by Brent Towns
27 Ulica William
Warsaw, Poland
The meeting place was a huge, old-style double-story mansion with triangular-pitched roofs and surrounded by trees and gardens. The lawn was well-manicured, and the gravel drive ended into a turnaround at the house itself. Entry was gained through a pair of automatic, wrought-iron gates.
Wide steps led up to a broad cement landing with ceramic pots filled with flowering plants scattered at regular intervals.
Leon stopped the vehicle and climbed out. While Newcomb did the same, Leon walked around to the rear door on the passenger side, his shoes crunching on the gravel. He opened the door for Nicole to exit. As she did, he noticed how her skirt rode up her thigh and let his gaze linger longer than was proprietary. When she caught him staring, the man turned red with embarrassment, but Nicole only smiled and pulled her hem back down to a respectable level.
“If you will follow me,” he said.
They walked up the steps to a large wooden door with exposed brass hinges fixed to it. Leon opened it, and they walked through into a cavernous reception area which reminded them both of the grand entrances on old black and white movies of yesteryear. Except this one was in full color, and the magnificence was real. The wide stairway that rose majestically to the second level had marble steps that matched the floor, the detailed pattern matching the fretwork on the balustrades. A chandelier hung from a vaulted ceiling decorated with ornate cornicing. The exterior of the home had given no indication of the opulence that lay within.
“I could get used to something like this,” Nicole murmured.
“Only if you do what he does,” Newcomb said.
“This way,” Leon said, leading them through to a set of double doors. Rapping briskly on the door, he didn’t wait for an answer before swinging one open, entering, then stepping aside. They followed him through, and he closed the door behind them.
If the entrance had been designed to wow, the library was just an overindulgence of money. It was a picture of bookshelves and ornate woodwork which took up not one, but two floors. They intervening ceiling had been removed and around the wall was a walkway with fretted railing. It divided two large mullioned windows which were designed to make the most of the daylight. An open wood fire was embedded into the west wall and above it hung a large painting of Frederick Chopin.
The furniture was all handcrafted, from luxurious sofas, chairs, and tables, to the lavish desk made from hard-to-get Cocobolo wood from Central America.
“Holy shit,” Nicole breathed. “Imagine dusting all this.”
“Imponujące, czyż nie?” a man seated in one of the sumptuous handmade chairs said as he stood up.
Newcomb stared blankly at him. It was Nicole who said, “Yes, very impressive.”
The man chuckled. “I’m sorry. It is something I do when foreigners come to my home,” he said, switching to near-flawless English. “I am Gustaw Marek.”
Marek wasn’t a big man by any means. He was of average build with graying hair and a face which was starting to age. Nicole figured him to be in his early fifties.
The CIA man nodded. “I am Mark Newcomb. This is Nicole Cresswell.”
Marek indicated a couple of seats. “Please, take one. Would either of you like a drink?”
Newcomb shook his head. “No, thank you, Mr. Marek. We’d like to get down to business if that’s all right with you?”
Marek’s expression changed. “Yes, business.”
“You were contacted about the target being in Warsaw, Mr. Marek?” Newcomb asked.
“Yes. As it turned out, the warning was good.”
The CIA man leaned forward. “Really? He’s attempted to contact your son already?”
Marek nodded. “Yes. My son was at a club he frequents. Club 27 it is called. Your man almost killed the two security guards they have on the main doors at the bottom of the building. It was lucky they had a picture with which they used to recognize him.”
“Not for them,” Nicole said in a soft voice.
Marek studied her and then nodded. “Yes, true.”
“Now that my team and I are here, we should be able to clean up this mess and get back on our plane and home in no time.”
“Yes. A most unfortunate set of circumstances. Perhaps if I offer to pay the man some remuneration, he might be happy with that? Do you think?”
“Our way would be best, Mr. Marek,” Newcomb said. “Your, son. Is he sequestered away somewhere under armed security?”
