The Hidden Vector: A Spy Thriller

by Mathew Snyder

  “There. Head north,” he said pointing at a break in the short scrub along the road.

  Wade slowed at an unmarked intersection and steered onto the northern road. The headlights lit up the asphalt like a moonscape, pitted and crumbled in long years of poor repair. Wade veered around the biggest potholes, but the van shook and shuddered as the wheels sunk into the gaps in the road. Ethan looked for any glimpse of the villa. The road rose in a gradual slope surrounded by row after row of low grapevines that clung to posts and wire trellises. Near the peak of the rise another road crossed to the northwest amid a clump of trees. There Wade slowed again as they weighed options. He stopped the car short of the intersection.

  “Damn it,” Ethan said. He tapped at his phone.

  “Now what?” Wade asked.

  “The signal out here is terrible. Nothing. That’s probably why Russell got cut off.”

  He felt a little better about Russell’s fate, but it meant they would have to find him without any guidance.

  “What the hell? We aren’t that far out of the city,” Wade said. He checked his own phone and frowned, then turned on the car’s radio. His finger spun around the tuner as he rolled through the frequencies. The radio returned a steady stream of static hiss. There was no variation, no gaggle of Romanian voices or popular music.

  “Shit. That’s a wide spectrum signal blocker, my friend. If that was us, something would be going down. Soon,” Wade said.

  “Or already did. Left. Go left.”

  Wade cursed the van’s lack of power. He floored the accelerator and drove northwest.

  Ahead, Ethan spied a pair of faint lights miles ahead.

  “Kill the headlights,” he said.

  He rolled his window down to listen as they approached. There was no sound beyond the hum and thump of the tires on broken asphalt and the stir of wind on the vines as they passed. Wade slowed while he squinted into the dark to keep the car on course. The two distant lights grew into four—dreary yellow dots obscured by trees as they drove. It has to be the villa Russell mentioned, he thought. There was nothing else but the rows of vines for miles.

  The roadway rose and fell again into a tiny valley, its gentle hillsides arranged with vines. Trees gathered at the road near the bottom, and within these Ethan saw a fleck of orange that reflected their own van’s parking lights. He poked at Wade to slow down while he scanned the tree line, looking from the edge of his vision for any traces of movement.

  Behind them, a figure emerged from the trees onto the road. He thought it could be Russell, then saw a glowing red cinder head high and knew that it was. A puff of smoke swirled above him. Wade pulled off the road and stopped the car between a gap of small trees that provided some cover from all directions but the road.

  “Glad you found me,” Russell said. The glow from his cigarette lit his face like a jack o’ lantern. Wade scowled at the man for being careless, then looked around for any sign of activity.

  Ethan shook Russell’s hand. His pants were wet to the knee from walking among the tall grasses growing around the trees. “What’s going on?” he said.

  “Hard to tell. I watched them at the house in the city. A little before midnight things started to pick up. Four or five tough guys showed up in an SUV. A while later another clown car, same as the first. They and the SVR boys milled around for a while in the courtyard, then packed it in all at once. I followed them out here.”

  “Where are they now?” Ethan said.

  Russell extended his hand, cigarette tucked between his fingers, up the hill toward the lights.

  “They’re sitting tight,” Russell said, his voice a flat whisper. “Don’t think they’ve gone into the villa just yet, but I couldn’t get too close. Been maybe an hour now.”

  “Are they armed?” said Wade.

  Russell nodded. “Tough guys, like I said. Trained and serious. Part of why I didn’t get too close. Why you shouldn’t either. I count ten, maybe more.”

  “We’ve got to get up there. Now,” Ethan said.

  Russell snorted and mouthed an incredulous grin. “Gentlemen, believe me. Whatever they’re planning to do, they’re going to do. These guys play from a different rule book.”

  “Who said anything about stopping them?” Ethan said.

  He was annoyed and fought the urge to raise his voice. This was their chance. He felt it. If they waited, whatever the Russians wanted at the villa was gone. It was the single strand left, the only thing that tied the future to the past. His only way to reckon for what happened in Georgia.

