by Brian Drake
When they finally reached the empty adobe-walled monastery, even the Buick seemed exhausted. Mahmoud shut off the motor and the engine started ticking as it cooled.
Hamin looked around. Hills here and there, tall mountains in the far distance. The heat of the sun wrapped around them like the tentacles of an octopus.
“How long do we wait?” Mahmoud said.
Hamin checked his watch. “We arrived behind schedule. Shouldn’t be more than an hour or two.”
“Let’s get out of this heat. I don’t think this place is going to be very comfortable, though.”
Hamin retrieved the black case from the trunk and followed his lieutenant into the building.
C.I.A. agent Jimmy Flynn flew the chopper eastbound toward Hamin’s location. They had collected the Bell Jet Ranger from Marcus’s contacts in Guadalupe Victoria. Stiletto rode in the passenger seat, still sore in his desert cammo fatigues and grateful for the chopper’s air conditioning. The heat of the sun still broke through the Plexiglas and gave the A/C a run for the money.
Flynn dropped low outside city limits and guided the Bell helicopter over the rises and dips, the desert terrain below rushing by in a flash.
Stiletto had a scoped M-1A rifle between his knees. The plan called for him to take a sniping position a mile from the monastery. Flynn would draw Hamin out with the chopper, and then lights out. Good night, Hamin.
The dash-mounted GPS flashed an alert that they were one mile out from the monastery. Flynn slowed to a hover, kicking up a large cloud of dust, and Stiletto jumped out. It wasn’t the best idea. The jolt of the landing hurt but Scott ignored the pain as he ran through the dust cloud and Flynn lifted off.
Stiletto ran about fifty yards as the chopper continued on, the whipping blades replaced by quiet. Scott found a small rise and dropped there, setting the M-1A on a two-legged mount and sighting through the scope. The monastery showed up in the eyepiece as if he were standing next to it.
The chopper flew over the monastery once, circling around several times before two heads appeared in a doorway. Flynn continued his orbit until Hamin, holding the black case, and another man ran into the open space outside. Flynn flew in a long circle and started to descend. Hamin waved. Stiletto pulled the trigger. Hamin’s number two went down with his head split open by the .308 boat-tail.
Hamin started to run. Stiletto tracked him and fired again. The shot hit Hamin low in the back. The Iranian agent tumbled into the dirt, the black case flying from his grasp.
Stiletto ignored his own discomfort as he ran to the fallen Iranians. The one with the split head was quite dead, no question. Hamin, unable to move, waited. The .308 had snapped his spine in two. Blood soaked the dirt beneath him.
Stiletto slowed to a stroll as he approached Hamin. He stopped beside the fallen man. Hamin could only move his eyes, his breathing hoarse through an open mouth. Stiletto knelt to make eye contact. The chopper’s rotor wash blew dust into their faces but unlike Hamin, Stiletto was able to raise a hand to shield his eyes. He smiled, winked, and stood. He went to the black case, opened it, and one-by-one smashed the glass tubes with the butt of the M-1A.
Flynn landed ten yards away. Stiletto hopped aboard and pulled the door shut. He watched Hamin stare at him as Flynn lifted off.
“You left him alive,” Flynn said. He climbed into the clear blue sky.
“Got him in the spine. If the sun doesn’t get him, the buzzards will.”
Flynn smiled.
Stiletto plugged in a satellite phone and called headquarters. After a few minutes, he was patched through to the General. He gave his update.
“Excellent,” the General said. “Our other team caught up with Rollins in Madrid. He’s in custody.”
“I’m sure he’ll have a lot to share with us.”
“It feels good to finally win.”
“Indeed, sir. See you shortly.” Stiletto ended the call and turned to Flynn. “Let’s go home.”
Stiletto settled back in the seat as the chopper climbed. It wouldn’t be hard to talk the boss into giving him some time off. It might be nice to visit Montana.
THE END
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Chapter One
IT WAS the kind of murder Siyana Antonova would have done free of charge. But she never killed anybody for nothing.