“Yes. I’ve sent him to a secure facility in Latvia with a team of former Jednostka Wojskowa Komandosów,” he informed them. The Jednostka Wojskowa Komandosów happened to be Poland’s oldest special forces unit.
“A secure facility?” Nicole questioned.
“That’s right.”
“What kind of facility?”
“One that you need not worry yourself about,” Marek said abruptly.
“Mr. Marek, there are rumors about your business practices. Your other business practices …”
Marek cut her off. “I’m sure, Mr. Newcomb, that it is in everybody’s interest that a satisfactory outcome to this matter is reached quickly and efficiently?”
The veiled threat was there as plain as the nose on the old bastard’s face. Get the job done and ask no questions, especially about things that didn’t concern them. Newcomb said, “Yes, Mr. Marek. I’m sure it is.”
“Excellent. I hope you find the accommodations and transport with which I have supplied you, adequate. Goodbye.”
And that was that. Meeting over. The CIA man rose to his feet and said, “Goodbye, Mr. Marek.”
On their way out through the reception area, Leon met them. He gave Newcomb the keys to the Peugeot and said, “The route is programmed into the navigation system. Also, I have this.” He reached into his pocket and took out a burner cell. “It has one number in it. Mine. If you need anything, you should call.”
They walked out to the SUV, and Newcomb gave Nicole the keys. “You drive.”
Once inside, she started it and slipped the shift into drive. As they pulled away from the house, she said, “Is it true?”
“You know it is, so why ask?”
“So why work with him? He’s one of the biggest drug producers in Europe. I’m surprised that he’s even able to serve in the Polish government.”
“Money and power will take you a long way in this world. You know that. As for working with him, it’s the lesser of two evils. Besides, it’s what we do. We work in the dark, remember. We do what they tell us to do.”
“But still …”
“Are you growing a conscience on me, Nicole? I find it rather tiresome, and I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that now.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Good. Because the quicker we get this done, the quicker get to return home.”
Chapter 9
Ramstein Airforce Base
Germany
Kane checked his equipment and made sure he had everything in his go bag, including spare magazines for the SIG M-17. Beside him, Brick Peters double-checked his medical supplies before zipping up the carrier.
Across from Kane, Arenas was doing the same, checking his weapon and other equipment, as it was too far to come back in case something vital was forgotten. He looked up after zipping his bag and stared at Kane. “I think that is everything, Amigo.”
Had anyone else said that sentence with the word think in it, Kane would have questioned their preparedness. But Arenas had been a commander of a Mexican special forces team and was as reliable and professional as they came. A smile split his square jaw. “I have never been to Poland before.”
Kane asked, “How about Germany?”
“No.”
“Europe?”
“No.”
“Where have you been?” Brick asked him.
“America.”
Brick shook his head. “Shit.”
Arenas laughed out loud and winked at Kane who laughed too. Then he said, “All right.
Game faces on. Let’s get ready to fly out of here. The general has a briefing for us.”
Their briefing room was an open space in the hangar where they gathered around a table with a map and pictures on it. Ferrero, Swift, Thurston, and Cara were already there going over things.
“What do we have, ma’am?” Kane asked.
“OK. You’ll be wheels up within the hour. The Black Hawk will take you to the designated LZ, and that’s where you’ll pick up a vehicle. From there, you’ll make your way over the border and into Warsaw. The DIA has a safehouse that you can operate out of unless things change. Remember, this is a retrieval operation only. You find Axe and get him out of there. That is it. Be aware. You will not be the only ones looking for him. Before we left El Paso, I had a call from General Jones informing me of a termination order on Axe’s head.”
Kane cursed softly. “Any prizes for guessing who put it there, ma’am?”
“I guess not. Although, I’ve had Slick working his magic, and he came up with something for us.”
