Paladin of Shadows 3 - Choosers of the Slain.html

by John Ringo

  "Not this time," Thornton said, just as bluntly. "I'll tell you that it involves a young lady who is in trouble. And you are, frankly, the only name that came to mind to fix that problem. Given your...background."

  "Crap," Mike muttered. They knew his hot buttons, that's for sure. "When?"

  "The senator can set aside tomorrow evening for a quiet and discreet discussion," Thornton replied. "Would that work for you?"

  "If I can get a plane," Mike said. "And this is not going to be a freebie unless it's dead easy."

  "Understood," Thornton replied. "Check in to the Washington Sheraton. The senator will contact you there."

  "And you'll disavow any connection to me, right?" Mike said, grinning.

  "I'm glad you understand," Thornton said, cutting the connection.

  * * *

  "Anastasia," Mike said, sticking his head in the harem manager's office. "Could you do me a favor and pack me some bags. I have to go to DC. Enough for a few days. No uniforms. Some casual clothes and a few suits with sundries."

  "Very well, Kildar," Anastasia said. Mike's harem manager and general girl Friday had been a member of an Uzbek shiek's harem since she was twelve. She had been singled out, early on, as of management quality and took over as full harem manager when she was twenty-one. Mike had visited the shiek with the specific purpose of finding a harem manager and since Anastasia, then twenty-six, had gotten a bit long-in-the-tooth for the shiek, Mike had returned with her in tow. Unlike the shiek, Mike offered her complete freedom to come and go but she had long before developed the professional harem girl's acrophobia and spent the vast majority of her time in the caravanserai. A serious sexual masochist she fulfilled Mike's occasional need to wield a whip and he fulfilled hers for a serious leather back-scratching. "When will you be back?"

  "Not sure," Mike admitted. "But that will do for as long as I'll need those clothes. And call that charter company in England and get me a jet. I might as well travel in style."

  * * *

  Mike hated DC. It wasn't anything personal, just a formless resentment. When he'd been a SEAL, DC was synonymous with the "brass", the medal bedecked bastards, most of whom had never heard a shot in anger, who sent the teams out to work miracles and then bitched when they failed. Or performed the miracles but caused a bunch of bad press over dead tangoes.

  Now, somehow, he'd ended up being brass. Or close enough as made no never mind. He didn't walk the corridors of power, but if he picked up the phone he could be having a quiet dinner with the president this very evening. Or the secretary of state or defense or the national Security Adviser. That made him, de facto, a Washington "player", even if he spent his time staying as far away as he could.

  And at the moment he was particularly pissed. He was just hanging out waiting for a phone call. He hadn't even brought one of his "ladies" with him to pass the time. All he could do was watch Fox News and kick his heels.

  He got up and walked to the mini-bar, preparatory to just getting stinking drunk and telling the "senior senator" to go stuff his mission, when the phone rang.

  "Jenkins," he growled.

  "I've set aside a meeting room on the third floor," a faintly familiar baritone replied. "The Sherman Room. Follow the signs."

  "I'll be there in a few minutes," Mike said. Might as well find out what the fucking senator wanted.

  * * *

  There were two heavies outside the room. They had the look of Secret Service, which made the "senior senator" very senior indeed. As Mike approached the door a man in coveralls came out carrying a black instrument bag. The "senior senator" had had the room swept before the meeting which was rather unusual.

  "Jenkins," Mike said, stopping at the door and ignoring the technician.

  "Cell phone, pager and PDA, please," one of the men said, holding out a canvas bag with a zipper lock.

  Mike pulled out his cellphone and dropped it in the bag then shrugged. The other agent pulled a magnetic wand and ran it over him as the first agent zipped the bag shut and handed Mike the key.

  When he was swept, the agent knocked on the door and opened it to a faint call from inside.

  Mike instantly recognized the "senior senator" when he entered. He couldn't quite place the name, but he'd seen him on TV a few times.

