Jayne focused on Marquadt again to clear her mind. Trained in the best schools to be a dominant force in whatever industry she chose, Kyrsten had been influential in turning Orbital Dynamics around after several failures during The Aftermath, and had put them on the path to become a lighter, faster, stronger company—ready to take on space itself, by itself. That was, until Jayne bought them.
Marquadt had plenty of contacts in the private sector…very wealthy, influential contacts…who would be very helpful to former US Ambassador John Marquadt and his wife when they came home from the posting in Moscow to make a bid for the Senate. At least, that’s what the insider political hacks had been saying for the past three years.
Kyrsten Challis had been his stepping stone, the jewel in his crown, lovely to look, and to him nothing more than the value of her political and defense industry contacts. What a waste of talent. Jayne watched as the woman struggled against her restraints, valiantly trying to get a glimpse of her husband over her shoulder as he was beaten to death right behind her.
She watched the thug strike Marquadt again and again, each blow making the ambassador shudder with the impact. Mikhailovich has hired a bunch of amateurs.
If Jayne had more time to cultivate a friendship, Kyrsten would have made a wonderful ally for her consortium venture. Oh well. She’d serve a purpose, nonetheless. Jayne upped the ante and ordered Mikhailovich to film Kyrsten herself being roughed up, then drop that little gem right into Braaten’s lap just as he arrived at the dacha. That ought to rattle him enough to give the bratva boys at least an even chance at coming out on top.
She clenched her right hand into a fist. There’s got to be thirty of them there…they better fucking finish the job this time.
The door to her stark, white-washed suite opened and MacTavish’s frame filled the entryway. Jayne let her eyes start at the floor and travel up his sculpted legs, taking in that teasing kilt he always wore—
“Feelin’ better are ye?” he asked.
She tore her eyes away from his broad chest and looked at his face. Raising her right hand, Jayne slowly extended her middle finger.
He offered a roguish grin. “Oh, aye, that’s right—ye canna talk just yet.”
Jayne sighed and tilted her graze-wrapped head. Really?
MacTavish stepped into the room, took a quick look in the hallway, and shut the door behind him.
“I wanted to bring these for ye,” he said as he walked to her bed and handed her a small package wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with twine.
She spread her hands. For me? You shouldn’t have.
He rolled one shoulder. “Well, ye’d see them soon enough, but I thought, what’s the harm in gettin’ ‘em to ye just a wee bit sooner? Give ye that much more time to practice, aye?”
Jayne carefully unwrapped the twine and peeled back the paper. The crinkly sound made her think of a fish and chips joint she used to frequent in London. Her stomach rumbled. The doctors had insisted on feeding her intravenously to avoid complications caused by moving her jaw too soon. It was technically life sustaining, but she craved real food so bad it was maddening. She needed to sink her teeth into something.
She eyed MacTavish.
He saw the look and took a step back, clearing his throat.
Jayne sighed through her nose, then looked down at the bundle in her lap. Passports, ID cards, company badges, security clearances…all in the name of Lisa Melton. Her face graced every card, but it was…different. The temporary prosthetics had been used to create the images and then her computer geeks had completed the job following the surgery. Although at the moment, she likely looked like she’d tried to kiss a truck speeding down the freeway, the IDs would be a perfect match for her new face as soon as she could get the bandages off.
She forced herself not to smile. Hello, beautiful.
Looking through the small stack of cards and passports, she struggled against a sudden, unexpected wave of grief. Her heart raced and her hands grew damp. She’d assumed and shed personas in her long career with the Council before, but had never kept one all to herself as long as Jayne Renolds. She was Jayne Renolds. The name, carefully cultivated over many years—and more than a fair amount of self sacrifice and pain—struck fear into the hearts of any who knew enough to be scared.
