Black Ops Bundle: Volume One

by Allan Leverone

  After three days.

  In the bitter chill of a Moscow winter.

  So in many ways, to Nikolai this was a walk in the park. The only thing complicating the mission was the stature of the target, but Nikolai had eliminated high-profile men before and had always been as cold as the Siberian wind when the time came to pull the trigger. Today would be no different.

  ***

  June 2, 1987

  9:56 a.m.

  Minuteman Mutual Insurance Building, Washington, D.C.

  Finally it was time to assassinate the President of the United States. Nikolai wished he could have napped at some point, but hadn’t felt comfortable enough in his surroundings to do so. If someone discovered the taped latch on the roof access door and came to investigate, Nikolai knew he would have only seconds to eliminate the intruder and do it quietly enough to avoid jeopardizing the entire mission.

  He stretched. Yawned. Checked the time. Nine-fifty-five. President Reagan’s remarks were to take place at ten o’clock exactly. The KGB had no way of knowing how long the speech would last, but the consensus had been that it would likely be short and to the point, given the fact that the U.S. President was not a young man and the speech was to take place outdoors in the sun and heat of June in Washington. That meant Nikolai needed to be in position and ready to go the moment Reagan stepped to the podium.

  He shook out his arms, then did a quick set of deep knee bends to get his blood flowing. Nikolai crawled to the edge of his shelter and poked his head out the side, like a turtle gazing out of its shell. He looked first at the much higher structure next to the Minuteman Building. Saw nothing. Banks of windows soared overhead, but there were no faces looking down at him, at least none that he could see.

  He shrugged. It didn’t matter anyway. It was time to get to work. He stepped out from under the shelter of the tarpaulin and carried his sandbags to the two-foot-high retaining wall at the edge of the roof, facing Columbia Road. He duck-walked as he approached, to avoid detection by the crowd assembling eight stories below.

  After stacking the sandbags, creating a nice V-shaped notch, Nikolai retrieved his sniper rifle. Fully assembled, scope attached, full magazine. He combat-crawled to the edge of the roof. Reached the retaining wall and eased his rifle onto the sand bags. Lifted himself up and peered over the edge. The top of his head would be visible from street level but there was no way to avoid that. The Secret Service would be scanning the buildings, but from a distance of over one hundred feet and eight stories up, he would be as good as invisible.

  The temporary platform from which President Reagan would deliver his remarks—the few he would live to deliver—was filled with dignitaries. There was not one empty chair behind the podium. Nikolai didn’t recognize any of the people, figured they must be local politicians and businessmen. The sun was shining brightly and everyone was squinting against the glare and fanning themselves. Nikolai eased his Dragunov onto the sandbags, seating it carefully.

  Behind the podium, a pair of shiny black armored limousines idled at the curb. As Nikolai watched, the rear door of the first one in line opened and out stepped the target. Ronald Reagan rose to his full height—he was taller than Nikolai would have expected—and strode briskly along the sidewalk. A group of people moved with him, like moons orbiting a planet. Nikolai assumed the moons probably represented an even split between political aides and Secret Service agents.

  When he reached the platform, Reagan climbed the stairs, moving well for a man in his seventies. He stopped short of the podium, waiting to be introduced. In his hand he held a sheaf of papers, undoubtedly the notes for his remarks.

  At the podium, a youngish man, hair slicked back, glasses perched on his nose, was speaking into a microphone. The air was clear and Nikolai could hear every word. “And now, please join me in welcoming the man responsible for the resurgence of our economy, and of the United States in general, President Ronald Reagan!”

  The people behind the podium stood and clapped, the crowd cheered, and Reagan stepped to the podium, pausing to shake the hand of the man who had introduced him. He smiled easily, waiting for the applause to die down so he could begin.

  Nikolai leaned onto the top of the retaining wall, bracing himself with his elbows, holding the Dragunov loosely in his hands. He peered through the scope and after a quick adjustment, Reagan’s face filled the viewfinder, his teeth white and straight and his smile perfect. It was as if he was standing directly in front of Nikolai, no more than a few feet away.

