going down.”
“Are you sure? He could be leading you into a trap. Sacrificing you so he can escape.”
“Maybe. Scott can you give us any cover from where you are?”
“The men on the perimeter are staying out of sight and going for position on you.”
“Can you at least make some noise? Get them to think twice?”
“Oh hell yeah.”
“Do it.”
The sound of automatic fire erupted outside, hitting the concrete walls and the dirt surrounding the structure. Rapp ran for the stairs with Cara on his shoulder while Azarov stayed to his left, shielding her with his body. A few shots came their way, but none got close as the incursion team was forced to focus on the fact that multiple unidentified shooters had flanked them.
They made it down a dangerously open staircase and into a hallway that came to a T with a bedroom to the right and the storage room to the left. As usual, Claudia was right—glass block and thick stucco had replaced floor to ceiling windows in this part of the house. The jungle and steep slopes would have been difficult to secure and Azarov had forgone the spectacular views in favor of defense.
They broke left into a relatively small room stacked with surfboards, kayaks, and other athletic equipment. Azarov pushed an unusually thick door closed and then tapped something into his phone. The sound of mechanical deadbolts sliding home cut through eerie silence.
Rapp lay Cara down next to the wall and checked for a pulse again. Getting out of there would be a hell of a lot easier without the extra weight, but he couldn’t help rooting for her. There weren’t many young surf instructors who would charge a heavily armed man in body armor. Definitely a keeper.
“Is she . . .” Azarov started.
“She’s alive. But not for much longer if we let ourselves get pinned down here. I don’t care how thick you made these walls, those assholes are ready for it.”
Azarov nodded and moved to a mattress leaned up against the wall. “Help me.”
It was heavy as hell, but they managed to pull the bottom back a couple of feet, creating a space that the three of them could just fit into. Automatic fire began to thud against the door as they sandwiched themselves inside.
Azarov began tapping commands into his phone again and Rapp grabbed his wrist, suspecting what was coming next. He’d had a similar escape route built into his new house.
“Do we have anyone near the southeast walls?” he said into his throat mike.
“That’s a negative, Mitch. Maslick is in the best position to get there, probably six minutes out. Do you need him?”
“No. Stay clear.”
He released the Russian’s wrist and nodded. Azarov finished entering his password and they pulled the mattress closer, pressing their backs against the wall.
The charges had been expertly placed and the majority of the blast’s energy went outward, sending shattered concrete and glass block spraying into the jungle. There was barely enough residual energy to shove the mattress back against them. Rapp slipped out immediately, making his way through the thick, chemical-scented dust to the hole leading outside. His eyes weren’t dark adapted, but he was able to make out a single man down at the edge of the jungle. As his vision sharpened, he could see that his body armor and the surrounding trees were full of nails and deck screws that must have been packed around the charges. You had to hand it to Azarov. The shrapnel was a nice touch.
“This way,” the Russian said, handing Rapp the MP7 as he moved past with Cara in his arms. Rapp followed, watching their flank as they penetrated into the foliage. Time was against them. Their path was clear for the moment, but blowing the side off your h
ouse wasn’t exactly subtle. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the route they were using to escape.
By the time Rapp caught up, Azarov was crouched in the vegetation next to a pickup truck toolbox dragged from a trapdoor in the ground. He’d already cut through Cara’s shirt and was fully focused on bandaging the wound in her back.
“Are you still strong enough to carry her or should I?” Rapp said, dropping to his knees next to the box, digging through its contents.
“Strong enough. I’ll take her.”
It was the expected answer, but Rapp had wanted to give him the option. The light from the fire starting to consume the house penetrated the jungle with enough strength to allow him to sort through the gear—boots, camo, a full CamelBak, a Beretta ARX100 assault rifle, spare mags.
Rapp slipped the CamelBak and Beretta over his shoulders, leaving the MP7 and clothing for Azarov. Near the bottom he found a surprise. A Russian RPG-7 rocket propelled grenade launcher. The longer he knew Azarov, the more he liked where his head was at.
“Where, to?” Rapp said, hanging the launcher over the top of the CamelBak.
“Straight down the slope,” the Russian responded. “It funnels into a canyon of sorts between the mountains. Water runs through it during the rainy season, so the bottom isn’t as densely vegetated. You can move quickly. Take the night-vision gear in the box. I won’t be able to move as fast and we have nearly a full moon. I’m familiar enough with the trail to navigate by that.”
“How far and where’s it come out?”
“About four kilometers to a dirt road that runs parallel to the ocean. That road is about a kilometer northeast of the town.”
Rapp activated his throat mike. “Our rendezvous point is the junction of the canyon behind Grisha’s house and a dirt road that runs parallel to the ocean about one klick northeast of Dominical. You’re going to have to find a place to set the chopper down.”
“We don’t know what the Russians’ capabilities are,” came Claudia’s reply. “A local SUV might be safer.”
“Negative. Cara’s injured and we need to get her medical attention ASAP. Bring the chopper in low and fast. Hopefully, the skids won’t even have to touch the ground.”