Extraction

by Marcus Richardson

  "Allow me," he said with a smile.

  "Such a nice young man," Beslan/the starushka said, cackling. She stepped over the bratva thug, who moaned at her passage. Without missing a stride, Beslan kicked the man in the stomach, causing him to roll over and throw up. Cooper closed the door behind them, suppressing a laugh, and followed Beslan/the old woman, as he limped up the steps, one tread at a time, pausing to nod at a young couple heading down the stairs, backpacks slung over their shoulders and coffee cups in their hands. The girl smiled at Beslan, and her eyes lingered on Cooper, but the boy had a phone to his ear, yammering away about a work assignment in a flu-zone hotspot.

  Cooper winked at the girl, who blushed prettily, and followed Beslan up the stairs, one excruciating step at a time to the second floor. He reached out and took the Chechen’s arm and pretended to help him to the door. Down the hall, another door squeaked open, and a weathered face framed by white hair appeared.

  “My grandson!” Beslan called out in a surprisingly good old woman’s voice. “Come to visit at last! I’ll bring him by in a bit, I need to rest.”

  “Wonderful!” called the old woman from down the hall. “It’s so nice to see someone visit you, Oksana.”

  Once the apartment door shut, Beslan sighed in the old woman’s voice and closed his eyes. He leaned against the door, then straightened his back with an audible series of pops and cracks, standing a good inch taller than Cooper.

  “That’s one hell of a costume, Oksana,” Cooper observed with a smile.

  Beslan winked, then pressed behind his ears on both sides. His face rippled like water, and after a short pop-hiss, he peeled off the second skin in all its wrinkled glory. The mask separated in two halves, joined at the top of his head at the hairline in a clamshell hinge of synthetic flesh, hair, and sensors.

  An angular, hungry face, criss-crossed with faded scars and dark, deep-set eyes stared back at Cooper. It was the face of a man in his prime, a freedom fighter, terrorist, soldier, and friend. He grinned and pulled off the slim voice modulator attached to his Adam’s apple, the skin pulling up like someone removing a nasal breathing strip.

  “That’s better,” Beslan said in Russian, his voice two octaves lower, stronger, deeper. He coughed. “It’s a great cover, but makes me cough when I take it off.” He showed Cooper to the kitchen table of the sparsely appointed apartment. A starushka’s abode. Clean, tidy, a few books here, a picture there, a few Orthodox Icons there. Simple, efficient, homely.

  Cooper sat at the table and accepted a cup of instant tea. Beslan sat opposite him and raised his chipped china in salute. “To the old days.” He coughed again.

  “To lost comrades.”

  Beslan nodded, clearing his throat. “Lost comrades.” They drank. “Now,” he said putting his steaming cup down on the old wooden table. “What the hell are you doing in Moscow? Trying to blow my cover?”

  Cooper arched an eyebrow. “I could be asking you the same thing. Last I heard, you were fighting the good fight down in Grozny.”

  Beslan’s eyes narrowed. “I uncovered a group of wealthy tycoons who stopped the last bid for independence. They cheated, they bribed, they killed, and Chechens died. There are three left…of the seven. They are here, in Moscow, you know,” he said, tapping the table with one blunt finger. “And here they will die. But I want more.”

  “More?”

  Beslan nodded. “They’re connected to the Council…the one behind the flu-weapon? Have you heard of them?”

  Cooper crossed his arms and grunted. “I’ve heard of them.”

  Beslan nodded. “They are just as guilty for what’s happened in Chechnya. They have kept the ones I hunt in power for a long time, with their blood money and crooked politicians.” He spat to the side. “I don’t have a lead on them yet, but when I do…”

  “I may be able to help you with that…” Cooper said over the rim of his cup. “If you can help me.”

  Beslan looked at him for a long moment, his eyes hungry, then raised his tea cup and coughed. He took a loud sip. “Go on.”

  Cooper leaned forward and explained what he knew about the Council, their involvement in the bioweapon attack, and the coming war with North Korea. He watched Beslan’s face go through a range of emotions from confusion to understanding to anger.

