Drawpoint (Blake Brier Thrillers Book 4)

by L. T. Ryan

  Yuri followed suit with considerably less agility.

  Nikitin meandered around the postage-sized yard, touching the backs of several chairs that encircled a portable fire pit. The cushions missing, the chairs were nothing more than a series of plastic strips strung between a metal frame. He lowered himself into one of them and kicked his feet onto the edge of the pit. “What are you waiting for?”

  Yuri scuttled onto the deck and withdrew a leather pouch. He selected a couple of tools and went to work on the deadbolt.

  It was the primary reason Nikitin brought Yuri. When it came to locks, he was the best. Even if he was useless for almost anything else.

  But for this task, Yuri’s shortcomings wouldn’t come into play. Neither would Nikitin’s own skill, for that matter.

  They had been watching the Alexandria townhouse for the better part of two days. Nikitin was confident it was vacant. At least for the moment.

  Nikitin had personally seen Haeli Becher come and go, ten minutes prior. And Tahk had reported that the owner, Blake Brier, was still in Rhode Island.

  Tahk was a competent soldier and a trusted source. Nikitin took him at his word when he explained that Brier was running around a small island with a local cop, trying to find a missing girl—no matter how absurd it seemed. Nikitin also believed him when he swore he had nothing to do with the girl’s disappearance. Given Tahk’s proclivities, it wouldn’t have been a stretch. Nor would it have been the first time.

  But it was important that they all stuck to the script. Sokolov was clear that his instructions be carried out to the letter and Nikitin knew whatever his men did or didn’t do was his responsibility. His ass was on the line, every bit as much as theirs.

  “Got it!” Yuri swung the door open.

  Nikitin rose and joined Yuri at the threshold. He turned his good ear toward the interior and waited.

  “You won’t hear anything,” Yuri said. “Silent alarm. But trust me, we’re good.”

  Yuri had disabled the phone lines at the box, knocking out the entire row of homes. It wasn’t likely anyone would notice, even if anyone still had a working landline. But it was the cellphone jammer, nested between an array of car batteries in the hatch of the SUV, that would do the heavy lifting. It would prevent the alarm system from contacting the outside world. As well as every other device in a two-block radius.

  Nikitin wasn’t much concerned about the police. In his limited experience in the United States, the police had proven to be slow and uninterested when it came to routine calls. After a cursory check of the exterior, the call would be closed out and the police would move on to the next. Whether they were still inside or not.

  What Nikitin was most concerned about was an audible alarm. Audible alarms tended to draw nosy neighbors, who quickly became dead neighbors. And that would be in direct contradiction to Sokolov’s instructions. As long as all was quiet, all was well.

  Nikitin stepped inside, traipsed through the kitchen and down the hall toward the front door. The panel on the wall flashed in a state of alarm.

  Yuri poked around in the living room.

  The reason for their visit was to deliver a message, but it provided another benefit. Intel.

  Given the word, he and his men would take Haeli Becher. And while Nikitin would prefer to do it while she was walking from her car or while she was out for a run, an assault on the residence remained a good possibility.

  Nikitin stood in the foyer, facing the front door. His muscles tensed as he imagined how he would defend the entranceway. There wasn’t enough room on either side of the door to lie in wait. Any counterattack would have to come head on, or else be delayed until the intruder got further into the house.

  To his left was a small table with a single drawer. Nikitin slid it open. It contained a ring of keys, a pad of paper, a couple of pens, and a tray full of loose change. Nothing in the way of weapons. He closed it and took a step back. Still, it nagged at him.

  Reaching up under the table, he smiled as his fingers grazed the handle of the Glock. He slid it from its holster and tucked it in his waistband.

  “So predictable.” Nikitin said in Russian. He turned toward the living room. Yuri was no longer there.

  Backtracking to the kitchen, Nikitin lifted his shirt and removed an envelope he had tucked into his belt at the small of his back. He placed the envelope on the countertop.

  “Look what I found,” Yuri said from somewhere outside of Nikitin’s line of sight.

  Nikitin followed the sound of his voice to the open staircase at the end of the kitchen. At the bottom, Yuri was examining a panel, mounted beside a vault door.

  “This is something you don’t see every day,” Yuri said, “unless you live in a bank. Who are these people?”

  For as much as they had tried to dig up on Haeli Becher and Blake Brier, something told Nikitin they hadn’t yet scratched the surface. Whatever was inside that vault was of extreme importance to them. Which meant it was important to Sokolov.

  “Can you open it?”

  “The short answer? No. I mean, given some research, heavy equipment, and enough time, yes. But—”

  “Forget it. I will handle it.”

  “You think you can get in?” Yuri started to chuckle, then caught himself. It was prudent. Nikitin tended to have an adverse reaction to deprecating humor.

  “No. But you and I both know who can.”

  Yuri’s facial expression expanded and contracted. From confusion to realization, back to confusion. “And they’re going to just give us the code?”

  Nikitin’s mouth twisted into a snarled grin. “You only have to know how to ask.”

