Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set

by Allan Leverone

  She nodded and said, “Chalk one up for the wise use of discretion.”

  Then she hesitated. “Wait a second. If you were worried about hitting me with the shot, what changed? None of us moved, did we?”

  “Nothing changed.”

  “Nothing changed? You just decided to take the shot anyway? What about hitting me by accident?”

  “I didn’t think I had a choice. You were doing such a good job pissing off the guy behind you I figured if I waited any longer he was going to shoot you himself. So I fired.”

  Tracie laughed, the sound high-pitched and shaky from the adrenaline racing through her system. “I was a bit hard on him, wasn’t I?”

  “I haven’t heard that kind of ridicule from a woman since my last date.”

  She laughed again. “You’re alright, Smith. I wasn’t sure about you, but you came through like a champ. That was a hell of a shot, even with a sniper rifle.”

  “Wanna know a secret?”

  “Of course I want to know a secret, Smith. CIA, remember? We’re all about secrets.”

  “I barely qualified on the range at Langley. Shooting is probably my weakest skill.”

  She stared at him and then shook her head. “I’m glad I didn’t know that before we planned this little op.”

  “About that. I have a question for you.”

  She glanced at the dead KGB operative lying next to Speransky’s car. Glanced over at Speransky, who was still unconscious on his side but making noises like he might be coming to. Glanced up and down the still-empty road.

  “What is it?” she finally said. “Make it quick, we have to clean this mess up and get the hell out of here. This has already taken too long.”

  “Understood. But here’s my question: how did you know Speransky would bring backup?”

  “How long have you been working in the field, Smith?”

  “Six months.”

  Oh my God, this kid’s a baby. “One of the first things I learned about field work is to always have a backup plan. And if you haven’t learned that yet, it’s time you did, because that knowledge will keep you alive. Always assume the other guy has seen through your plan, and always proceed as though that were the case.”

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  “Always, Smith. Do that, and maybe you’ll make it home alive to see Mrs. Smith.”

  He grinned again. “There is no Mrs. Smith.”

  “Well, you want to get home someday and round one up, don’t you?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “Then my rule still applies. Now shut up and let’s get to work before we both wind up on the wrong end of a firing squad.”

  23

  January 22, 1988

  8:40 a.m.

  Six kilometers northwest of Kremlyov, Russia

  The first car drove past before they’d finished cleaning up their mess. Tracie duct-taped Speransky’s hands, feet and mouth and had just shoved him into the trunk of Yuri Ryakhin’s Lada when the vehicle appeared around the sweeping curve and approached at a rapid pace.

  Dammit.

  She’d hoped for a couple more minutes of privacy but wasn’t particularly surprised to learn their luck had run out.

  She jammed her Beretta into her waistband at the small of her back and glanced at the spot next to Speransky’s car where Smith had shot the KGB man. He’d alertly covered the body with the blanket the man had used to conceal himself before ambushing Tracie—very appropriate, she thought. Hide under it while you’re alive, hide under it while you’re dead—but the suspicious lump on the pavement perfectly resembled what it was.

  A body.

  She shared a worried glance with Smith as the vehicle braked hard. This could get ugly in a hurry. There weren’t many good options.

  There weren’t any good options.

  She couldn’t execute an innocent Russian citizen, and while she had no doubt she and Smith could easily subdue even two or three people, once they had done so, what then? They couldn’t very well take several people prisoner and hope to elude Russian authorities for more than a few hours.

  And even if they could, the whole scenario would sidetrack her from her mission, and with Yuri Ryakhin alive and waiting to spill his guts in Kremlyov, time was extremely limited.

  Dammit, she thought again.

  The car slowed to a snail’s pace. The “accident” had left both vehicles angled far enough into the road that passing the disabled cars would be difficult but not impossible. So far, Tracie thought the positioning of Speransky’s car had managed to hide the dead KGB operative’s body from view of the oncoming vehicle.

  She walked quickly toward the middle of the road as Smith lingered near the blanket. She prayed Speransky didn’t pick this moment to fully regain consciousness and begin banging on the interior of Ryakhin’s trunk.

  The car slowed to a stop. A moment later the passenger-side window was cranked down and an elderly Russian woman with bluish-grey hair and kind eyes peered out at Tracie.

  “Oh, my,” the woman said. “Is everyone alright?”

  Tracie nodded. “Yes, ma’am, everyone is fine. Thank you for stopping, but we’re both okay.”

  The old woman nodded and attempted to look past Tracie at the scene. Tracie had tried to position herself so the occupant of the car would not be able to get a clear view of the blanket, and she wondered whether she’d been successful.

  The old woman’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. Whether it was because she had spotted the blanket and was wondering about its significance, or for some completely unrelated reason Tracie didn’t know, but it was critical she regain control of the situation.

  She stepped closer to the car. “Thanks again for stopping, that was very kind. We’re all set, though.”

  “Alright, dear. Would you like me to call for help when I get to a telephone?”

  Tracie shook her head. “That’s not necessary, help is already on the way.”

  She feigned looking at her watch and prayed it didn’t occur to the old woman to ask the obvious question: how could help be on the way when there wasn’t a telephone in sight?