  “You two go up there, and you’re as like to end up dead as anything. This isn’t cat and mouse. This is international incident. Where does that get us? Don’t forget what you’re here for.” Russell wagged his finger at the men as he talked, his voice atonal.

  “You think we don’t know that? We can’t let this one go, damn it. We don’t have time to argue policy,” he said.

  “Suit yourself,” Russell said. “Just remember what I said. And don’t get in their way.” He pulled a final drag on his cigarette and stamped it in the wet grass before he crept back to his car.

  ◆◆◆

  Ethan followed Wade through a narrow row of grapevines that hung just higher than his waist. They ducked down and strode through the plants, skipping rows as they climbed the rising hill toward the villa. He watched Wade move, planting his feet in Wade’s tracks as best he could in the dark. A black rifle wagged from Wade’s back. Ethan felt at his hip for his own weapon, a Glock 19 that Wade had given him when they arrived in Constanța. It was a reliable gun, but it felt less familiar to him. He reminded himself these were the tools of last resort. They needed intelligence, not heroics. Russell was right to remind them.

  Wade stopped and raised his fist. They crouched behind the vines and scanned around the villa. Its stonework reflected gray in the starlight, a solitary fortress surrounded by the dark silhouettes of trees. They faced the villa’s side at a hundred yards or so. An open yard lay between them and the villa, flanked by a trio of smaller outbuildings to their right. Wade tilted his head, listening.

  Ethan saw no sign of anyone. He made out a long lane of blacktop and cypress trees that wound to the southwest where it met a stone wall and iron gate to the road. He knelt in the dirt until his thigh ached. He heard only the rattle of leaves in the dark. He saw even less—dark and meaningless shapes. Perhaps the Russians had gotten what they wanted and left. He hated the idea they had outpaced him. The resentment grew in his mind and wandered into an imagined tomorrow where he knew even less than he did now. He would have to tell Corso they had lost the trail all for his vanity—every wasted hour and each drop of blood on his account. His teeth cut into his tongue as his jaw clenched, and in that moment he resolved to meet the sunrise with something more.

  Wade remained almost motionless, his head pivoting slowly. He had unslung his rifle and eased it through the vines so he could hold it steady against one of the trellis posts with his left hand. With the rifle tucked tightly into his shoulder, he peered through the night vision scope and scanned again. He motioned to Ethan to come closer, his voice less than a whisper.

  “You see them yet?”

  Ethan shook his head, and Wade grunted in disbelief.

  “Three squads. One in front at the wall. Another opposite us. Third one at the shed.”

  Wade leaned and let him peer down the scope. At first, he saw nothing but blurry shades of green. Then he found a depth of field that outlined the green glow of four figures near the shed at the edge of the back yard. The Russians were bug eyed creatures in an alien landscape. Gas masks hung like predators’ snouts from their faces, dangling under the dark pools of their eyes. They wore black hoods and the dark shapes of gun barrels sprouted from the curve of their shoulders. Their hands made rapid signs, but they remained in place, waiting.

  “What now?” he said.

  Wade leaned back into his rifle and shrugged. “Get some popcorn. It’s going down.”

&nb
sp; Ethan focused on the shed while his eyes adjusted to the dark. Over the course of several minutes, he convinced himself he could make out the shape of the men there. Wade prodded him with his elbow, and he watched the shadows move into the yard without sound. He felt sorry for whoever occupied the villa. From the corner of his eye to the left he saw more dark shapes slinking across the dim expanse of grass, one after the other in close formation.

  Bright fiery light burst from a villa window. The crackle of automatic fire filled the yard. It flashed from four of the villa’s second floor windows. The muzzle flashes seared tiny blobs of white in his vision, and before he could look away the soldiers returned fire. A hundred pins of light swarmed in his vision, fading and dancing as he blinked. In the yard the Russians moved like stop motion figures in the strobe of the firefight. One fell in stuttered frames while the others moved toward the house, their rifles spitting fire that illuminated their dangerous advance. He lost all pity for the villa’s inhabitants then, knowing at once who they were. Scorpio had anticipated the Russian’s assault and met it with harrowing gunfire.