  "Mr. Jenkins," the man said, getting up from his seat at the conference table and walking over to the door to shake Mike's hand. Just about middling height but with a commanding presence, he had a firm handshake and looked Mike right in the eye. He was a guy you trusted immediately. Just like any good con artist or politician. Speaking of redundancy. "I'm Senator John Traskel."

  "New Jersey," Mike said, nodding his head. "You're the guy they're saying's going to be the next minority leader."

  "And I'm the senior minority member of the Senate Foreign Relations committee, which is more to the point," the senator said, waving him to the a seat. "But please call me John."

  "Mike," Jenkins said, sitting down. "You've got a problem."

  "One of my constituents does," the senator said, nodding sagely. He was a tall guy with prematurely gray hair that was perfectly coiffed and his suit hadn't come off the rack. Mike also remembered that there was serious family money behind the senator, something in excess of a hundred mil. Come to think of it, he was also one of the few members of the Democratic party who was a tad right wing on social issues. Which was why he was also being bruited around for a presidential candidate in the next election.

  "His daughter has gone missing," the senator continued, opening up one of the folders and sliding a picture of a girl in a bathing suit across the table. She looked about fourteen and filled the suit well. Blonde and very pretty.

  "Natalya Fedioushina," the senator continued. "Fourteen."

  "Call America's Most Wanted," Mike said, sliding the pic back to the senator.

  "She went missing in Moldava," the senator said, seriously.

  "How the fuck did that happen?" Mike asked, aghast.

  "The gentleman is a native Ukrainian," the senator said, sighing. "His wife was visiting relatives in Moldava when the young lady was kidnapped. Presumably for, well..."

  "To be sold as a sex-slave," Mike said. "It's Moldava's only real export. And you want me to find her? Do you have any idea what sort of task that is?"

  "Yes," the senator said, nodding. "I do. I've seen both the open and the classified data on the sex slave industry. But we do have one lead."

  "Go," Mike said, shrugging.

  "This man," the senator continued, sliding another picture across. The pic was taken of a man exiting a small foreign car, a Ladia Mike thought from the roofline. Heavyset, dark, he had the look of a Balkans pimp type, one each. "Yuri Smegnoff. He is most probably the man who kidnapped her. Unfortunately, we don't know what he did with her."

  "How long?" Mike asked.

  "Two weeks ago," the senator replied, slipping the pic back into the file and sliding the whole folder across.

  "By now she's in Albania or Serbia being broken in," Mike said, flipping the folder open. There were more pics of the girl and of Smegnoff as well as a list of his common hang-outs.

  "We just want to know where she is," Traskel said.

  "That's not going to be easy, even if this pimp is a good contact," Mike replied.

  "You very much want to do this mission, Mr. Jenkins," the senator replied, tightly. "I need the favor. And you don't want me remembering that you didn't help when I needed it."

  "Was that a threat, senator?" Mike said, smiling but not looking up. "Please. You've got access to some of my files, at least. Any threat from you is hardly going to sway me."

  "You're playing with the big boys now, Mr. Jenkins," the senator almost snarled. "This isn't killing a few terrorists on an island in the Bahamas. This is the kindness and consideration, or not, of the United States Senate. You really don't want to piss me off."

  "I've been playing with the big boys for a long time, Senator," Mike said, bluntly. "Again, water, duck.
"

  "All my constituent wants is his little girl back," the senator said, tightly. "Please?"

  "Big contributor?" Mike asked, flipping through the file.

  "Yes," the senator admitted. "Very large."

  "Good," Mike said, closing the file and looking at the senator again. "Because this isn't going to be a freebie. I won't be able to lone-wolf this one. I'll need an intel team and shooters most likely. This is likely to get bloody."

  "I believe that you already got a fairly substantial IMF grant..." the senator said, frowning.

  "Hah!" Mike said, chuckling. "That's barely earnest money. You have any idea how much an op like this is going to cost me?"

  "I suppose I should," the senator said, nodding. "A million?"

  "More like five," Mike said, frowning. "It's going to be expensive on my end. I'll submit a cost sheet at the end. He'd better pay up."

  "That won't be an issue," the senator said.