  He held up a hand. “Stop.”

  Cooper swallowed. “Look, I know it’s a lot—”

  “I will help you.”

  Cooper blinked. “You will? Just like that?”

  Beslan grinned his best rogue’s smile. “No, not ‘just like that.’ You Americans have no taste for negotiating.”

  “I’m kind of on a tight schedule.” Cooper gave Beslan a quick rundown of his mission and ended with the details he’d received from Oakrock that the Ambassador’s car had crashed.

  Beslan nodded. “The bratva has him, then. And the wife.” He shook his head. “This is no good.”

  Cooper snorted. “You’re telling me.”

  “So!” Beslan said, putting his own cup on the table. He rubbed his hands together. “What do you need from me? Sounds like you have the location all figured out with your people.”

  Cooper grinned. “I need weapons. And maybe a second pair of eyes for this goat-fuck of a rescue op.”

  Beslan leaned back in his wooden chair, making it creak. He crossed his wiry arms and watched Cooper for a moment. “And in return?”

  Cooper pulled out his cell phone and accessed the data files he’d received from both Oakrock and Admiral Bennett. “You’re hunting the Council, right? Ever hear of a man named Igor Voroshilov?” He turned the phone around and slid it across the table.

  Beslan caught the phone without taking his eyes off Cooper, his hand snapping out like a striking snake. “Heard of him? He leads one of the biggest medical research firms in Russia. Onnei is everywhere.” He scanned the data on Voroshilov.

  Cooper crossed his arms and waited. Three…two...one…

  Beslan looked up, mouth open, eyes wide.

  Cooper grinned. Boom. Mind blown.

  “Is this true?”

  Cooper nodded. “Every word. That son of a bitch is the one you need to go after. He’s the Council’s front man in Russia. But you’ll have to get in line…I think there’s a contest between NATO and the US as to who can bag the most Council rats by the end of the year.”

  “Chechnya is poor…the bioweapon hit us hard—we don’t have access to modern medicine. Our people are always sick, and when…” Beslan looked at Cooper, leaning forward, hands gripping the phone with white knuckles. “So many died in the past six months—my whole country is like a wasteland, a ghost town with no borders. I lost so many friends, so many brothers…”

  Cooper pointed at the phone. “That bastard set the ball rolling in Europe. He ordered the initial attack in England. You help me rescue the ambassador and his wife, and I’ll give you everything you need to bring this fucker down.”

  Beslan’s face split into a wide grin, stretching his face. “What do you need?”

  Cooper grinned back. “What do you have?”

  “My friend, this is Russia—if I don’t have it, I’ll get it. Or something that will work just as well and look twice as bad.” He stood from the table. “Come, step into my showroom.” He led Cooper into a back bedroom, his patchwork overcoat flowing like a showman’s cape. Beslan stopped before a reinforced door that looked at least twice as solid as any other door in the flat.

  A light turned on when the door opened, and Cooper saw row after row of polished weapons, ammunition, scopes, and personal armor. He whistled and stepped up to a small island that held a Dragunov sniper rifle. He picked up the sleek rifle and pulled the bolt back to check the chamber. Satisfied it was empty, he hefted its weight and shifted it from hand to hand.

  “I always liked these.”

  Beslan shook his head and reached for the rifle. “You can have anything in here, but that’s mine.” He cradled the rifle like a newborn and stroked its blue
d barrel. “This rifle belonged to my father. He once fought for the Soviets, then died trying to lift the yoke of their tyranny from my people. It’s all I have left of my family.”

  Cooper nodded, then looked back at the racks of weapons. He selected an M4 paired with an under barrel grenade launcher. “This’ll do.”

  Beslan slapped Cooper on the shoulder. “Come! We have much planning to do. Tell me more about this rescue mission of yours.”

  “I think Washington is being played by the Council, trying to start a war with Moscow. I need to get him back to the States.”

  Beslan nodded. He placed the sniper rifle back in its cradle and crossed his arms. “So, you come to Russia, behind enemy lines. You face the bratva…”

  Cooper nodded. “Out-gunned and out-manned. Just like Tehran.” He grinned. “You in?”