  “Okay then.” The woman shook her head, clearly concerned about driving away from the scene of a car accident on a bitterly cold January morning. “Good luck. I’m glad no one was injured.”

  “Thank you.” Tracie smiled. “And have a nice day.”

  The woman cranked her window closed and slid back to the driver’s side. A moment later she eased past the damaged vehicles and accelerated away.

  “That was way too close for comfort,” Tracie called to Smith. “Let’s finish the cleanup and get the hell out of here while we still can. I have a feeling that old lady’s going to call the authorities the first chance she gets.”

  She hurried to the body. “First things first. Let’s get this stiff out of the road. He could still get us both killed, without ever pulling a trigger.”

  She yanked the blanket off the dead KGB operative and tossed it aside. They grabbed the man by his armpits, Tracie on one side and Smith on the other, and dragged him the short distance to Speransky’s car. His shattered head lolled to the side, jagged bits of skull protruding from the bloody cranium like shark’s teeth.

  Tracie reached out and pulled open the driver’s side door, and they pulled/shoved/twisted the dead man’s body until it sat upright—more or less—behind the wheel. The moment they released their grip, the body began slumping onto its side. Tracie grabbed the dead man by his coat collar and yanked him upright again. Then she secured the body as well as she could using the vehicle’s safety harness.

  She stepped back and examined her handiwork. “That’s going to have to do. If anyone comes along and takes more than a casual glance at this guy we’re screwed either way, so it’s time to move on.”

  They were both panting from exertion but there was no time to rest. Tracie said, “Go get the bolt cutters. I’ll finish cleaning up what I can here.”

  Smith sprinted across the once-again de
serted road as Tracie slammed the door to Speransky’s car closed.

  She moved to Ryakhin’s vehicle, which had been T-boned neatly along the passenger-side door, but which to Tracie’s eye appeared drivable. She was no kind of car expert, but neither the front wheel nor the rear wheel had been sustained any damage, and the engine compartment looked untouched as well.

  She hoped so. Being able to drive Ryakhin’s car would lower the complication factor immensely when it came to getting Speransky out of here, although it wasn’t strictly necessary for the hastily devised plan to succeed.

  Smith had driven a car down from Moscow overnight, leaving his safe house immediately after taking the satellite phone call Tracie had made from Ryakhin’s bedroom. In the meantime, Tracie had stolen a second car.

  Upon Smith’s arrival, they stashed both vehicles in the underbrush less than a quarter mile from their chosen ambush location. Hiking to the cars would be doable, even with an injured Speransky in tow, but Tracie now hoped such a hike would not be necessary.

  She opened Ryakhin’s driver’s side door and shifted the car into neutral, then heaved her one hundred-ten pounds against the frame. The vehicle creaked and groaned but began rolling slowly forward.

  Tracie said a silent thanks to whatever anonymous Russian engineer had designed the sparsely traveled road. Its construction featured a slight grade toward the cliff side of the hill, a slope that likely made for treacherous driving conditions during winter storms, but which at the moment allowed her to move the small vehicle without any help.

  Once it had started rolling, momentum took over and her task became easier.

  Slightly.

  She reached inside the open car door and turned the wheel to the left, and the little car eased off the paved portion of road, ending up parallel to the rickety guardrail. She jumped into the driver’s seat and hit the brake. Shifted back into gear and activated the emergency brake.

  By the time she climbed out of Ryakhin’s car, Ryan Smith was pushing through the underbrush in the same location he had appeared after shooting Speransky’s backup. This time, instead of a sniper rifle he was carrying a pair of heavy bolt cutters.

  He hurried across the road and joined Tracie next to Speransky’s car. It had sustained more damage from the accident than had Ryakhin’s, and on the left front corner of the vehicle. But even though the headlight was demolished and the fender crumpled badly inward, the tire still held air.

  That was a good sign.

  But would the left front wheel still turn? If not, Tracie’s plan for an easy escape would be dead in the water.

  She moved to the front of the car. Examined the angle of the wheels. Speransky had turned right initially but then immediately left, when he’d seen the sharp dropoff looming. The result was a car that had slewed right after hitting Ryakhin’s vehicle, with the front wheels aimed more or less straight ahead.

  “Looks good,” Tracie muttered.

  Smith watched with a quizzical look on his face. “Okay, I’ll bite. What looks good?”

  “Take the bolt cutters and slice through the guardrail cables directly in front of Speransky’s car. Then get back here and help me push. This poor guy,” she nodded at the dead man buckled behind the wheel, “is going to suffer a serious car accident, not the minor fender-bender we orchestrated a few minutes ago.”

  Smith smiled and shook his head. “You look innocent but you’re a devious little thing, aren’t you?”

  “You have no idea.”

  That was when another car came around the curve and approached the scene of the accident.

  24

  January 24, 1988

  8:50 a.m.

  Six kilometers northwest of Kremlyov, Russia

  Tracie and Ryan Smith instinctively moved toward one another, closing ranks to stand directly in front of the driver’s side door. Their bulky winter parkas helped screen the dead man strapped in behind the wheel from view, and Tracie thought that unless the approaching vehicle contained police, they might be okay.

