by Alex Shaw
‘Now that I can understand,’ Hunter said, as he stood and walked out of the office.
They had to prepare for their guests. Tate checked his watch; they didn’t have much time. ‘What are we looking at, Bravo? How many men?’
‘Two SUVs, one with Angel and one backup.’ He nodded at Akulov. ‘You have got him worried. So that’s seven or eight men.’
‘OK, they are expecting you, Ruslan,’ Tate said. ‘They don’t know who the rest of us are.’ He looked at Bravo. ‘Can we trust you?’
Bravo shrugged and calmly moved his wrists apart, his muscles rippled and the cable ties snapped. ‘Does this answer your question?’
‘Thanks.’ A wry smile formed on Tate’s lips. ‘Ruslan, you’ve got the Beretta. Anything else?’
‘A spare magazine.’
‘OK, I’ve got my Glock.’ Tate knew it wasn’t enough.
Tate looked at his brother as he re-entered the room. ‘What did London say?’
‘London are going to speak to Washington. Washington will definitely want Chen Yan.’
The Giant frowned. ‘So that is a yes?’
‘It’s a probably, but these things take time.’ Hunter nodded.
‘I understand, time is money,’ the Giant replied.
‘Unless I can give them something. Something that would show that you are acting in good faith.’
The Giant’s brow furrowed. ‘Such as?’
‘Well,’ Hunter started, ‘you claim to know the location of both Chen Yan and George Eastman. If you can give me the location of Chen Yan, and we can verify it with the US authorities, then Her Majesty’s Government will be more likely to believe you know the location of Eastman.’
‘I see. Quid pro quo?’
‘Exactly.’
‘She’s at 507 Ogden Trail, Sugar Land. It is just outside Houston.’
‘You are certain of this?’
‘Sí.’
‘Then I need to speak to London again.’
‘Please do so.’
Tate knew it made sense for Hunter to leave and take the big man with him, but he wasn’t going to leave his brother alone with Bravo. They also needed Bravo to make the trap more convincing. ‘Simon, stay in our ride over in the other lot until this is over.’
‘Come on, we need all the backup we can get.’ Hunter didn’t move.
Bravo rose to his feet and pointed. ‘There is a Kalashnikov hidden behind a panel over there in the corner.’
Tate tried not to show any shock. Anytime he wanted to, the Giant could have grabbed the rifle and gunned them down.
‘We will only get to surprise them once.’ Akulov retrieved his Beretta and held it in his hand. ‘After that it will be a firefight.’
Tate gazed at the Giant. ‘These cartel men, are they any good?’
‘If it is his “Presidential Guard” they are acceptable. But he is not expecting a fight; he is planning Ruslan’s slow death.’
‘Here’s my suggestion,’ Hunter said. ‘We open the up-and-over doors, to make the place look inviting. We leave Vinyl where he is. Bravo, you wait for them, inside the warehouse doors but visible to them. Act like normal.’
‘I can do that,’ Bravo replied.
‘Akulov,’ Hunter continued, ‘you and Jack have perhaps four targets each. We need Vetrov alive, or at least breathing, but everyone else is expendable. Position yourselves in the two corners, behind whatever cover you can find, and create a kill zone in the centre of the space. As soon as the shooting starts, Bravo, you must get out of the way – or all bets are off.’
‘Simon, you go now. Move. OK?’ Tate said, placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Hunter nodded, not happy but perhaps relieved. ‘Be safe, Jack.’
‘Always.’
Hunter walked away looking dejected. Tate knew his brother’s talents lay in planning not guns. Akulov checked Vinyl was secure.
Bravo took the Kalashnikov from its hiding place and handed it to Tate. ‘I think you better have this.’
‘Thank you, but I think Ruslan is better with a Kalashnikov than I am.’
Akulov accepted the weapon. ‘This means you trust me, Jack?’
‘It means I don’t think you’ll shoot me yet.’
Tate took out his phone and left the office. He dialled the UK. ‘Neill? It’s Jack. Listen, I need you to check a name for me. Does George Eastman mean anything to you?’
