by Alex Shaw
‘Bring that inside,’ a voice ordered.
In the pale light that spilled out of the cabin ahead, Akulov noted the men who had abducted him had not covered their faces, which was a bad sign. He knew what they looked like, and this had implications of its own. Two men, both larger than him and solid, grabbed him under the arms and half walked, half dragged him inside the house.
Akulov eyed the interior of the cabin. He saw an open-plan kitchen at one end with an island, a living room with large, soft seating and then three doors. One opened ahead of him and then the hands let go and he stumbled forward in the darkness. His legs hit something hard and cold and he tipped forward and fell onto a military-style cot.
He lay motionless for a while, one to keep up the pretence that his injury was more serious and two so that he could tune in with the sounds of the cabin. He sat up; the pain in his head had already lessened. He guessed Vetrov must have got to Montana already, and that meant he had someone with a plane. Akulov didn’t really care how, it just mattered that the man was there. But where was Tate? Had they gone back for him, or did Vetrov’s team not know that Tate was there?
Akulov stretched his upper body; his chest and shoulders were tight and his neck hurt. He felt as though he’d done more damage to himself than the car.
Akulov continued to listen to the sounds of the building around him. He heard water rushing nearby. He searched his memory and pictured the aerial photographs of the area. The Tobacco River ran to the west of Eureka and there was another small town on the banks of that: Rexford.
The door opened and light flooded into the room. Three men entered, one holding a Beretta. He pointed it at him. The two other men grabbed his arms and frogmarched him out of the dark room, whilst the third followed several paces behind. They took him back through the main living area, and through the open patio doors. They pushed him out onto a terrace overlooking the river. There was a wooden table. At the table were two people: one was Vetrov the other was a young, dark-haired woman. Akulov was pushed into a chair.
The woman’s eyes went wide as soon as she saw his face. Akulov ignored her; in fact he was hardly aware of her presence, as he finally locked eyes with Wolf 1 – Kirill Vetrov.
Akulov spoke. One word that summed up all he needed to know and all he had to ask. ‘Why?’
Lundeen Road, Montana, USA
It was late, especially for a small town and especially for a back road in a small town, so the sound of the two engines drifting on the breeze told Tate to get ready. He stood stock-still in the trees and waited. The noise grew louder and he could now pick out the rumble of a V8 but also the throatier industrial snorting and grunting of a diesel engine.
Tate was in the treeline at the side of Lundeen Road. Yuri’s place was behind him and the beached Tahoe was hidden behind the grass verge in the field in front. Courtesy of the cache, Tate was wearing a ballistic vest and armed with a brand-new twenty-year-old Makarov 9mm in a leg holster and an AK74SU, the short stock paratrooper edition of the modernised classic. Neither had been test fired or zeroed. This didn’t worry Tate because the one thing the Russians did well was made things that went “bang”.
Yellow headlights moved up the road. A couple of lengths behind these a pair of white, bright lights from an SUV followed, like a battleship following a pilot into port. The first vehicle was a dull blue tow truck that bore the livery of a garage. He didn’t know if it was a local place but either way this could be problematic. Tate had to be certain that the men belonged to Vetrov and weren’t just local tow guys on a job. The second vehicle growled past as the moon appeared from behind the clouds. It was a midnight blue Nissan Armada, large, powerful and empty apart from its driver. And this was good news for Tate.
He watched the truck manoeuvre so that its back was on the grass bank overlooking the beached black Tahoe. The driver jumped out, his solid frame and bushy beard fleetingly illuminated by the lights of the Nissan before they flicked off. The Armada’s driver got out. Yuri had assured Tate there was once night vision equipment, but it had been taken by the Russians. This was both helpful and unhelpful to Tate at the same time. He would have liked to be wearing them now, but at least he knew the rest of Vetrov’s men at their cabin had them.
