Total Fallout

by Alex Shaw

  The parking space nearest the road was taken by a silver Dodge Durango. Vetrov kept his head down and walked past the empty SUV. He casually checked for CCTV cameras, and saw one trained on the storefront but not the two individual parking slots at the side of the structure. All he now needed to do was to wait for the driver and anyone else who was riding in the SUV to return; if it was just the driver or the driver and a single passenger then he’d found his next ride. Taking on any larger number would be problematic.

  Night was fast approaching and the shadows lengthening. Vetrov leant against the wall and pretended to be examining something in his hand. Headlights washed over him and he battled the urge to look up, some primeval instinct telling him it was a predator hunting him. The lights carried on and away. There was noise, a male voice talking animatedly, and it was getting louder. Vetrov looked sideways and saw an extremely thin man, dressed in dirty-looking ill-fitting shorts and a garish T-shirt, chatting on his cell phone. The phone was in his right hand and a paper takeout bag was in his left. He walked around the car, then used his scrawny cheek to clamp his phone to his shoulder as he reached into his pocket for the Dodge’s key fob. He pulled it out but before he could press the “unlock” button, Vetrov was behind him – right hand twisting his head one way and left hand tugging his chin the other.

  The bag of food dropped as did his large cell phone and his hands flailed, and then before he could cry for help, the thin man’s neck snapped. It was a quick, clinical, tactical kill, as he had been trained to carry out. Vetrov looked around: no traffic and no eyewitnesses. No comeback for a few hours at least. He blipped the car unlocked, opened the rear passenger door and manhandled the dead driver inside. He followed him in and pushed him over the back seats and into the trunk. Lying flat in the darkness the body would be invisible. Vetrov then retrieved the cell phone and the food from the ground, shut the door and took the access road to rejoin the highway.

  Five minutes later, after throwing the cell phone out of the window, he was munching on his free dinner. Driving into Louisiana took him away from the commercial airports that could get him to Montana. The nearest now was a three-hour drive to the east or a four-hour drive north, and something was telling him that if Akulov was working with the DEA he’d be on a “no-fly” list. Vetrov knew the safest course of action was to not even attempt to board a plane, but then the safest course of action was not always the best. So using the SUV’s GPS, he plotted his course north. Fort Smith, Arkansas, was still an almost nine-hour drive away.

  As the miles slipped by, Vetrov began to relax and calculate his planned route. Unlike the motherland, the United States had an infrastructure of roads, gas stations and hotels that jostled to service those who cared to crisscross it. At night, and sticking to the speed limit in a domestic, family SUV, he doubted he’d draw many glances from passing motorists or law enforcement officers.

  Yet, safe as he was driving in the black of night, he realised that he did have to change his appearance just in case the presumed state-wide BOLO in Texas was escalated to a federal level. A change of appearance, however, meant a change of clothes, and that meant stopping either at a store that was still open at this time of night or finding some clothes elsewhere. Could he fit into the dead man’s baggy, dirty-looking garments? He decided against it. Clean, presentable people became too nice or too normal to be suspected of anything and that’s what he had to be.

  He yawned and a crashing wave of exhaustion broke over him. A car horn sounded. His eyes snapped opened, lights flashed and he jerked the steering wheel away just in time as a pick-up truck passed him in the opposite direction. Vetrov swore, and thumped the wheel. His need for sleep had nearly claimed his life. He wound down all the SUV’s windows and let the fresh, countryside night air envelop his face.

  He stopped at the next gas station that was open and, keeping his head turned away from the camera, filled the tank. He glanced at the boot and noted that the body was not visible then went inside the station to pay. There was a rack of T-shirts promoting the local area, baseball caps, a few off-brand items of jeans and windcheaters. He didn’t make eye contact with the guy at the till. Vetrov left the gas station with a full tank of fuel, a denim shirt, a navy-blue baseball cap, a matching windcheater and a bag full of chips, chocolate, water and Coke.

