by Mark Terry
“Yes. Unfortunately, I was also on the receiving end of a guy using one.”
“What happened to him?”
“An FBI agent hit him with a car. And not a second too soon. Why do you have this?”
The MP 9 was considered one of the finest submachine guns in the world.
“I took it off a Chechen terrorist who was going to use it against a school bus filled with children. I decided I liked it and planned to take it with me into any tactical situations I should find myself in.”
Derek studied it. There had a silencer, a foldable shoulder stock, and night sights. It was green and lightweight. If Derek remembered correctly, it could fire 900 rounds per minute and had an effective range of somewhere between fifty and one hundred meters. “You’re taking it, I hope.”
“I’m taking it,” Konstantin agreed.
The first name belonged to a forty-one-year-old Russian. He lived in an apartment in western Moscow near the site of the Spartak Stadium. According to Konstantin, the Spartak Stadium was supposed to begin construction in 2007 and be completed in 2012, but wasn’t due to politics and money. Same story everywhere, Derek thought.
It was, however, within the shadow of a huge cathedral. Konstantin said, “Bogoyavlensky Cathedral. Ah, there’s the apartment.”
The apartment building was a low-rise, dilapidated. The street was filled with beat-up cars, mostly Russian Ladas, Gaz, Moskvitch, and Zils. Derek understood this was a working class neighborhood, something that didn’t quite participate in the New Russian Capitalism, something lost in the cracks of making money.
They had abandoned the stolen Lada and taken Konstantin’s personal vehicle, a BMW. He parked and they checked their weapons. Derek had loaded his Beretta and pocketed a spare magazine. He also took one of Konstantin’s pistols, a Makarov, which was small and fit in a jacket pocket.
Konstantin carried the submachine gun in a holster beneath his wool jacket and carried two other guns. Derek hoped they wouldn’t need them.
Vitaly Abrikisov lived on the fourth floor. No elevators. Derek was in good shape, but after the day he’d had, he huffed and puffed a bit as he climbed the steps. The building was quiet, the security nonexistent. The floors were warped wood, the walls peeling yellow paint. It smelled of cigarettes, mold, cabbage and beets.
The apartment in question gave them no clues. Just a blank door. Gripping the Beretta, Derek stood to one side of the jamb. Konstantin stood on the other and pounded. Nothing. He waited a moment and hit the door with his fist, long and rhythmic.
From inside he heard someone shout what he figured was Russian for, “What is it? It’s the middle of the night.”
“Vitaly Abrikisov?”
“Da!” The door slammed open and a burly man with thinning blond hair stood blearily in the doorway. He wore a pair of gray sweatpants and no shirt. Tufts of graying hair covered his chest and shoulders, which were saggy and soft.
Konstantin asked the man a question. Vitaly Abrikisov looked confused. In the conversation Derek identified the name “Viktor Solomov,” but when it came up, Abrikisov shook his head. He demanded something of Konstantin, who flashed his credentials and responded with a burst of ugly Russian that seemed to both irritate and frighten Vitaly. Finally Konstantin gestured at the man and he shut the door.
Derek shot him a questioning look. Konstantin said, “One down.”
The second Vitaly Abrikisov lived north of Moscow in what looked to Derek like a fairly new apartment building, or maybe it was a condominium complex. It had been built recently and had thirty or forty units. The building had tan vinyl siding and three floors. It took Konstantin a few minutes to find the right unit in the dark. Whoever had built the complex had bulldozed everything that had been there before and started over again, including any trees and bushes. There was a bare quality to everything, the trees only a few years old, the shrubs looking minimalist.
Vitaly Abrikisov lived on the first floor. The door to the apartment opened out onto the street. Again Konstantin lined up on the left, Derek on the right. This time there was a doorbell, which Derek jabbed with his finger. Inside the building the bell rang.
A moment later a muffled shout filtered out to them and the door opened. Vitaly Abrikisov was thirty-five with a close-cropped black beard and a skullcap of short black hair. He glowered at them, took one look at Konstantin and Derek and slammed the door.