  Nikolai centered the crosshairs on Reagan’s forehead and prepared to change history.

  48

  June 2, 1987

  9:57 a.m.

  Minuteman Mutual Insurance Building, Washington, D.C.

  Tracie raced to the roof access door, glancing at her watch as she did. Nearly ten. She was out of time.

  She reached the door and skidded to a stop, hyper-aware of the need for speed but knowing her only chance for success was in not alerting the assassin to her presence. She knelt and examined the space at doorknob height between the door and the metal jamb. The KGB operative had forced the latch back with duct tape.

  Tracie opened the door slowly and stepped through, then eased the door closed. Turned and started up the concrete steps and then pulled up suddenly, squinting as she bent down to look at the steps. A trail of fresh-looking blood meandered up them.

  She hurried up the steps and in seconds had arrived on the roof. The front of the building and Columbia Road were to her right, obscured by the rusting metal bulkhead. That was where the assassin would be stationed, with President Reagan scheduled to begin speaking any second now. For all she knew, the president was at the podium already.

  She glanced left and saw a pair of shoes, black and heavy, attached to legs in uniform pants. They weren’t moving. The murdered security guard.

  She took a deep breath and turned her attention away from the body. She eased her eyes around the bulkhead, using the metal structure for cover, and her pulse quickened. At the far end of the roof, sighting through a sniper scope, rifle angled down and toward the platform where the president would soon speak, was the KGB assassin. She prayed Reagan had not yet reached the podium.

  The man was dressed in what looked like a janitor’s uniform. A dark ball cap covered his head, and he appeared calm and collected, the rifle held steady.

  Tracie drew her weapon and stepped clear of the bulkhead. The assassin’s attention was focused completely on Reagan as he peered through his scope. He would never know what hit him.

  But there was a problem. She wouldn’t be able to hit him. She was aiming at a target at least forty feet away with a handgun after running up eight flights of stairs, her hands shaking from exertion and adrenaline.

  She sighted down the barrel, holding her Beretta in a two-handed shooter’s grip, and swore to herself, frustrated. There was no way. If she fired now, she would almost certainly miss, and the advantage of surprise would be gone. The assassin would still have time to shoot Reagan before turning to defend his position against Tracie.

  She stepped left and then forward, moving away from the bulkhead, hoping he wouldn’t sense her in his peripheral vision.

  Still too far. She needed to get closer.

  Another step left. Two more forward.

  Better, but not good enough.

  She continued moving, knowing the president had to be on the platform by now, maybe even behind the podium, so she likely had just seconds left. But her odds of hitting the Russian were still no better than fifty-fifty. She had to get closer.

  Through the warm air Tracie could hear President Reagan as he began to speak. “Good afternoon, Washington,” he said. “Thank you for joining me as we celebrate the continued revitalization of a neighborhood that is quickly becoming a model for what can be achieved when government gets out of the way and allows its citizens to take charge.”

  The crowd cheered and Tracie tuned out the president’s voice.

  She
took another step forward, her attention entirely on the assassin. Another step, and then she felt a tug of resistance above her ankle and lost her balance, toppling to the roof, crashing down in a spray of gravel.

  She thrust her hands out reflexively and her weapon skittered away. She hit the surface and rolled, feeling pain in both palms as the gravel bit into her skin. She knew immediately what had happened, knew she had just condemned the president of the United States to death by her own stupidity and lack of awareness.

  The assassin had strung fishing line across the roof, maybe a foot above its surface. A tripwire. In the sunshine, with her attention wrapped up in the shooter, Tracie had never seen it. She knew all this in the half-second it took to hit the roof.

  She rolled once and rose to a crouch, scanning desperately for her gun. A slug struck the gravel no more than an inch from her left leg and she dived to the surface again, rolled again. The assassin had missed her once, probably due to surprise, but he would not likely miss a second time.