  As soon as he was out of the lot he downed a can of Coke and immediately felt the sugar and caffeine combination start to work. He then started on the chocolate. He was now awake and alert again but without amphetamines – like they’d used in the field – he’d just crash again, and this time he wouldn’t get lucky. An idea started to form in his mind and he tapped the address into the GPS. He needed to sleep and move at the same time, so he needed someone else to do the driving.

  Two hours later, just before he entered the outskirts of Little Rock, he pulled off the main road and drove up a country lane. He opened the rear door and hauled the dead man out of the boot unceremoniously. He dragged him to the side of the road and walked several steps into the bushes before letting him fall to the ground, where the man instantly became buried in the thick undergrowth. He changed into his new clothes, swapping his tan-coloured shirt for the denim one and filled the pockets of his windbreaker with the rest of his food and drink. He then did a U-turn and headed into Little Rock. He parked the car within walking distance of the Greyhound bus station. Leaving the keys to the Dodge in the ignition, he left the SUV to be taken by whoever got to it first.

  The bus arrived on time and he was one of only three passengers getting on. He let them on first and then deposited his bag from the gas station, which included his rubbish and his shirt, in a trash can next to the waiting area.

  Vetrov showed the driver his ticket and made his way to the back of the bus. It was mostly empty, with passengers preferring to sit nearer the front. He took a seat on the back row in the corner and settled himself down for the two-and-a-half-hour trip. It was all the sleep he was going to allow himself and he hoped it was all he needed.

  As the bus set off he looked at the backs of the heads of the other passengers. Americans were fools, and easily fooled with a smile and a clean set of clothes. And at the moment, that, and a few hundred dollars, was all he had, but as soon as he got to Montana he would have much much more. In under twenty-four hours he would give George the order to release her new Qatar footage. The Saudi had been adamant that it must not be released sooner than Friday or they would not pay a dime. Vetrov had to be patient for a day more, and that patience would be rewarded with millions. Enough to vanish, or to reform Blackline.

  His mind jumped to Akulov and the shame it had caused him when the man had not stepped up as the real fight had begun in Syria. Yet gallingly without the rules and orders of the mighty Russian Army, Akulov had flourished and become the most feared Russian assassin in living memory. A fact that had always eaten away at him. They had been the Werewolves, they had been the best and he as their leader should have been the one to achieve recognition. But Akulov’s elevated status on the circuit, and within the industry, overshadowed him. Akulov was the true MVP of the Werewolves, and that was the fact Vetrov hated most of all.

  Vetrov was hungry, he was tired and he was angry but at least he was on the move. He was like a grain of sand carried along in the shallows by the current. It was known that he existed, that he was there but he could not be picked out from any of the other myriad of minute silica shifting in the surf. On the Greyhound bus, among the other passengers, all lost in their own worlds, he was that grain of sand.

  He closed his eyes and pulled his windcheater up and his cap down and tried to blend into the dark interior of the bus. He was asleep within minutes.

  Chapter 17

  Undisclosed location, Texas, USA

  Maybe it was the tequila, or perhaps just the build-up of fatigue, but Tate woke from a deep sleep at six a.m. A gnawing, pernicious feeling overwhelmed him. Extreme guilt. He’d had no dreams and no thoughts of Hunter or their situation ha
d entered his subconscious. He checked his phone for messages. There was just one. It was from Newman: ‘If you need me, I’m here.’

  Tate started to type a reply then deleted it. It was embarrassing.

  He got out of bed and padded across the voluminous room to the bathroom. There was a full vanity kit provided for him but he was in no mood to shave so just showered. He dried and noted that the face that looked back at him in the mirror was tired and badly in need of a professional haircut. He dressed and there was a knock at the door. It was Akulov.

  ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Miguel is eating breakfast. He told me to tell you if you do not wish to go hungry you should come now.’

  ‘Are you taking orders from him now?’

  ‘No. I am being polite.’

  ‘What business did you have with Miguel?’

