“You can count on my support,” Shelby said. “I won’t let our country down.”
Burke’s face deadpanned. “Changing our nation’s current downward trajectory will be difficult. It’ll require sacrifice.”
“I’m willing to make any sacrifice to bring about the needed change.”
“We’re not talking about your sacrifice. Sometimes you have to burn down the forest to regrow it,” said Burke. “This will not be an easy task or a job for the fainthearted, like Gary Vincent.”
Did Burke just threaten him? It didn’t matter. Shelby had sold his soul to True America when he held up the investigation into the attempted bioweapons attack and minimized the link between the fanatics responsible for the attack and the mainstream True America political party. The ink had long ago dried on that contract, and there was no going back.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said.
“I wasn’t worried. I just needed to reemphasize the unwavering commitment required to be a part of the inner echelon.”
“I’m fully committed,” said Shelby, both thrilled and alarmed by Burke’s statement.
“We’ll make all of the necessary arrangements for your confirmation and call on you shortly,” said Burke. “Until then, we need your help with something.”
“Anything.”
“A member of the outer echelon has gone missing. We’d like to find him immediately.”
“Who?”
“Gerald Simmons. White House Counterterrorism director,” said Burke.
Simmons? In the outer echelon? He didn’t even know there were echelons. That explained how the weasel had landed a coveted position at the White House. Shelby hadn’t thought the guy was worth a squirt of piss when he’d first met him.
“Do you suspect foul play?”
“I always suspect foul play,” said Burke. “But in this case, I believe he was abducted. Gerry isn’t the most stalwart guy, but he’s fiercely loyal.”
“When you say immediately, how immediately do you mean?”
“I didn’t realize there were different shades of interpretation.”
“Not interpretation, implementation,” said Shelby. “How critical is Simmons?”
“He represents a dangerous nexus to the entire cause.”
“I’ll do everything in my power to find him,” said Shelby.
“I appreciate the fact that you don’t confuse authority with power,” said Burke.
“I prefer not to limit myself.”
Epilogue
80 to 90 miles northwest of Lubbock, Texas
Anatoly Reznikov bounced in his seat, the vastly oversized luxury SUV apparently jumping another fucking chasm. The seatbelt instantly locked into place against his chest and constricted his breathing. A sense of panic set in soon after that, no doubt a symptom of the goddamn hood over his head. His trembling hands scrambled to disengage the seatbelt, which required him to expel every bit of oxygen left in his lungs to create enough slack in the belt to set him free. Once again, his hands couldn’t seem to figure it out, and he found himself clawing at the latch and whimpering in desperation. The tightness across his chest suddenly eased and the seatbelt released.
“There you go, my friend,” said Sokolov.
Reznikov fumbled to grab the end of the seatbelt from Sokolov’s hands, managing to click it back in place by himself. One of the Americans chuckled.
Under other circumstances, he might consider a simple thank you, but not with Sokolov. Helping him with the seatbelt wasn’t an act of kindness on the mercenary’s part. The fucker had sold him like cattle to the highest bidder. The mercenary was making sure that his payday didn’t get damaged in transit.
The beast had dragged him from one dank shithole airport to another, spanning Southeast Asia, until they finally boarded a private jet that hopped the Pacific and landed in some Mexican city named after a dog. He feared that would be his last luxury for a long time.
Upon landing, the wide leather seats and unlimited food and booze transformed into dusty trunks and wooden crates that smelled like animal feces. This went on for a few days until they stopped at a border city, where Sokolov finally let his guard down. During one of Sokolov’s frequent squabbles with the Mexicans hired to transport them, Reznikov slipped out of a dank garage into an equally squalid neighborhood and ran for the nearest sign of civilization. A distant gas station.
