Savage Recruit (Ryan Savage Thriller Series Book 8)

by Jack Hardin

  “What did he find?” Teacup asked.

  “All of it is fragmented, you understand. With encryption like this, you’ll never have all the pieces at once. But he assembled enough data to identify the general area where the request for pictures of Zoe originated.”

  “General area?” I said. “Like Greece?” That wasn’t going to get us anywhere.

  “Yes. Greece. But then we found a way to narrow it down. I am happy to say that I have found the precise location.”

  Bahar’s last sentence got my adrenaline flowing again.

  “It is a home in Penteli, a wealthy neighborhood in the northern suburbs of Athens.”

  “Who owns it?” Chachi asked.

  “It is listed to a Vasilly Marin.”

  “Who’s that?” Teacup asked.

  “I emailed Granger his details. He is a native of Spain but has homes in Greece and Egypt. He primarily deals in oil exploration and has done very well for himself.”

  “Is there any direct connection to Kathleen?” Boomer asked.

  “No. Not that I have found. As far as I can see, they have never met.”

  Boomer leaned closer to the phone. “Bahar, how confident are you in this information?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Tell me how you arrived at that level of certainty. I can’t lead an armed team into Vasilly’s house if there are any doubts he’s our guy.”

  “You discovered the body of one of Kathleen’s kidnappers, correct? Adonis Galatas was shot dead in his home?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Five years ago, Adonis worked in private security for one of Vasilly’s companies. For five months, Adonis was actually on Vasilly’s personal detail. I cannot tell you where Kathleen is. But I am certain this is the man who is behind her kidnapping. If you find him, you will find her.”

  Throughout the call, Granger had been studying the information Bahar sent him. He looked up now and nodded his agreement. “I’m with Bahar. This is our man.”

  A smile spread across Boomer’s face. He raised his hand and circled his index finger in the air. “Then suit up, gentlemen. If the gods show us any favor, then tonight is when we finally bust some heads.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The old bicycle’s wheels crunched quietly over the narrow dirt road. The rider turned slowly around the bend and pedaled a few more revolutions before squeezing the brake handle and coming to a stop in front of the wood-lapped store. He got off the bike, set the kickstand, and took a moment to admire the view from his position high on the mountainside.

  From here, he could see for miles. A green carpet of lush grass and wildflowers covered the vast expanse of the valley below, broken only by the Lech River and the occasional chalet. All around him, the breeze whispered through the reaching branches and boughs of firs and beeches. Out here, there were no airplanes or highways to disrupt the serene language of nature. Only the occasional car or delivery truck ever made its way up the mountainside, and that happened no more than once a week.

  The store was paneled in brown painted spruce and featured a small covered porch underneath which he had spent many, many hours sitting, sipping tea, coffee, and the occasional whiskey. He stepped past the table and chairs, wiped his loafers on the rug, opened the door, and stepped inside. The smells of freshly baked bread, chocolate, and apple pie swirled in his nose, making his mouth water and his stomach growl.

  A rotund woman was behind the counter. She had a homely appearance: always wearing a dress and round, flushed cheeks that never seemed to be without a smile. Her head was wrapped in a silk shawl, and her thick hands were busy kneading a lump of dough.

  “Lukas!” she called out. “How are you?”

  “Good, Olga. The air is cooler. I think that fall will be upon us before we know it.” He began his ritual of slowly examining the shelves’ contents.

  “That you are right. I don’t know if my arthritis can handle it this year. I’m thinking about putting Orin in charge of the store for the winter and going to see my sister in Spain.”

  He looked over at her. “Spain? Then who will make my pastries and pies?”

  She smiled and waved him off. “Christiana would remain here. She would continue running things as usual. You wouldn’t even know I was gone.”

  “Christiana? But she doesn’t have your skills in the kitchen.” He threw her a wink.

  Olga blushed and flipped the dough. “Oh, Lukas. You are a born charmer.”

  Lukas took his time selecting what he wanted, settling on a bottle of milk, a chocolate bar, a loaf of bread, and two sticks of butter. He placed them on the counter and tugged his wallet from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket. “And, here.” He selected a packet of seasoned beef jerky from a box on the counter. “For Ulche.”

  “Ah, yes. That dog loves his jerky, doesn’t he?”

  “The peppered flavor most of all. If I don’t keep it up high, the entire package would be gone in minutes.”

  Olga laughed as she finished calculating his total on a notepad. She recited it to him, and he handed over a paper note. “You keep the change, Olga. Save for Spain.” Lukas winked again, she blushed again, and he collected the items into his arms and left out the front door. He placed the groceries in the basket on the front of the bike, swept up the kickstand, and got onto the seat. The chain clicked as he moved the gear knob to a lower setting and began pedaling back up the road. Half a kilometer later, he slowed at the switchback and pedaled harder as the road grew steeper.

  His thighs conducted a mild burn, and he recalled the first time he had taken the bike to Olga’s. The declining route there was pleasant, and he had spent most of the time riding the brake. But the ride back was arduous and highlighted just how out of shape he was. Halfway back, he had slipped off the seat and walked the bike the rest of the way home. Now though, his thighs were used to it, toned and muscular.