  "You want her extracted?" Mike asked.

  "Just found," the senator replied. "When we know where she is, we can use other channels to get her out. Legal channels. I trust that I don't have to suggest that my name not come up if anything...untoward occurs."

  "I'm very discreet," Mike replied, standing up. "But when I send you the bill, your friend had better pay it. Because if he doesn't, you will."

  * * *

  Mike perused the file as the Gulfstream crossed the Atlantic. Finding the girl wasn't going to be easy but that wasn't what was bothering him. The girl in the photos was certainly pretty enough, but she didn't look like a girl having a great time at the beach. And the picture wasn't taken in the US, he was sure. The rocks along the beach were limestone or something similar. There simply weren't any major beaches in the US that had limestone around them. Not like the stuff in the pic, anyway. He'd put money on the pic being taken on the Adriatic or Black Sea coast. And the bathing suit she was wearing in the one pic and the dress in the other were European, not American.

  On the other hand, the unnamed "constituent" was an immigrant. The pics might have been taken in the Old Country. But the girl's eyes...she was not enjoying having her picture taken. It wasn't teenage surlinous. She was resigned and unhappy.

  Mike frowned and looked close at the bathing suit pic. He wished he had a magnifying glass with him because it looked very much as if the girl had a large bruise on her abdomen. Like from a punch.

  The whole op had a bad feel to it. The minor State Department official contacting him, the senator, the pictures. It just didn't add up.

  Well, he'd know he'd found out what was really going on when it started to stink.

  * * *

  "Well, it would certainly be nice to have some support from the other side of the aisle," Nielson mused as he looked at the pictures. "And the lady is certainly charming enough in a naifish sort of way."

  "Tracking her's going to be a stone bitch, though," Adams pointed out. "Most of the gangs running this racket in that region are Albanians. They're right bastards and mostly come from Albanian clans. They all know each other, so we won't be able to insert anyone."

  "Not on the runner's side," Mike said, rubbing his chin.

  "What are you thinking?" Nielson asked, looking up.

  "I'm thinking that we need Vanner and Cottontail in here," Mike replied.

  * * *

  "That's the op," Mike said looking at Vanner and the Russian hooker. Cottontail was sitting up and apparently paying rapt attention but that could mean anything. Mike had picked her up from the local brothel, very much against his will. The girl was pure poison. Either as a result of her experiences as a sex slave or from nature she was a vicious sociopath and delighted in making life for everyone around her miserable. Since she'd been living at the caravanserai, Mike had kept her from being too much trouble by keeping her busy, first in studies and then later working with Vanner in the intelligence section. The girl was smart as hell, which was part of the problem; as a whore she'd been underutilized.

  But she had the makings of a first class agent. She simply had no soul and was a great actress.

  "How are you planning on tracking her?" Vanner asked, curiously.

  "Well, the first line is that we're going to pay a trip to the pimp and ask him nicely what happened to the girl," Mike said then looked over at Cottontail. "The other string rests with you."

  "You want me to go into that," the girl said, waving at the papers.

  "It's not like you don't know the moves," Mike replied, flatly.

  "What's in it for me?" Cottontail asked, just as flatly.

  "Money," Mike said. "Twenty thousand euros for the entire op, assuming you do your job. And you'll get to fuck over the sort of guys that made you a whore. We're going to be having a lot of polite and charming conversation with them."

  "Do I get to watch?" Cottontail asked, seriously.

  "If it fits the mission," Mike said. "And I'll guarantee you that we'll be following. I won't say bad things won't happen to you, but we're going to be on your ass the whole way. I guarantee you won't be stuck back in the system and we'll try damned hard to keep you alive. But mostly it will be up to you. You in?"

  Cottontail looked at him coldly for a moment then nodded.

  "At the very least, take pictures," she said, suddenly grinning in a way that was truly scary.

  "Will do," Adams replied. Of all the men who knew her, Adams was perhaps the only one who liked her. At least in part because he liked right bastards.