I suppose that’s all gone now. Thanks to that fucking hack, Harris, once word spreads that Jayne is dead…I’ll have to start over, build the reputation again. From scratch…oh, God…
Another thought struck her, like a bolt out of the blue. Do I though? She turned over Lisa Melton’s driver’s license. I don’t need to be a cold blooded killing machine any more. Thanks to some quick thinking on her part and a lot of scheming by the late Reginald Tillcott, she was likely one of the wealthiest people on the planet—even after recently buying over a dozen companies, each worth tens to hundreds of millions of dollars.
A small thought rippled through her mind with unfathomable possibility, like a pebble striking a calm pond, the ideas radiated out from that single thought. She could walk away from all the death and misery, the things she’d done…start over, become a new person. A good person.
“I canna see ye’r face, but I dinna ken I like the way those eyes look just the now…” muttered MacTavish, taking a step closer. “Whatever it is ye’re plotting, just wait to do anything till ye can tell me about it, aye?”
Oh, I’ll tell you about it all right…
Jayne looked down at the ProTek corporate ID in her hand. She frowned beneath her mask of gauze at the chipped nails on her fingers. How long had it been since she’d had a decent manicure? At least a week since before that debacle at Edinburgh.
MacTavish smiled, seeing her examine her nails. “Aye, that’s the Jayne we all know and love.”
She looked up at him, slowly focusing past her fingers on his smiling face. She’d have to start over of course—all her carefully manipulated contacts and moles in governments around the world—they’d all be rejoicing at the news of her demise. She’d have to start from the ground up, clawing and scratching her way back to a position of influence and power.
The rippling idea came back. Or maybe not. She looked down Lisa Melton’s smiling face again. The plastic card felt so light, yet so heavy with potential. She didn’t need to fight and scrabble her way to the top again…did she?
I can buy my way to the top. People fear power, but they worship money. Oooo, worship…I like how sounds.
She flicked her gaze back to MacTavish in time to see his smile fade.
“Jayne? Are ye alright, then?”
She stared at him. Jayne Renolds is dead, dear. All her deeds and reputation, everything she was—Reginald, the Council, the King—it’s all dead.
But Lisa was alive…and no one knew the secrets and abilities she possessed. Yet.
“The, ah…the docs say as they’d like to never seen someone heal as fast as ye have…”
No I don’t suppose they have…thank you Project Sanguine. Jayne let herself smile, despite the pain, thinking of the ultra-secret, international project launched in the chaos of The Pandemic which had produced several interesting side-effects Jayne had managed to incorporate into her own body. One of them was accelerated healing.
That had been the gift of the girl who’d become Jayne’s own protege and then become her fiercest rival: Sveda. The minksy little foundling Reginald had brought aboard the Council operative’s training program, codenamed 13.
Fucking bitch. Jayne felt the ID card cutting into her skin and forced her hands to relax. At least the surgeons had managed to repair the scar Sveda had given her at Castle Dunkeith. She’d wanted to keep it as a reminder, as a talisman to focus her anger and propel her forward unto vengeance…but MacTavish had persuaded her that Lisa Melton wouldn’t have a “wicked wee scar” like that.
“They uh,” MacTavish said, looking over his shoulder, his hands kneading the air beside his kilt. “They say as ye’ll have the bandages off in a day or two at t
his rate. That’s good, aye?” When she didn’t respond, leaned a little closer, inspecting her face. “Jayne?”
She smiled, ignoring the pain from her healing, abused face. No, dear. My name is Lisa Melton.
“Anyway…” MacTavish said, clearing his throat. He pulled a tablet from behind his back. “Ah, ye’d asked me to check on our friends at the Council, but…”
Jayne wanted desperately to arch her eyebrow, but the damnably tight bandages kept her face immobile. She twirled one hand in the universal “get on with it” sign. Let’s see how bad the fallout from that dog and pony show Harris is running will be… The nerve of the man, blaming she’d died in a mere plane crash. How pedestrian.
MacTavish squared his shoulders like a man about to face a firing squad. “Igor has gone missing.”
