“Fucking dramatic Chechen,” Cooper groused, throwing a leg up and over the railing to smash the window. A few choice curses later, and he was brushing the glass off his chest and picking himself off the floor. “Okay, I’m inside.”
“About time,” Beslan scoffed. “Again.”
Cooper rolled his eyes, causing the AR glasses to scramble as the onboard computer tried to interpret his eye movement. “Yes, again.”
“You should find the package in a room on the far side of the dacha. Second floor. Take the hallway to your left.”
Cooper was about to ask how Beslan knew to provide such precise directions when he spied the little drone zip past the busted window he’d just climbed through. It hovered there for a moment, wobbled its rotors as if waving, then coasted to the east, following his path through the house.
“Thermal hits on the move. I believe they discovered your entry.”
“Oh, really?” Cooper took a knee by the wood-paneled corner of the room, waiting with his rifle aimed at the doorway. “How many?”
“All of them, it looks like…”
Shouts of pain and alarm echoed down the long hallway. Broken glass and stumbling bodies announced Beslan’s attempt to shoot the bad guys through windows as they moved inside the mansion.
“I got two—but six or seven are still mobile.”
Cooper pulled his last grenade free of its harness on his chest. “Then let’s get this goat fuck started.”
25
Spy Games
Moscow, Russian Federation
Gagarin Square
Danika stepped out of the taxi, glad she could sleep on the flight to Moscow—she doubted she’d get much rest in the next few days. She paid the cab driver, then walked across the street to a restaurant and got a table on the patio. The sole waiter in the restaurant brought her water and took her order of a light snack and coffee, then left her alone.
She unfolded a newspaper she’d picked up at the airport and scanned the headlines, weeding out the state propaganda and searching for the real news. What little there was that didn’t concern the buildup of tensions with Washington or the events in Edinburgh, dealt with international operations against the Council.
She lifted her eyes long enough to see a black limo pull up to the building across the street. It was just a plain, stocky, gray granite building like all the others on this street, a simple regional office for Onnei.
Danika glanced at her watch. Right on time. Her intel had been spot on for once. Voroshilov slipped out of the limo and rushed inside, phone glued to his ear, carrying a large silver briefcase. The limo pulled away and Danika was left watching the quiet street once more.
As she dug into a bowl of borscht—not the best she’d ever had, but not the worst by far—she got the distinct impression she wasn’t alone. There was nothing overt to alert her, no obvious signs, but something wasn’t sitting right with her. It was like someone was standing right behind her—but she could tell by the reflection in the window next to her table she was quite alone in the restaurant.
Continuing to eat her meal as if nothing were amiss, she turned the page of the paper and folded it so she could eat and read at the same time. As she leaned over to read, she checked the time by tapping her watch. The movement activated a small micro-camera embedded in her coat’s label. The watch face changed to display what the camera saw, so she could look like she was reading and still watch the street.
A black sedan rolled to a stop a block away and parked at the curb. The driver didn’t move. She finished her borscht and washed it down with ice water, and still no one exited the car. No one just sits in a car on a street in Moscow.
Something’s not right.
Danika settled her bill with the waiter and took a few extra minutes rummaging through her purse, fiddling with the paper—all to keep an eye on that car down the street. The driver still hadn’t moved. Eventually, she could delay no more and left the restaurant. On the street, she took her time, pulling out a fake cigarette and lighting up—it produced just the right amount of smoke and even smelled like a regular cigarette, but contained no tobacco. The “smoke” was vapor.
Lighting up gave her just enough time to get a better picture of the driver in the car down the street. She checked her time, and her watch notified her of a match—the driver was none other than Darius, one of Reginald’s top-tier operatives and a man she’d well known in her time with the Council.
What are you doing here—watching Voroshilov? Don’t you work for the same team?
He hadn’t once glanced in her direction, and even with concealed cameras—she was sure he’d already taken a picture of her by now, it was standard Council procedure—she was confident he wouldn’t ID her. She risked a direct look in his direction.
Yup. Not even bothering with a disguise. So you’re here on official business, is it?
As she was watching Darius, he looked down in his lap and paid no attention to the Onnei office. Exhaling the water vapor from her cigarette, Danika casually turned and walked away from the restaurant. Across the street, three men emerged from Voroshilov’s headquarters and walked in the same direction she went. Voroshilov himself was in the middle, surrounded by two obvious bodyguards. Chatting away on his phone, he never noticed her.
She paused at the corner and looked in her purse, feigning distraction. Her watch showed the image behind her. Darius had exited his vehicle and was keeping close tabs on Voroshilov.
Remaining discrete, Danika pulled out her own phone and stepped into the first shop she found—a used bookstore—and waited for Darius to pass on the sidewalk.
“Can I help you find something?” asked a hopeful voice behind her.
“Nyet,” she replied. “I’m just looking, thanks.”
The smile on the shop owner’s face faded, but he nodded and returned to some paperwork on the main counter. The store smelled of old books and musty pages—it smelled like a library.
Danika smiled, tracing her fingers over a worn copy of an American book about a solar storm crippling the planet. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Darius wasting time by the street, waiting for Voroshilov to make another move.