  The Chechen frowned and shook his head sadly. “Long odds, my friend.” A crooked smile split Beslan’s face as he slapped Cooper on the back. “What’s the plan?”

  19

  Bait

  West of Smolensk, Russian Federation

  Mikhailovich Estate

  Mikhailovich stared at his phone's display and smiled. It showed the upload had been completed. Any second now, he figured, the American would watch a shaky video of Petroval beating the stuffing out of the ambassador. From what Voroshilov had told him, Ambassador Marquadt didn't mean a damn to anyone—neither did his wife. But, the American he was tasked with eliminating, this Cooper Braaten, had a soft spot for damsels in distress, as Voroshilov had put it. The next video would show Petroval roughing up the wife.

  He'd gotten word that his men hunting the Chechen had lost sight of the American. Or to be more precise, had never seen the American. One of his crew had claimed an old woman beat him senseless as he was trying to gain access to the Chechen’s flat. Mikhailovich didn't believe it until the man's partner found a witness who confirmed the old lady had knocked him to the ground. Stupid bastard must have hit his head on the pavement and blacked out.

  The smile left Mikhailovich’s face as he thought about one of his men bested by an old woman. Embarrassing was an understatement. The man would suffer, there was no doubt about it, and he'd never do another job for Mikhailovich—or anyone—ever again. Mikhailovich scratched his chin as he pondered whether to hire the babushka for one of his teams. She sounded…spry.

  His phone chirped, signaling an incoming message. It was Voroshilov.

  Did you get the video?

  "Yes…I just uploaded it now…" Mikhailovich muttered, tapping out a reply. "Time to play with the wife…" Mikhailovich hit send and smiled.

  "Sasha," he called over one shoulder.

  "Da?"

  Mikhailovich stood from the table and drained his glass of vodka. "It's time we talked to the good ambassador’s wife."

  On any other man, Mikhailovich would've expected a smile at the prospect of being able to do what he wanted with a captive woman. Especially one as attractive as the ambassador's wife. But not Petroval.

  That was why he was the best. That was why Mikhailovich paid him so much—well, that and he got wind the vorya were sniffing after him.

  With Sasha Petroval, though, it was just another job. Mikhailovich could rely not only on his discretion, but on his absolute loyalty and professionalism. Petroval had turned down not one, but two of the elite vorya that had offered him jobs with their organizations. Yet he chose to ally himself to Mikhailovich’s young crew. That was a good sign. Petroval could see Mikhailovich had a bright future.

  "Just rough her up a little, yeah? Not too many blows to the face—maybe rip her shirt." Mikhailovich pursed his lips thinking. "Make it look dramatic, nyet? But nothing permanent. Remember," he said raising a finger in admonishment, "I want her for my private team. When this is all over, she’ll beg me to take her. A woman like that can fetch a fine price with the Arabs."

  Petroval grunted—his disagreement with Mikhailovich’s sex trafficking was well known and tolerated because of his skills—but nodded. He turned and left without another word.

  Mikhailovich stared at Petroval’s broad back as it disappeared around the corner. He had one more task to attend to personally before he joined in the fun, but he didn't want even Sasha overhearing. It was already embarrassing enough to know his men had failed to grab the American not once, but twice.

  He frowned. It was time to call out the entire gang. Voroshilov wouldn't remain patient much longer. Though he wasn't worried about Voroshilov—Mikhailovich was very concerned about who paid Voroshilov becoming impatient. Tigritsa was not someone to piss off.

  Mikhailovich swallowed, his mouth going dry at the mere thought of not only what that woman knew but what skills she possessed. His heart raced just thinking about her. He’d gladly give his left nut to spend one night with her, but he supposed so would everyone else. That was her power—he cursed her and admired her at the same time.

  Mikhailovich shook his head to clear his thoughts of such distracting notions. Tigritsa was both lethal and untouchable. The American he was tasked with eliminating had also proven himself to be lethal—now it was time for him to prove to the world that the former SEAL was definitely not untouchable.

