Overkill

by Ted Bell

  Now they were taking fire from inside the residence. Shooters on all floors at all the windows. They were only fifty yards or so from the front entrance to the mansion. And the ground was covered with a litter of blackened chunks of blasted wall. His idea to focus the charges inward had provided him with an invaluable gift . . . a lot of enemy dead and . . . cover!

  “We’re going in,” Chief Rainwater barked on the radio. “Hammer the front of the house, all three floors, with merciless fire, M60 rounds and grenades to soften them up . . . we storm the front gates in three minutes, on my signal.”

  And then, sure as sun follows rain, sheer, unadulterated hell was unleashed on the Russian KGB troops guarding the compound from both without and within.

  It was a beautiful thing to see, Chief Rainwater thought, just beautiful.

  Hawke looked deeply into the eyes of every one of his two squads’ teams. All were now gathered there on the third-floor outdoor terrace. He was seemingly in no hurry at all, staring at them patiently but relentlessly, one by one, unequivocally conveying to each individual the unspoken three-word message he always sent to his warriors on the very brink of battle:

  Duty. Honor. Courage.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  From the lake, a horrific blast rattled the windows all over Seegarten. Chief Charlie Rainwater had blown the entire lakefront wall, all right, fifty feet in either direction, apparently to smithereens by the sound of things.

  On the terrace, Hawke paused at the primary door to be breached and said: “Go left, four through the door, and clear every room on this floor. Go in low, acquire, and shoot. No fancy head shots. We’re firing heavy loads. Once you’re clear, round up on me. Stoke and I are going straight for the hostage.”

  “Blow the east and west doors simultaneously,” Stoke said. “Smoke grenades, stun grenades, and frags. Time to hop and pop, ladies.”

  A second later, the windows and doors exploded inward with the squad’s carefully rigged C-4 charges. Jagged shards of glass would shred any enemy combatants foolish enough to be waiting on the other side.

  “Go, go, go!” Hawke shouted as his men stormed through blown-out windows and doors, disappearing inside with their weapons blazing. Hawke had identified the exterior door he felt would be the closest exterior entry point to Alexei’s corner room. He now said to Stokely, “Blow this door right here! Now!”

  Stoke blew the shattered door inward and off its hinges with the thumping M60 machine gun. Seconds later, they were inside. A wide, windowed hallway with a central staircase leading down to the ground floor. The firefight inside was intense.

  “Top of the stairs, boss!” he heard Stoke say, and then the muffled brrrrp of his HK submachine gun. The barrel smoking inches from Hawke’s right ear. Lead from the tangos down the hall whistling past his head.

  “Down!” Stoke shouted and Hawke went prone on the marble floor, putting the sights of his own HK on the guards huddled in the smoke of Stoke’s grenade. When you can see them, they can see you, he reminded himself, and squeezed the trigger. He saw the reply, two twinkling yellow muzzle flames in the smoke, and emptied a whole mag in that direction, obliterating the enemy in the smoke.

  “Behind us!” Stoke shouted as Hawke reloaded. “Coming up the steps!” Concrete and other debris was raining down on them as wayward enemy rounds from hostiles on the staircase tore up the ceiling and walls above their heads. And the enemy was on the move again, charging up the staircase.

  Christ. Hawke’s machine gun had gotten trapped under his body! He reached behind him and grabbed a frag grenade off his utility web belt, pulled the pin, and heaved it with just enough loft to let it bounce down the wide white marble steps. The fighters saw it coming and started to retreat in a crazy jumble back down the steps.

  By then Hawke had his Sig Sauer 9mm pistol on them and was firing into the thick of them. The heavy loads were incredibly effective, men just crumpling at the bottom of the steps. Then the frag blew and nobody and nothing was moving on those stairs.

  The loud exchange of automatic weapons’ fire on the floors below assured Hawke that Charlie and Delta and Echo squads had entered the residence and were hard at work clearing the ground floor before ascending to the second. It was then that Hawke saw a flash of movement on the floor near Stoke.

