Helldiver: The Alex Morgan Interpol Spy Thriller Series (Intrepid 4)

by Chris Allen

  “You were a fool to authorize this! It was unnecessary. Unnecessary action brings unnecessary consequences! And now we have them. Now we, me and her, face those consequences, not you!”

  “The only thing these people understand is action by force. They were not getting the message. It needed to be personal. And now they are clear. They publicly commit to a ten-year contract for their new range of MiG-29s with you and they will fund the purchase and deployment of the S-300 air defense missile system for the ISIL forces in the Middle East.”

  “But this threat is not from the Malaysians!” Helldiver yelled. “It’s from our own people. We’re not resourced to bite the hand that feeds us!”

  Helldiver was standing behind a desk in the center of the room. This must be his private office. The entire eastern wall was colonnaded windows that looked out across the gardens to the sea. Every inch of the room matched everything else about Château de la Lavande that Morgan was trying to shut out – the extravagance was overpowering. He closed his mind to the distraction once again, and watched as Dominique – whom he had only ever known as Arena, his Arena – walked to his left and took a seat off to the side of the desk. How was he expected to function with a clear head when he’d just rediscovered her like a bolt from the blue? She had always been “the one,” and to a certain extent always would be, or so he’d thought. She’d made the decision to move on with her life without him and, eventually, he’d moved on too. But now here she was. Christ!

  Morgan moved away from the elevator and crossed the room to Helldiver, noting Kristina Zolner standing nearby, and he could see the head and shoulders of an older man seated in front of the desk. The old man didn’t move, only sat still and kept smoking, gazing out of the windows. Rodenko was sitting in a corner, not offering much other than taking up space and stealing oxygen. And there wasn’t much of that in the room. The place was filled with smoke and while Morgan could see that the Zolners and Rodenko were all smoking, most of it was coming from the old man. He was puffing like a train.

  “Ah, Major Morgan. Finally, someone to make sense of all this mess. Our newest addition. Come in, tovarich. There is someone I want you to meet. Come. Come, my friend.” Helldiver beckoned, walking around to join Morgan. Morgan had the impression Helldiver had been drinking and confirmed it when he grabbed Morgan and hugged him like a bear, slapping his back powerfully and then turning as if to present Morgan to the old man. “This is the man I told you about. This is the guy we need if we are to take on these SVR assholes!”

  Morgan watched as the old man finally moved in his chair, awkwardly it seemed, to turn and look at him. He had no doubt that this was the late General Zolnerowich. Clearly no longer dead.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Zolnerowich demanded.

  “This is Morgan. This is the man who saved my life. Twice. I tell you, he will deal with these fucks who are threatening us.”

  “They are threatening me!” Kristina Zolner cried suddenly and then resumed smoking.

  General Zolnerowich stood and walked slowly toward Morgan and Helldiver, his dark, lifeless eyes never wavering from Morgan. Helldiver was obviously uncomfortable but didn’t say a word, leaving Morgan to deal with it. Morgan held the stare, unflinching. He maintained an impassive stance, unperturbed by the old man’s attempt to unsettle him. When Zolnerowich had reached him, the two stood eye to eye.

  “Is there something you’d like to discuss with me?” Morgan asked. “I believe I was invited, but if you have any concerns about me being here, I’m more than happy to leave.”

  “You’ll leave when I decide you’ll leave,” said Zolnerowich. “And not before.” He made a show of appraising Morgan, as though Morgan was little more than something he’d purchased and was now having second thoughts.

  “I tell you, he’s good. He stays until we resolve this thing.” Helldiver had obviously had enough. “I want him with me.”

  Kristina Zolner became jittery, fidgeting and pacing in tight little circles at the end of the desk, biting her nails and puffing her cigarette in between. Morgan thought she’d looked concerned when he’d walked in but he put that down to the overall vibe, caused mostly by the presence of Zolnerowich. He certainly had that effect and he clearly unnerved her, but there was more going on. Something that had her scared. The threat must have been personal.