  One desperate lunge, her feet scrabbling for purchase, and Tracie reached the cover of the air conditioning unit. She was safe, but only for a moment. Her weapon lay eight feet to her right, tantalizingly close, but directly in the shooter’s line of fire.

  She risked a quick look around the corner of the air conditioner, and heard the ping of a shot ricocheting off the sheet metal. She drew back instinctively.

  The shooter was walking slowly toward Tracie, firing with a silenced pistol, likely a Makarov PB, a favorite of the KGB. As soon as Tracie fell, he’d dropped his sniper rifle and drawn the Makarov. That slight delay in changing weapons had probably saved her life—for a few seconds, at least—allowing her to reach the safety of the air conditioning unit.

  But he was approaching fast, which meant two things:

  One, no one on the ground eight stories below would hear a thing. The silenced weapon would allow the Russian to kill Tracie and then return to his previous position without missing a beat. No one below would even be aware of his presence. He would still be able to complete his mission.

  Two, she was almost out of time. He would round the corner of the air conditioning unit in seconds and put a bullet in her head. He would not miss again.

  Her brain processed all of the information in an instant and she knew she was out of options. Without any further conscious thought, she dived for her gun, unable to see the assassin behind her, wondering if she would feel the impact of the bullet that would end her life or if consciousness would simply disappear like a light bulb being switched off.

  But there was no slug.

  She slid across the gravel-covered rooftop like a baseball player diving into second base and was amazed when she reached her weapon still breathing. She wrapped both hands around the grip and rolled onto her back, looked up and saw the Russian approaching quickly, eyes sharp, gun raised, taking his time.

  She rolled instinctively as he fired and she felt a searing pain in her right shoulder, the impact of the bullet driving the right side of her body into the surface of the roof. She felt the gravel pellets digging into her back with a clarity unlike anything she had ever experienced.

  She returned fire, squeezing off a shot as the nerves in her arm went dead and she lost all feeling in her hand. The gun slipped out of her hand and clattered once again onto the roof. She knew immediately she had missed, the Russian’s shot causing her shoulder to dip and her body to lurch to the right. Should have compensated. Dammit!

  The Russian continued moving forward.

  Tracie stared into the gun barrel, suddenly as big as a cannon, and prepared to die.

  49

  June 2, 1987

  10:00 a.m.

  Minuteman Mutual Building, Washington, D.C.

  Ronald Reagan’s forehead was nestled squarely in the crosshairs of Nikolai’s scope. The magnification was perfect, and so were the conditions. Clear. No wind. Nothing to disrupt the trajectory of the bullet he was about to fire, killing the U.S. president and accomplishing his mission.

  He breathed in and out slowly, through his half-open mouth, perfectly calm. Focused. He took one last breath. Paused. Began to squeeze the trigger, a steady, constant increase in pressure—

  —and recoiled at the sound of gravel spraying as a body crashed to the rooftop. The noise came from behind him, to his left, in the direction of the bulkhead covering the access stairs from the seventh floor.

  Nikolai understood instantly what had happened. Someone was here, and that someone had just fallen over the tripwire he had strung across the rooftop, a precaution he hadn’t thought he’d need. Someone was stalking him.

  Nikolai reacted with a skill born of training and years of experience. He placed the Dragunov carefully along the retaining wall while at the same time pivoting his head to gauge the threat. Near the air conditioning unit his attacker sprawled face-first on the roof. He lifted his silenced Makarov—he had placed it between his feet for easy access—and as the attacker rolled and began to rise, Nikolai turned in a crouch and squeezed off a shot.

  Missed.

  Nikolai hesitated. The attacker was a woman. He couldn’t believe the United States government would send a woman to stop him if they had somehow learned of the assassination plot.

  And where was everyone else? There should be dozens of agents, all armed to the teeth, wearing flak jackets and shouting through bullhorns. There should be attack helicopters and sirens and shouting and chaos. But there was none of that—just one lone woman who had scrambled out of sight behind the safety of the big air conditioning unit.