  ‘He paid me to liquidate Angel Mendez.’

  Tate shook his head. ‘That was why you were really in Texas?’

  ‘I was here to clear my name. The contract was agreed after I shot Caesar Mendez.’

  ‘And he’s paying you?’

  ‘Do you work for free?’

  ‘I certainly don’t work for exposure. Bravo had told Miguel where the weapons are stashed that Vetrov sold to Angel. Miguel is so happy he is letting us use one of his Gulfstreams to fly to Montana.’

  ‘Us?’ Tate said.

  ‘This is not just your fight.’

  ‘Kirill Vetrov is mine.’

  ‘He is. I merely wish to ask him a question.’

  Akulov turned away and they carried on downstairs, through the terracotta-tiled kitchen and into a large patio area protected from the sun with a huge awning. There was a long table with three place settings. Miguel sat at one end and Akulov took the seat at the other. Tate was left with the setting facing out into the garden.

  Miguel had his mouth full of eggs so acknowledged him with a nod and a shake of a fork. Tate poured himself a cup of wake-up juice and added a sizeable slug of cream.

  ‘My mother makes the most wonderful huevos rancheros, but these eggs are not bad at all. Jack, you should really try them.’

  Tate nodded. He wasn’t one for forced morning conversations. He piled his plate with scrambled eggs and bacon from the serving plates in the middle.

  ‘How have you slept, given the circumstances?’

  ‘Well enough. Thank you,’ Tate said, pointedly and started to calculate how much time he had lost in the race to get to Vetrov and Eastman.

  ‘Ah, but of course!’ Miguel reached his hand into his pocket and retrieved a piece of folded paper. He stood and extended his arm towards Tate. ‘This is what you wanted. In the end it was not that difficult to obtain.’

  Tate opened the note and read the address, written in a surprisingly delicate hand. It meant nothing to him but as soon as he’d got his scoff down his neck he’d check it and be off. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Tate took a bagel.

  ‘So look at us all here. Who would have thought it? The Mexican businessman, the British spy and the Russian assassin all working on the same side.’

  Tate felt his phone vibrate. He excused himself and walked through the house to the front porch. It was Neill Plato. ‘What’s new?’

  ‘Hi, Jack. Just an update really to say I’ve got no more on Eastman, I’m afraid, except for the fact that rumour has it he’s a man from the east, hence the name.’

  ‘Yep, that’s helpful. Bravo’s given me an address for Eastman, and it doesn’t seem that far from the one Akulov gave me. I need you to pull up whatever you can find on it. OK?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  Tate dictated the address then asked, ‘Anything on Vetrov?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Facial recognition had a match to him taking a ferry from Liverpool Birkenhead to Belfast the day after the bombing.’

  ‘No.’ Tate sighed. He understood Plato had been working just as hard in London as he had in Texas so kept his tone calm. ‘Neill, I meant now, contemporary hits in the US.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. No.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Tate ended the call.

  Miguel joined him on the terrace. He had a mug of coffee in his hand. ‘It’s peaceful out here. That is why I selected this place – that and the underground prison.’

  Both men gazed into the distance. Tate spotted a road, like a ribbon that showed the slight undulations in the seemingly flat and featureless Texan plane. It was deserted.

  ‘Now that I have the address, I need to go. Can you have that Gulfstream on standby?’

  ‘I can do more than that. Why don’t we have a helo pick you up here and deposit you at the plane? That will save you over an hour.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You and Ruslan have been a great help. The Mendez brothers have been rats nipping at us and leaving their toxic shit all over our territory for over a decade, and now they are no more. So sincerely, thank you.’

  ‘Does this make you the new Don of the Arellano Cartel?’

  ‘It does. So if you ever need a friend in Mexico …’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I have one question for you,’ Miguel said.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘What is in Montana?’

  ‘More Russians, but these ones are bad guys.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ Miguel started to chuckle. He placed his mug on the wooden railing and retrieved his phone. Then started tapping out a message.

