"Hey, bub,” Cooper whispered in Russian.
The man spun around, his dark eyes wide with surprise, his mouth opening. Cooper lunged forward and stabbed the end of his rolled-up magazine directly into the man's Adam's apple. The force of impact went right up his arm as if he'd used a steel rod. The man's larynx collapsed, and he dropped to the floor with a thud, shaking the walls as he grabbed at his throat with sausage-like fingers, struggling to breathe. The gun clattered to the floor, instantly lost in the debris.
A voice called out from down the hall, but didn't sound worried. Cooper had mere seconds before reinforcements arrived. He stepped forward with his other arm and smashed his elbow directly in the man's nose. The Russian fell over sideways and his coat revealed a second pistol secured in a straining chest holster.
A second man appeared in the doorway and shouted. Cooper didn't look, but threw the bras in the direction of the door, then snatched the pistol from his downed assailant’s twitching body and rolled away. He brought the pistol around to aim at the second Russian, who struggled to clear his vision of lingerie.
"He's here!" the man shouted, completely unfazed by the fact that Cooper held a pistol pointed at his face. He reached for his own weapon, but his hand never pulled it free. Cooper squeezed the trigger and a red dot appeared between the man's eyes, as cherry cobbler splashed against the wall behind him.
The gunshot didn’t even register with Cooper’s ears—he’d already moved into the hallway over the body and aimed at the staircase. His shot had doubtless alerted the two men downstairs, and one charged headlong up the stairs, taking two rounds in the chest for his trouble, before tumbling back down the way he came, leaving a red smear against the stairwell.
Cooper waited a second to see if the last attacker would charge up the stairs and make his job that much easier, but the man proved more intelligent than his comrades. Cooper took two quick steps toward the stairs, but paused when a round buried itself in the crown molding above his head. By the time the sound of the gunshot had echoed through the house, Cooper was already on his way back to the master bedroom. The stairs were the only way down that he could see, and the last man standing knew it.
He was trapped.
There was no way Cooper was getting downstairs now. He paused inside the master bedroom and ignored the flopping of the heavyset Russian as he suffocated. Cooper took a breath, inhaling the scent of iron and shit—the body at his feet had voided its bowels when Cooper excavated the man's head.
He knew he might only have a few moments before the man downstairs called in reinforcements—if these guys had enough sense to pour piss out of a boot, they'd have extra men outside, waiting to rush in. He assumed the worst-case scenario since it was clear they’d been expecting him.
The question irked him: Who sold me out?
Sighing in resignation, Cooper walked over to a window facing the courtyard and peered out from one corner. With the light on in the room, it was too bright for him to see through the reflection. He moved across the room and killed the lights, then hurried back to the window. After his eyes adjusted, he saw movement on the ground just outside and below the window. They had posted a guard at the back door.
"You may as well come out now!" the man at the bottom of the stairs taunted in stilted English, his voice drifting into the bedroom from the hallway. "I have more men coming. You will not escape. The boss wants to have a word with you."
"Oh yeah? And who the fuck is that?" Cooper hollered in perfect Russian.
"You speak our language! Impressive—but that won't save you."
“You'll find I’m full of surprises…” Cooper muttered. He removed the screen, then cracked the window open as quietly as he could, and pulled himself out onto a tiny, decorative balcony. The man below glanced left and right in the small courtyard, oblivious to the threat directly over his head.
"The boss wants to talk to you, and Yevgeny Mikhailovich always gets what he wants,” the man at the bottom of the stairs warned, his voice pouring out the open window.
"Shit," Cooper muttered as the man below look up in surprise.
He dropped off the railing and landed full force on the guard’s face, dropping him to the ground with a muffled curse.
Cooper groaned and rolled off the now unconscious guard, spitting dirt from his mouth. I'm getting too old for this shit…
His right arm tingled where his elbow had made contact with the Russian’s forehead, but he stood, gaining another weapon in the process. He slipped the captured pistol under his belt at the small of his back and pulled up the AK-47 the man had been carrying.