Reaper shifted his gaze, and Swift cleared his throat. “I did some digging and came up with a Gulfstream that landed in Poland a couple of hours after we touched down in Ramstein. It originated from Washington. A small airfield which our friendly neighborhood spooks like to use when they want to remain out of sight. I even managed to get us some happy snaps.”
Swift pushed a couple of pictures across the table, and Kane picked the first one up. He studied the picture and asked, “How did you get this?”
Swift smiled. “The miracles of modern technology, my friend.”
Kane tossed it back on the table. The picture was grainy and black and white. There was no question about the identities of the pair. One was Nicole, or Iona as he’d known her. The other was the killer from the CIA, Newcomb. “It looks like their team has already arrived.”
Thurston nodded, face grim. “Yes, which means that it’s imperative that you find Axe as fast as you can.”
“I hate to point this out, ma’am, but it’s a big-ass city.”
“That’s where Slick comes in. He’s managed to find a satellite we can use, and he’ll be able to hack into city cameras and see if we can pick up anything on facial recognition.”
“You might want to put Newcomb’s face in the search too,” Kane suggested. “Just in case they pick up something before we do.”
“Already doing it,” Thurston informed him. “I want two-hourly check-ins. If you miss one, and I mean just one, I’ll spin up our QRF.”
Kane frowned. “QRF?”
“Myself and Cara. And I don’t believe you’ll all be too happy with a couple of chicks pulling your asses out of the fire. So, might I suggest that you keep them out of it?”
“Copy. What happened to our air commandos?”
“Forget about them. Any questions?”
“No, ma’am.”
“OK, gentlemen, good luck.”
Ferrero said to Kane, “Reaper, we can’t stress enough how dangerous this is. The CIA are going to throw everything they have at this. If they get wind of your team, you can guarantee they will come after you too. The only unknown fact is what Marek brings to the table.”
“Don’t worry, Luis. We’ll watch our sixes.”
“Make sure you do.”
Warsaw Backpackers Hostel
Warsaw, Poland
A loose floorboard. The thing Axe would remember most about the backpacker’s dive he was staying in, was the loose floorboard. For the simple fact that it saved his life. He was laying on his back on the bed, a spring from the lumpy mattress digging into his back. He was still fully clothed, something he’d gotten used to in the Corps. Be ready for anything.
Axe’s eyes were closed as he worked on a strategy for the following day. They knew he was here so that meant they would send the son of a bitch Marek underground. He just needed to know where.
Since he’d been in Poland, he’d done his own recon. That was how he knew the asshole who killed his sister was at the place called Club 27. He also had laid eyes on the father and knew that he had a driver take him everywhere he went. He would be the next target. Get the driver and question him. If anyone knew Gustaw Marek’s business, it would be him.
Wondering whether the team knew he was in Poland, he was reasonably certain that they did, considering Slick’s skillset. Well, he could kiss that avenue of work goodbye.
Outside, a car horn blasted. It was answered by another, more tinny-sounding one. That was the trouble with sleeping on the second floor of a backpacker’s hovel in the middle of a city. Apart from all the backpackers and their six or seven different languages, the bedbugs from the constant turnover of clientele, sharing a bathroom, or small kitchen for that fact, it was the street noise that echoed off the paved streets and upward.
Suddenly the couple in the room next door started up. Paper-thin walls provided no insulation against their moans and other various sounds of passion. This was followed by the banging of the bed’s headboard against the wall.
Axe sighed and sat up. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and looked around the box he was bunked in. A dim light filtered through the window from the street outside. Two of the three other bunkbeds were occupied, both by males. One was Swedish, the other, he thought came from Brazil. That was another drawback. Lack of privacy.
The floorboard outside in the narrow hall squeaked from pressure being exerted on it, and Axe held his breath. Normally when the board squeaked, there was the tell-tale sound of footfalls preceding it as well as afterward. But there was none of that, just the squeak.
He eased his hand under his pillow and found the butt of the WIST-94. He wrapped his fingers around it.