Houston, Texas, USA
Vetrov sat in the back of the lead car. Angel Mendez insisted on sitting up front. One cartel soldier drove whilst another sat next to Vetrov. A further four men were in the second SUV. Vetrov knew that he was by far the best driver, having received tactical driving training, but he never felt safe sitting with two armed men behind him. Hit a bump and he risked the fools putting a round in his back.
‘This Tahoe is not as good as a Cadillac, but it will do for now,’ Angel said, fiddling with buttons on the unfamiliar dashboard.
Vetrov said nothing. He would have much preferred a vehicle with ballistic plating, but they were travelling in Houston not Mexico. The two SUVs were different models and colours, driving a distance apart. Vetrov had insisted upon it, because an obvious two-car convoy drew attention. His mind drifted to the man they were about to meet, the man who had once been his brother in arms and the man he had set about destroying a year before. Akulov had been the best of them, but he had not been able to accept the realities of war, and that had made him a weak link. All weak links must be replaced before they snap and endanger the rest of the chain. Humanity was not a trait that was required in the Spetsnaz, and especially not in the Werewolves.
Using Akulov as the fall guy for the London bombing had been his idea. Neither owner of Blackline had known the true hatred he felt for the former Wolf 6, but accepted that using the face of an established assassin to test the effectiveness of the deep fake was logical in addition to freeing Vetrov to continue to operate for them. Although Vetrov would rather execute the man himself, he also found it fitting that an unhinged lunatic, such as Angel, would be the man to do it. There was honour in being bested and slain by a fellow warrior, but to be done away with by a maniacal midget was a highly dishonourable insult. Vetrov considered something else that had been bugging him for a while. ‘Is he injured?’ he said.
‘What did you say?’ Angel acted as though he hadn’t heard the question.
‘I said, is Akulov injured?’
‘If not, he soon will be!’
Vetrov became quiet again as his mind tried to warn him once more. A team of five had been sent to take him, alive or dead, and Wolf 6 had defeated four of them, in the room, only for the fifth and smallest man to stop him with the help of crocodile-shoed Vinyl and deliver him to the Giant? It was not what he would have expected to hear, yet both Vinyl and the Giant himself had said that Akulov was with them. Surely there was nothing for him to worry about? Yet Vetrov had a feeling in his stomach and he had stayed alive for so long by listening to such feelings, by not taking chances and by thinking through his actions.
‘It is a trap,’ he said eventually.
‘You what?’
‘I said, Don Angel, that I believe this is a trap.’
‘Sí, I know what you said but I am just attempting to process it, and why you said it, and shit.’
‘How did he get past the four men in the hotel? You heard what Vinyl said before: he was in the van with Pedro and now Pedro is missing.’
‘Vinyl and the Giant have both confirmed that they have him. You think they would lie to me?’
‘I think that perhaps he has them.’
‘What?’
‘Akulov may have them.’
‘The Giant and the cop? You think he’s holding them both – one hand on each?’
‘Yes I do.’
‘Relax, man. You know what you are?’
‘No, you tell me.’
‘You’re just worried about meeting this guy again because you think he may be better tha
n you.’
‘Yes, Don Angel, you are correct.’
‘Of course I am. I’m always correct and don’t you forget it. Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Before I kill him. I’ll let you give him a couple of slaps for old time’s sake. All right?’
‘Thank you, that is very generous.’ Vetrov gritted his teeth.
‘That’s coz I’m a nice guy, a real people person.’
‘Please, Don Angel, let the other vehicle go first. They can check the warehouse.’
‘That’s enough. You work for me or I work for you?’
Vetrov gave no reply, but clenched his fist on his lap.
The driver slowed the Tahoe as he pulled into the parking lot.
‘He has the doors open for us,’ Angel remarked, ‘and there is the big cabrón himself.’
Vetrov saw Bravo standing just inside the door. He drew his Glock, a standard G17, and waited for the SUV to pass through the doors. Almost before the tyres had stopped moving, Angel opened his door and stepped down. Vetrov followed. He wasn’t a babysitter but either these people listened to him or they didn’t. He was way past repeating himself and besides a couple more consignments was all that they needed before they had enough capital. Perhaps he himself should take over the cartel; indeed, as far as he was aware none in this hemisphere had ever been run with real military precision.