Cooper opened the back door and stepped inside the Residence, silent as a ghost. The man at the bottom of the stairs was shouting for him to show himself when Cooper stepped into the foyer behind him.
"I'm right here," he said cheerfully. The man spun then froze, seeing the wood-stocked AK aimed at his chest.
"Looks like you're the last one left, bub. How about you go ahead and drop that pea shooter, and let's you and I have a talk?”
Cooper smiled at the sound of the pistol hitting the floor.
9
Oilboarding
Moscow, Russian Federation
Spaso House
US Ambassador’s Residence
Mikhailovich walked up the steps to the Spaso House, the US Ambassador’s Residence, and paused at the door. He rolled one shoulder and waved off his escort. Petroval, his tactical overseer, stepped back and motioned the guards to stand down. Mikhailovich would enter alone.
He pushed open the heavy, ornate door and stood in the foyer for a long moment. Dust motes swirled in the air as the moon cast a pale beam of light between high clouds that fought with the lights inside. He looked around, ignoring the broken vase and scattered flowers at the base of the wide steps. The grand entryway looked like a war zone. Bullet holes stood out in the semi-darkness, black holes on light colored walls.
He frowned, staring at the body on the ground near the stairs. Sloppy. Everything about this job was sloppy. I expected more from Petroval for the price I paid…
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he walked deeper into the house, his boots crunching on broken glass and pottery. His slow, measured steps counted time as he inspected room after room, noting the destructive force his people had unleashed on the once glorious residence. Such a waste.
He came back to the first body, resting at the base of the stairs. The man lay facing up, his neck bent at a grotesque angle, a pool of spreading blood staining the marble floor. Mikhailovich clicked his tongue in irritation and mounted the stairs. At the top, he found bits of stone, blasted from the walls.
In the master bedroom, more carnage, more destruction, more blood, and more bodies. Two this time. One, the man in charge of the ill-fated ambush team, and his lieutenant, the fat one everyone called Pavel.
Mikhailovich stared down at the big bastard’s throat, already blue-black with bruising. He rubbed a finger under his nose to block the smell of excrement and turned, his overcoat swirling around him like a cape. Gregor, the leader, a skinny punk with ambitions apparently bigger than he could handle, lay slumped in the corner, the wall behind him soaked in crimson failure.
Mikhailovich found an open window to the interior courtyard. He walked over, eyes drifting to the bed and a pile of lingerie. Examining one frilly, lacy slip of silk, he turned to look at Gregor again and wondered how the fool had died with a bra in his hand. Shrugging at fate, Mikhailovich peered out the window, frowning at the biting wind that slipped through the open window.
The survivor, a kid he didn’t know, had been posted in the back as a rear guard. This was where the American must have surprised him. Mikhailovich glanced down at the courtyard and imagined the scene.
Dropped on him out of the sky like a misfiring Soyuz. That’s a good three or four meters at least. Poor bastard never stood a chance.
Footsteps in the hall, crunching on bits of crown molding and plaster, approached the mast
er suite, then stopped. Mikhailovich’s most trusted man cleared his throat.
“Yes, Sasha, speak your mind.”
“Do you want to see him?”
“The boy?” Mikhailovich asked, still looking out the window. “Yes. Where is he?”
“Downstairs. In the kitchen. It’s....a mess.”
Mikhailovich turned. “He’ll live?”
Ivan grunted, his thick brows drawn together. “Da. For now.”
“Very well, show me to this…survivor.”
In the kitchen, Mikhailovich found more of the same—Someone appeared to have redecorated with a sledgehammer. Cabinets lay open, their contents spilled on counter tops and shattered into glittering pieces of porcelain and crystal on the floor. The kitchen was big enough to prepare food for fifty people, so the American had found ample room to…
“What the fuck happened in here?” Mikhailovich looked around at the pots and pans littering the floor. “Why is the floor wet? What is that, water?”