Jayne croaked “What?” but it came out as a gurgled grunt. The pain that flashed through her throat drove her back into the pillows behind her head, lighting flashing across her vision.
When her breathing calmed to a whisper instead of wheezing gasps through the facial wrappings, she raised one hand and pointed with a chipped fingernail at MacTavish’s tablet. He nodded and handed it over.
“I’ve tried every channel, even the emergency one. Nothing.” He shrugged. “Wee shit-gibbon’s buggered off.”
Jayne stared at him for a long second. Shit-gibbon? What the fuck are you talking about?
She skimmed through the report, flicking her eyes from the tablet to the screen at the foot of her bed, keeping an eye Mikhailovich’s dacha. If there was any double cross, she’d see it live. Mikhailovich’s men still milled around, in a relaxed-alert status. So…Braaten wasn’t on-property yet.
She thumbed down the tablet’s screen. Igor, where the hell are you, you little weasel?
A cold tendril of uncertainty trickled down Jaynes spine like the first few raindrops on a blustery autumn day. You can’t be one of those idiots that actually thinks I’m dead…can you?
22
Wetwork
West of Smolensk, Russian Federation
Mikhailovich Estate
Cooper pushed himself forward through the bare underbrush that capped a small hill, west of Mikhailovich’s dacha. He’d passed on Beslan’s night vision gear, instead relying on the next-gen optics built into his AR glasses. In the top right corner of his HUD, the local time glowed a pale red, warning him he had only a few precious hours before sunrise.
“Try to forget the videos,” Beslan advised in a whisper over their secure comms net.
Cooper rolled his eyes. “I personally don’t give a flying fuck about either the ambassador or his wife. I’m here to do a mission—besides, I have bigger fish to fry when I get back stateside.”
“Oakrock will wait, my friend. You need to focus—” Beslan began.
Cooper paused, surveying the world in greens and grays. “I told you, I don’t care. Two to one they’re trying to get under my skin. That isn’t working. What is working is that Atkins must have given them access to my AR glasses…how the fuck else would I get the files? Fucking snake.”
“The woman is quite pretty,” Beslan offered. “For an American,” he qualified.
“And?” growled Cooper. So was Brenda.
He forced the exhaustion his body felt to the back of his mind—he’d rest when the mission was over. The Dexedrine was quickly fading, but he dared not take any more so soon. He wasn’t the young 20-something fresh out of BUD/S any more. Cooper wasn’t quite sure his body could handle another dose of the go-pills. That meant the clock was ticking—at some point, probably the worst possible moment—his body would give out and he’d be left helpless, or unconscious. Either way was bad.
Cooper swallowed. He had to concentrate on the infiltration. The bratva had to know he was coming—they’d been waiting for him every step fo the way so far. That meant someone inside Oakrock was feeding them information because they were the only ones—besides Beslan and Danika—who knew where he was and what he was doing.
“I will help you with Oakrock. Traitors are my specialty.”
Cooper closed his eyes and lowered his head as he lay on the cold ground. Focus, dammit. Now is not the time to stress over moles in Oakrock. He looked up and opened his eyes, studying what he could see of the extravagant dacha in the distance.
Cooper opened his eyes, and the world sharpened into crystal clarity, like always. Mission first.
“I’ve got a visual on the target,” he muttered.
Beslan’s voice changed, slipping into full-on operator mode. “Okay, I see you…launch,” he advised, his voice crackling over the bone phone in Cooper’s ear.
“Roger that,” Cooper whispered. He rolled on his side and unstrapped the hand-sized camouflaged drone that had been hanging off his pack. He thumbed the power switch and watched as muted LED lights blinked once, partially illuminating his hand. “You getting a signal?”
“Da, but the picture is ugly.”
Cooper grunted and pulled the drone back, flashing the little UAV the finger.
“Ah, there. Beautiful. Okay, we are launching in three…two…one…”
Cooper tossed the lightweight drone into the air and the little quad-copter’s motors spun up, taking it straight into the dark sky. Its electric whine faded into a soft buzz and vanished in less than ten seconds.