  “I don’t want to stay here, Hedeon,” she said emphatically. “I feel too exposed. Like I’m waiting for them to come for me.”

  “You’re safe, my darling,” said Helldiver. “No one can get you here.”

  At that, Zolnerowich let out a harsh laugh and returned to his seat. “You have no idea, you silly little bitch! If they want you, they will get you. Or have you forgotten already where you came from?”

  Kristina’s face flushed and all the color drained from it. She downed her drink and began worrying at another nail. “I’m going back to the Gemini, now! I’m not staying here like a sitting duck!” With that she stormed from the room.

  With a flick of his head, Helldiver motioned to Arena to go with her. Arena followed Kristina Zolner out. Morgan had to stop thinking of her as Arena. It was too dangerous. He could slip up at the wrong moment and they’d be exposed.

  “Rodenko. You too. Stay with her. Don’t leave her side.”

  Rodenko glowered at Morgan and stormed out of the room in Kristina’s and Dominique’s wake.

  Helldiver noted Morgan’s gaze following Dominique. He laughed and said close to Morgan’s ear: “Forget that one, tovarich. She’s beautiful, yes, but you could freeze ice on her ass!” He clapped Morgan on the back and announced loudly, “Scotch! Then we must plan.”

  He walked over to a drinks cabinet and took out a glass. He ladled ice into it from a small bucket and produced a bottle of the fifty-year-old Glenfiddich. He poured a generous measure and handed it to Morgan. Zolnerowich stood, clearly preparing to leave.

  “No, you stay, old man!” Helldiver said from across the room. “You got us into this mess. You can stay while we work out how to get ourselves out of it.”

  “You don’t give the orders here, boy!” said Zolnerowich. “You should remember that.” He walked out.

  Morgan and Helldiver stood by the windows, looking out to the ocean, sipping the scotch.

  “Kristina will relax on the boat. She loves to be on the water. Dominique will organize it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Just a few miles out to sea. The crew are doing some maintenance while we are here at the house,” he said. “She’ll be happier out there. It will give me time to work this out. They need to know that I don’t scare easily. She’ll be happier on the water.”

  Morgan noticed that the drinking was taking its toll on Helldiver and wondered how long he’d been at it. Morgan decided to use it to his advantage. While Helldiver was getting lubricated and unencumbered by the presence of the others, Morgan could get some details.

  “When I last saw you, back in Oahu,” Morgan began, “and I asked if you were going to bring me in on whatever it is you’re into, you said there’d be ‘plenty of time for that.’ Well, we’re on our own and it seems to me that this is as good a time as any. So if you want me to help, you need to tell me what’s going on.”

  Helldiver took a long pull on the scotch and emptied the glass. He poured himself another and offered Morgan more.

  Morgan declined. “I’m no good to you pissed.”

  Helldiver shrugged, filled his own glass again and walked back to his desk, slumping into his chair.

  “Some time ago we embarked on a righteous enterprise,” he began. His words were slurred and he looked tired. This worked for Morgan. “Everybody supported the plan. We were heroes to the cause. The old ways. We were reclaiming our Russian heritage.”

  Morgan was listening intently but his gaze wandered out across the gardens that overlooked the turquoise waters of the French Riviera. He could see Kristina Zolner and an entourage consisting of Dominique, Rodenko and two of his guys, and a
number of household staff all carrying luggage, waddling along toward the private pier at the end of the gardens. He couldn’t see it, but he expected that the Riva 33 Aquariva was at this moment warming its screws at the end of the pier, readying to ferry Mrs. Zolner back out to the Gemini. When she said she was going back to the boat “now,” she obviously meant it.

  “But then everything changed.”

  As those few words registered with Morgan, he saw two men appearing from the southern edge of the gardens near a large stone fountain. At first it seemed harmless enough, gardeners or general maintenance people perhaps, but then the unmistakable movement of each man’s right hand to the small of their respective backs had told him that they were reaching for firearms. They were perfectly placed to lay ambush to the group that was oblivious to their presence, walking straight for the boat with no interest in what lay behind them.