Vetrov looked around and assessed the space. Nothing looked unusual or struck him as odd; they had been there numerous times before over the past six months, so why was he seeing ghosts now?
As per his instructions, the second SUV stayed outside and the men got out. Vetrov had ordered them to remain vigilant, but one instantly lit a cigarette whilst another pulled out a cell phone. The remaining two had their hands on the butts of their pistols. Vetrov would discipline them later.
‘Where is the Russian puta, Bravo?’ Mendez said peering up at the Giant.
‘In the cell. I had to slap him about a bit.’
‘Good, just make sure there is enough for us all!’
Vetrov noticed that the Giant was standing several steps to one side. He looked around as Angel started to march towards the back of the warehouse and the cell. Vetrov felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He swung his Glock up and trained it on the opposite corner. His nose sniffed the air. There was something there. ‘Angel, STOP!’
‘What the—?’ Angel halted in his tracks and pulled his Glock 33.
Before Vetrov could say another word, a rough mechanical bark tore past his ears. He recognised a single 7.62mm round, fired from a Kalashnikov. Its retort boomed off the concrete floor and echoed around the corrugated steel walls. It hit the Mexican directly next to Vetrov and propelled him backwards. A cloud of red mist hung in the air for milliseconds and then dispersed. The scent of gunpowder and blood filled the air.
Vetrov was already moving. He had judged the direction of the shot, dropped to one knee and fired a pair of rounds towards the minivan parked near the left interior wall. He now tried to track away, backwards to the cover of the Tahoe, as a second round pinged off the concrete by his feet.
The remaining cartel man had started to shout and was running into trouble, into the direction of the fire. The stupid idiot had forgotten all the of the hours of training and was cut down by a duo of rounds after three steps. Rounds that came from a handgun located on the other side of the room. Vetrov spun and fell.
Two shooters, two directions; a kill zone. Vetrov saw a shape, in the corner, behind one of the cars. Now gunfire came from behind as the four men from outside ran in, guns up.
‘Retreat!’ Vetrov yelled, to Angel if to no one else.
But Angel was standing in the open, acting like he was invincible, screaming obscenities in Spanish, sending shots alternatively in each direction, holding his Glock with one hand and rocking with the retort of each magnum round he fired.
And then the Giant appeared in Vetrov’s peripheral vision, ramming him into the Tahoe. First Vetrov’s shoulders and then his head made contact, denting and deforming the metal and wrenching his spine. The Glock was torn from his grip by a hand twice the size of his and then a second hand closed around his throat.
It felt like the firefight has lasted minutes but in fact from the time the first round was fired to the time Vetrov felt his vision dim, had been forty seconds. And then the Giant jerked and his grip lessened. Vetrov brought both his hands up and attempted a bat strike to the Giant’s ears but his arms would not reach. Instead he thrust them up at the man’s exposed throat. The Giant coughed, stumbled away, letting go of him to grab his own neck. He coughed again and dropped to one knee.
Vetrov crouched against the vehicle as rounds zipped past him and he began to realise that neither he nor Angel were being targeted. And then the gunfire stopped and was replaced by a ringing in his ears and the wafting stench of gunpowder.
He saw Angel rush towards the open door of the Tahoe. A single shot rang out and Angel’s legs were tugged from under him as though he’d slipped on a rug. He landed flat on his face. A figure advanced from out of the shadows, holding a handgun in a two-handed grip.
Vetrov saw his own Glock lying on the concrete, grabbed it and threw himself into the Tahoe. As he moved the Kalashnikov barked and a line of rounds whacked against the door, ripping through the thin metal and smashing the window. Vetrov put the heavy SUV into reverse and floored the gas. The SUV’s V8 growled, and its tyres howled as it shot backwards out through the open doors, bumping over what could only have been dead bodies belonging to the men he had trained. His last view of the interior of the warehouse was two figures, one he recognised and one he did not firing rounds at the hood of the Tahoe.