Petroval cleared his throat. He stood near the door, hands clasped in front of his waist. “Olive oil.”
“Olive oil?” The bratva boss stepped closer to the wheezing thug in the corner. He lay crumpled against the wall, surrounded by a stinking pool of his own vomit. Mikhailovich stood there, towering over his man, waiting for an answer. The question need not be spoken, it was obvious to everyone in the room what Mikhailovich wanted. Answers. The truth.
The young man turned his head and revealed an eye almost too swollen to see. The side of his face was one massive bruise. His mouth had been smashed—perhaps with one of the pans laying on the floor nearby—and the more Mikhailovich breathed, the more he smelled piss.
He turned and arched an eyebrow at Petroval. What the fuck happened here?
The big ex-spetsnaz soldier grunted. “Waterboarding.”
“With olive oil?” asked Mikhailovich. He arched an eyebrow. “That’s…something.”
The man on the ground nodded weakly. “Da…”
Mikhailovich snorted. “I think I may not kill this Braaten, at least not right away. I like this American’s sense of humor. Waterboarding with olive oil.” He laughed. “Who would think of such nonsense?” He turned and pointed at Alexei. “An American cowboy, that’s who.”
The big man shrugged, his wide, ruddy face completely neutral. He clearly didn’t give a fuck one way or the other.
Mikhailovich turned back to the survivor and squatted before him, clearing his throat. “Now, tell me what happened.”
“He moved…he was so fast…” the poor kid shook his head. His good eye swam in unshed tears. “He killed Pavel with a magazine.”
“A magazine?”
“Da…rolled it up and hit him in the throat.”
Mikhailovich looked up at Petroval. Another shrug. “So…he’s resourceful. Not likely to get a gun past customs and had to find something, I suppose.”
“He tied me to a chair and…”
Mikhailovich waved away the description. “He used oil, not water, da?”
The survivor nodded and closed his eyes. “It burns…” he muttered, choking out the words.
“What did he ask you?”
The man looked at Mikhailovich, wheezing. “Where is ambassador…? He repeated…that question…many times.”
Mikhailovich stared at the young man. “What did you say?”
The survivor looked down, trying to pull into himself against the wall. Mikhailovich wasn’t moved. He reached out and gripped the man’s swollen jaw, forcing his head to turn so he could look the sniveling shit in the eye. “What. Did. You. Tell. Him?”
The one good eye closed, and a tear leaked out. “Whatever he wanted.”
Mikhailovich stood, wiping his hand on his coat. The survivor’s face was greasy with olive oil. He looked around the flooded kitchen. How much olive oil did the psikh American use?
He drew a long knife from the sheath at his back and examined the blade. The survivor’s one good eye went round and he scrambled back into the corner as far as his oil-slicked hands and feet would allow. Mikhailovich looked down at the failure for a long moment—long enough for the man to blubber excuses and beg for mercy—then slashed his throat, stepping back just in time to avoid the spray of bright arterial blood.
When the body stopped twitching, Mikhailovich wiped his blade on the survivor’s pants, then sheathed the knife. He adjusted his coat, exhaling as he flexed his shoulders. “Such a disappointment.”
“This Braaten…he is wily.”
Mikhailovich glanced at Petroval sideways. “You are a man of many words, Sasha Petroval. Many words. But ‘I’m sorry’ evidently isn’t in your vocabulary. Do not make a mistake like this again. This crew…they were amateurs. I expect better of you. Next time,” he said, pointing a finger right in Petroval’s face, “use my men and get the job done. Understood?”
That got a raised eyebrow in response. Mikhailovich laughed. By God, the man had balls. Never one to hold a grudge, Mikhailovich clapped Petroval on the shoulder, then moved back toward the front of the house. Outside, lights flashed against the windows and a siren wailed.
“FSB,” Petroval announced, his hand reaching into his coat. He stepped in front of Mikhailovich and put a massive arm out to keep his boss behind him.