A quick taxi ride later, he found the dingiest-looking bar in the red-light district and somehow convinced the owner to pour him some vodka. Jet-fuel variety, but still welcome. He drank several shots, entertaining the grimy crowd with his Russian toasts, and patiently waited for Sokolov to find him, mostly so he could cover the bill. The easily amused group of locals looked like the types that would cut his throat at the first sign of insolvency.
True to form, the mercenary showed up while he was in the middle of deflecting an increasingly hostile string of questions in Spanish and English, aimed at determining if and how he intended on paying his bill. The bar’s mood had turned dark enough that he wished he knew better Spanish. Or any Spanish.
He could have turned them on Sokolov in a heartbeat. A hint that the Russian carried lots of cash could easily buy a slit throat in this city. Reznikov saw his freedom in their murderous eyes, a fleeting glimpse he wasn’t likely to catch again. The group that had taken possession of him at the border crossing was slick and well organized. They made the Bratva look like undisciplined rabble.
Americans without a doubt, and government from what he guessed, which perplexed him. His previous government-sponsored stay in the United States had nearly ended with his assassination at the hands of the CIA officer Karl Berg. They clearly didn’t want him dead, or the men that met Sokolov on the banks of the jungle river in India would have put a bullet in his head. They went through a lot of trouble to get him here and to do it discreetly. The Americans needed something from him. Something they hadn’t needed in 2007. He was intrigued despite the stifling hood over his head.
They drove for a brief amount of time before one of the Americans spoke.
“Unbag ’im. We’re clear.”
Reznikov squinted after the impenetrable hood was ripped from his head, despite the SUV’s deeply tinted windows. He took a moment to reorient himself within the vehicle. Sokolov sat to his left, behind the driver. A look over his shoulder revealed two serious-looking gentlemen, one of them stuffing the black hood into a tan backpack. Reznikov noted the Taser pistols within easy reach of the men, certain that far more lethal options were hidden nearby.
Jumping out of the vehicle wasn’t an option, even if he could somehow convince himself to take the risk. The doors next to Reznikov and Sokolov contained no handles or buttons, and a thick, clear glass shield separated the front seating area from the passengers. No viable escape option appeared to exist, and even if he somehow got out of the vehicle, where the hell would he go?
A featureless hardscrabble landscape extended as far as the eye could see in every direction. A constant low-grade rumble from the tires combined with the little he could see through the dust-caked windshield convinced him they were speeding down a dirt road toward a destination still too far away to see. The land reminded him of the vast Kazakh steppes, but drier and harder. Reznikov had no concept of where they had driven him or how long he’d been in the SUV. He had lost all track of time shortly after they started.
“We’re getting close,” said the man in the front passenger seat.
Reznikov leaned sideways and peered through the windshield. Getting close to what? Nothing had changed. He started to look away when the horizon subtly changed. It was still flat and barren, but something was different.
“What is it?” asked Sokolov.
“What do you care?” said Reznikov, keeping his eyes fixed on the vast emptiness ahead of them.
A few minutes later, the distant outline of an endless fence took shape, nearly blending with the environment. The SUV raced toward the barrier, thic
k coils of concertina wire topping the out-of-place barrier. The fence lazily parted ahead of them, and Reznikov started to wonder if the driver was paying attention. The vehicle barreled through the opening with less than a foot of space on each side. The fence shrank away behind them, the gate already returning to seal the gap. Now what? The landscape in front of them looked the same as before.
They drove past the fence for what felt like ten to fifteen minutes; then the SUV started to slow. Reznikov looked around. Still nothing. The vehicle decelerated rapidly, plunging down a ramp into a subterranean complex, where it came to a stop.
“Final destination, gentlemen,” said the man in the front seat.
He didn’t like the sound of that at all. Armed men met them at the bottom of the ramp, opening the doors on both sides of the SUV. Nobody grabbed Reznikov or pointed a weapon at him, but the message was clear. He hopped out of the vehicle and looked around, impressed by what he saw.