  12

  “Mick! Mick! Mick!” Fezz, Khat, and Griff pounded the high-top table. The rowdy welcome hardly roused the few patrons who sat at the bar with their eyes glued to the Washington Nationals game.

  The joint’s owner and default bartender, Arty, flipped a towel over his shoulder and gave a silent wave as Blake crunched through the substrate of smashed peanut shells to join his friends.

  A boneyard of empty pints and shot glasses filled the center of the round table.

  “Jesus Christ,” Blake said. “Still got that drinking problem, eh, Fezz?”

  Fezz stood. “Watch yourself little man. I can drink just fine.”

  Blake laughed. “Come’ere, ya big dumb animal.”

  They embraced with a few hardy pats on the back.

  Fezz was one of the few people Blake knew who could refer to him as a “little man” and get no argument. At six-foot-three and a lean two-hundred-thirty pounds, Blake was as physically imposing as the next guy—unless the next guy was Fezz. By all accounts, the man was a bonafide freak of nature.

  Blake slid onto the vacant stool and gave a fist bump to Khat and then Griff.

  “Thanks for the notice,” Blake said.

  “You’re welcome.” Khat stood on the stool’s cross supports. “Arty. Shot and a beer for Mick.”

  “Look at baby-face over here,” Griff said. “You didn’t have to clean up for us.”

  Every year when the warm weather hit, Blake would get the urge to shave off his beard. Once in a while, he’d act on the impulse. That morning was one of those times.

  Blake stroked his smooth chin. “It was getting to be a pain in the ass. Just be happy you haven’t hit puberty yet, Griff.”

  Griff flicked him an affectionate bird.

  “Seriously though—” Fezz belched. “Glad you made it. Not the same without ya.”

  Fifteen minutes prior, Blake was leaving an appointment at Coldwell Banker when he received the drunken invite. With slowed speech, Fezz had ordered him to join them. Blake didn’t need to ask what the occasion was. While the four-hundred square foot dive bar wasn’t a regular haunt, it was a tradition. A superstition, really. And their presence there meant only one thing. They were shipping out.

  “You want in on the pool, Mick?” Khat asked.

  “Twenty bucks,” Griff added. “Pony up
, hotshot.”

  Blake rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, the ring?”

  “You know it.” Khat bristled with excitement. “I understand if you don’t want to. I wouldn’t go against me either.”

  Fezz bellowed. “My money’s on anyone else but you.”

  It was like time never passed. Blake thought back to the last time he sat at that table as part of the team, preparing for his final mission—although he hadn’t known at the time it would be his last. He recalled having the same conversation, centered around the same dumb bar game.

  A ring, hanging from a string, and a hook on the wall. The premise was simple. Stand behind the line, swing the ring, and land it on the hook. It was pointless and trivial, but when bragging rights were on the line, the ragtag group could make anything into the Battle of the Bulge.

  “I’ll pass,” Blake said. “Doesn’t feel right taking your money. You being civil servants and all.”

  Khat stood up. “Okay, okay. You’re scared. It’s all right. Eye-hand coordination’s not what it used to be. We get it.” He retrieved the ring from the hook, brought it behind the line, and pulled until the string was taut. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

  “This is your turn,” Fezz said. “Don’t be trying to sneak in any practice runs.”

  “Only need one.” Khat closed one eye and rocked the ring forward and back, keeping tension on the line. Then he released.

  The ring swung in an arc, missing the hook completely.

  “Ohhhh, you suck.” Griff laughed.

  Everyone did—except for Khat. He slunk back to his seat.

  Arty dropped off a pint of light beer and a dark, amber-colored shot. “Not as easy as it looks, is it?”

  “Not for big-mouth over here,” Fezz said.

  Arty hadn’t asked what Blake wanted to drink. Blake decided it was best not to ask what he decided to pour. He threw back the shot and chased it with a gulp of beer.

  Jack Daniels and… Miller light.

  It wasn’t as highbrow as what he had become accustomed to. But it hit the spot.

  When in Rome.

  Fezz slapped Blake on the back. “There ya go, Mick. Five more and you’ve almost caught up. Arty, another round.”

  Blake spun his stool toward the bar. “Not for me, Arty. I’m just stoppin’ in for one. Places to be.”

  “Where you gotta be?” Khat said. “Hot date? Heard you’re an eligible bachelor again. That explains the shave.”

  An awkward silence lingered between Fezz and Griff.

  Khat smiled and shrugged. “What? Too soon?”

  “No. You’re right,” Blake said. “I’m a free man.”

  “I don’t understand it.” Fezz gulped the last of his beer. “After all of that, she just walks out? Still can’t wrap my head around it.”

  “You and me both,” Blake said. “Not to be a sap, but before I left, I thought we had a break-through. You know, like we stepped it up to the next level or something. I spent so much time resisting it, I missed it. Instead of just enjoying what we had while it lasted. I—” He shook his head and exhaled. “I don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

  “Man, you are in a bad way,” Fezz said. “Now you definitely have to stay and drink with us.”

  “That’s why I don’t get attached to ‘em,” Griff said. “No honey’s catching me in that trap. No way.”