  "We're going to need two teams," Mike said. "Each will have an intel and operational section and a group of shooters and security. We're going to have to insert across multiple borders, through multiple police jurisdictions and, worse, into multiple gang territories. And after a bit the fact that we're closing on something might become obvious. The intel section..."

  "Tracking devices," Vanner said, looking at the ceiling. "Bugs. Cameras. Shotgun mikes. Body mikes..."

  "You're on it," Mike said, looking at Adams. "The shooters..."

  "Team Sawn is dialed in on entry techniques," Adams said. "Break it down four ways. One team for entry, one for security, attached to each main group. We'll need vehicles..."

  "The white vans the traffickers use," Nielson said, nodding. "Plenty of room and..."

  "The Keldara girls that are handling intel and commo will just look like more whores on their way west," Mike said, nodding. "With the shooters as their guards. We got us a plan?"

  "Well," Nielson said with a sniff. "It's a start."

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  Mike considered the border crossing as the six vans approached it. It had just flat taken six vans for all the teams and gear.

  Set up of the operation had only taken three days. Vanner had many of the items they were going to need on-hand and the few that he didn't were more available in the Ukraine than in Georgia. The route had taken them through the Ukraine and a brief stop at Dnipropetrovsk filled in the gaps. Weapons were easy; the Keldara were very well armed.

  However, travelling to Moldava had taken some time. The roads in Georgia and the Ukraine ranged from bad to just awful. And given that the vans were packed with foreign nationals using fake passports and enough weapons for a small coup, discreet travel was the byword. They'd mostly stayed off the major roads, which meant not only circuitous travel but staying mostly on the "just awful" roads.

  By the end of the week's trek, Mike felt as if his kidneys had been shaken out through his sinuses.

  However, they'd made it to the Moldavan border. The problem being that the out-of-the-way border crossing near Ribnita, which according to reports was unguarded, had a couple of Moldavan soldiers running a checkpoint.

  "Be of good cheer and tip heavily," Mike said. The headset dangling from his ear was a bit out of the ordinary for white slavers but it wasn't entirely out of character. "Hand me your passports," he continued, looking to the rear of the vehicle.

  The seats right behind the driver's were filled by
three Keldara in work clothes and jeans. Their heavy-cotton button-down shirts were untucked so the pistols at their waist were concealed. Poorly in a couple of cases, but concealed. The rest of their gear was packed in the cargo area of the van, stuffed into several discrete pullman bags. He just had to hope that the border guards didn't want to search them or they'd find far more than they bargained for.

  Behind them were four girls from Vanner's intel section in blouses and jeans. The latter had caused some screaming from the more traditional Keldara but Mike had thrown the weight of the Kildar behind the decision. The girls were potentially vital to the operation and they had to fit in. Most women didn't wear skirts when travelling, even in this part of the world. A couple of the girls had looked askance when told they were going to dress in pants, but most of them had taken to them with glee. Change was coming to the Keldara in the form of Levi's 505s.

  In the last set of seats were four more Keldara heavies, the entry team portion of the shooters. They also had pistols holstered at their belts but in addition they had sub-guns under the seat. Mike dearly hoped that they weren't going to start the op by killing a couple of Moldavan soldiers. That would be...bad.

  "Hello," Yevgeni said to the soldier as he rolled to a stop next to him. "How are you today?"

  "I'm out here on this shit road," the soldier grumped as the passports were handed across.

  "At least it's not raining," Yevgeni said, happily.

  Mike looked around carefully. There were only two, the soldier taking the passports and his companion, who was leaning against a tree by the side of the road. If worse came to worse, they could probably take them both down without bloodshed.

  The soldier flipped through the passports, pulling out a bill from the top one and pocketing it.

  "You are from Georgia?" the soldier asked.

  "Yes," Yevgeni said, grinning. "We are a church group going to visit monasteries in your country and Romania."

  "And I'm the High Prelate," the soldier replied, handing the passports back. "It is lonely out here, how about some time with one of your girls?"

  Mike blinked at the suggestion. It wasn't one he'd run across before, but he'd never been masquerading as a white slaver.