Mikhailovich sighed as the front door opened and a burly Federal officer stepped in, surveying the scene with hooded eyes. He didn’t have time for this. Stepping around Petroval, Mikhailovich strode forward. The agent stopped and looked him up and down.
“Who are you?” the officer demanded. “What are you doing here?” He took a better look at Mikhailovich. “Wait…”
Mikhailovich put on his most charming smile and pulled a stack of American bills from his coat—he always kept some on him just in case. This he slapped against the FSB agent’s chest, smiling wider at the man’s look of surprise.
“I can tell by your face you are a smart man. My name is Josef Stalin, and I was never here.” He snapped his fingers to gather the remains of Petroval’s crew, and walked out into the Moscow night, as the FSB officer blinked and clutched the money to his chest.
Mikhailovich paused on the top step, pulling his collar up against his neck to fight the cold. He ignored the confused looks from the other FSB agents, milling about in the street while the asshat inside scoped out the house to make it look at least believable. Petroval moved next to him and waited.
“Now what do we do?” asked his would-be lieutenant.
“We set a new trap.” Mikhailovich started down the steps, brushing past the cops. His security team fell in step with him and they moved forward like a phalanx toward his still running car. “Where is the ambassador?” he asked.
Petroval, on the other side of the car, looked at his phone, the screen making his face glow. “West side. Heading for the country. I have my best men chasing them.”
Mikhailovich pondered this a moment as he opened the car door. “Come on then, let’s go join the fun. If I read the files right, this American will stop at nothing to rescue a damsel in distress.” Mikhailovich laughed at the confused look on Petroval’s face. “Just get in the car.”
10
Point of No Return
Washington, D.C.
The White House
The president cleared his throat and tried to ignore the screen on his desk. The Rangers, under Alston’s command, were still over in Ireland picking through the wreckage, and still hadn’t found Jayne. But the media was reporting “rumors” that she’d been killed. They were nearly beside themselves trying to get his administration to admit they had a body.
Bennett’s deep fake campaign was already paying dividends—two Council loyalists had surrendered in Copenhagen after hearing the “leaked” info that Jayne Renolds had died in the crash. It was only going to get better, they just had to be patient.
“I suppose things are pretty quiet over there for now,” the president said with a quick glance at the TV. “Let’s get this over
with, Roger.”
“Mr. President, I’ll be brief. The situation in North Korea hasn’t changed, despite the deep fake operation. We’ve got our naval and strategic air assets in place in holding patterns, waiting for your go-ahead. I can promise you that North Korea will be wiped off the map within 24 hours of your say-so.” He cleared his throat and looked at the chief of staff of the army.
“As far as the liberation of the western United States goes, we’re still gathering our forces—there’s been some reports that NKor agents have slipped across into the Nevada no-man's-land and entered sovereign territory—specifically Utah—and caused some trouble. Nothing major, but enough to get us thinking it’s an in-force recon, likely probing in preparation for a renewed assault.”
“They’ve broken the treaty?” asked the president, shocked, yet not surprised at the same time. “Ballsy.”
“Not technically, sir…we haven’t captured any agents, but we’re seeing a disturbing pattern of sightings and reports from citizens and law enforcement, coupled with a sharp intake of Cyber attacks on civilian infrastructure—police and fire communications networks, local power grids, that kind of thing. Again, nothing major. It’s like they’re just reminding us they’re there.”
The president put his hands on his hips and gripped his belt. “Duplicitous little bastards…” He glanced at Bennett. “They’re not going to stop till they hit the Atlantic, are they?”
“Sir, their intentions, however delusional or misguided, are not our main concern right now,” Bennet continued. “The situation with the Renolds woman and the remains of the Council could upend everything. The intelligence community is concerned she’s more likely to launch a diversionary strike against our global assets to throw off the timeline of our operations against the North Koreans. Especially now that we’ve launched the deep fake op. She may try to call our bluff.”
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