“Go, goddamn it, they’re killing everyone!” screamed the agent as loud as he could, his foot placed firmly onto Chavez’s back.
The van finally started moving backward, screeching the tires and burning rubber. There were several sickening bumps as they made their way in reverse back up toward the stadium.
“All units, all units,” Banks screamed into the handheld radio, “we have officers down, Elysian Park, Solano Avenue, we’re taking heavy gunfire from an unknown number of assailants and are moving toward the stadium! We need air support and backup now!”
Banks didn’t wait for the dispatcher to respond, he pulled his nine-millimeter handgun free of his shoulder holster as the van traveled in reverse. He saw the burning SWAT unit slide by and noticed belatedly that several of the SWAT team had gotten free of the flaming wreckage and were in the process of firing into the night at unseen targets that were keeping them pinned down. As he started to turn toward the back, checking on the safety of their prisoner, one of the rear tires of the van exploded, sending the vehicle sliding into several cars parked along Solano Avenue. The van spun and then stalled. Before Banks could do anything, fifteen small-caliber rounds slammed into the windshield, shattering it and striking the driver and himself. As the two bodies jumped from the impact of the rounds, a small detonation knocked the others into a daze. The rear doors were snatched open and before the two agents in the back realized what was happening, three men were inside.
“This one,” one of the attackers said pointing to Chavez. At the same moment, he raised his handgun and the masked man quickly fired into the stunned agents—two bullets apiece.
When Chavez was taken out of the van, he was bleeding from a cut on his forehead and had a steady flow of blood coming from his ears. He tried to scream, but nothing came out of his mouth, or if it did, there was so much noise even he couldn’t hear it. As fifteen men surrounded the van, a small Bell helicopter suddenly appeared out of the darkness, its black paint reflecting the burning vehicles on the street. It flared seconds before touching the roadway, the twin skids clanking loudly on the warm macadam. Chavez was taken to, and then thrown into, the helicopter. As the small Bell lifted free of Solano Avenue, sirens were heard approaching from Dodger Stadium above and then from below in Elysian Park.
As stunned neighbors watched, the fifteen-man assault team calmly returned to six cars. They then removed their black hoods once inside. They slowly drove away, past the three bullet-riddled and burning vans.
In all, the assault and kidnap of the thief known as Juan Caesar Chavez, took no more than two minutes and eleven seconds. The Russians had proven they were still among the most efficient killers in history.
UPLAND, CALIFORNIA
After the short, hedgehopping flight from Los Angeles, the helicopter had set down just inside the small baseball stadium at Upland High School. The transfer of Chavez to a waiting vehicle outside the ballpark was made quickly and efficiently by men who had worked for Sagli and Deonovich for nearly twenty years. The rest of the assault element split into three groups, one remaining with Chavez, one heading north to Vancouver, and the last heading back to Virginia. Chavez was taken to a safe house on Mountain Avenue.
Chavez was blindfolded and led to a room at the back of the large five-bedroom house. As California basements weren’t much the trend, the large master suite would have to do. The windows had been sealed with aluminum foil and the house sat far enough back from the road as to be virtually soundproof through distance. They had the whole San Gabriel Mountains as a sound break from any screaming that may come from the house.
The thief was put in a large chair and his blindfold was removed. One of his Russian captors, a small man with beady little eyes and a well-manicured beard stepped forward as Chavez blinked in the bright lights being shone upon his shaking body. The Russian removed the handcuffs and then smiled at the even smaller Chavez. He then patted him on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry, my friend; a few answers for my employer and you will soon be set free.”
Chavez didn’t relax one bit at the reassurance. Even though no names had been exchanged, he knew who it was that was holding him. Sagli and Deonovich were widely known in criminal circles for their ability to find and acquire matchless antiquity and were also known to have the steely nerves to go after whole collections at a time. Jewels, icons, paintings, sculpture—the two Russian mobsters had taken them all, sometimes quietly, sometimes the hard way. They were especially good at the hard way as his former employer had warned him on many occasions and as he’d just witnessed.
The bedroom door opened and a large man with severely short cropped hair stepped inside the room. Through the glaring lights, Chavez saw that he was eating a hamburger. The wrapper held snug around the buns, he stepped up to his prisoner, taking a bite of the large burger. The man wore a black T-shirt under a black sport coat. In all aspects, he looked like any other Southern California business man, except for the eyes. The large brown eyes held not one ounce of humanity as he took in the sight of Chavez sitting before him. He took one last bite of the yellow-wrapped hamburger and then handed it to the man who had spoken a moment before. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and slowly wiped his mouth.
“Dispose of this garbage,” he said as he was relieved of his burden. He looked down and then leaned into the face of Chavez. “You Americans, no wonder you are becoming a fat country, a man cannot find a decent meal in all of Los Angeles.” He smiled. “Fast food is a fast death in my opinion.”
As Chavez swallowed, he saw the man straighten and then he held out his hand. Something was in his outstretched fingers and then before Chavez knew what was happening, a searing pain raked across his right cheek. He screamed out, more because of the pressure and fast motion than the pain, which was slow in coming. However, it did come and along with that pain was a steady flow of blood.