  “On your right!” Hawke screamed to Stokely, just before he brought his machine gun to bear on a wounded man faking death beneath a table. Hawke had the gun on full auto and he just shredded the man and the table as he and Stoke got to their feet and ran. They heard the sound of a shot being fired in the room at the end of the hall and raced toward it.

  Hawke’s heart stood still.

  The shot had come from inside Alexei’s room!

  He looked at Stoke, both pausing before the closed door. “I’ll roll right, you roll left?”

  “Let’s go,” Stoke said, grabbing the knob and kicking the door in.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  They dove for the floor, rolling away from each other in opposite directions, leaping to their feet with their weapons extended, the knuckles on their trigger fingers white with stress . . . Hawke’s eyes widened in the dimly lit room. Where the hell was his son?

  A man in partial shadow sat on the edge of the single bed. Joe, sure it was! He had his arm around a small dark-haired child who was weeping. Hawke knew the sound of those sobs by heart. Those were Alexei’s tears . . .

  The room was nearly dark, only a small candle flickered on the bedside table.

  “Turn on the lights, Stoke,” Hawke said quietly.

  A second later, all was illuminated.

  “Alexei,” Hawke said, gazing down at his little boy, near tears himself, “are you all right, son?”

  “Daddy?” came a tiny whisper . . .

  “Yes, it’s Daddy. I’ve come to take you home, son.”

  “Is it really you?”

  “Yes, Alexei, it’s really me. It’s your papa.”

  “I want to go home, Daddy. Please?”

  “I know you do, son. Me too.”

  The boy looked up at his father, trying to smile through his tears. “Can Uncle Joe come, too? He’s my friend.”

  Hawke took a step forward and his foot brushed what felt like a human form. He stepped back to inspect it.

  “What happened here, Joe?” Hawke asked, staring at the dead man lying in the shadows, on his back on the floor a few feet from the bed, his throat a yawning maw of red and white and pink gristle. Thickening blood puddled on the floor. There was a still-smoking gun in his hand, a small Makarov 9mm automatic. KGB.

  “Who the hell is that?” Hawke asked Joe.

  “Anatoly Slivko. KGB political officer. One of Putin’s most trusted lieutenants. He came here to kill your son.”

  “That was the shot I heard? He fired at Alexei?”

  “No,” Joe said, “he fired a shot at me because I had a gun on him and wouldn’t let him get between me and the boy.”

  “You were here protecting Alexei, weren’t you, Joe?”

  “Been here all night. For some reason, I thought you might be coming. Maybe tonight, maybe the next, but soon. I don’t know why. But I knew if you did attempt a rescue, Putin would send his assassins to the island as soon as he learned of the assault.”

  Joe lifted the sleepy Alexei up and offered him to his father. Hawke took his son in his arms and hugged him tightly to his chest, his cheeks gleaming with tears in the lamplight.

  “Oh, Daddy, oh, Daddy . . . I missed you so much and—”

  “Shhh. Just rest. We’re going home now.”

  “Did you do that to him?” Hawke said to Joe, staring at the dead man bleeding out on the floor. “His head is almost severed.”

  “No. The man over there in the corner did it. Slashed him ear to ear as you can see. He came up behind the assassin just as he raised the gun to shoot Alexei and fired at me instead. The boy was still asleep in his bed . . .”

  “What man?” Hawke said, looking around. />
  “Over there in the corner, boss,” Stoke said, pointing at a tall man in black sitting in an armchair, wiping the blood off of a long-bladed knife. It sounded like he was whistling softly as he worked.

  “Who the hell is that, Joe?” Hawke said.

  “Name’s Smith. Putin’s new bodyguard and chief of security.”

  “You saved my son’s life, Mr. Smith,” Hawke said quietly to the tall man. “I cannot ever thank you enough.”

  “Well, hell, you know. Good thang I walked in when I did,” the man said with a long, slow drawl. “I don’t much truck with folks who’d kill a child laying asleep up in his own bed. No need to thank me, it’s what I do.”

  “Joe,” Hawke said, his mind racing, “how the hell do you explain all this to Putin without getting shot yourself?”

