Red War

by Flynn Vince

  Rapp started out again, leaving the window behind and approaching a gap in the hallway probably ten feet across. He scanned the ceiling and couldn’t find any cameras. It was possible that they were just well hidden, of course. But why bother? More likely, Krupin’s security people never expected a breach and so they hadn’t prioritized electronic surveillance. Still, Rapp made certain that his subtle hand signal would be visible only to Azarov.

  The Russian understood and immediately started sprinting toward the gap. Just before he broke into the open, Rapp slipped his gun around the edge of the wall.

  The passage wasn’t empty, as he’d hoped. There was a lone man standing about fifteen yards away, wearing an expensive suit and holding a custom pistol similar to the one Azarov had favored during his career. The precision and speed of his movements immediately identified him as Nikita Pushkin.

  Azarov dropped to the floor and slid across the gap with impressive speed, but not as impressive as it would have been a few years ago. Pushkin ignored his predecessor, leaping to the right and adjusting his aim toward Rapp. They fired simultaneously, Pushkin in midair and Rapp trying to compensate for the unfamiliar Russian weapon while tracking Azarov in his peripheral vision.

  Pushkin landed on one shoulder, rolling gracefully around a corner and out of sight. Rapp’s shot was pulled off line when Pushkin’s—fired from midair—caught the edge of his sleeve and jerked his hand off target. He was starting to get really fucking tired of these Russian supermen.

  Azarov, safe on the other side of the gap, was scrambling back toward it when the barrels of two assault rifles came around the corner near where Pushkin disappeared. Rapp pulled back and waved Azarov off as a spray of rounds began pulverizing the wall to his right.

  Rapp shook his head, indicating the obvious—that no one else was crossing that gap in anything less than a tank. Azarov turned and started to run in the other direction while Rapp took a moment to try to figure out how this wasn’t going to turn into a complete clusterfuck. The hope that they could slip in and slip out without being identified had never been particularly realistic, but now it had completely disappeared into the rearview mirror. He hoped to hell that Kennedy and Alexander knew what they were doing.

  The guns went silent, maybe reloading, but probably just waiting for him to show himself again. It was a stalemate he couldn’t afford. If he was going to complete his mission and have even a snowball’s chance in hell of getting out of there, he needed to tilt the playing field back in their direction. And to do that, he’d need some help.

  Rapp ran back the way he’d come, passing by the glass wall he’d seen earlier and pushing through a door at the far end. “Does anyone here speak English?”

  He got a few assents, with the one from the big, tattooed man at the back being the most intelligible. Rapp cut him free, speaking slowly so that he could simultaneously translate for the others. “I need to kill pretty much everyone in this building.”

  Based on the voices that rose up around him, everyone was on board.

  Rapp handed the man the knife so he could finish freeing himself and went for a scalpel that was sufficient to sever the bonds of a thirtysomething woman who looked to be in pretty good shape.

  With some haphazard teamwork, it took less than two minutes to free everyone capable of standing. Rapp surveyed his army, taking in the pale faces, questionable balance, and squeamish way they disconnected themselves from IVs and monitors. Most were over fifty, some had evidence of recent operations, and others seemed partially sedated. It wasn’t the worst group of allies he’d ever had—none would shoot him if he turned his back on them—but it was close.

  “What’s your name?” Rapp said to the big man as he helped a teenage girl to her feet. She had eyes that were in danger of being swallowed by the dark hollows around them, but managed to stay upright when he let go of her.

  “Yuri Lebedev.”

  “Army?”

  The man nodded. “For twenty years. Before I got sick.”

  “Can anyone else here handle a weapon?”

  Lebedev translated and the only affirmative response came from a formidable looking woman who was unquestionably north of seventy. Not exactly Scott Coleman, but she’d have to do.

  “Does anyone know if Maxim Krupin is here?”

  The name elicited angry murmurs from the group, but Lebedev managed to silence them. “He often stands at the window. The last time was a few hours ago. Are we to kill him, too?”