  He glanced around and saw her weapon lying on the roof where it had fallen when she tumbled over the tripwire. Probably she had a backup weapon, but Nikolai wasn’t worried. Before she could shoot him she would have to aim, and to do that would require exposing herself to peer around the edge of the air conditioning unit. The moment she did he would put a hole in her head.

  He sighted down the barrel of the Makarov and began walking slowly toward the air conditioner. He believed in aggressive action.

  As he approached, his attacker poked a head around the edge of the unit as he had known she would. But it was the wrong edge. He had been covering the right side of the unit, so when he spotted the face peering out at him, he had to pull the gun hard to the left before squeezing the trigger. Again he missed. He cursed softly.

  He kept moving, surprised the attacker had not yet returned fire. That could only mean one thing: she had no backup weapon. That meant she’d have to make a move for the gun lying out in the open.

  He adjusted course slightly, turning toward the attacker’s weapon just as she appeared from behind the air conditioning unit. Her dive was perfect and as she landed on the gravel, her hands wrapped around the gun and she turned in one smooth motion and aimed it at him. She’s good, Nikolai thought with grudging professional respect.

  And he fired.

  She dodged and he caught her in the right shoulder. She squeezed off a wild shot and then the gun fell from her hand onto the roof. Just like that, she was helpless.

  He took another step, centering the gun on her chest. He would put one slug center-mass, then finish with a double-tap to the head. Textbook. The entire exchange had taken no more than a minute, and down on Columbia Road eight stories below, Ronald Reagan was still droning on about the American Dream. There was still time to accomplish his mission.

  He began to squeeze the trigger and vaguely registered a blur of motion coming fast from his left. Then he was hit by what felt like a guided missile and driven to the roof.

  50

  June 2, 1987

  10:01 a.m.

  Minuteman Insurance Building, Washington, D.C.

  Shane reached the seventh-floor entrance just as Tracie was disappearing through the roof access door. He staggered down the hallway, pain blasting through his head. His vision ebbed and waned, roiling black clouds forming at the edges of his sight. His mouth tasted dry and sour and he felt like he was going t
o puke. He wondered if the tumor was going to take him right now. The doctors had said he had weeks left, maybe even a couple of months, but what the hell did they really know?

  He reached the roof access door and pulled it open slowly. His hands were shaking and not from nerves. From above, a soft Phht sound floated down the stairwell. A silenced gunshot. Tracie wasn’t carrying a silenced weapon, which meant the Russian had fired the shot. He prayed he wasn’t too late.

  He willed the pain to the back of his mind, pushing through the darkness threatening to overtake him. Took the steps two at a time. Noticed bloodstains on the concrete. Didn’t slow. The stains were dry, so they weren’t Tracie’s, and that was all that mattered.

  Shane reached the top and paused. In just the time it had taken to climb the steps, three more shots had been fired, one of them from Tracie’s gun. That gunshot had sounded loud and clear, a sharp crack, but from far below, Shane could still hear the president speaking. The gun battle raging on a rooftop just a couple of buildings away had not yet been heard, or had been heard but its significance not yet understood.

  He eased his head around the edge of a rusted metal bulkhead, toward the sound of the gunfire, and his blood ran cold. Tracie lay on her back, blood leaking through her clothes from a shoulder wound. Her gun lay on the roof a few feet away and a man in a baseball cap was walking slowly in her direction, pistol pointed at her. A long, black sound suppressor protruded from the barrel.

  Tracie was helpless.

  She had seconds to live.

  And Shane acted.

  He forgot about the pain, forgot about the tumor eating his brain away from the inside, forgot about Ronald Reagan and about the CIA and Soviet assassination plots. Forgot about everything. Only one thing mattered, and that was saving the woman he had fallen so unexpectedly and completely in love with.

  Shane rounded the corner of the bulkhead, at full speed in just two steps. He had been an undersized linebacker on the Bangor High football team, the guy on the defense who was considered too small and too slow to be successful, but who had shown the doubters up by being named to the All-Maine defensive team two years running.