Konstantin kicked at the door. Locked. Of like mind, the two men stepped back and lunged at the door. It exploded inward beneath their combined attack. Derek had the Beretta in his hand, Konstantin had brought up the Brugger & Thomet. They split up so they wouldn’t be a single target, stepping into the dim light.
Abrikisov shouted something in Russian. Konstantin shouted back. Derek hissed, “What?”
“He said to leave or he’d start shooting.”
Derek eased around a corner and crouched, gun held up. “Did you tell him you’re FSB?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I don’t think he cares.”
A shot spit past Derek’s head and pocked into the wall. He dived and rolled across the room, coming up against the far wall. He and Konstantin made eye contact, Derek shaking his head. He pointed toward the wall. If he was right, Abrikisov was just around the corner. Konstantin nodded.
Derek stood, aimed his gun at the corner, angling downward and at an angle. He fired a single shot into the wall and jumped backward. The bullet zipped through two layers of drywall and out the other side. Abrikisov yelped and thudded to the floor with a curse. Derek and Konstantin were on him in a flash. Derek kicked Abrikisov’s gun out of his hand. Konstantin caught the man by his shirt and dragged him into the living room, throwing him into a chair.
Abrikisov clutched his leg where Derek’s bullet had torn through his thigh, just a couple inches above his knee. Derek thought the asshole got lucky. He did a quick search of the rest of the apartment, finding it empty. He did find three more guns in the bedroom, though—a sawed-off shotgun, a scoped rifle, and a Glock. Overall, Derek was glad the fool had picked up the Makarov they’d taken away from him instead of the shotgun.
He returned to the living room with all the weapons and a T-shirt advertising a Russian rock band. “Hang on.” He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a sharp knife. “Cover me,” he said, and approached Abrikisov. “I’m going to do something about the bleeding.”
Derek knelt by Abrikisov and used the knife to cut the jeans leg off above the wound. It was an ugly wound and it was bleeding enough that if they didn’t do something about it he might bleed to death or lose the leg. Derek pressed the shirt to the wound. The bullet was still in there somewhere, but he couldn’t feel it.
“Ask him what he knows about Lev,” Derek said.
Konstantin, holding the MP9 in his arms aimed at Abrikisov, asked him. Abrikisov spat out a response. Derek said, “What did he say?”
“He said ‘fuck you.’”
“Ah,” Derek said. He tapped Abrikisov on the shoulder. “Tell him to pay attention to me.”
Konstantin did. Abrikisov said, “Pasholta nahui,” which Derek did not think meant, “Let’s party, brother.”
Derek slammed his knuckles directly down on the wound. Abrikisov howled in pain, struggling to get out of the chair. Derek gripped the Russian by the throat, saying, “Ssshhhhh.”
“Kooshi govno ee oomree!”
Derek shot a questioning look at Konstantin, who said, “Eat shit and die.”
Taking the sodden shirt off the wound, he stuffed it in Abrikisov’s mouth, holding the butcher knife to the man’s throat. “Will you do the honors?” Derek asked. “My hands are full.”
Konstantin planted a hard foot on Abrikisov’s wound. The man let loose a muffled groan, thrashing wildly.
Yanking the shirt from his mouth, Derek pushed it back onto the wound. “Tell him to hold it in place.”
“What’re you doing?”
“He’s too hard
to control this way. I’m going to tie him up.”
Konstantin raised the gun and told Abrikisov what to do. The man said, “yob tvou mat’,” but pressed down on the now-crimson T-shirt.
Quickly searching the apartment, Derek came up with two leather belts and another T-shirt. Returning, he saw Konstantin was talking to Abrikisov, who at least appeared to be listening to him.
“Anything?”
“Giving him some time to think helped. He’s a little more chatty now.” Konstantin spoke to Abrikisov, who leaned forward, hands behind his back.
Derek tied his hands together with the belt. Then he pressed the T-shirt down on the other shirt and tied it in place with the second belt. He said, “Tell him that if he tells us what we want we’ll get him medical treatment. Otherwise he’s going to lose the leg.”