  “Hell yes. The only man who’s off-limits is about my height and just as filthy. Light brown hair. Understand?”

  He translated and one woman protested.

  “She wants to know about the doctors and nurses.”

  “You tell me.”

  “I think they’re trapped here like we are.”

  “Then let’s see if we can recruit them. Does anyone know the layout of this place?”

  “Only some of it. The area between here and the place where they do medical procedures.”

  “Fine. Take me there.”

  The group was large enough to fill the hallway, creating an easy target for anyone with an automatic weapon. Rapp and Lebedev moved out front and the rest of the group started to spread out based on ability. His hearing had fully returned from the gunfight earlier but he was starting to wish it hadn’t. The sound of shuffling feet and someone vomiting was less than confidence inspiring.

  They were twenty yards from the gap Azarov had crossed when a man with an AK appeared from around it.

  “Down!” Rapp shouted, dropping to his stomach as the deafening roar of machine gun fire erupted.

  Lebedev turned and plowed through the people behind them, knocking the frozen ones to the floor. They were in a kill box and Krupin’s man knew how to use it. He was wearing a ballistic vest, forcing Rapp to go for his head, which was partially hidden behind the assault rifle he was sighting along. His first attempt missed and he swore at the unfamiliar Russian pistol. A woman behind him screamed when she was hit but he ignored her, concentrating on the weapon’s imprecise sights. His second shot struck the body of the man’s rifle and the shrapnel from the shattered round hit him full in the face. He was still on his feet but now he was firing blind.

  Rapp sprinted forward, weaving as the man swept his weapon back and forth. He hit him low, taking out his legs and twisting the rifle from his grip. A hard blow from the butt caved in his forehead and then Rapp pulled back, straining to hear anyone who might be coming to their comrade’s aid. Nothing.

  “Is everyone all right?” he asked, backing toward the group still lying on the floor. Their pale skin and gowns made for surprisingly effective camouflage against the tile and had probably saved a few lives. Unfortunately, the sterile white of the corridor also made blood stand out as though it had its own power source. A woman had been hit in the chest and was lying on her side, staring sightlessly at the wall. Behind her, a man who had barely been making it as it was, had taken a round to the thigh. He clearly wasn’t getting up again but Rapp’s two shooters—Lebedev and the old woman—looked unharmed.

  Rapp tossed Lebedev the rifle and then turned his attention to the girl with the sunken eyes. “Help this man back to the medical area. See if you can stop the bleeding in his leg.”

  Lebedev translated and she nodded, looking a little shell-shocked. Whether she’d be able to pull it together and give the man the first aid he needed was probably no better than fifty-fifty. But Rapp couldn’t make that his problem. Not until this was finished.

  CHAPTER 50

  AZAROV paused when he heard gunshots echoing through the building, but then decided to ignore them. Rapp would do what he always did. Kill everyone who got in his way and then somehow come out the other side alive.

  The hallway widened as he continued down it, newly hung drywall still stinking of the white paint that covered it. He crept up on a doorway that had hinges installed but no door, rotating smoothly into it with his weapon held out in front of him.


  The space was no more than three meters square, with exposed, rusted girders and decaying electrical wires dangling from the ceiling. Oddly appropriate. Like Krupin himself, the entire building was nothing more than a rotting husk beneath a hastily applied veneer.

  Azarov slipped back out and continued moving cautiously down the corridor. The blank white of it helped him focus, but nothing could turn him into the man he once was. The indifference that had steadied his hand through so many operations was gone forever. He was driven now by the desire to make Krupin suffer. To look into his eyes as the life drained out of them. But even more overwhelming was the desire to take Cara home and spend the rest of his life making up for what he had done to her.

  She’d never hidden the fact that she considered him a man who desperately needed to get in touch with his emotions, but now wasn’t the time. While hate had been effective tools for Rapp and his mentor Stan Hurley, it was something he had no idea how to use.

  “Azarov!”