Suddenly the door flew open and crashed back against the wall. The void was filled by a man holding a raised handgun. He stepped into the room to clear the doorway for the next in line. By the time this one appeared, the first had opened fire.
The suppressed weapon coughed twice. The slugs flew harmlessly through empty space and punched into the wall. Axe had sprung into action upon noticing the movement of the door. He raised the WIST-94 and fired twice. The noise of the unsuppressed handgun was almost deafening in the confined space.
The first round thumped into the front shooter’s chest. The second took him in the throat and a spray of blood, dark in the dimness of the room, painted the wall closest to the door. Axe shifted his aim to the second shooter and fired again. His shot, however, was too hurried, and it buried into the wood doorframe next to the shooter’s head.
Meanwhile, inside the room, the two sleeping backpackers surged to life. Covers were thrown back, and they came to their feet, shouting at the top of their voices. More bullets from the shooter in the doorway flew around the room, and Axe was forced to dive for the floor. The bastard had himself an MP5SD. The fire selector was flicked onto full auto, and he was letting rip with it.
“Get down! Get the fuck down!” Axe shouted at the two young men. A bullet clipped the Brazilian, and he cried out in pain. He spun around and fell to the floor. The Swede didn’t need to be told twice. He hit the floor and clamped his hands over his head.
Bullets scythed across the room. Plaster from the paper-thin walls fell in chunks, and white powder filled the air. Axe rolled to the right and bullets hammered into the floor. WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
“Fuck!” he hissed through clenched teeth. The Wist-94 came up and snapped into line with the shooter. The handgun bucked three times, and the attacker jerked under the impact of each round.
Collapsing to the floor, he spasmed and went still. Axe came to his feet, keeping his weapon trained on the door. “Stay down!” he snapped at the two backpackers. On the floor, the Brazilian squirmed from the pain of his wound.
Axe checked the hallway. It was clear. Throughout the hostel, things were starting to come alive. He checked the two downed shooters for any signs of life. Both were dead. He dug through their pockets but found nothing. They both had comms, and he was ab
out to rise to his feet when he saw the small camera pinned to the second shooter’s shirt. Picking it up, he examined it. He’d seen them before. Hell, he’d used one. That meant these guys weren’t Poles; they were American. Things had just gone from the frying pan to deep shit.
CIA Black Ops Base
Warsaw, Poland
Newcomb looked at the face staring back at him. They’d watched the firefight unfold on the laptop. Watched their two-man team die. His jaw set firm as he felt his anger bubble just below the surface.
“Team One is down, sir,” a voice said.
“I can see that, damn it,” Newcomb growled. “Send Team Two. Tell Greer not to fuck it up.”
He heard the team’s comms tech say, “Raven Base to Raven One, copy?”
There was a moment’s silence, and then the tech said, “Team One is down, Raven One. Orders are to insert Team Two. Base out.”
The comms tech turned and said, “Greer and Team Two going in now, sir.”
It hadn’t taken long for them to track down their target. The tech on the team had managed to hack the city’s cameras, and after a while, he’d scored a hit. That was when Newcomb had dispatched his teams. But so far, Axe was proving to be a handful.
Newcomb nodded and glanced sideways at Nicole. “Let’s see the fucker get away from this.”
Warsaw Backpackers Hostel
Warsaw, Poland
Axe examined the Brazilian’s wound and found it to be not much more than a scratch. He patted him on the shoulder and said, “You’ll be fine.”
Then shouts sounded in the distance, followed by the thunder of thudding boots on the stairs. Too slow to be going down, Axe thought. Which meant they were coming up. He hurried to the door and peered around it. While he waited, the noise grew louder. Then it stopped. Suddenly a big man with a bald head and beard appeared at the end of the hall. He carried with him a suppressed MP5.
“Shit,” Axe cursed. He ducked back into the room just as the man spotted him and let loose with a burst of fire. He turned to his roommates and shouted at them, “Get under the beds! Now!”