“That was to get your attention,” the man said in passable English as he stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Right now, the scar that I have left you could be well taken as a dueling scar across your cheek, my friend; at one point in European history that was known as a badge of honor. If you answer my inquiries, you can skip through your life telling your friends that you received your scar in battle with evil men. Answer me not, and the local county coroner will have a most difficult time sewing you back together so those same friends can view your remains at your funeral.”
Chavez opened his eyes against the pain in his cheek. Knowing his skin had been laid open to the bone, he tried desperately to focus on the man standing in front of him with the open straight razor, which now gleamed in the bright lights.
“My name is Gregori Deonovich. My partner and I are in search of something that is in your possession. I speak of the Petrov Diary, or the portions of it that has survived history that is. We understand that it was you who pulled off the robbery at the Denver Museum of Natural History, am I correct?”
“I don’t have the diary, it was—”
The flash of the straight razor advertized the split-second warning that Chavez had answered the question the wrong way. The blade struck him just above the right eyebrow, slicing through the thick skin until the razor actually cut into bone. Chavez screamed and grabbed for his face.
Deonovich stepped back and holding out the razor, he flicked twice to get the dripping blood off of it, and then he nodded his head to the right. The smaller man stepped forward and wiped Juan’s face, then he made the thief take the small towel and hold it against the two wounds.
“The cost of failure is high; the next time it will be your throat, comrade.”
As Chavez pressed the towel to staunch the flow of his blood, he knew he had to answer with the right words.
“The diary was given to the man who set up the theft—a man who paid me and my men for it and a few of the other items.”
“The name of your employer?” Deonovich asked as he stepped forward, his face set in a mask of anger.
<
br /> “At the time he was using the name Ellison, but a few years back he used an alias of Tomlinson; before that another name.”
“You are not being very forthcoming,” Deonovich said as he raised his right hand to strike Chavez again.
“Wait—wait!”
“Quickly,” the Russian said, becoming angrier by the second.
“Listen, my employer, the man who originally wanted the journal, he went missing. He never showed up to give us the payment he owed us . . . so . . . so I burned the journal.”
Deonovich wanted to laugh out loud. “You want me to believe you went through all of that trouble to steal this item from a secure museum, and then knowing this journal may lead to a vast treasure, you destroyed it out of anger for not getting paid for the job?”
“How in the hell did I know what the journal said, it was written in Russian.”
“Then the journal is destroyed?”
“Yes, so you may as well let me go,” Chavez whimpered.
“Yes, we may as well,” Deonovich said as he nodded for the small man standing behind Chavez to finish up.
Chavez never really saw the shadow as it fell over him. The next sensation was of cold steel as it sank deep into his throat from behind. The razor severed his airway and his jugular vein in a practiced move perfected in the highlands of Afghanistan many years before.
Deonovich nodded as Chavez fell from the chair. As he lay on the floor, he continued to hold the towel to his face even as he wondered why he was no longer able to move. The large Russian stepped away from the quickly spreading pool of blood and removed the cell phone from his jacket; at the same time he held out his free hand and snapped his fingers. The smaller assassin understood and handed him the cheeseburger he had been given minutes before.
Deonovich took a bite of the burger and waited for the phone to ring on the other side of the country.
“Our friend Mr. Chavez turned out to be most helpful. It seems he was working for an outside contractor when he stole the journal from the Denver Museum. When this mysterious employer never showed to pay Chavez and his crew for the heist, the idiot burned it,” Deonovich said with a laugh, almost choking on the cheeseburger. He looked at his right hand and then tossed the greasy burger onto the finally still corpse of the Mexican thief.
“Yes,” the Russian said into the phone. “It turns out we wasted a lot of time and killed a few police officers just to confirm the man didn’t have what we thought he did. Well, we live and we learn. At least we have closed that end of the loop; now no one besides ourselves can find the area we are seeking. You will pass this along to our associate. Thank you, Dmitri, I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Deonovich closed his cell phone and then looked at the corpse of Chavez.
“At least no one can follow us using what you have stolen,” he snickered and then turned for the door. “Diamonds and gold—such small-minded people. Take his body to the sea and throw him in, then meet us at the Los Angeles Airport, you know where.”
Deonovich turned and gave Chavez one last look and smiled. “Yes, they won’t follow us from what you may have known.”
Deonovich knew they would find the man’s body in the next few hours, but that was to be a calling card of sorts warning that they were to be left alone, and Chavez would be a record of their seriousness. There would be shock and anger, but by then he, Sagli and their strike-and-recovery team would be well north of the border, and on the trail of their richest prize yet.
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
Gregori Sagli closed his cell phone and then eased the basement door open, and saw Lynn Simpson sitting in the dark. She didn’t move or respond to the creaking sound of the door opening, nor when it closed. Sagli smiled and then trotted up the stairs. He went to the kitchen table where a few of his men were sitting and eating sandwiches. He reached over and lifted his small briefcase from the end of the table and walked over to the kitchen counter. Opening the combination lock, he lifted the lid and pulled out a large plastic protector that held Xerox copies of the items sent to them by their associate who had planned everything from beginning to end, and thus far, this person had been perfect in that planning.