Konstantin and Abrikisov talked for what seemed like a long time. Finally Konstantin said, “He says he knows nothing about Lev or any other little boys.”
“Ask him about the weapons.”
The expression on Konstantin’s face indicated he got it. A moment later he translated Abrikisov’s response. “He says the Red Hand has weapons, but as far as he knows they were bought or members brought them themselves.”
The two Russians spoke some more. Abrikisov seemed to be growing sleepy. Derek checked the T-shirt and saw it was soaked with blood, but was starting to clot. Derek wondered if the man was going into shock.
Konstantin pressed down on the wounded leg. Abrikisov yelped and swore. The FSB agent spat out a series of questions. Abrikisov, eyes lidded, groaned and muttered. Konstantin prodded him and asked him something else. Abrikisov muttered something that seemed to interest Konstantin, then keeled over sideways, unconscious. Konstantin turned to Derek. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lead.”
Konstantin called an ambulance to come collect Abrikisov, although Derek didn’t think his heart was in it.
In the car, Derek asked what the lead was. Konstantin said, “He said he was just a soldier with the Red Hand. But one of his friends, Alek Stepunin, is higher up in the organization. He lives in south Moscow.”
“Let’s go.”
After the two men left, Abrikisov opened his eyes. Struggling forward, he managed to get to his feet, although it wasn’t easy. He hobbled toward the kitchen, lightning bolts of pain shooting up his leg, which barely supported his weight. In the kitchen, he turned his back to a drawer, pulled it open with his tied hands, and fumbled around until he found a sharp knife. Sweat beaded on his head, dripping down his nose, along his neck, soaking his shirt. Breath rasped in his throat.
With some difficulty he sawed through the belt that tied his hands. He felt the knife biting into his wrist, gritted his teeth and kept at it. Suddenly the belt gave and his hands were free. Staggering back into his bedroom he snatched his cell phone and made a call, quickly identifying himself.
“An FSB agent and an American are coming after you. Get the hell out of there and let Z know.” He clicked off the phone and passed out on the bed.
22
The musical riff of his cell phone awoke Mikhail Grechko. He snatched it up, saw the number and answered, “Da.”
“Stillwater and Konstantin are headed to this address.” The voice read it off. “They’re on their way. Take care of it this time or we will.” The phone went dead. Grechko was instantly on his feet. He splashed water in his face to wake up, checked his guns and headed for his car. In the trunk he took out a sawed-off shotgun and two more grenades.
Stillwater was a dead man.
Derek sat quietly next to Konstantin and added a bullet to his gun to replace the one he’d shot into Abrikisov’s leg. Konstantin said, “Something bothering you?”
“A philosophical problem,” he said as he checked the gun.
“And what would that be?”
Derek shrugged, not wanting to talk about it. But it was all about torturing that asshole to get information. It wasn’t the first time he had brutalized someone to get information he needed. But overall he didn’t believe in torture. He thought the information you got by torturing people was generally unreliable. And he knew that in the ticking clock situations he often found himself in, it was all too easy to stop trying to get to the truth when the victim offered you the information you hoped to hear.
Practical reasons aside, he had killed people in self-defense and in wartime, and although the morality could be debated, he had no problem with it. That wasn’t to say he didn’t have nightmares about the people he had killed, because he did. His panic attacks were rooted in his past; it wasn’t biochemical. He supposed it was good to give a damn about these things. He worried about the people it didn’t bother.
Disagreements with his parents be damned—sometimes he worried about the state of his soul.
“You are having second thoughts?”
Derek shook his head. “Just wrapping my head around it all.”
Konstantin grunted. “It would be nice sometimes to be an accountant or librarian, da?”
“Or college professor. Yes.”
“I think so, too. Check my weapon, please.”
Derek did, swapping out the clip with a full one, refilling the spare. He thought of Lev and pushed aside any doubts he may have had about brutalizing Abrikisov. The bastard was lucky to be alive.
They crossed over a river and entered a section of Moscow that to Derek looked like money: high-rise apartment buildings, new office buildings, and a higher percentage of BMWs and Mercedes and sports cars.