She sat in the living room of a large mansion just outside New York City, the property owned by a rich Russian couple who were hosting a small political fund-raiser. Ravil Zubarev was the guest of honor. He wasn’t a candidate, but a speaker sent from Moscow to bring back whatever donations he could obtain. He started his speech with his background and rise in the People’s Freedom Party, which opposed Vladimir Putin’s United Russia Party. Everybody in the room had once called Russia home. They’d all left home to make their money in America.
Siyana held nothing but disdain for the people in the audience. By attending this meeting and giving money, they were conspiring with Zubarev to betray their country and overthrow Putin’s administration. Not by election, but by coup.
Traitors. All of them.
The coup was a recent discovery and Russian President Valdimir Putin needed to act quickly. The plotters thought they were good at keeping the secret, but there were spies everywhere who had identified and marked the leaders.
The group couldn’t raise money in Russia without risking the whole plan, so they sent Zubarev, their most vibrant speaker, to visit Russian nationals in the U.S. who were sympathetic to overthrowing Putin.
Zubarev finished his resume and paused a moment. Then he said, “I don’t like to talk about this next part, because it pains me to see our country under such strife. Kara-Murza and Boris Nemtsov have said that Putin has given us a one-party system, censorship, a puppet parliament. And it’s true.”
The audience grumbled. Several sipped drinks or munched on the snacks provided by uniformed wait staff. They sipped loudly and chewed loudly. Siyana shook her head. Russians couldn’t do anything quietly. They were all dressed well. Tuxedos for the men, various gowns for the women, and Siyana didn’t have any problem fitting in with her little red dress, very tightly fitted to her petite frame, though she wished the hem was long enough to cover her bony knees. Her elbows were equally bony. To her they were like ball points grossly jutting from a mutated freak. They were the only features on her body that made her self-conscious. Her skin was soft and, now that she had time to regularly visit Coney Island, tanned all over; she had thick black hair that fell in a wave down her back, and a bottom some idiot in a bar had once said was as plump as a ripe tomato. The minute he had said it, she’d thought, Don’t look at my knees.
“If you disagree with Putin,” Zubarev said, “you risk prison. Siberia. Exile. Threats to your life and family. If he really hates you, he’ll find a way to murder you even if you have left the country. Does this sound like freedom to you?”
The audience responded with a resounding no.
“Is this what we fought for after we kicked out the communists?”
Siyana folded her arms as Zubarev’s voice went up in volume, his gestures more animated.
The people sitting to her left started whispering, one nodding his head. The others watching listened with rapt attention.
“We try peaceful protests, and they beat us, arrest us. We try to engage him in the press, and we get shut down, harassed, vilified. We try to face him down in parliament, but he has people in every corner that are ready to block anything that may loosen his grip. There is only one way to defeat this man and give Russia a true shot at freedom, but if we try to raise money in
the Motherland, we risk prison. That’s why I’m here tonight. We need money to finance our next candidate’s run against a man who is wielding the axe of authoritarianism with an unrestricted hand. We deserve a true chance at democracy, not have it stolen from us while being told we still have it.” He paused, then: “Will you give to us tonight?”
Siyana wanted to stand up and say piz'duk--bullshit. He was lying because he wasn’t sure if he could trust every member of the audience. She probably wouldn’t have been heard over the applause the audience offered, though some were a little slow to contribute. The doubters. There was still some good sense in the room.
Of course, Siyana knew, he wasn’t wrong about one thing. Putin had ordered his murder.
Siyana raised her head over the shoulders in front of her to look at Mrs. Zubarev, who rose from her chair holding a metal box. What was this, an American church? They were going to pass a collection plate? But that was apparently okay with the audience, as the room filled with more talking, drinks and snacks forgotten, as the sounds of pens scratching on checks and the counting of cash took over. Mrs. Zubarev went through the rows, smiling and saying thank you with each contribution. Siyana hated to do it, but she dropped a few bills into the pot as well. To refuse would draw unwanted attention and she didn’t need that. The shlyukha--whore--smiled at her and continued down the line. Siyana tried not to visibly seethe. Valeriya Zubarev wasn’t wearing a gown but a blouse/skirt/heels combo that made her look like a poor secretary forced to buy work clothes at a thrift shop. Her hair was tied back. She didn’t wear much make-up and the freckles around the bridge of her nose complimented her green eyes.