  “Got to move,” Wade said. “We’re in their field of fire.”

  Wade shoved him from the side as he tried to stand and move away. The blood rushed into his legs. He felt out for the trellis and moved, still blinded by the will-o'-wisp that dazzled his night vision. Still crouched, they stumbled down the vine row until Wade tugged his shirt and motioned to get down. Wade sat with his legs bowed and propped up his rifle in the direction of the battle to observe through the vines.

  The fire crescendoed as the Russians rushed the villa. He heard the shouts of the men, barely catching a few words of Russian as they coordinated the assault. Some lay on the ground wounded or dead from the ambush of fire. He thought maybe three fell, but the spots in his eyes confounded the scene. One of the men fired desperate shots from the ground to cover his comrades as they approached. Above, Scorpio’s unseen defenders slowed their attack with shorter bursts at the closest group.

  “Shit. Can’t see the third group,” Wade said. “Can you see anything?”

  The ripples of gunshots slowed to a brief pause. Ethan raised his head, still dazed by the flurry of violence playing out before him. Whatever the outcome of the ambush, he’d lose any chance to find the connection to Georgia. He and Wade could wait it out, watch these men destroy each other, then sift through the ashes. That would take weeks, if they found anything at all. In weeks, more people could die, and he’d bear some responsibility for it. Patience was the wiser option. But his patience died with Marcus and Seda. He owed them more than that.

  Wade snapped at him. “Ethan, man, what do you see?”

  “Opportunity,” he said.

  He stepped through the vines toward the villa.

  “Man, what the fuck are you doing?”

  “What I came here for. We’re not leaving empty handed.”

  “What the fuck’s wrong with you? Get back here. You go up there and you’re a dead man.”

  “I’m going. So watch my back.”

  He crossed the vine rows and crept closer to the villa. Behind him, Wade cursed in frustration but stayed put. He needed Wade now more than ever. They had run into firefights twice before in Afghanistan, and their immediate action then was withdrawal. Now bullets whistled in the night air, and he walked toward them.

  Ahead, the firefight dwindled to a series of shots and rattles of gunfire. He heard a shout, and in a moment a quick and heavier explosion shook his ears. The Russians had breached the house and tossed grenades into the first floor. He caught a glimpse of the nearest team to his left—three men left standing as they barged in the double doors at the front of the villa. The third man in limped his way inside, stumbling at the blasted threshold. More gunshots reverberated from within, now muffled by the stone walls. The windows flashed as though a thunderstorm swelled inside. Two more large bangs popped and there was a respite of quiet.

  He waited for a moment at the edge of the yard listening. A burning smell drifted among the trees. Far to his right he saw the wounded operator who had fired from the ground. The man’s body lay still and barely breathing. His arms fell flat beside him, his weapon tilted away from his body. Ethan dashed to a tree halfway across the yard and pressed himself against it.

  Gunfire from the second floor slammed into the earth and bit into the tree. Scorpio’s fighters didn’t fall so easily. He froze. The tree trunk was barely his width. He folded his arms across his chest, unable to unholster his gun without revealing his profile. He waited for a pause in the volley, but it came in steady bursts that ripped into his ears. His breath quickened.

  He heard a sharp crack from Wade’s direction. The gunfire from the window near him stopped. With a second shot from Wade, he heard glass shatter. He dared a glance from behind the tree at a window toward the back side of the house where he had seen the firefight begin. There was nothing but void. He gave Wade a nod and exhaled. Now was his chance.

  He ran at the house and drew the Glock as he reached the outside wall. A window at his shoulder revealed nothing but dark shapes—a sitting room undisturbed by the assault. A shadow passed the doorway at the far wall, and at once the darkness gave way to the narrow beam of a light fixed to the muzzle of a Kalashnikov. He ducked away from the window as the light scanned the empty room. They were clearing the first floor with silent efficiency. When the light vanished, he dashed past the window and rounded the front of the villa.