  “Mr. Smith came in, saw Putin’s assassin about to shoot me in the gut. There was a struggle for the gun and Smith slashed his throat. During the struggle Hawke snatched the boy and bolted . . . That’s all I’ve got, and if he doesn’t buy it—well, hell, I guess I’m fucked.”

  “Joe. Come with me now. It’s your only chance! Putin will never forgive another betrayal. He will most certainly kill you for aiding and abetting Alexei’s escape!”

  “No. He knows his life is in my hands now and there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s paying me millions to help him return to power. He needs me, Alex! He’s totally dependent on me and Mr. Smith over there, and Colonel Beauregard. He won’t kill any of us, trust me. We’re all that’s standing between him and the next assassin’s bullet from the Kremlin.”

  “You saved Alexei, Joe. You did. I can’t tell you how—”

  The house was rocked by another loud explosion from somewhere in the direction of the waterfront.

  “Boss!” Stoke, who stood gazing out the window, said, grabbing Hawke’s shoulder.

  “What?”

  “We got to go! Spetsnaz troops are out on the docks, pouring gasoline and rigging charges all over our speedboats. The first one just blew! If we don’t withdraw right now and get the hell off this island, we’ll be trapped out here!”

  “He’s right,” Hawke said to Joe, and turned for the door. With his son cradled in his arms, he took one last look at Shit Smith, his black cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes.

  “Mr. Smith, whoever you are, you didn’t just save one life tonight. You saved both a father and a son. I shan’t ever forget you.”

  “Won’t forget you either, pards,” Shit Smith said in his low voice, staring at Hawke with a hard look in his black eyes that Hawke would never forget. The man appeared to be literally smoldering. Then, he smiled.

  “You look like the kinda hombre could put up a good fight. Tell the truth, I don’t run across too many like that. You and me, we could really mix it up sometime, huh? You like a knife fight some day?”

  “C’mon, boss! We got to go!” Stoke said, grabbing Hawke by the shoulder and dragging him away from the twisted cowboy.

  “Good-bye, Joe,” Hawke said, pausing at the door, Alexei sound asleep, his head on his father’s shoulder. “Tell me one thing. Putin’s holed up inside the Sorcerer’s old mountain complex, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. He is.”

  “Mounting an operation called Overkill?”

  “Correct.”

  “What is it?”

  “Bottom line? Putin’s pulling a Goldfinger. His enemies stole about all of his gold and he wants all his gold back. Use it to take out the oligarchs running the Kremlin. That’s the plan, what can I tell you?”

  “Stay safe, Joe.”

  On the docks, a firefight was raging. Hawke, with Alexei still asleep in his arms, was waiting for the final skirmish to end. He was seated in an armchair, peering out a ground-floor window. He saw one of his boats was already afire and sinking, stern down. He feared the blaze could soon expand to the other speedboats, eliminating any hope of their escape from Seegarten Island.

  But the tide was turning.

  Charlie and Delta and Echo squads now had the enemy fighters diving off the docks into the water to escape the hail of lead pouring onto them. And then the Russians started taking fire from their rear.

  Alpha and Bravo now opened up with everything they had, as Hawke’s guys began to pour out of the building. The carnage was devastating, the day was won. When the shooting stopped, when the appointed medic in each of Hawke’s squads had attended to the dead and wounded, carrying many to the boats by stretcher, after the fire aboard the sinking boat was extinguished, Chief Charlie Rainwater, Thunder, went inside the darkened building, now eerily silent after all the gunfire and explosions.

  “Sir?” he said, spying Hawke by the window. “I think it’s time.”

  “Thanks, Chief, I’m coming. It’s clear?”

  “All clear, Commander. We’re loading our dead and wounded and starting the boats.”

  Hawke rose from the chair and turned toward the front door.

  A minute later, every man on the deck stopped doing what he was doing. The reaction of the men was instant and filled with satisfaction and a love of their leader. Everyone started applauding, cheering loudly. All of them knowing full well what was coming. What would happen when that front . . .

  Alex Hawke emerged from the smoking building with his son in his arms and started walking toward the men at the boats.

  “Mission accomplished, gentlemen,” Hawke shouted from the steps. And his men went wild. “Once again, duty, honor, and courage have prevailed.”