It was difficult to take in the full scope of the facility from where he stood, but he guessed they had descended into a man-made excavation the length and width of two soccer fields. Judging by the height of the SUV compared to the nearest wood-beam-reinforced earthen walls, Reznikov estimated the dig to be thirty feet deep, entirely covered by thick sections of camouflage-style netting supported by an expansive latticework of metal beams and supports. Two men worked swiftly to replace the section of netting at the top of the ramp they had just entered. Clever.
Underneath the canopy, several buildings filled the excavation. Two windowless, state-of-the-art structures drew his attention, their purpose unmistakable. The rest were forgettable prefabricated wooden assemblies, the word MARS painted in block letters on a few of them. The place was surprisingly quiet for a self-contained facility.
“Dr. Reznikov,” said a tall man standing next to the set of guards that had opened his car door, “welcome to Site X.”
He spoke fluent, academic Russian.
“Site X?” said Reznikov. “That’s quite an original name.”
“Site X felt appropriate given its purpose. Randolph Powers, Site X mission coordinator. It’s my job to make sure you have everything you need and that your stay here is as pleasant as the circumstances allow.”
“There’s nothing pleasant about being a prisoner,” said Reznikov, glaring at Sokolov, who stood in front of the SUV.
“Temporary guests. Your work is critical to our cause, and you’ll be rewarded handsomely. Unfortunately, it’s in our best interest to keep both of you out of the public’s eye, so to speak, until a point in time when our cause has gained enough momentum to be self-sustaining.”
“Sounds like a long time,” said Reznikov.
“Not terribly long,” said Powers. “Though time does have a way of dragging on down here, as you can imagine. Staying busy helps.”
“I assume the samples are here?” said Reznikov.
“They arrived several days earlier,” said Powers. “We’ve eagerly awaited your arrival.”
“Of course you have,” said Reznikov, nodding at Sokolov. “And him?”
“You’re both our guests,” said Powers.
“I’d prefer not to have to look at him while I’m here,” said Reznikov.
“We presumed as much. His quarters are located on the opposite side of the site from you, with a separate recreation facility.”
“That’s very considerate of you,” said Reznikov.
“My instructions are to keep you happy,” said Powers, glancing around. “Within reason. You’ll have twenty-four-hour access to gourmet food—”
“And drink?”
“As long as it doesn’t impact your work,” said Powers.
“Women?”
“We can make that happen, occasionally. Like I said, my instructions are to keep you happy.”
“Within reason,” Reznikov repeated.
“Exactly. You have a busy schedule.”
“You know what would make me very happy?” said Reznikov.
“A few bottles of ice-cold Grey Goose and a few days to relax poolside? We have a pool, though you can’t really work on your tan,” said Powers, glancing upward at the canopy.
“That would certainly make me happy, but not very happy,” said Reznikov.
Powers shrugged. “What would make Dr. Anatoly Reznikov very happy? It’s your first day, and I’d like to make a good impression. Within reason.”
Reznikov switched to English and nodded at Sokolov. “Is killing this piece of shit within reason?”
“I can’t think of any reason why it wouldn’t be,” said Powers, turning to the group of heavily armed guards next to him and nodding.
Sokolov had already started backing up slowly, his English apparently a little better than Reznikov had guessed. Before the Russian mercenary could make a sudden move, the two guards raised their compact rifles and fired quick bursts into Sokolov, dropping him to his knees next to the SUV’s front bumper.
Reznikov held an open hand toward the gunmen. “No more!”
Powers repeated the order, stopping the men from firing again.
“May I borrow your pistol? I promise to only use one bullet,” said Reznikov.
Powers nodded and glanced at the guards, who shifted their rifles to cover Reznikov.
“The pistol is ready for action. Just pull the trigger,” said Powers. “Once.”
Reznikov walked up to Sokolov, who had braced himself against the vehicle by wedging his right elbow between the bumper and the grill. He spit blood onto the dusty ground and looked up at Reznikov, a grin on his filthy face.
