The Hydra Protocol

by David Wellington

  There was a hatch set into the back of the cab, between the rear two seats, which led to the cargo compartment at the rear of the truck. Keeping his head down Chapel moved back there and opened the narrow hatch, then slipped back into darkness. Light streaming in from the cab showed him there was a lamp set into the ceiling of the cargo compartment, but he couldn’t see how to switch it on—and wouldn’t have if he could, since that would have given any hypothetical sniper a great target to work with.

  Slowly Chapel’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. The cargo compartment was packed full of supplies. Most of the room was taken up by fuel and water tanks and huge spare tires. There were some crates toward the back, next to the rear doors. The guns had to be there. He climbed in over the spare tires and started making his way over to the crates, then stopped in place when he heard a sound.

  A series of sounds—a repetitive banging noise, like someone hitting metal with a hammer. The sound a sledgehammer might make as it pounded on a rusty padlock.

  Someone was trying to get into the shed.

  VOBKENT, UZBEKISTAN: JULY 18, 17:22

  Chapel moved to the back doors of the truck and felt around until he found the latch that opened them. He eased one of the doors open just a crack so he could see outside.

  The locked doors of the shed rattled and banged, and he could see dust sifting down across them. They hadn’t been opened in a long time, and they screeched as the lock broke and they sagged open. He heard someone shout, and then the doors flew open all at once and four men came rushing through, each of them carrying a pistol. Three of them were blond, and one wore glasses.

  It was the same man he’d fought back in Bucharest, one of the gangsters who’d come for them when they were picking up Bogdan.

  Had the Romanian gangsters followed them all this way? It seemed unlikely but Chapel definitely recognized the man’s face. Glasses even had a bandage on his left wrist—where Chapel had stomped on it.

  The four men moved quickly into the shed, spreading out, their pistols covering the decrepit chicken coops, the rafters overhead, the dead body of Varvara’s driver. They weren’t trying to be subtle, this time—they looked like they expected a fight.

  Well, Chapel aimed to give them one.

  With the back door of the truck cracked open, a little light spilled into the cargo compartment. Just enough for Chapel to make out the various boxes and crates stowed there. One looked very familiar to him, a long, narrow wooden crate. He reached for its lid and found that it wasn’t—thank God—nailed shut. Inside he found a bunch of torn-up newspapers that stank of gun oil. He reached in and felt around to see what kind of weapons Varvara had provided.

  She hadn’t stinted on the firepower. He felt a couple of pistols in there and the long wooden stock of an AK-47 assault rifle. There were clips for each of the firearms, already loaded with bullets.

  Outside of the truck the four men moved step by step through the shed, their guns up and ready. Chapel had no idea where Nadia or Bogdan might be. He had to assume he was on his own for this. He pulled out the AK-47 and one of its curved clips.

  Now came the tricky part. He slotted the clip and drove it home, as gently as he could. It made a sharp click as it locked into place, a sound the whole world was probably familiar with from hearing it in so many movies.

  Outside the truck someone spoke, but he couldn’t catch the words. They must have heard the click.

  He couldn’t give them a chance to figure out where it came from. He slid the firing selector on the rifle all the way down, to semiauto, and kicked open the truck doors, then jumped backward out of the truck and down onto the floor of the shed.

  The four gunmen must have split up, two on either side of the truck. On the left side, one had climbed up the ladder to look inside the cab. Another had bent to look under the truck in case anyone was hiding there.

  Chapel didn’t waste time looking for the other two. He brought the rifle up and squeezed the trigger, releasing a burst of three rounds into the body of the one hanging on the side of the cab. The man fell away from the truck instantly, and Chapel swiveled around even as the one looking under the truck started to stand back up.

  The man had time to look over at Chapel, time for his features to take on an expression of surprise. Chapel’s second burst caught him in the chest and knocked him sprawling backward, onto the floor.