  The man had his son in his arms. He was alive. He was safe.

  It was time to go to war.

  OPERATION

  OVERKILL

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Falcon’s Lair

  P-day minus one. The last of the Falcon’s Lair troops on the mountaintop had been deployed just before daybreak. Joe Stalingrad supervised their deployment, standing before the soaring floor-to-ceiling window with a radio in his hand. Lead-paned and crystal clear, it occupied one entire wall of Putin’s magnificent walnut-paneled office and gave a panoramic view of what would soon be a field of battle.

  When he’d first been ushered into this office, Uncle Joe had wondered if this window overlooking the roof of the world was a good idea. Especially for a man who was determined to hide from the whole damn planet. That was before, upon inspection, he saw the massive steel doors set in the rock to either side, their exterior sides camouflaged in hyperrealistic but fake rock. Doors and windows built in this fashion were everywhere, and all would seal tight at the push of a button.

  There were fine and faded Aubussons and Persian rugs underfoot; the walls were studded with Old Masters, while the bookcases proudly displayed vast leather-bound collections of everything from Goethe to Gandhi, from Dickens to Hemingway to, of course, Chekhov, Pushkin, and Dostoyevsky. There was also a leather-bound copy of Nabokov’s Lolita, Joe’s fave novel of all time.

  On the massive mahogany partner’s desk, that large Nazi swastika, made of highly polished sterling silver, was being used as a paperweight . . .

  Since Putin had suddenly stopped using the office, for god knows what reason, preferring to keep to his bed, Joe had gladly exercised his squatter’s rights.

  He and the president had spoken on only a few occasions since Seegarten fell to Hawke. And the scary discussion about who was responsible for Hawke’s successful rescue of his son. Joe had been right about Putin, however. Under normal circumstances, the president would have had both Joe and Shit Smith shot for interfering in the hostage situation . . . preventing the boy’s murder.

  But these were definitely not normal circumstances. Putin needed Joe to keep Beauregard’s invasion on track. And he needed Shit Smith to protect him from Alex Hawke, should his nemesis manage to confront him once more. In the unlikely event that Hawke’s men should manage to break through the defenses and storm the gates at Falcon’s Lair, Joe and the president had a secret escape plan. A plan known to only the two of them . . . and though it w
as strictly against Putin’s wishes, Miss Emma Peek, Joe Stalingrad’s latest conquest in waiting.

  She had been intent upon seducing him just the night before, but Joe had been distracted by impending events. Still, he knew a sure thing when he saw it coming. She wore ever-shorter skirts, and every time she crossed her legs, she managed to give him a quick glimpse of her invariably pink panties. He was already fantasizing about marrying the damn woman, for crissakes! Did he love her? He knew only that he would gladly crawl through a mile of broken glass just to drink her bathwater.

  And the poor kid hadn’t even gotten a good gander at Playstation’s junk yet!

  On the snowy crest below the window, in the pale pink glow of dawn, a group of six Falcon’s Lair commandos, magnificent in their white Alpine combat uniforms, were just being towed up to a higher altitude by one of the Weasels, like so many water-skiers.

  Small tracked vehicles, Weasels were heated and equipped with a canvas roof; they featured widely spaced tracks that made it possible to operate in light-snow Alpine conditions. But the troops liked it better when they were towed to the top behind the Weasel with a towrope.

  Joe, after much consideration, had decided to position his defenses a thousand feet above and a thousand feet below the primary entrance to Falcon’s Lair. Two thousand feet of hot death, at elevations from thirteen to eleven thousand—bring it on. Some of the men were just now establishing machine-gun nests at various altitudes and locations. Many of them would be dug into snowbanks, completely concealed, invisible to the human eye even at twenty feet.

  When the attack came, and it was coming, he knew, as sure as night follows day, he was ready to put up a helluva fight. But the odds were with him. If ever anything as sure as an impenetrable fortress existed in this world, Joe thought, taking a seat at his desk, Falcon’s Lair was certainly it.

  “Kitchen, may I help you?” said the voice on the phone when he punched the number.