“Good launch,” Beslan reported. “Patching the feed through to you…”
A new message appeared before Cooper’s eyes, appearing to float above the ground in front of him: <
Oh shit, isn’t this awesome?
“Accept,” Cooper muttered. Instantly, a little box appeared in his right lens, just below local time, depicting the view from the drone, now several hundred feet above him.
Cooper grinned. “Well, ain’t this some shit…hello boys,” he said, watching as the drone switched to thermal imaging and his AR glasses picked up the heat signatures of several roving guards, moving through the green space that surrounded the target building.
“You see patrols? One approaching your position. ETA three minutes.”
“Roger that,” Cooper replied. “You in position?”
“Da,” Beslan replied, a smile in his voice. “My finger is itchy. It is time to be starting the party.”
Cooper rose from the ground and paused, considering Beslan’s disjointed effort at a quip. “You mean, your trigger finger’s itchy, so let’s get this party started?”
“Da. As I say. Now go, they will be on you in a minute.”
Grinning, Cooper crouch-walked, his weapon up at the ready, and crested the little hill. The drone dutifully followed the incoming patrol, and his AR glasses painted the three hostile foot mobiles. His smile faded when he saw the rifles the Russians carried.
He considered his options. If he charged around the corner, guns blazing, Cooper knew he could wipe out the patrol with ease—especially if Beslan took out one of them—or more—from his sniper hide across the estate.
But that was liable to make a lot of noise, something he wanted to avoid at all costs. He needed to maintain the element of surprise as long as possible, so he could breach the house and find the Marquadts.
He slung his rifle—one of the many gifts from Beslan he’d have to pay handsomely for when the op was concluded—over his shoulder and drew the borrowed pair of silenced 9mm Glocks from his thigh holsters.
“Can you take out the one in the middle?” he whispered.
“Da, easy as the peas. Just saying when.”
Cooper touched a pistol to his forehead and groaned. “I’m going to teach you English when this is over.” He placed his right pistol on the ground and pulled the slide back on the left, inspecting the chamber with a glance as he cocked it. He reversed hands and repeated the process with the other pistol, then stood, holding both akimbo.
“Excellent. I will teach you to speak proper Chechen, then.”
“On my mark,” Cooper muttered, wa
tching the images of the three men grow larger as they walked forward, completely unaware.
“Three…two…one…” he whispered, dropped into a crouch again and taking aim at the men on either side of the group. “Mark.”
Cooper squeezed the triggers in both pistols as the men appeared from behind a pine tree, not ten yards away. The retort from the pistols, muffled by the silencers, was still loud enough to echo across the open space behind his targets, but by the time Cooper registered that thought, the third man was already on his way to the ground.
“Nice shot,” Cooper said.
“Spasiba.”
All three bodies dropped and lay still. The one in the middle twitched for a second, and the world around him descended once again into the absolute silence of a pre-dawn morning in the country.
“Three targets down,” Beslan confirmed. “No movement.”
“Roger that, heading for the house.” Cooper paused at the bodies and yanked free a radio, clipped to the middle corpse’s chest.
“Wait for the roof sentry to turn…” warned Beslan. “Okay—go!”
Cooper had to race across twenty yards of open space before he made it to a stand of spindly decorative bushes that flanked the majestic house. Every window glowed with light from within. Several spotlights shined from the corners, illuminating every possible approach.
“Watch the roof…” Beslan warned as Cooper caught his breath.
Christ, I must be getting old…Charlie’d have my ass if he could see me sucking wind like this mid-op.
Cooper shifted his attention to the little picture in picture window on his HUD and watched as Beslan’s drone approached the house, targeting the man at the peak of the central roof. He used his Mark 1 eyeballs and peered at the roofline, but couldn’t detect the man at all from the ground, though he could see the superimposed image from the drone, floating well above the roof.
“Negative visual.”
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