  Morgan ran from the room and through the closest door, sprinting straight for the two groups. They were at least seventy yards away and Morgan had to bound down deep stone steps and across the lawns to close the gap as quickly as he could. By the time he’d reached halfway and had started calling out, he realized he was unarmed. That’s when the shooting started.

  Morgan sprinted for the two guys he’d seen first – there could be more. If this was a legitimate hit on Helldiver at his residence then it was very probable that there would be more. The sporadic crack-crack-crack of automatics firing and being answered forced him to think of only one person – Arena. She could be whoever the job required her to be here, but she would always be Arena to him.

  He ran as fast as he could across the grounds. The group had disappeared where the land dipped toward the pier. He heard some screaming, possibly the household staff who were caught up in it all. He couldn’t imagine Arena screaming like that and right now he didn’t give a shit if it was Kristina Zolner. She was an ex-SVR agent and whether she was rogue or still on the books, she knew the score. The gunfire was continuing. Jesus! Where was Arena?

  Morgan saw the back of one of the hit squad crouching behind a small retaining wall for cover. The response from Rodenko and his crew was halting their progress, and they weren’t prepared to react to an assault from the rear. Morgan was closing in. Then he saw the body of one of the household staff: a middle-aged woman in her white uniform now stained with blood. Fuck! He needed a gun. Something. Gunfire erupted to his far left and farther ahead, no doubt the extra members of the hit team he’d anticipated. They were firing toward the pier too. Morgan was just a few paces from the closest guy. At this point he was in greatest danger of being hit by Rodenko’s crew. He had to jump down to the level where the guy was firing from. He made the leap.

  His shoes crunched onto the stone path that paralleled the wall. The guy heard it and turned. Morgan wasn’t close enough to take him on. What would Tom Rogers say about something like this? “If you’re not close enough to strike then you have to extend your reach. Search for a weapon that will do that for you.” A couple of fancy potted plants sat along the top of the wall. He grabbed the closest one he could manage, the fingers of his left hand closing around the top edge. His right came in underneath. Morgan was short by ten feet. The muzzle of an automatic was pointing straight at him, ready to fire. Morgan’s body twisted as a discus thrower’s might and he hurled the potted plant straight for the gunman. The man had no choice but to move, firing half-a-dozen rounds in Morgan’s general direction as he did. Morgan watched as the pot sailed through the air and sensed the aimless rounds as they sailed past him. The gunman jumped clear just as the pot shattered against the wall where he’d been taking cover.

  Morgan was instantly upon him and they both fell to the ground in a tangle. Wasting no time, he concentrated his effort on the man’s gun hand, going for the Makarov, but the guy wasn’t letting him have it. Then Morgan got a break, twisting the gun arm around behind the guy’s back. Hanging onto it with both hands, he had the wrist ready to snap. The guy screamed in pain. Using him as leverage, Morgan got to his knees and then back on his feet. And with the guy’s face pressed into the ground and the gun arm and wrist locked in a repulsive angle, Morgan kicked and stomped until he’d rendered the guy unconscious. He tore the Makarov and spare magazines free from the belt rig the guy was wearing and sped off, finally armed, in search of the next one.

  The gunfire was continuing, although it seemed to be originating farther away. Mrs. Zolner was still making for the boat. Morgan heard firing to his right beyond a shrubbery about ten yards away. He made his move fast and soon saw the man poised over the hedge firing incessantly toward the pier. Morgan braced and fired four rounds in quick succession. Each one found its mark in the guy’s left flank. Morgan ran to check that he was dead. He was. He relieved the body of its hardware and ran back toward the stairs to the pier. Down below the screws of the Aquariva were already rumbling and as he ran, Morgan thought he’d caught sight of Kristina Zolner clambering aboard, but no sign of Arena. Fuck! Fuck!