The two men had torches and were doing their best to keep the beams pointed low and away from themselves. They were talking in whispers, the words urgent yet subdued. One man clambered up to operate the winch whilst the other went to affix the cable to the stricken Tahoe, but it was too dark for Tate to see any detail. Tate couldn’t remember if he’d ticked the collision damage waiver on his insurance papers, but guessed now that it didn’t matter. And then he heard a shout, and it was in Russian.
‘Davai!’ Go. One word with two syllables gave away their nationality, if not their identity.
Tate continued to watch as the winch started to whine. The truck jerked backwards and then the winch stopped. The man in the field reappeared and exchanged a few words. They both moved back to check on their work, vanishing from view.
This was Tate’s chance to move. He came out of the woods and jogged towards the Nissan. He tried the rear door and found it open and darted inside. His luck held and he confirmed it was empty. He crawled over the back seats and into the cavernous boot.
He knew where they were taking the Tahoe, and he knew they’d be back. Tate heard the laboured growl of the tow truck as it moved forward and away from the grass. Yellow lights washed over the grey roof lining of the Armada as the truck turned. Once they had passed, Tate popped his head up and observed the Tahoe bounce back onto the road behind the truck. It was then unceremoniously dragged on its damaged suspension along the road, until the truck turned into the entrance of Yuri’s place and both vehicles were lost from view.
Tate stayed stock-still. The boot of the Armada wasn’t a bad place to be; at least it was dry and bug-free. After a while, he heard the truck start up again. Tate flattened himself to the floor, as he anticipated the Armada driver returning to the vehicle, his footfall lost on the tarmac.
Tate waited as the driver entered the car, started the engine and began to drive. The SUV picked up speed and then Tate rolled from his back onto his front. A sudden pain reminded him of his bruised sternum, and he decided he didn’t want to be shot again. He slowly started to raise his head. He glimpsed over the gap between the headrests and confirmed that they were following the tow truck. Eventually the Armada came to a halt. Tate waited, in the boot, in the dark, the collapsible stock AK up and ready. A scratchy footfall, stones caught in the tread of a boot. Footsteps approached and then the passenger door opened and closed as the second man, the driver of the tow truck, entered the Armada. They moved off again.
‘All OK?’ the driver asked the passenger in Russian.
‘Nothing to report,’ the passenger replied.
‘This is it then?’
‘Like Vetrov ordered, we take care of our loose ends and we pull out in the morning.’
Vetrov. The name hit Tate like a punch to the throat. His mind drifted back to Simon and he felt his simmering anger start to boil. As he suspected, the man had somehow got here already and his team was planning to pull out. Tate realised that E Squadron would not be arriving on time; the cavalry would be late. It was down to him, every decision, life and death, everything. He had no time to observe, no time to plan. His only option was to use the element of surprise and attack. He’d hit hard and he’d hit quick.
The two men continued to talk in the front.
‘This new place better have more action. If I’d wanted to only see men for weeks at a time, I’d have stayed with the 561st.’
In the darkness Tate’s brow furrowed. That group was the GRU’s Baltic Fleet Spetsnaz detachment, the unit Tate had attacked years ago in Ukraine. The same unit Oleniuk had been with when Tate had shot him for the first time. Tate didn’t believe in coincidences; this was just further confirmation that Blackline were involved.
The passenger started t
o laugh. ‘Maybe you should just screw George?’
‘I have considered it many times, but she is afraid of her own shadow; seeing me naked will give her a heart attack.’
‘It cannot be any worse than your face!’
Tate felt the Armada slow, make a wide turn and then the note of the engine changed a fraction as they started to encounter an incline. He consulted his mental map and assessed that they were now nearing Rexford. They’d pass Ponderosa Park, the larger houses of Rexford itself and then climb towards the narrower, more secluded tracks leading to the smaller cabins dotting the hillside. When they started to make sharp turns and descend steeply towards the river, he knew it would be time to introduce himself. He prepared, picturing exactly the order and direction of his movements. In his right pocket he had several sets of cable ties and in his left hand he held the Makarov. The AK was too big to wield, even in a large SUV.