His windshield crazed as he tugged at the wheel to bring the front of the Tahoe away from the threat. He floored the gas again and reversed into a sharp turn. His headrest exploded and the rear window blew out. Involuntarily ducking he turned to see another man aiming a pistol at him, but this one was silenced. A bullet grazed his left shoulder. As the Tahoe continued to move, Vetrov raised his Glock and snapped a quick-aim round at the gunman. The man collapsed from the headshot and Vetrov stamped on the gas pedal.
*
Next to Tate, Akulov let go of the Kalashnikov. It swung on its shoulder strap as he switched to the Beretta. The pair continued to aim rounds at the rear of the bulky Tahoe as it moved further out of range. The best they could do now was take out a tyre, but Tate doubted that would stop Vetrov from driving away. He cursed. He’d find Vetrov again.
Tate turned and advanced upon the prone figure of Angel Mendez. Blood was pouring from a hole in his left thigh. Tate hoped he hadn’t nicked or severed the artery. Mendez had managed to roll onto his back and was now moving his arms. Bravo was back on his feet, blinking and rubbing his throat. He too had been shot, but unlike his former patron, the 9mm round had seemed to do nothing more than get lodged in his thick deltoid muscle. He walked towards Tate, blood streaming down his arm, then booted Angel Mendez in the side.
Tate glanced at Akulov, who stood next to him, the AK still slung by its carry strap across his chest.
Tate’s iPhone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear. A voice he didn’t recognise with a Welsh accent said, ‘Simon’s been shot!’
Everything stopped, including all sound … Tate started to walk out of the warehouse and then he ran across the parking lot, vaulted over low bushes and came to a stop. One figure crouched over another.
Their driver cradled Simon, his head resting against the man’s white shirt, turning it crimson. ‘Stay with me, boy!’
Tate fell to his knees. ‘Simon! Si!’
Hunter’s eyes were closed, his face was ashen, and the side of his head was slick with blood.
Chapter 16
Houston, Texas, USA
Vetrov was livid with anger, but he managed to control his actions and slowed the SUV down, cruising just below the speed limit. He took deep breaths. It had been an ambush but
they had wanted both he and Angel Mendez alive. Even if he hadn’t seen Akulov he would have known that no one else could be that precise with a Kalashnikov. How had the man managed to get Bravo to switch sides? It had been Akulov who had almost broken the man’s skull and murdered his boss in front of him, a matter of days ago, and now the Giant was covering for him?
As far as he was concerned, his relationship with the Mendez Cartel was now over. Vetrov accepted that any thought he had of leading the cartel was pure fantasy. The Mexicans would never accept someone who was not of their blood as their leader. He now thought about the men he had way up north: his men. They were not Werewolves but they had once been Spetsnaz. He took a left and headed out to Sugar Land. Checking his mirrors to make sure that he didn’t have a tail, he pulled his burner phone out of a zipped pocket in his jacket and typed in a number. It rang out to voicemail. He tried again and this time it would not connect – checking the screen he realised that he now had no signal. The Americans could put a man on the moon, but they couldn’t ensure reliable cell coverage? He tapped out a single-word text message then popped the phone in his shirt pocket.
He concentrated on the road. His SUV was riddled with bullet holes and the last thing he needed was to get pulled over. He stopped at a set of lights and a long sedan, probably a Ford, pulled up behind him and then its lights and siren sounded. He waited for the lights to change, carried on up the road and then pulled over. He pushed his pistol under his thigh and realised that he had neither his licence nor registration documents for the Tahoe. One officer clambered out of the cruiser from the driver’s side whilst the other got out of the passenger side. And then the one on the passenger’s side started to move his hand towards his holster. It may have been a precautionary measure and strictly procedure – by the book – but Vetrov did not want to take any chances. Run or fight were his only two options, but if he fought these two there would be more and more. His cartel “get-out-of-jail-free card” was Vinyl, and where the hell had he been? Was he back at the warehouse with Akulov?
The two officers drew nearer and nearer and now he saw that the driver had noticed the dents and the bullet holes. Vetrov’s left hand lowered the seat-back, and his right lowered the windows, unlatched his seatbelt then dropped to his leg and securely grasped the Glock. One officer was now level with his side window, whilst the other officer had reached the rear passenger’s window on the opposite side.