  His phone buzzed. Frowning at the number, Mikhailovich accepted the call. “What?"

  "I heard your boys lost them again," Voroshilov said in greeting. It wasn't an accusation, just a fact.

  Mikhailovich clenched his jaw, closed his eyes and forced his mouth to open. "He will not elude me again."

  Voroshilov snorted. "I doubt that. However, I'm calling to let you know he got the message."

  Mikhailovich’s eyes narrowed. “So fast? How?"

  "When you work for Tigritsa, you quickly learn not to ask questions." Despite the seriousness of his tone, Mikhailovich detected the smile in the man's voice.

  "Fair enough. I'm working on a second video now."

  "Make it quick. He's got your location."

  Mikhailovich stopped himself from asking how again. This time he waited. Pompous buffoons like Voroshilov liked to show off—he’d tell in just—

  Voroshilov continued. “We have a contact in the organization he works for. They've provided access to his cell phone and GPS location."

  "That would've been helpful to know a few hours ago…" Mikhailovich groused.

  “These things take time."

  "Okay, okay. So he got the message, he knows where I'm at, and he's coming, right?"

  "Correct. Will you be ready?"

  The line went dead before Mikhailovich could voice his indignation at such an insult. If Voroshilov was not so highly placed in the Council, Mikhailovich would've cut his throat for that comment.

  Swallowing his anger, he channeled it into a little ball and forced it to the back of his mind. It was time for seriousness, a time to be detached from emotions. That was the whole point of filming the videos—he wanted the American in an unstable emotional state. He wanted him worrying about the woman’s safety. He wanted Braaten to think about his dead girlfriend. According to the file, the man had been quite attached to her and head nearly lost his mind with grief when she'd been killed in a botched Council operation.

  Mikhailovich intended to use that to his advantage.

  But first, he would ensure he himself had every possible advantage. He dialed the number for his operations spy, Ivanov. "It's time. "

  "You're sure about this?"

  “Da. Do it. I want everyone here. Full kits and ready to to fight. He knows where we are—it won't be long before he visits."

  "Consider it done." The line went dead.

  Mikhailovich dropped the phone in his coat pocket. He tugged on the lapels, and confident that he looked is best, calmly strode to the door, and pulled it open.

  Petroval paused, his hammer of a fist cocked and ready to strike. He glanced over his wide shoulder and waited for the signal to continue.

  Mikhailovich’s eyes moved down from Petroval’s broad back to the terrified fac
e of the ambassador's wife as she gasped for air. Petroval had started on her midsection. Her blouse was torn open, exposing the tops of her breasts, flecked with her own blood. He’d smacked her a few times in the face—her lip was split, bleeding and starting to swell, but other than the mess her tears had made of her makeup, she looked untouched—at least on the face. Her hands were smeared with her own blood—she’d tried in vain to tear through the restraints on her arms.

  Mikhailovich smiled at the scene before him. He pulled his phone out and switched it to video mode. This was sure to get Braaten’s blood pumping. A beautiful woman, tied down and abused by a brute of a man?

  What alpha male his prime wouldn't come charging to the rescue?

  20

  Every Option

  Washington, D.C.

  The White House

  The president leaned forward over his desk, resting his forehead in one hand as he held the phone in the other. He kept the handset, a relic of the Cold War, pressed to his ear and closed his eyes.

  "Yes George, I understand," he said, exhaling. "Great Britain, as usual, will be one of our staunchest allies. I only wish that things could've played out differently. This wait-and-see attitude will get people killed, I'm afraid.”

  "I quite agree," said the clipped British accent on the other end of the line. "I assure you, my hands are tied. If I force the issue—I’m already facing a vote of no-confidence, Orren. I could very well lose the government. And the opposition does not favor open war, or this continued, costly, global prosecution of the Council.”

  “Things are that bad?” asked the president.

  “I was the man at the wheel when the royal family was attacked. The nation will not tolerate a foreign war—even if it is to punish those responsible for creating this vile bioweapon. Apologies, Orren, but we shall, as you say, sit this one out. Best of luck."