And then the Armada slowed right down and made another turn. Tate knew from Yuri’s explanation and from seeing satellite photographs that three more turns and a further fifty yards would get them to the cabin. Each turn was an almost switchback as the road lost height and dropped down the hill to the level of the river.
As the Nissan made the second turn, Tate pushed up over the back seats, then swung a huge, scything right elbow at and through the back of the passenger’s head. The soldier jerked forward and then back, his head slumping sideways. Tate now pressed the barrel of the Russian pistol into the back of the driver’s neck. ‘Stop the car here and don’t do anything stupid.’
The Armada juddered to a halt and the driver pushed the handbrake, and then moved the gearstick into neutral.
Tate reached into his pocket and dropped several cable ties over the man’s shoulder. ‘Tie your hands.’
The man’s shoulders fell as he realised he wasn’t getting out of this. And he obeyed.
‘Now get out, slowly and lie on the ground.’
The driver hesitantly opened his door and Tate followed him out. Door lights illuminated the dry tarmac under their feet. Tate kept the Makarov trained on the driver until his face was touching the dirt. Tate peered inside the Armada and saw something that rang alarm bells in his head. A Beretta with a suppresser lay in the SUV’s large door cubby. He reached for it, and his legs were swept out from under him.
Tate fell, half in and half out of the Nissan, his knees painfully hitting the road and his Makarov flying from his hand and landing with a thud somewhere unseen. The driver was on his feet. They made eye contact and in a sharp, practised move the man brought his hands down across his thighs and back. The cable ties snapped off. As Tate tried to move, a heavy boot made contact with his stomach with such force that it lifted him up and off the ground. Tate rolled back and away as the driver lurched forward, grabbing for the Beretta. He fired as Tate managed to scurry around the back of the Armada. The ping of the round hitting the road surface was lounder than the weapon’s retort.
The driver followed Tate, thinking he had the upper hand. Feet scrabbling for grip, Tate moved further around the other side of the tall, wide SUV. Tate pulled the rear passenger door open in desperation just as the driver fired again. Tate then ducked through the interior, did the same with the front door, then threw himself to the right and into the undergrowth.
‘There is nowhere to go!’ the driver called and stepped around the side of the SUV, weapon raised, scanning for Tate.
From the bushes, Tate saw the man advance warily. His head jerked one way and then the next. On his stomach now, Tate knew there was no way he could overcome him. He started to slide backwards and then he felt his legs go light. He remembered the maps and the satellite photos and realised he was at the edge of the large bank. He started to slip backwards and then he fell. Arms flailing in front of him he dropped, down the bank, and through the trees. He slithered through the soil and then collapsed in a heap by the side of the road, the same road they had been on, but two bends further down, on the straight that led directly to the cabin. He shook his head and wiped mud and debris from his face. The Armada had to come this way if it was going to reach its base. Tate had no choice but to try and outrun it and hope that the Russian was still searching for him and that he didn’t phone ahead. He jogged along the side of the road, each step taking him away from one gunman and potentially into the crosshairs of numerous others.
He heard the V8 start up, just as he caught sight of the cabin ahead. It was in darkness, save for a dim light that seemed to be seeping from a room at the back. Tate had no idea if there was any type of security in place by way of cameras or lights, but he had nowhere to run and was out of options. Staying to the very edge of the path, he made for another vehicle that was parked, its nose facing him: a black Ford Expedition. He hid behind it as the lights of the Armada rounded the bend.
The large Nissan came to a stop just feet away, and the driver climbed out and raced around the front of the vehicle to open the passenger door. He bent into the SUV and started to drag his injured colleague out. His back was turned and Tate was on his feet and running. He reached the driver’s side and saw the Beretta once again lying in the cubby. This time he grabbed it, raised it and shot both men in the head, before they’d had a chance to react. The suppressed rounds sounded loud in the silence.