Her husband was also dressed for business, with a crew cut and a nose that seemed slightly larger than the rest of his head. They were both young, mid-30s. But soon they’d both be dead and it wouldn’t matter anymore. Siyana was the tip of the spear. Once the Zubarevs were dead, the machine in Moscow would spring into action and round up the rest of the traitors in one swift stroke.
ZUBAREV TWISTED off the cap of a bottle of Stoli and poured a splash into the bathroom glass.
“At least take off your coat first,” Valeriya said.
Zubarev exited the bathroom and placed the glass on the dresser. The hotel room was smaller than he would have liked, but at least it was comfortable. He removed his sport coat and hung it in the closet, loosened his tie, and picked up his glass again. He leaned against the dresser.
Val pulled her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt, sat on the edge of the bed only steps away and took off her heels.
“Why are you so tense?” she said.
“It wasn’t enough.”
“The money?”
“Of course the money.” He took a long drink and topped off the glass, the bottle going glug-glug as the liquor left the spout.
“It will take time. This is our first stop.”
They were working their way up the east coast. The Midwest was next, followed by a tour through California and north to Seattle.
Val peeled off her stockings, revealing pale white legs, narrow at the ankles but thicker at the thighs. He found himself staring.
“Litvinenko thought he had time. He’s part of the reason we have to act, and soon. We can’t waste time. They’ll crush us if we take too long.”
Zubarev downed the drink and reached for the bottle.
“No more,” she said, rising from the bed. Taking the glass, she set it on the dresser. She put her hands on his chest, her long fingernails a shiny pink. She had to look up to meet his eyes and he felt the heat of her body. He let out a breath. She was the calming force in his life. They had only been married for two years after meeting at a rally where he had been on the sidelines while the party boss gave a speech. She stood in the audience and they caught each other’s eyes. When she smiled at him, a switch flipped inside him, and he knew he had to meet her. He knew deep down that she was the woman he’d spend his life with. After dating for three years, he proposed, she said yes, and now they were working together to restore Russia to her proper glory. He wanted to raise their children in a free Russia, not a Russia controlled by a maniac.
“You need to relax. We have a long flight tomorrow.”
“I can’t relax.”
“What do I need to do to calm you down?”
“Promise the coup will be a success. That Russia will be free.”
“You’re still giving a speech,” she said. “Undress me and we’ll go to bed.”
SIYANA REMOVED the stethoscope from the wall.
The couple hadn’t talked much after their return, but apparently, the night’s work was successful enough that they were extra horny. Pathetic. A disgrace to Russia all around. The last thing she’d heard after a lot of muffled words and short grunts was Zubarev on the phone, asking for a seven a.m. wake-up call.
Siyana picked up the phone and asked for a six a.m. wake-up call. She occupied the neighboring hotel room, the little red dress draped over a chair, wearing only her underwear. The room had been arranged via a connection on the staff who was the nephew of one of her boss’s captains.
Siyana had been one of the top killers for the Solntsevskaya Bratva crime family in Moscow. A run-in with some Bulgarian gangsters resulted with a price on her head. The boss sent her to Shishkin Pavlovitch, the boss of the East Coast Russian mob interests New York City, and she’d quickly cemented her reputation in the new land. Sometimes she found her gunsights on targets like Zubarev. Not criminals or rivals, but enemies of the Motherland. Pavlovitch had a close relationship with Vladimir Putin; whenever Putin needed any wet work done, he often reached out around the world to Pavlovitch and people like him. Putin couldn’t very well send official agents on such matters because he had a reputation as a statesman to maintain, one most of the world bought, especially a large portion of the American population, who thought him an example of masculine leadership.