  Ten minutes after leaving the store, he caught the first glimpse of his chalet. He had what he thought was the best view on the mountain. There was only one home above him, another half kilometer farther up the road. But it was owned by a wealthy financier from Bonn and was visited no more than two or three times each year. From here, there were no trees on the side of the road to block his view of the valley. And what a view it was.

  He got off the bike and walked it to the side entrance, where he propped it against a fir tree and removed his groceries. He took the stone steps up to the side entrance and went inside, whistling for the dog as he walked into the kitchen. He whistled again as he placed the milk in the fridge. “Ulche! I have beef jerky!”

  No sound of the dog’s nails clicking on the floor, no jingle of his collar’s tags. Something wasn’t right. The dog was always underfoot.

  He picked up the pack of jerky and started for the living room but stopped in the doorway when he saw the shadowy figure standing by the fireplace. He froze. The figure didn’t move. It was darker in this area of the house, and no lights were on. “What do you want? Take whatever you like.” A nightmarish dread descended upon him.

  The response was monotone, lacking any emotion at all. “Have a seat, Simon.”

  His throat tightened at the name, and his head suddenly felt lighter. He hadn’t heard that name in over three years. He was Lukas now. Lukas van Werkhoven.

  “Take a seat.” The voice was commanding now, impatient.

  Simon slowly crossed the floor and took a seat on his couch. The figure moved and sat on the armchair across from him. Simon could see him better now; his features were large and pronounced, a typical henchman coming to collect for his employer. His right hand gripped a pistol trained directly on Simon.

  Simon’s next words stammered across trembling lips. “What—what do you want?”

  “Simon Luganov, your expertise is needed once again.”

  “No,” he answered. “No, I am done with all of that.” As he shook his head, his gaze caught something across the room. Near an end table, beneath th
e window, lay a small dark form. It was Ulche, his Scottish Terrier. “No...no...” he whimpered. “You killed my dog?”

  “He was too loud. That’s how this goes.”

  Simon closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. He had dreamed of this horrible moment a thousand times over. And now it was here. Now it was real. “How did you find me?”

  “Your old friend Kathleen Rose. She gave you up.”

  Simon’s eyes flicked open. He had expected to hear that the Russian government had been overly zealous in trying to find him. Or that a promotion seeker had remained dedicated to finding him as a favor to the higher-ups. But Kathleen giving him up? It was not possible. She was his friend. Not only had she made all the arrangements for him, but she had personally escorted him here. Other than two stateside administrators at Langley, no one else knew where he was.

  “Kathleen?” he whispered.

  “Let me ask you something,” the man said. “Why did you do it? Why did you leave at all? It is my understanding that you had a good thing going back in Russia.”

  Simon owed this man no explanation. He was just the lackey, sent to pick up someone’s order. Still, he felt compelled to answer. If nothing else, now might be a good time to remind himself why he had defected.

  “I worked in the nuclear research division of Rosatom, Russia’s State Atomic Energy Corporation. Through my research, I discovered a proprietary means of isolating certain isotopes and re-energizing their nuclei towards a more stable—”

  “I don’t need all the science.”

  Simon sighed. “My discoveries uncovered a new way of approaching nuclear energy, indicating less of a dependence on uranium. Additionally, the basic theory could carry a great deal of commercial applications as well, most of which could harm large populations if put in the wrong political or corporate hands. I tried to quit my division and move into academia, but they would not allow me to. Moscow knew the Pandora’s box I was close to opening, and they had the only key. In the end, I could not in good conscience continue the work I was doing. So I burned my research and corrupted the hard drives. Then I gave the United States a different kind of proprietary research I had in exchange for my freedom.”

  The man shrugged. “Now would be a good time to dispose of your conscience. You won’t be needing it where I’m taking you. My employer has plans to make a great deal of money from the work you’re going to do for him.” A soft buzz filled the room. Simon’s captor reached into his pocket and brought out his phone. After looking at the screen, he said, “Don’t move,” and answered the phone. He set it to his ear. “Yes? … Yes. I’ve got him. … Bring him there? … Of course. I will see you tonight.” He hung up and came to his feet. “Simon, how do you sleep at night, knowing that you betrayed your country?”

  “There are some things more important than loyalty to one’s country.”

  “Such as?”

  “Truth. Honesty. The knowledge that what we create has consequences.”

  “How noble.” He stood up and flicked the muzzle of his gun toward the door. “Let’s go. We have a long day of travel ahead of us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Vasilly Marin’s home was perched at the back of a gated community on the north end of the city. A little research on Granger’s part revealed two guards keeping watch at the security booth and four personal guards on Vasilly’s property. Boomer dispatched Teacup ahead of the team to deal with the security booth, and by the time we arrived, the guards were fast asleep.

  Boomer pulled up to the gate and rolled down his window. Teacup was standing in the open door of the security booth, his body armor on, his assault rifle in a loose grip. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Teacup, open the gate.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t see you on the approved list. You’ll need to turn around.”