A light came on in the cabin. He saw two men hurrying to the door. A porch light came on and the door opened. Tate took a chance and shouted in his St Petersburg Russian, ‘Quick help me! He’s been shot!’
The two men didn’t hesitate and jogged out of the house. Tate took a step left, concealed behind the Armada’s open door and put a suppressed double tap into each man. They both fell, feet away from their comrades, their machine pistols rattling to the ground. Tate let himself drop into cover behind the Armada. He waited and when no further shouts came, he moved around to the other side of the SUV, and using the open passenger door and the two dead men for cover he advanced towards the two who had come from the house. He crouched down by the first, saw he was obviously dead and took his weapon. It was an HK MP5SD, a few years out of date now but still one of the best pieces of kit around and a weapon he was at ease with. He moved to the last man. His head was turning slowly from side to side as though he was watching a tennis match. Tate executed him.
*
‘Our guest is highly ill-mannered, George.’ Vetrov sneered.
George’s voice was shaky. ‘You’re Ruslan Akulov, Wolf 6?’
‘I am.’ Akulov looked at the woman. She seemed edgy, nervous. ‘You are George Eastman?’
George shuddered, and when she spoke her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘I’m sorry. So, so sorry.’
‘She has made you infamous, Wolf 6. The most feared Russian assassin of a generation shall forever be remembered as the terrorist who bombed a London market.’
‘Is that why you did this? To take my legacy from me?’
‘What else does a man have, but his name and what he leaves behind?’
‘You couldn’t bear the fact that I was better than you.’
‘You were not!’ Vetrov screamed.
Akulov said nothing.
Vetrov’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared as he attempted to regain his cool. ‘And so, Ruslan, you’ve come to kill me?’
‘No.’
‘And why should I believe that?’ Vetrov stood, a pistol on a holster at his side. Vetrov drew it and pointed it at Akulov. He sensed the men behind him tense, but he remained still. ‘You appear in Houston from nowhere, assassinate the head of a Mexican drug cartel and destroy my multimillion-dollar financing deal, just so, what, you can ask me why I framed you for a job that happened four years ago?’
‘Yes.’
Vetrov shook his head. ‘You are—’
There was a shout from the front of the house in Russian.
‘Sir, shall we go?’ the man behind Akulov asked.
‘Go. Both of you. See what that fool wants.’
‘Yes, sir.’
; Vetrov looked back at Akulov and trained the Beretta on his head. ‘Should I end this now, Wolf 6? Should I just kill you so I can cross another one of our twelve names out?’
‘Is that what you want, to be the last Werewolf?’
‘I do not want to be the last. I want to be the best!’ Vetrov moved the gun away. ‘I’m working on something large, something that would help reshape everything.’
‘You were working to start a war?’
‘To end wars! Don’t you see? We can make people – politicians, generals and dictators – do and say what we want and when we want without being detected. We and only we can do this and that is total power. Think of the possibilities? This is what we were working on.’
‘But then the money ran out?’ Akulov said.
‘Yes.’ Vetrov looked down. ‘Blackline lost all its funding and then our clients also refused to pay. But we have one last contract in play, one last attack that will start the restoration of our fortunes. Tomorrow morning, George will send the doctored footage to our Saudi client and tomorrow the sun will rise on a new war in the Middle East.’
*
HK up, Tate slipped and slid through the grass to the left of the cabin. No more men had appeared, which meant the others were waiting for him inside. Vetrov, George and Akulov were still unaccounted for. He slithered down a steep incline and found himself next to a veranda. Shouts came from inside and he recognised one of the two voices, Akulov. A man appeared on the veranda within touching distance of Tate. They both swung their identical HKs at each other and fired. Tate couldn’t feel where he was hit but the force made him tumble down the side of the bank and into the water.