  Tate continued to gaze out across the savannah, and now he noted a dust cloud in the distance on the road. A pick-up truck, one of the favoured modes of transport in Texas, appeared but then turned off the road. A quarter of a mile behind it, came a second one. ‘Are you expecting anyone?’

  ‘No, but that’s a public road, quiet but public.’

  ‘Don Miguel!’ There was a shout from the side of the house. One of the men who’d arrived with Tate came running.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’ve got a drone heading our way.’ The man pointed at the road, in the direction both vehicles had been coming from.

  Miguel’s face creased with a frown. ‘Who would be using a drone?’

  Tate squinted, found the drone then looked again at the road. Now both trucks had vanished, perhaps driven off the road.

  The second guard appeared, a pair of field glasses affixed to his eyes, but then he let them fall on their carry cord and yelled, ‘Inside! Inside now!’

  Tate saw a flash in the sky as he and Miguel ran for the door, followed by a thunderous explosion. Tate was thrown off the porch and onto the unforgiving desert tundra below. The world around Tate became black and white, as his vision started to grey out. He lay choking in the dust as a second explosion rocked him. He blinked and tried to breathe and his vision started to return to normal. He had no time to assess any injury he may have sustained. He scrambled to his feet to see Akulov hauling Miguel back inside what was left of the front of the house.

  Tate felt his jaw fall open with shock. What kind of a drone-launched weapon could do this, short of military munition? And then it all came together in his head. Somehow the Mendez Cartel had found them and they were using the Werewolves’ weapon cache.

  Tate got to the porch steps and saw two cartel men, the ones who had travelled with him in the SUV. One was lying motionless and the other was trying to drag him into cover. As Tate’s hearing began to return he thought he heard a whining, droning noise. A shadow flashed over him. It was a drone of a type he did not recognise, small enough to be launched from a vehicle but apparently large enough to carry munitions. He watched transfixed as it turned and headed back in the direction of the two pick-ups. Tate moved towards the duo, grabbed the injured man by the legs and helped the other carry him around the side of the house to the patio area. The injured man was coughing every couple of steps and blood trickled from his mouth onto his cream polo shirt. By the time they had reached the house the man had stopped coughing and his eyes had
become dull.

  ‘Shit,’ the other guard yelled.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do for him,’ Tate said.

  Akulov appeared from the other entrance, now wearing a ballistic vest and holding a HK416 assault rifle in each hand. ‘Tate, one for you. There are more magazines in the kitchen on the island.’

  ‘What kind of shit have you dragged me into?’ Miguel appeared behind Akulov, a crazed expression on his face and dressed in a ballistic vest. He was carrying a spare, which he tossed to Tate, then addressed his man. ‘With me, to the front!’

  They disappeared inside. Tate followed but only as far as the kitchen island where he saw a haphazard pile of magazines lying on the pristine worktop. He took two, thrusting them uncomfortably into the pockets of his cargo trousers.

  There was a whistling from outside. Tate and Akulov went prone as what could have only been an RPG exploded short of the patio, kicking up a cloud of dirt and dust.

  Akulov rose to his haunches. ‘I’ll go high. You go low.’

  ‘Agreed!’ Tate yelled. He advanced to the patio, the selector on the HK set to “burst”. The dust from the RPG impact was still drifting in the otherwise still morning air. Tate worked his jaw to try to improve his hearing. He moved along the last bit of cover he had – the wall of the house – to the dwarf wall of the patio leading on to the garden. Immediately past this he could see the land at the rear of the property. There was a dust cloud and a vehicle bouncing across the open terrain towards him, one of the pick-ups. It had left the road to attempt a flanking manoeuvre. It was still out of the effective range of his short-barrelled HK416 A5-11 but getting closer. It slowed as a figure on the truck bed balanced a long tube on the top of the truck cab.

  ‘Incoming!’ Tate yelled and dived away from the patio to his right.