  The noise of his firing echoed loud enough in the shed to drive any thoughts out of Chapel’s head. He moved on instinct, dodging left around the side of the truck, keeping his body behind one of the huge tires. He heard movement on the other side of the vehicle—the two men who had gone to the right, moving to react to the sudden attack.

  They were smart enough, or disciplined enough, not to just come running around the side of the truck and straight into Chapel’s line of fire. He heard them shout back and forth, and though he couldn’t understand their words, he was sure they were making a plan to flank him. One would come around the front of the truck, the other around the back. He wouldn’t be able to fend them both off at once.

  He had to move. He looked toward the open end of the shed, the same direction the truck was pointed. There might still be a sniper back there, the one who had killed Varvara’s driver. He glanced to the other side, toward the doors the gunmen had come through. There could be more of them out there, waiting for anyone foolish enough to come running out of the shed. The noise of the rifle fire would have alerted them, and they would be ready if Chapel showed his face.

  The truck was too high to climb. He considered ducking underneath it, but if either of the remaining gunmen even glanced down there, he would be a sitting duck.

  It was while he was thinking about what to do that he heard gunshots outside the shed, out front—pistol fire, and then someone screaming. He glanced out and saw a blur of movement, something fast bouncing around the piles of decayed wooden pallets. It took him a moment to realize it was a human being. He saw it drop to the ground and roll on its shoulder, then spring back up to its feet.

  It was Nadia, he realized. She had found another gunman hiding in a pile of tires. The killer brought up his pistol to shoot her, but she was already striking, her hands clenched together for a blow that knocked the pistol right out of the gunman’s grip. He tried to recover, but she was just too fast for him, her knee coming up to catch him in the groin. As he bent forward she struck the back of his neck and put him down.

  Behind her, another gunman was climbing up on a rusted water heater, lifting his pistol to aim at her head. She would never see him in time.

  VOBKENT, UZBEKISTAN: JULY 18, 17:26

  Chapel didn’t think about what he did next. He didn’t have time. Roaring like a bull to draw attention, he dashed toward the open front doors of the shed, not even bothering to keep his head down. The gunman who had aimed at Nadia turned a few degrees to the side.

  Chapel lifted his rifle and fired a burst into the gunman’s midsection, making him twist and fall backward off the water heater. His pistol spun up into the air.

  Nadia darted across the open space in front of the doors and dove for the pistol, sliding across the trash on her side. She didn’t quite catch the gun before it hit the ground, but Chapel could have sworn it was still spinning when she snatched it up.

  He started to ask if she was all right, but then she lifted the pistol and pointed it right at him. He ducked to the side, and she fired twice, one shot, a beat, a second shot, neat as that.

  Behind him he heard someone gasp in pain. Of course—he’d left two gunmen back there, Glasses and the dark-haired one. Chapel ducked down and turned to look. The dark-haired one was on the ground, clutching a wound on his neck. Blood streamed down his shirt inside his suit jacket.

  “There’s another one in there,” Chapel told Nadia.

  “I know,” she said. She fired again, but she must not have hit Glasses because she shook her head. “I told you, I am a crap shot.”

  Chapel wanted to laugh. He figured
the dark-haired gunman would disagree. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the cover of a pile of rotten tires.

  “Any more of them out here?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I saw three. All accounted for.”

  “You saw three, or there were three?”

  Nadia scowled. “There are no guarantees in this life.”

  Chapel checked his weapon. There was still half a clip left in the AK-47. “Where’s Bogdan?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I came out to look for him and that is when I saw these men. Jim—he is almost certainly dead, or captured. The latter case is very bad, because—”

  Chapel shook his head. “Not now. I can’t think about the future. There’s still at least one guy in that shed with a pistol, not to mention the sniper who took out Varvara’s driver—”

  He jumped when he heard a gun go off inside the shed. There was a bloodcurdling scream and then another gunshot, and then nothing. The second shot had stopped the screaming, presumably for good.

  “What the . . . was that the sniper?” Chapel asked, even though it was clear Nadia couldn’t answer.