  The voice preceded the man, but only by a split second. Nikita Pushkin appeared from a door twenty meters away, wearing a bulletproof vest undoubtedly made by Azarov’s former armorer. Worse was the custom pistol that would be light, perfectly balanced, and deadly accurate. Particularly in his hands.

  Pushkin paced back and forth across the broad hallway, keeping his opponent in his peripheral vision. At that distance, a hit center of mass would be a simple matter, but the head shot necessary to end the confrontation would be extraordinarily difficult. Even at the height of Azarov’s training and with his own weapon, the chance of a clean kill would have been less than fifty percent.

  “You’re nothing but a traitor, Grisha.”

  “To what? Maxim Krupin isn’t Russia. He’s a dying old man who’s spent his life perpetuating his own power. Any promise our country had after the fall of the Soviet Union is gone now. He’s stolen it.”

  “He gave you everything!” the young man shouted.

  “Money. Women. The fear and deference of powerful men. All things that don’t matter.”

  The boy was young, as Azarov had once been. Dazzled by everything he’d become and bowed beneath the weight of the debt he believed he owed Krupin. But it was more than that. Azarov had recognized Krupin for what he was from the beginning. His successor seemed to lack that clarity.

  “I served Maxim faithfully for years, Nikita. I killed countless people, most of whom were guilty of nothing more than threatening his power and privilege. But then it came time for me to pursue a life.”

  “With hundreds of millions of his euros in your bank account. It wasn’t your house in Costa Rica that burned. It was his.”

  Azarov felt his anger flare, but he didn’t allow it to get a hold of him. “You attacked me and the woman I love. But I understand your position and don’t blame you for it. I’m here for Krupin. Not you.”

  “The ice prince, Grisha Azarov. Did you ever even care for him?”

  Azarov inched forward as he considered the question. The greater the distance between them, the greater Pushkin’s advantage.

  “No.”

  The walls on either side of the corridor seemed to be the boundary of his operating environment, but was that really true? Was it possible that this part of the building was covered in the same flimsy drywall shell he’d seen earlier? And if so, was there any way to determine where the studs were?

  “How many of his colleagues and former friends has he asked you to kill or intimidate, Nikita? Do you believe you’re different? That he thinks of you as a son? Of course you do. It’s one of Maxim’s greatest gifts. He makes everyone around him feel as though they have a special place in his inner circle and in his heart. You’re just a tool like I was. Something he’ll use up and discard.”

  “Liar!” Pushkin shouted. “You have no idea how he feels about me!”

  “This is all meaningless now, Nikita. He’s a fading old man. When he dies, your power base will die with him. You’ll be hunted by the men who succeed him. They fear you.”

  “He’s stronger than you ever gave him credit for, Grisha. He’s going to survive. And imagine my reward when I drag your bleeding corpse to his rooms.”

  Azarov continued to inch forward. Pushkin didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps was just too confident to care.

  “You may well kill me, Nikita. But you won’t survive a confrontation with the man I came here with. Believe me when I tell you this. Don’t die here. Not for Krupin. Take the money you’ve been paid, find a woman, and have children. Die fat and old surrounded by them.”

  The head shot was doable now, but only vaguely. A miss would open him up to return fire that he’d be unlikely to survive. And that left him with no choice but to do something unexpected. His talent, experience, and training were no longer enough. He’d have to rely on luck.

  Pushkin stopped pacing and faced him. The time had arrived but Azarov didn’t feel the fear he’d expected to experience after so many years of numbness. Only regret. He didn’t want to kill this boy. But even more, he didn’t want to die. It wasn’t time for that. Not yet.

  “Step aside, Nikita. Let me do what I’ve come here to do.”

  Pushkin’s speed was exactly what one would expect of a young man with his history and devotion. His hand came up in a blur, but Azarov was already lunging to the left. The inexplicable move caused Pushkin to hesitate. His indecision lasted only a split second, but it was enough for Azarov to get off a shot before colliding with the wall.