  There was nothing she could do about the splash of blood staining the pavement.

  A look down the road eased Tracie’s concern about police. This was just another civilian. The car slowed as its driver gawked at them.

  Tracie spoke under her breath to Smith. “We’re just two drivers who had a minor traffic accident. We’re exchanging telephone numbers and blaming each other. Look angry and unhappy.”

  Smith scowled and Tracie frowned and the driver of the approaching car continued past the scene of the crash. His head appeared to be on a swivel, as he kept his eyes glued to them until he had driven well clear.

  Unlike the old lady a couple of minutes ago, he didn’t stop to see if anyone was hurt. Didn’t offer to find a phone and call for help. He simply motored past at a snail’s pace, then returned his attention toward the road ahead and hit the gas.

  They maintained the fiction of two angry motorists blaming each other for the damage to their cars until the passerby drove out of sight, then immediately dropped the act.

  Tracie said, “Our luck is gong to run out any second now. Let’s finish this.”

  Without another word, she opened the driver’s side door and began heaving her weight against the car’s frame as Smith sprinted to the guardrail and snipped through the pair of rusty cables.

  This vehicle was bigger and heavier than Ryakhin’s compact Lada. The added mass would be a benefit once they had achieved a little momentum, but it also increased the difficulty of overcoming inertia initially.

  Smith finished with the guardrail in seconds and then double-timed to the passenger side and opened that door. Even with his slight build he was much heavier and bulkier than Tracie, and after one horrible second where the car simply would not budge—Dammit, the damage must be worse than I thought—it inched forward, stopped, and then began rolling reluctantly toward the side of the road and the dangerous dropoff.

  Once again the road’s slight downhill grade aided their efforts, and the car began picking up speed. It rolled through the guardrail and Tracie and Smith gave one final shove. They stepped clear and watched as the car teetered on the edge of the dropoff and then, with a loud creak of rebuke, went over the side.

  The big car picked up speed, crashing through underbrush and hard-packed snow and careening down the hill until smashing into a grove of trees maybe one hundred yards from the road. The wind whistling around her ears muffled the sound of the impact somewhat, but Tracie could still hear crunching metal and shattering glass.

  She turned toward Ryan Smith, one eyebrow raised. “So what do you think? Did he survive?”

  “Seems doubtful, given his condition before the accident.”

  Then Smith turned serious. “Do you really think this is going to fool anyone?”

  “Oh, hell no. Not even close. Your bullet blew half the operative’s head off. There would be no possible way for this car accident to account for the kind of damage that agent suffered. It will take the authorities maybe five minutes of investigating to conclude that guy wasn’t killed in a car accident.

  “Not only that,” she gestured toward the guardrail, “even the most casual of investigations will determine the cables had been cut, rather than frayed as would have happened if they’d snapped from the impact of the car.”

  “It’s too bad I cut the cables,” he said. “They were so corroded, they probably would have snapped from a high wind.”

  Tracie shook her head. “We couldn’t risk it. If we’d pushed the car into the cables and they had held, we would have been screwed.”

  Smith ran a hand across his eyes. He looked as exhausted as Tracie felt. “If it’s going to be obvious to the Russians that our friend down there wasn’t killed when his car went off the road, then why take the time and go to the trouble of staging the accident?”

  “Two reasons. First, the authorities who do the investigating aren’t going to be the first responders. The rescue team is going to be concerned with pulling the
victim out of the wreckage, not so much with determining how he died. The longer it takes to recover his body, the farther away we can be by the time they do. Even if it’s only a couple of hours before it occurs to them that the damage to the guy’s head is inconsistent with a car wreck, that’s a couple of hours more than we would otherwise have had.”

  “Okay. I’m certainly in favor of a clean getaway. What’s the second reason?”

  “I have a mission to complete. Even after the Russian police determine the guy died from a gunshot wound, it’s not going to be immediately apparent to them that the victim was KGB.”

  She pictured Yuri Ryakhin, tied up in his kitchen and waiting to tell his story. “The clock is ticking on my time in the Soviet Union, at least for this mission, and the longer it takes the KGB to learn one of their agents was killed by a bullet to the head, the better chance I have of completing my mission and getting the hell out of Russia alive.”

  Smith nodded. “Okay. So what happens now?”

  “Now it’s time for us to split up. You’ve done a hell of a job on very short notice, and I owe you for it, big-time. You ever need a favor, look me up. But for now, your part in my mission is over. Pick up all your gear and hike back to the cars we stashed in the woods. Grab the one you came in and get as far away from here as quickly as you can. Sooner or later—and my guess is sooner—all hell is going to break loose and you don’t want to be anywhere near here when it does.”

  “What about you?”

  “I think Ryakhin’s car is drivable. I’m going to leave Speransky—or whatever his real name is—trussed up in the trunk and hightail it back to my safe house. Once I get there, Comrade Speransky and I are going to have a little heart-to-heart and get to know each other.

  “Now that I think about it,” she said with a grim smile, “you probably don’t want to be anywhere near there, either.”

  25

  January 24, 1988

  Time unknown