  Instead, someone else did. “The marksman is dead,” someone called from inside the shed. “Though he did not die easily. He told me many things first, Mr. Chambers.”

  Chapel knew that voice, though it took him a second to be sure of it.

  “Mirza?” he shouted, when he’d put it together.

  “The very same. I am going to come out now. Please hold your fire. We have matters to discuss.”

  Chapel pointed his rifle at the doors of the shed. Nadia lifted her pistol.

  The SNB man walked out into the light. He wore a thin Windbreaker over his button-down shirt. His mustache was as neatly combed as ever, and his head shone like a cue ball in the sunlight. He was smiling. He also held a boxy machine pistol in his hands, the barrel of it pointed at them.

  Chapel could have taken him out then and there, but there was no guarantee Mirza wouldn’t shoot back at the same time. The machine pistol was more than capable of killing both Chapel and Nadia before Mirza died. It looked like a stalemate.

  “I have taken care of a problem for you, Mister Chambers,” Mirza said. “The fellow back there with the spectacles will not bother you again.”

  “These guys weren’t working for you?” Chapel asked.

  “Indeed, no,” Mirza said. “May I approach you, do you think?”

  “You’re fine right there.” Chapel wanted to look over at Nadia, see if she could make any sense out of this. He had no idea what his next move should be. “I will say thanks. These assholes were following us for a while.”

  “Yes,” Mirza confirmed. “They arrived in Tashkent last night. When I learned they were looking for you, I followed them all the way here. Just one of the many ways I have sought to be useful to you, Mr. Chambers. I think perhaps it is time you reciprocated. Perhaps by putting down your weapon.”

  “Sure,” Chapel said. “Just let me make sure of a couple of things first. These guys were Romanian gangsters, looking for my computer geek. You seen him around here anywhere?”

  Mirza laughed. “Do you know the most difficult part of my job, Mister Chambers? People give me false information all the time. The difficult part is knowing when people are simply ignorant, or mistaken, or when they are intentionally lying. These men were not Romanian.”

  “They weren’t?” Chapel asked.

  “Ah, that sounds like a man who has been misinformed. No. They were Russians. And they were not looking for your computer specialist. They were looking for Nadia Asimova.”

  “They . . . what?” Chapel asked.

  “Oh, did you think her name was actually Svetlana Shulkina? You see how difficult it becomes when people lie to us? I really think it is time for us to talk man-to-man. So put down your weapons, please.”

  “And what happens then?” Chapel asked, though mostly just to stall for time to think. Mirza had blown Nadia’s cover but far worse than that—the gunmen were Russians, and they were chasing Nadia, which meant . . .

  “You and I will return to Tashkent. You will explain to me how you came to be involved with a Russian criminal. Not that I particularly care—however, it will be useful information when I negotiate with your company. I will schedule meetings with the top men in the Interior Ministry. You and I will find a way for your company to work with Uzbekistan.”

  “You’re going to blackmail me into making a bad deal, huh?” Apparently Mirza still thought he was Jeff Chambers, energy executive. So part of the cover story remained intact.

  “You’ll still make money here, Chambers,” Mirza said. “But perhaps you will not rob my country as mercilessly as you’d hoped.”

  Chapel shook his head. “What about my assistant?”

  “Asimova? Well.” He shrugged, though not so much that his aim wavered. “I will kill her, of course. She is wanted alive or dead, and she has already shown she is a fighter. She will be much easier to ship home in a crate.”

  VOBKENT, UZBEKISTAN: JULY 18, 17:39

  Chapel didn’t even need to think about the deal. “It’s not going to happen, Mirza. Put down your gun, and we’ll talk about what happens next.”

  Mirza didn’t flinch. “That would seem foolish. There would be no reason for Asimova not to shoot me, then.”

  Chapel sighed in frustration. “We all need to calm down and think. We need to find a way to make sure nobody gets shot.”