Sagli looked through the clear plastic at the documents known as the Lattimer Papers and Xerox copies of the pages from a journal once owned by Colonel Iosovich Petrov of the Red Army. The map was clearly seen on the last page as Sagli turned it over. In L. T. Lattimer’s own hand, the area was drawn from his eyewitness account of his find.
The copies had been taken from Lattimer’s last remaining relative in Boston by the man who now called Deonovich and Sagli partners. Sagli assumed that the relative had met the same fate as Chavez out in California—at least that was the impression both Russians had when given the orders to find the originals, and for the fact that their new friend didn’t seem to be the merciful type, nor did he seem to like loose ends.
Sagli knew they were close to starting on their final journey and he was anxious to get started. What waited was a new beginning for all involved, and a prize that few could ever attain in this jumbled and confusing new world—true power.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
The director of the CIA paced in front of his desk, behind the backs of his seated assistant directors. Every word seemed like a dagger into the heart of Nancy Grogan. Even the usually cold-as-ice Stan Rosen was feeling for her.
“Has there been any communication from the Russians?”
“Nothing, sir. We, or I should say, I, have come to the conclusion that they have gotten what they wanted in Los Angeles, so there is no further need to communicate with the agency.”
“Fifteen Los Angeles police officers are dead; highly trained SWAT personnel. How in the hell could they have known we were moving on Chavez so soon?”
“I took it upon myself to assist in that matter, sir,” Rosen said, half turning in his chair to face his boss. “Sagli and Deonovich have had the police forces of most major cities plugged into their network for a while now, mostly to keep track of international warrants, Interpol requests, things like that. They basically pay for information. My operations people suspect they had a flier out to these moles about anyone suspected in the museum heist in Denver. Once informed, they released a hit team that was either already in the western states or close by.”
Nancy Grogan turned in her chair and looked at Rosen, his eyes lowered as he knew he had overstepped his bounds and his department. Grogan wanted to say something about it, but knew he had acted where she hadn’t. Her mind was on the lone fact that the two Russians no longer needed Lynn Simpson.
“Stan, you’re guessing. I want facts. If there are informants in the LAPD I want to know who they are, and then I want them brought to justice. I don’t believe that any brother officer would be a part of a massacre of their people. Now, what are we doing to find these Russians?” the director asked.
This time Nancy stood and buttoned her blazer. She took a deep breath and turned to face the director.
“The FBI and local law enforcement have been briefed on who they are looking for. I suspect there is going to be fallout about us . . . or me . . . not giving them everything before the raid.”
The director pursed his lips and then paced to his desk and sat on it edge.
“The president wants to know what the odds are now that these two maniacs and their organization have what they want, on us getting our agent back.”
Nancy Grogan’s silence was enough. She swallowed and bent over to pick up her case and then turned and started for the door, she stopped with her right hand poised over the handle.
“She’s my agent,” she said without turning, “my responsibility.”
Rosen cleared his throat and said what everyone was thinking.
“Director, Lynn Simpson is already dead. Sagli and Deonovich would never take the chance of keeping her alive. Remember their file: They executed ten hostages in a Prague antique shop for the simple reason they were late telling them where their third w
all safe was located. The last three were shot after that safe was found. Yes, sir, Lynn Simpson is most assuredly dead.”
“Then confirm her death, and then bring me those two bastards’ heads on a platter!”
EVENT GROUP COMPLEX
NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA
Before Jack had even entered the Europa clean room, Pete Golding and Carl Everett had already begun. Pete looked at Jack, newly clothed in white smock and gloves. He was as miserable having to wear the clean-room attire as Everett was.
“Colonel, Director Compton gave us a short brief, but it didn’t give us much to go on. Europa did uncover these details as listed in the Montreal Police Departments computer. Even now, the Canadians are keeping the information limited, maybe slowing down the filing of their reports for security reasons.”
Jack sat in between Everett and Pete, silent as he adjusted the microphone in front of him. The steel door that protected Europa was up and Collins could see the Honda robotic arms as they swung into action placing and removing small discs from racks and placing them into the mainframe.
“Right now, as I understand it at least, your sister is in charge of the northeastern desk at Langley. If you don’t mind me asking, Colonel, why would she choose Simpson as her last name?” Pete asked as he started typing commands onto his keyboard.
“That was my mother’s maiden name—Simpson.”
“I see. The first thing we are checking on is the two names that seem to be popping up in the Canadian reports. Two Russian nationals are believed to have been responsible for the ambush in Montreal. At least those were the names placed on the all-points bulletins coming from Canada to all North American police agencies. Now, since Director Compton notified the captain and myself that we cannot expect cooperation from American intelligence apparatus, we have to use a little bit of stealth in finding what we need, am I correct?”
Primeval: An Event Group Thriller Page 14