  By the time he reached the ancient stone steps that led to the pier, Morgan could see Rodenko and one of his guys huddled protectively over Kristina aboard the Aquariva, which was now slicing a powerful wake through the water in search of the Gemini. Still no sign of Arena or the remaining household staff and Rodenko was down one. Could Arena be alongside Kristina Zolner, under the gaggle of bodies, and Morgan just couldn’t see her? A growl of a marine engine that immediately howled as it was pushed unnecessarily into the high revs took his eyes to a second boat, a twenty-foot, center-console runabout, nestled at the base of the pier closest to the end of the stone steps. Morgan recognized it as one of the tenders from the Gemini. There were two men onboard, one at the controls and the second unraveling the mooring lines from the cleats on the pier. They were totally focused on the Aquariva ahead of them. Morgan bounded down the steps two and three at a time, fitting a fresh magazine to the Makarov on the move. The 150 horsepower engine bit into the water, churning white froth. The mooring lines were finally freed, racing unattended through the cleats as the boat surged forward.

  Morgan made the final few steps as the two in the boat took off after their target, firing wildly at the back of the disappearing Aquariva. There was a bloodlust to their relentlessness, a no-holds-barred fixation on completing their mission no matter what. They’d lost two men and were clearly prepared to die to ensure that their orders were carried out. This reeked of Russian retribution – delivering a message no matter what. Morgan recalled Helldiver’s comments: “This is the guy we need if we are to take on these SVR assholes!” Why the hell was Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service trying to take out Helldiver? And why were they hell-bent on killing one of their own, or at least one of their ex agents?

  Morgan tossed his jacket to the ground, shoved the Makarov under his shirt and behind his belt, took the final few steps and dived from the pier, grabbing for the mooring line in the water before the unfettered end flew free of the cleat. His hands found the wet rope and then, fighting against the pressure of the white water and struggling to catch a breath, he made his way hand over hand along the rope toward the back of the boat. A moment of déjà vu hit him. Where had he done this before? When he felt he was close enough, he twisted his left forearm as best he could around the rope and clamped tight with his hand to avoid slipping off.

  As the boat built up speed and turned toward the Aquariva, he narrowly avoided being collected by the corner of the pier. Now he began the impossible task of retrieving the Makarov, but the gun had slipped. There was just an inch or two of the grip clear of the belt for him to get hold of. Nothing was ever easy in this job. After a couple of failed attempts, he got his thumb and fingers gingerly around the grip and then grabbed it as tight as he could, keeping his finger well outside the trigger guard. This was not the moment he wanted the gun to fire. He tore it free, sliding it along his body, out from behind the shirt and finally clear of the water. He was only going to get one chance at this.

  When he lif
ted his head he realized that one of the SVR agents was standing over the engine, firing at him and he was suddenly glad he hadn’t accepted the top up of scotch that Helldiver had offered. Right now it was just a matter of who was lucky enough to land the shot first.

  Gasping for breath, Morgan locked his right arm straight out in front, pressing his face against his shoulder to line his eyes up with the weapon as he bounced across the waves. The white water was pummeling his arm, streaming past him in great curving wings as he brought the weapon into an impossible aim. He could make out the occasional crack of the weapon above being fired at him. His chances of survival were getting narrower and narrower with every round heading his way. It was now or never.

  The boat was gaining speed out on the open water and Morgan knew he didn’t have a hope of hitting the agents, so his best option was disabling the engine to enable the Aquariva to get away. He tightened his grip around the Makarov even more, brought his finger back onto the trigger and began firing directly at what he could make out of the fuel filter, the fuel lines feeding the engine and the silhouette of the agent standing over it. He had twelve rounds. He had to make them count.

  Fighting against the impossible conditions, Morgan began firing. He squeezed the trigger rapidly, timing each squeeze to coincide with the bounce of his arm against the raging white water. There was some gruesome irony in taking them on with one of their own weapons. He had no idea where his rounds were falling or how close the rounds of the agent were to hitting him. He must be getting close to his twelve rounds running out. He’d lost count. There was too much going on.

  Then there was an almighty boom, the dark silhouette of the man disappeared from view and an explosion tore the boat apart and threw the bodies of the two agents high into the air, consumed by a mushroom cloud of brilliant orange flames.

  The rope went slack.

  Morgan stopped dead in the water.