  He struck full force and, as he had prayed, the thin drywall gave way. His unlikely plan worked, but the execution was less than perfect. A stud caught his left shoulder, spinning him into a steel barrier that likely made up the building’s east wall.

  The gap between metal and drywall was less than a meter wide, but extended into darkness in every direction. Options were limited. He could move into the gloom and wait for Pushkin to come after him, but it would leave him with no room to maneuver. Trying to squeeze through the narrow space in hopes of finding an escape was a possibility, but relying on blind luck twice in one day seemed unwise.

  With no other choice, Azarov slung his gun hand around the edge of the hole he’d made and blindly fired two of his remaining rounds. The drywall provided little more than psychological protection, so there was no reason not to bring one eye around its edge and peer down the corridor.

  Miraculously, Azarov’s desperate shot had found its mark. Not a kill shot, but enough to put the younger man down and make his efforts to rise into a sitting position unsuccessful. The blood flow from Pushkin’s scalp was heavy enough to suggest that his disorientation was real and not just a trick designed to draw in his opponent.

  Azarov approached cautiously, crouching to pick up the weapon that the younger man had dropped. He aimed it between eyes burning with fear and hate. It was an expression he’d seen many times before and it always filled him with revulsion. Not because of what it said about his victims, but because of what it said about him.

  He squeezed the trigger and felt the beautifully controlled recoil against his hand. The bullet struck just above the bridge of Pushkin’s nose and he fell back, his head making a wet thud when it hit the tile floor.

  Azarov shook his head imperceptibly.

  Pointless.

  CHAPTER 51

  RAPP finally seemed to have crossed to the right side of the tracks. Whitewashed hospital walls and fluorescent lights had given way to rich wood paneling, gilt moldings, and chandeliers. The introduction of carpet silenced his footsteps and muffled various bursts of gunfire emanating from elsewhere in the building.

  The undisciplined shooting was followed by somewhat more controlled—but clearly desperate—return fire. The ebb and flow of it suggested his ragtag gang of patients had managed to get the drop on at least two people. Hopefully one was Krupin. Not only a poetic end to that piece of shit, but also one that kept America’s hands somewhat clean.

  Of course, the actual chances of him being that lucky
were around zero. But hope sprang eternal.

  He eased up to a door on the right side of the hallway and looked down at the knob. The lack of a locking mechanism suggested he wasn’t going to find Krupin there. More likely a storage room or something similar, but he couldn’t take the chance of someone getting behind him.

  He twisted the knob and threw the door open. The screaming started the moment his gun slipped around the jamb and then transformed into terrified whimpers when he penetrated into the opening. There were three women and two men inside, all dressed in medical garb. The room seemed to be their quarters—five cots bolted to the walls and two chests of drawers that probably contained nothing more than clean scrubs. A cart with some basic equipment—a blood pressure cuff, stethoscope, gloves—rounded out the room’s contents. Everything they’d need to keep a round-the-clock eye on their only patient.

  “Where’s Krupin?” Rapp said.

  Two of them pointed in the direction he’d been going.

  There was no reason not to believe it. If the CIA’s analysts were right—and he had to admit that they were on a winning streak—these people had been snatched just like the patients he’d found.

  Rapp motioned them out and they took off in the direction he’d come from. The more people he had running around loose the better. His ignorance of the building’s layout put him at a disadvantage, so whatever chaos he could create would work to reduce his opponents’ advantage.

  The hallway curved to the right finally dead ending into a heavy oak door designed more for its imposing appearance than any real concern over security. A door befitting the most powerful man in the world? There was only one way to find out.

  Rapp dropped to one knee and fired two rounds into the jamb next to the knob. The door swung back a couple of inches and shouting immediately rose up on the other side. Rapp wouldn’t bet much on his ability to identify Maxim Krupin’s voice, but the tone was hard to mistake—a man accustomed to barking orders and having them followed. Another voice became audible—a little hesitant, but still firm. Whoever he was and whatever his argument, it was clear that he was going to lose.