“You’re just as dead as I am, you pathetic fuck,” said Sokolov.
“I’ve risen from the dead before,” said Reznikov, nudging the pistol against Sokolov’s forehead.
Reznikov pressed the trigger once, kicking the mercenary’s limp body off the bumper. He held the pistol at shoulder height and pointed it toward the sky, his finger out of the trigger well. A hand snatched it from his loose grip a moment later. Turning to face his new captors, he smiled pleasantly at Powers.
“I believe you mentioned something about vodka and a pool?”
THE END
If you enjoyed the Black Flagged series, I have NO DOUBT that you will love my new FRACTURED STATE series. Set in the year 2035, FRACTURED STATE follows Nathan Fisher, the unwitting target of a black ops conspiracy, in a cat and mouse chase across a frighteningly recognizable, high-tech, dystopian southwest United States. ORDER FRACTURED STATE NOW FROM AMAZON.
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Work by Steven Konkoly
Fractured State Series—Near-future black ops thriller
“2035. A sinister conspiracy unravels. A state on the verge of secession. A man on the run with his family.”
Fractured State (Book 1)
Rogue State (Book 2)
The Perseid Collapse Series—Post-apocalyptic/dystopian thrillers
“2019. Six years after the Jakarta Pandemic, life is back to normal for Alex Fletcher and most Americans. Not for long.”
The Jakarta Pandemic (Prequel)
The Perseid Collapse (Book 1)
Event Horizon (Book 2)
Point of Crisis (Book 3)
Dispatches (Book 4)
The Black Flagged Series—Black Ops/Political thrillers
“Daniel Petrovich, the most lethal operative created by the Department of Defense’s Black Flag Program, protects a secret buried in the deepest vaults of the Pentagon. A secret that is about to unravel his life.”
Black Flagged Alpha (Book 1)
Black Flagged Redux (Book 2)
Black Flagged Apex (Book 3)
Black Flagged Vektor (Book 4)
Black Flagged Omega (Book 5)
JET BLACK (Novella)
Wayward Pines Kindle World:
GENESIS (Compilation of novellas set in Blake Crouch’s Wayward Pines story)
About the Author
Steven graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1993, receiving a bachelor of science in English literature. He served the next eight years on active duty, traveling the world as a naval officer assigned to various Navy and Marine Corps units. His extensive journey spanned the globe, including a two-year tour of duty in Japan and travel to more than twenty countries throughout Asia and the Middle East.
From enforcing United Nations sanctions against Iraq as a maritime boarding officer in the Arabian Gulf, to directing aircraft bombing runs and naval gunfire strikes as a Forward Air Controller (FAC) assigned to a specialized Marine Corps unit, Steven’s “in-house” experience with a wide range of regular and elite military units brings a unique authenticity to his thrillers.
He lives with his family in central Indiana, where he still wakes up at “zero dark thirty” to write for most of the day. When “off duty,” he spends as much time as possible outdoors or travelling with his family—and dog.
Steven is the bestselling author of ten novels and several novellas, including a commissioned trilogy of novellas based on the popular Wayward Pines series. His canon of work includes the popular Black Flagged Series, a gritty, no-holds barred covert operations and espionage saga; The Perseid Collapse series, a post-apocalyptic thriller epic chronicling the events surrounding an inconceivable attack on the United States; and The Fractured State series, a near-future, dystopian thriller trilogy set in the drought-ravaged Southwest.
He is an active member of the International Thriller Writers (ITW) and Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA) organizations.
You can contact Steven directly by email ([email protected]) or through his blog (www.stevenkonkoly.com).
Acknowledgments
To the usual suspects. You know who you are. A special shout-out goes to my editor, Felicia Sullivan, for saving me from myself on this one. She knows what I’m talking about. The same thank you goes out to Pauline Nolet and Stef McDaid, both of whom responded brilliantly to my rather short-fused notice.
OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5) Page 32