  He padded his way across a bed of river rock that clattered and shifted under his feet. He cringed at the sound. With each footfall he slowed, letting the rocks settle before leaning forward. He had to take greater care. If he made a mistake like that inside, Wade would go home alone. The front steps raised before him, and he leapt up in a single motion. One of the double doors hung loose on its hinges into the foyer. He gripped the Glock in both hands and crept into the rustic hall.

  He had watched two teams breach the building. That meant he had at least six elite killers to avoid. He had no idea how many defended the place—at least three more on the second floor. Any of them would shoot him on sight. The sitting room to the southeast was empty. He followed the hallway to the right, stepping carefully over the rug-covered wood floor. The gunfire had ended for now, but heavy footfalls overhead and the crash of a broken doorway punctuated the eerie pause.

  From the edge of his vision, he caught movement. He spun to face his own reflection aiming his weapon almost tip to tip in a tall mirror hung in the hall. He relaxed his trigger finger, and the reflection chided him with a tense smirk. He resisted the nervous tremors building in his extremities. Ahead the hall turned left, and he saw his destination. He crept toward the sitting room door and pushed it open. The hinges groaned with the slow effort. From his left he saw a dance of light flash on the floor. The Russians were doubling back.

  He had seconds to think. The small room contained a narrow couch in the center and a console table behind it that held a tray of wine glasses. He saw the room from their perspective. They would enter swiftly and move away from the door to threaten the spots of cover. The couch. The far corner. Along the near wall. He took the last of these behind a small wooden cabinet along the wall to the right of the door. He lay on the floor with his Glock aimed at the door frame and waited. Too late, he wished he had signaled Wade from the window. He backed himself into this corner alone. Better that way, he thought. He couldn’t lose Wade like he had the others. Wade didn’t ask for his recklessness.

  A glimmer of light in the hall approached, a presence without noise. The door burst open. There was no creak from the hinges—only quick and quiet action from the Russian behind the rifle. He moved in coordinated motion, a choreography performed with fluid perfection. The soldier stepped into the room and focused the rifle to the greatest threat. The light froze above the couch, then shifted to the corner. Ethan’s position was next. The soldier swung the rifle barrel in his direction.

  Ethan squeezed the trigger. B
linded and deafened from the pistol, he fired again from the floor. The Russian’s rifle exploded into a star of fire above his head, bullets biting into the plaster walls. His target stumbled back trying to stand as the light bounced across the wall from the recoil. Ethan rolled away and steadied his pistol in both hands at the Russian. His eyes shifted from the man to the door, awaiting another attacker. None came.

  The man leaned against the left wall, clutching his side with one hand and his neck with the other. The Kalashnikov dangled from a strap to his side. He slid down the wall no longer able to stand.

  From somewhere in the house, above the ringing in his ears, Ethan heard a shout in Russian. More gunfire cut the voice short. Again the battle erupted in a grind of rips and bursts. One way or another, he knew that symphony could not last long. With his gun trained on the Russian, he stood and moved to the doorway. He leaned into the hall but saw no one and closed the door.

  He approached the dying man. The light from the rifle illuminated a parabola of floor where motes of plaster dust danced within it. Ethan grabbed the weapon and eased it away from the man. The Russian struggled for a moment, reluctant to lose his weapon but unable to hold his arm without great pain. The man’s head sagged, but Ethan could not see his face behind the gas mask. He shined the light on the man. Black and gray covered every inch of him. He wore no insignia, no mark or number anywhere on his uniform. A plastic hood covered his helmet, and rubbery gloves concealed his hands.

  They wore protective gear, sealed head to toe in hot plastic. He retraced the assault he had witnessed. They wouldn’t need all this just for tear gas. He wondered if they had used some chemical agent in the assault. He smelled the sulfurous tinge of powder from the breaching charge on entering the house, and the same smokeless odor in the room now. More shouts came amid the rattle of fire. His time was running out. He had to find whatever they were after.