Parking the car, Konstantin said, “We have to be careful. It’s possible Lev and Raisa might be held here. We went in crazy with Abrikisov, but we’re climbing up the Red Hand chain of command. This could get tricky.”
Derek wondered about Russian rules of evidence, search warrants and probable cause and figured now was not the time to think about it. “Don’t shoot ‘til you see the whites of their eyes.”
A puzzled expression crossed the Russian’s face. “Yes. That is good advice, I suppose. Fredrick the Great, I believe.”
“William Prescott at Bunker Hill. They needed to save ammo.”
“Fredrick the Great, King of Prussia, I believe, said it first.”
“Fucking Russians,” Derek muttered. “Just don’t start spraying bullets.”
Konstantin barked a laugh. “Fucking Americans.”
They headed toward the high rise. It was built close to the street and if there was a parking garage or official parking space, it wasn’t obvious. Nighttime traffic was sporadic. Sleet arced through the glow of streetlights. Derek felt uneasy and didn’t know why. Perhaps because he and Konstantin were pushing the boundaries of their luck.
Konstantin must have felt the same way, because he held up a hand to stop. He flicked back his coat and gripped the MP9. Derek stepped away instinctively, his gun already out.
A familiar black BMW with a dented grill roared around the corner. Derek spun, raised his Beretta and fired directly into the windshield of the car, emptying his magazine. The BMW kept coming. At the last second Konstantin yanked him out of the way.
An object flew out of the open window as the BMW raced past. Both men lunged for cover, rolling over the hood of a Honda just as the grenade exploded.
The BMW skidded to a stop. The door opened and Grechko appeared, dressed all in black. With a sharp sound of metal on metal he cocked the shotgun. He shouted something in Russian. Derek heard “Stillwater” but didn’t know what else the assassin had said.
Konstantin shouted back.
“Translate,” Derek said.
“He said that he’s not interested in me. His contract is for you and I should turn you over to him.”
“Oh, great. And what did you say?”
“I said I’d think about it.”
Derek met his gaze. The Russian rolled his eyes. “I’m buying us time. Any ideas?”
Two men in camouflage gear carrying AK47s appeared around the corner of the high rise. One of them shouted at Gr
echko, who pointed toward where Derek and Konstantin crouched.
Derek thought for a moment. “You keep an eye on Grechko. I’m going to deal with our two friends here.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Special Forces, buddy. I’m going to do what we do best. But I wouldn’t mind if you created a distraction or two.” Derek silently scrambled into the shadows.
Within seconds, Konstantin realized that he could not see Stillwater. It was as if the man had silently dematerialized. Konstantin had been in the Russian Army and he knew many Spetznaz soldiers who were like Stillwater. For that matter, Irina had been one of a very few women who were Spetznaz. Scary people when they put their training and skills to work.
He decided since Grechko was pointing out where they were, it was time to move.
Crawling between the Honda and a Lexus, he crouched, considering his move. Well, Stillwater had wanted a distraction.
He exploded from his spot, racing directly across the icy road. As he ran, Konstantin sprayed the street with bullets from the MP9. He dived between a Range Rover and a Volkswagen parked on the opposite side of the street, crept behind them, and moved away. He swapped out the magazine for a fresh one and hoped Stillwater knew what he was doing.
The two guys in camouflage had briefly talked to Grechko, then spread out. One of them was walking toward a bush about twenty yards away, fairly close to where Derek was hiding in the shadows cast by one of the apartment building’s spotlights. There were enough dark spots and shadows in the area that he had been able to silently slip close to the building without being seen.
Moving into a crouch, Derek adjusted his finger on his gun. As the guy passed by, Derek was on him, right hand around his throat, squeezing, left hand over his mouth, guiding him violently but silently to the ground. He continued to press his fingers into the man’s carotid artery. The Russian thrashed a moment, clutching at Derek’s hand, then went limp.
Using the man’s own belt, he rolled him over and hogtied his hands and legs behind his back. He yanked off the man’s boots, stuffed a sock into his mouth and used the other to tie it around his neck. He then he dragged the man into the bushes.