“You know, I think I will get this. I’ve always loved post-apocalyptic stories.”
The owner looked at the book in question. “Oh, a wonderful story. A bit fanciful, but such prose!”
Danika ignored the rest of the shop owner’s rambling and feigned a smile here and there to keep him occupied, watching Darius in the large convex mirror over the counter. By the time her book was paid for and wrapped, Darius had stepped out of sight.
Danika called her thanks over one shoulder as the door closed behind her. She tightened her coat around her neck, taking the time to scan her surroundings. Darius was walking away, still following Voroshilov, now almost a block distant.
She turned toward Darius’ car and started walking. As she approached his Mercedes, she reached into her pocket and removed a fingernail sized tracking device. Pretending to drop her purse when she “tripped” over a crack in the sidewalk, she caught her balance on the car and attached the micro-tracker with a powerful adhesive to the wheel well.
One press of her finger and it was done. She straightened her coat, tossed her hair over her shoulder and moved on as if nothing had happened.
Danika continued to walk away, taking several random turns until she came upon a public park—empty of course, except for the birds. She found a park bench and settled down to unwrap her book. Pretending to have not a care in the world, she began to read, keeping close tabs on the tracking device planted on Darius’ car.
If he was in town to take out Voroshilov, then someone—likely Jayne, she thought, the idea making her frown—was making a move. But Jayne already held the reigns of power, at least from what she could gather in her time in Edinburgh. She’d seen the announcement Jayne made to what was left of the Council about the new king. Was Voroshilov part of the opposition—was there an opposition?
Danika found it hard to imagine people openly opposing Jayne Renolds, now that the only person who kept her in check—Reginald—had been out of the picture for almost six months.
She turned the pages of her book in a pattern that suggested to anyone watching that she was indeed reading. Her eyes, trained to move as if reading, added another layer of realism to the ruse.
What if Darius didn’t mean to execute Voroshilov? She considered the evidence. He certainly didn’t go in under cover—he’d been sitting in the car, plain as day, and made no move to disguise his appearance. He’d suffered an obvious, if slight, limp ever since the botch attempt to kidnap Chad Huntley from the Underground. That made Darius easily recognizable. Why be so bold?
Her mouth twitched. Maybe Voroshilov was expecting Darius? Maybe they were both opposing Jayne, or both still working with/for her?
She ruled out the possible hit after considering the two bodyguards Voroshilov had been walking with—on their own, they were little deterrent to someone of Darius’ skill. No, if Darius wanted Voroshilov dead, it would have happened long ago.
She turned a page in her book. Is he just watching Voroshilov then, but being obvious…like sending a message?
Her thoughts were interrupted when her watch vibrated. She pretended to check the time and saw Darius was on the move. Driving the speed limit, he refused to make any moves that would attract attention. Wherever he was going, she could follow.
Danika closed her book, dropped it in her purse and stood, using the movement to scan the street. An old, rusted, Yugo rusted in place at the corner. She approached the car, intent on stealing it—broad daylight or not—when a young man opened the door to the nearby flat and walked out, digging in a pocket for keys.
“Is this yours?” she asked in perfect Russian.
He paused, looking her up and down before answering. “Yes…”
“How much?” she asked, reaching into her purse. Why make a scene by stealing a car when she could buy one? She had plenty of money leftover from the Edinburgh job, and it’s not like it had been hers—not really—to begin with.
“Uh…it’s not for sale…” he replied, stepping closer to his jalopy. “I need it to get to work. It’s not much, but it’s all I have, yeah?”
Danika pulled out a stack of hundreds. “Here’s five thousand—American. No questions asked. Now you can buy something better.”
He looked at the rusted door on the faded yellow car, the bald tires, the hood that refused to close properly. Tossing her the keys, he took the money. “Are you serious? This thing is a piece of shit!”
“I’ve very serious,” she replied, staring at him with a flat expression. “Make it eight,” she added, pulling out more cash.
He swallowed. “Done.”
Danika smiled, watching his shoulder relax. “Thank you very much.”
“No, thank you,” the young man said, stepping back into his flat, already counting his money.
She tried to turn the car on and got nothing. The engine coughed and sputtered, then died. She pumped the gas and tried again—better, but the same result. Gripping the wheel with white knuckles, she closed her eyes.
“Really?”
Her watch buzzed her wrist again. Darius had moved two miles away. The tracking signal would be lost at five. He was increasing speed—he must have found a major road and was heading out of town. But where?
Danika was about ready to get out of the car and have words with the man who’d just sold it to her when the car started on the third try. She hit the clutch, shifted into first gear, and floored it, leaving a trail of black smoke in the air.
Danika grunted. “‘Piece of shit’…you weren’t kidding…” she muttered to herself as the car coughed and rattled while picking up speed.
26
A House of Cards
Isle of Man, United Kingdom
Propped up in her recovery bed like an invalid, Jayne watched Mikhailovich fail—impressively—in his quest to kill Braaten. The ex-SEAL was chewing through bratva thugs like a dog eating a steak. The son of a bitch looked unstoppable. It was infuriating enough to watch the chaos on the screen in her room, but the fact that she couldn’t communicate with anyone and tell them how to counteract Braaten’s skills…it was maddening to the point that she could scream...if her jaw weren’t wrapped so tightly—they may as well have wired it shut.