The fools.
She put the stethoscope away in a tote bag and decided to hit the sack. She slept with one light on.
Siyana rinsed her mouth with water, stowed her toothbrush in the tote bag, and hopped in the shower. She left the room around a quarter after six dressed in jeans, T-shirt, jacket and running shoes.
The lobby was quiet, only staff hanging around getting started for the morning. The lobby restaurant had just opened as well. Fresh coffee wafted through the room and she was tempted to get a cup to go, but the job came first. If the Zubarevs woke up early and made it downstairs while she was pouring the milk, the whole operation would be in jeopardy.
Siyana stepped out into the crisp morning air. Clouds still hung in the sky. On the opposite side of the wide parking lot, full of cars, was the freeway. There wasn’t much traffic at this hour but the rumble of cars drowned out any other noise. She couldn’t even hear birds chirping.
She crossed the parking lot, ignoring her car, and climbed into the passenger seat of a white panel van scrubbed of identifying labels. She tossed her tote bag in the back of the van.
A hulk of a man sat behind the wheel. He handed her a Starbucks from the console cup holder.
“You’re a lifesaver, Boris.”
The big man grunted and took a drink from his own cup.
Siyana sipped her coffee and placed it back in the holder. She enjoyed the warming sensation in her belly as the coffee went down her throat. Under the seat, she found an Uzi submachine gun with the stock folded. She bent over to keep the weapon out of sight and checked the load. Full mag, chamber empty. She placed the weapon on the floor and rested her right foot atop it. Back to the coffee. Boris kept his eyes on the front of the hotel. She watched too, glancing at their nearby rental from time to time.
The rental was a new Chevy Impala, but the souped-up van could more than keep up despite its extra weight. The suspension had been tuned and the engine’s power boosted as well. Boris, an expert driver, could whip the van around like a six-figure sports car.
Siyana’s coffee was half gone w
hen Zubarev and his wife crossed the lot to the Impala. Zubarev carried their suitcases and loaded them into the trunk. He held the passenger door for his wife and climbed behind the wheel. Such a gentleman. Such a waste of good Russian stock. Siyana wished the man was on the right side of Motherland politics. He was smart and articulate. But for reasons she could not understand, he had chosen to become an enemy.
The Impala started and drove out of the parking lot.
Boris fired up the van and followed.
“We’ll hit them on the freeway,” Siyana said.
They followed a two-lane frontage road parallel to the freeway, made a right at a light, and increased speed on the on-ramp. Zubarev stayed in the slow lane despite the light traffic.
Boris merged behind a semi, the van’s engine purring, Siyana placing the Uzi on her lap. She locked back the bolt. Two miles to an interchange that would take them east toward the airport. When the semi took the next exit, leaving a gap between van and Impala, Siyana told Boris to speed up and change lanes. She powered down her window. Cold air rushed into the van. The hairs on her neck stood with the sudden chill.
The chill was soon replaced by butterflies of excitement in her belly. Her breathing slowed, her chest rising and falling as she breathed deep through her mouth. Her lips were wet.
A sign for the upcoming interchange flashed by. Boris gave the van a splash of power and came up on the Impala’s rear quarter on the driver’s side.
“Hurry,” he said.
But Siyana didn’t hear him. She was in her zone, focused on the target. She didn’t even unbuckle her belt as she stretched the Uzi through the window, aimed downward, and squeezed the trigger.
Flame flashed from the muzzle, the buzz-saw sound of the fully automatic submachine gun echoing through the van. The rear glass of the Impala shattered, the roof shredding as the hot nine-millimeter slugs tore through, a shift in Siyana’s aim bringing the final fusillade of lead to the back of the driver’s seat. She pulled the weapon back inside as Boris floored the pedal, the van rocketing away. He weaved around other cars, quickly swinging back into the right lane to make the interchange. The sharp clover-leaf turn made the suspension squeal but the van held, and soon they were heading east, in more traffic, quickly taking the first exit they came to.