  “Open the damn gate.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Teacup pressed a button on the inside of the door frame and joined us in the van as the gate rolled back. Boomer edged forward into the neighborhood and took an immediate left. The homes were immaculate, sitting on one- and two-acre lots, their exteriors perfectly lit against the darkness. Date palms and cedars stood tall in the yards and served to mark out lot lines in the absence of fences.

  Boomer followed the road around and turned off the headlights before stopping two houses down from Vasilly’s home on the opposite side of the street. Granger’s laptop was sitting on his knees. “One second…” he said. “Okay… done. The alarm system is disabled.” He slapped the laptop shut and grabbed up his rifle. We pulled down our night vision goggles and adjusted the focus a final time, the world glowing in a bright green monochrome.

  Boomer called for a comms check, then, “A brief reminder that we’re taking Vasilly alive. If Kathleen isn’t in that house, then we’re going to need him to tell us where she is.”

  A hallowed silence filled the van, that pre-engagement calm when every soldier mentally gears up to carry out a successful mission.

  The stillness was broken by Boomer performing a final check on his gun and switching on his IR laser. The rest of us followed suit and waited.

  “Let’s roll,” Boomer said.

  We spilled from the van in complete silence, with Chachi making a beeline to the front door, where he quickly set a strip charge. Boomer and I moved up to the minimum safe distance and waited. Teacup and Granger broke left and scaled the wall, dropping without a sound into the back yard.

  Chachi was done in ten seconds. He rolled back to Boomer and me. “Breach set,” he whispered.

  Boomer nodded. “Execute in three… two... one… Execute.”

  The backblast was deafening and sent shards of wood and plaster spiraling across the landscaping. We sprang from our positions. Boomer was first to enter the cloud of dust and cross the threshold, followed by me and then Granger, our IR lasers piercing brightly through the darkness.

  We moved stealthily down the main hallway, following it as it curved around and passing enormous statues of Greek gods. A burst of gunfire chattered in the back of the house. “Contact atrium!” Teacup yelled and then followed it up with a burst of his own.

  As I advanced smoothly through the darkness, my NVGs caught a flurry of movement to my right. A security guard, dressed in a suit and brandishing a pistol, appeared from the opening of a hallway. A muzzle flash blinked off the end of his gun, and the bullet cut through the air just past my ear. Boomer stitched him up with a quick burst from his rifle. The man fell backward into the wall and collapsed on the marble floor.

  Boomer raised his fist and extended two fingers, pointing down the hall from which the guard had emerged. He held a fist to his chest and then pointed forward. Keeping his muzzle trained on the mouth of the adjacent hallway, he quickly cleared his corners and then across the hall and continued forward.

  Chachi followed me down the hallway, and we cleared two rooms and a bathroom before arriving at an arched wooden door at the end.

  “Clear!” Teapot called out. “And we’ve got him. We’ve got Vasilly.”

  I stepped to the side, reached out, and tried the door’s handle. It was locked. Speaking to anyone who might be on the other side, I yelled, “Stand clear!” and sent a short burst from my rifle into the lock. The wood around it splintered, and as the echo of the gun’s report still bounced around in my ears, I leaned back, punched the heel of my shoe into the door, and watched as it flew open.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Florin Gronozav checked his watch.

  He took a sip of rum and then checked his watch again.

  He stood on his yacht’s spacious sundeck, surrounded by over eighty guests who had come to hear his personal update on the millions of dollars they had each entrusted to him. Any minute now and his prized guest would arrive.

  The soiree was an elegant event, the men mingling in tuxedos, the deck awash with ladies in white cocktail dresses and black evening gowns. To distinguish himself from th
e rest of the party-goers, Florin wore a cream-colored shirt with an ivory silk jacket and a jaunty red cravat.

  The evening was perfect—not a cloud in the sky and just warm enough so the ladies did not require sweaters or shawls. Naples’ city lights twinkled like fireflies in the near distance, and the easy laughter and jolly conversations taking place before him only reinforced that he had finally gotten his business back on track. A classical quartet played softly at the bow, and the alcohol flowed freely, white-jacketed stewards pausing at groups of guests with trays filled with flutes of champagne.

  Everything was going as planned. The only hiccup that had brought a brief damper was Mikhail texting Florin an hour ago, apologizing for not being able to make it to the party after all. Florin had wanted Mikhail standing beside him when he made the announcement, when he showed off his prize, but no matter. The night would go on.

  Still, he felt restless, anxious. He was about to meet Simon Luganov face to face. He would shake his hand, offer him a drink, and then after presenting him to his guests, he would have his men escort Luganov off the boat and usher him to his new lab in Romania. If he refused to work, if he refused to continue his research, then Florin already had sufficient means of motivation lined up.

  Guests continued to arrive, slowly making their way up the passerelle and finding their way to him to compliment his yacht or to tell him how they were looking forward to hearing his announcement.

  He had just placed his empty glass on a passing tray when a bright shock of color caught his eye. A lady stepped off the passerelle and moved gracefully toward the salon. It was her dress that had gained his attention—a bright yellow evening gown. Absolutely striking. Other than the red in his cravat, her dress was the only color in the crowd. Curled brown locks bounced delicately on her shoulder.