Her phone buzzed, tearing her attention away from Braaten as he destroyed what once looked like a rather beautiful dacha. She glanced at the phone; the number was an old one. One she hadn’t seen used in almost a year.
Darius. Why on earth are you using an old contact number? Reginald’s second most accomplished operative—after herself, of course—and now her most trusted enforcer, after MacTavish, of course.
He’d sent her a text: I found Voroshilov. he’s making moves to take over Mikhailovich’s operation in Moscow. Gagarin Square. Did something happen?
Jayne frowned, making the pain in her face a little more aggressive. Did something happen? Only the President of the United States announcing to the world—with photographic and DNA evidence—that I’m dead.
She clenched a fist. Igor, you cheating son of a bitch—you set Mikhailovich up! You knew Harris was going to make the announcement. That means you either have a mole in the White House, or my contact is a fucking double-agent.
She angrily tapped out a reply to Darius: Be ready, I will deal with him soon. In the meantime, get to Mikhailovich’s estate—bring help. And toys, lots of toys. I need you to finish this. Old school—bring me Braaten’s head.
After a moment’s pause, the reply came back: As you wish.
She forced herself not to smile. Now that was a good response—Darius deserved a nice bonus for this mission. She made a note in her reminders app to promote him to head of field operations.
Jayne paused, her fingers hovering over the phone’s screen. But I don’t have a field operations division—not anymore. I have companies full of limp-wristed, sallow-skinned civilian scientists. I’m Lisa Melton, not Jayne Renolds. I don’t have direct control over the remnants of the Council.
She sighed. That’s all gone.
Is that why Voroshilov was making a move? She tapped the phone idly. Jayne wouldn’t have considered him ballsy enough to act on his own. What did he know?
Jayne closed her eyes. She had agents in the inner circles of Washington—or was it Denver now?—but did Igor? Did he get tipped off somehow? Did he flip her man? She supposed it was possible…especially if her contact knew she’d be weakened after Harris’ announcement, and how could he not, working for the president as he did?
She opened her eyes and tapped out a message to MacTavish: Find out who works for Igor. We may have a double agent.
His reply came back instantly: Aye.
Jayne turned back to the one-sided gunfight in Moscow, and considered her options. Braaten and that bitch Sveda had fouled up everything. Again. The UN summit had been canceled, so she had that going for her—but she’d had to give up her Jayne persona, one she’d worked for years to develop. She’d have to give up the new king, too—poor little pimply faced bastard—and the remnants of the Council…
All of it, all my plans…all of it gone. And Reginald gone with them…
Her one saving grace had been MacTavish. He’d helped her buy the companies and funnel all Reginald’s money into legitimate operations. she was flying well below the radar now as Lisa Melton—it had been her best option after Edinburgh and now appeared like her only option.
Scotland. Everything had been progressing so well…Dr. Salcotti—Reginald’s Canadian mad scientist—had delivered the new nerve agent and the test had been progressing smoothly until Sveda showed up with her pet SEAL. The man was the bane of her existence. She squeezed the phone so hard, the little glass screen protector cracked with a faint snap. As she examined the phone, she regretted Project Sanguine hadn’t found any genetic markers for super human strength. Sure, accelerated healing and i
mmunity from sickness were great…but she really wanted to hit something right now. Hard.
And Sveda…13…the woman she’d almost thought of as a little sister…she’d taken the beautiful, leggy Swede under her wing and taught her all the right moves to advance in the Council’s operator program…and what had the little bitch done to repay her? She’d turned traitor and ruined everything. She’d killed Reginald. The only man in the world who ever saw the real Jayne, back when she’d first realized she was destined to be more than a senator’s daughter, a plaything for powerful men.
Thinking of her dead father brought up all kinds of unsavory memories she’d repressed under years’ worth of bloody, sex-fueled operations for Reginald and the Council. Jayne fumed, impotent in her gauze swaddling and custom recovery bed. She needed to run, she needed to hit something; she needed to get laid.
Everything was Braaten’s fault.
She narrowed her eyes, watching the man drop another of Mikhailovich’s gunslingers. Payback, dear. Payback is coming for you…
27
It Begins
Washington, D.C.
The White House
President Harris stared at what was left of the War Room. Like the rest of the White House, most of the monitors and computers had already been removed and shipped to Denver. The remaining screens depicted a nation in chaos.
Despite all that he’d done, all that he'd accomplished, he still felt a nagging self-doubt that just refused to die. He could have done more, should have done more. He closed his eyes.
I’m doing the best I can, he told the ghosts of the untold dead, the innocent civilians who’d been cut down by terrorism and biowarfare. He winced. And the nuclear weapon that had all but obliterated Atlanta.
The president sighed. He was exhausted, but a million different tasks kept him from sleeping—which is why he found himself in the war room before dawn. He glanced at the screen to his left, showing the extent of the bioweapon virus attack.
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