  “Are you sleeping with her, Mr. Chambers? Has she seduced you? I think you are not realizing that this is a rescue mission. I am here to protect you from her, first and foremost. I have also protected you from the Russian spies who were sent to retrieve her. I assure you, they had orders to kill you as well. Their plan was to have their sniper pick the two of you off. When that did not happen—thanks to me, alone—they stormed into this place to finish the job. I admire your ability to survive that attack, but you could not have done so without my help. I am your only friend here, Mr. Chambers, whether you believe it or not.”

  Chapel frowned in thought. “If she puts down her weapon—”

  “This is not a matter for discussion,” Mirza said.

  “Goddamnit, it is! This is your only chance of getting out of here alive, Mirza,” Chapel said.

  Nadia did not turn away from the SNB man as she spoke. She was too smart to drop her guard even for an instant. “Jeff,” she said, because apparently she’d figured out as well that his cover wasn’t compromised, “this man is a butcher. He works for a government that routinely slaughters its own people, just to maintain political control—”

  “I’m not going to kill a man in cold blood,” Chapel told her. “I don’t care if he deserves it or not. Put down your gun.”

  She stared at him with questioning eyes. She was trying to decide, he thought, if he was speaking truthfully—or if he only intended to disarm Mirza so that he could be killed safely.

  It was the kind of business they were in, where that kind of moral calculus was acceptable. Chapel had no doubt that if Rupert Hollingshead were there just then, the old man would advise him that killing Mirza was the only way forward.

  But Hollingshead wasn’t there. And despite what people consistently seemed to believe, Jim Chapel was no murderer. He killed only in self-defense.

  Eventually, Nadia dropped her pistol and raised her hands above her head. She was trusting him to do the right thing here.

  Even if her definition of the right thing and his were different.

  “Now. Mirza. You saved my life, and maybe what you’re saying about Svetlana is true,” Chapel said. “If you want to save anything out of this mess, you’ll put your gun down, as well.”

  The SNB man inhaled sharply. Then he dropped the machine pistol.

  “All right,” Chapel said, and he nodded slowly. “Now I’m going to tell you how this ends. She and I are going to get into that truck, and we’re going to drive away. You won’t follow us.” He couldn’t read Mirza’s face. He
knew he couldn’t trust the man. But he had to move forward. “You’re not going to report any of this to your superiors. We’re going to drive to Afghanistan, we’re going to leave your country as quickly as possible, and we’re never coming back. Do you understand?”

  Mirza smiled. It was not a warm smile. “I understand that you believe this will happen,” he said.

  “He’ll hound us,” Nadia protested. “He’ll send an army after us—Jeff—”

  “I’m giving you a chance, Mirza,” Chapel said. “A chance to—”

  He stopped in midsentence because he’d heard something. Someone was moving around back in the shed, back near the truck. But there wasn’t supposed to be anyone still alive back there—all four of the Russians were dead, there was no one—

  Time slowed, then, as things happened very fast.

  Mirza started turning, his eyes still locked on Chapel and his AK-47. His hands lifted, as if he were reaching for another weapon, or as if he wanted to surrender. Chapel would never know which.

  Because suddenly Bogdan was standing in the doors of the shed, an assault rifle gripped in both of his skinny hands. His hair had blown back and his eyes were very wide, as was his mouth, showing bared teeth. The depressive hacker was gone, replaced by some vicious Romanian monster out of legend as he squeezed his trigger and fired thirty rounds on full automatic, the bullets tearing Mirza’s chest to ribbons.

  The SNB man didn’t even have time to look surprised.

  VOBKENT, UZBEKISTAN: JULY 18, 17:45

  “Oh crap,” Chapel said, staring at what remained of Jamshid Mirza.

  Nadia, without a word, bent down and picked up her pistol again.

  “What?” Bogdan asked.

  The hacker’s face had relaxed again, now that his enemy was dead. His bangs fell back down over his eyes, and other than the fact he was still holding an assault rifle, he looked exactly as he always had.