  Fezz chuckled. “Famous last words.”

  Khat forced a puff of air through his teeth. “Forget about you. I’m gonna miss her. It’s not gonna be the same without her.”

  “Look at you gettin’ sentimental,” Griff said. “She didn’t even like you.”

  “She liked me more than you.”

  Blake brought his hand to his forehead with a slap. “Can we just drop it? I don’t want to talk about Haeli. What’s going on with you guys? I mean, you’re here, right?”

  “You know the drill,” Fezz said. “Another day, another set of bad actors.”

  Griff got up and grabbed the ring Khat left dangling. “I might as well get my turn over with.”

  “Don’t suppose you can say where you’re headed?” Blake already knew the answer. As close as they were, he would never expect them to divulge classified information unless there was a legitimate need for Blake to know. And curiosity didn’t count.

  “Watch the news in a day or two,” Fezz said.

  It was enough said. Wherever they were going, it involved a high-level target. The fact that they were pulling the trigger meant there was a credible and imminent threat to national security. In a way, Blake was glad he didn’t know.

  Clink. The brass ring skimmed the hook and swung back.

  “Who sucks now?” Khat poked.

  “Got closer than you.” Griff took his spot at the table just as Arty arrived with another round—minus one.

  “You forgot Mick,” Fezz said.

  “He’s the boss.” Arty unloaded the tray.

  “If you don’t want to talk about Haeli,” Griff said, “how ‘bout you tell us what the hell happened in Rhode Island.”

  Blake took a deep breath. “Long story. Basically, I impersonated an FBI agent for a week, almost got myself killed, and somehow got out of there without being arrested. You know, the usual.”

  “Oh yeah,” Fezz said, “really long story.”

  Griff laughed mid-sip. He tilted the glass level as beer dribbled down his chin. At that, even Blake had to laugh out loud.

  “The funny thing was, I was there to help Anja’s sister and her family. Kinda ended up being the other way around.”

  “But you found the girl?” Khat asked.

  “Found the girl and a little bit of closure.”

  “Well, then.” Fezz nodded and lifted his glass. “To closure.”

  “Screw that,” Khat said. “To kickin’ ass.”

  Blake decided he could get behind either. He lifted his glass, then finished what was left of the pint.

  Fezz hopped off the stool and headed over to the dangling ring. “Someone’s gotta show y’all up.”

  Blake stood, reached into his pocket, and threw two twenty-dollar bills on the table. “That’s it for me. Listen, you guys watch your backs. Any of you gets killed, you’re gonna answer to me.”

  Khat and Griff shuffled around the table for a handshake and gruff hug.

  “Sure you can’t hang for a bit?” Griff asked.

  “I’ve got a couple things I need to do. We’ll catch up when you get back.” Blake walked behind Fezz who already had the ring in hand and was lining up for his shot. He reached up and squeezed Fezz’s monstrous trapezoid. “See ya later, Brotha.”

  Fezz turned. With the ring in his left hand, he offered a handshake, then bumped his shoulder into Blake’s. “Be good.”

  Blake smiled, pried the ring from Fezz’s hand, and let it swing.

  By the time the pendulum completed its arc and the ring came to rest on the metal hook, Blake was already through the door.

  13

  Two Years Ago. Adam Goldmann fiddled with the third button from the top on his Armani dress shirt. With several strands of conductive thread, the miniature button camera and microphone were connected to a chip, sewn into the hem of his shirttail.

  “Don’t touch it.” From the passenger seat, Haeli craned her neck to check on Goldmann, who sat in the middle of the second row, pinned between Ornal to his left, and Bender to his right.

  Since they left the hotel, there was something off about Goldmann. Besides sweating and fidgeting, he was uncharacteristically quiet. Haeli worried the pressure of being wired was getting into his head.

  “Get a grip, Goldmann,” Haeli said.

  Wan glanced back from the driver’s seat and then returned his attention to the road. “Relax. Nothing changes. We’re all doing exactly what we always do. No need to overthink it.”

  Goldmann let go of the button and dropped his hand onto the stainless-steel case, which rested on his lap.

  Wan was right. Nothing
had changed. They used the same hotel. The same armored SUV. The same stainless-steel case, handcuffed to Goldmann’s left wrist.

  Plus, Goldmann had the easy job. He was to do exactly what Sokolov had ordered him to do. Deliver the diamonds.

  For Haeli, it wouldn’t be as simple.

  In the two days that had passed since they’d learned of Sokolov’s scheme, they had brainstormed about scenarios which would allow them an opportunity to break away from Goldmann and get access to one of the mine’s drawpoints. Even in the best case, they knew that it would be too risky for more than one of them to attempt it.

  As team leader, Haeli felt a strong responsibility for the wellbeing of her men. It was why she volunteered to attempt the reconnaissance on her own.

  When they were on site during the previous two trips, they saw several workers coming and going. Each of them wore the same orange coveralls and once-white hard hats. Haeli’s entire plan revolved around her ability to recover a set of the equipment from an unsuspecting, and recently unconscious, worker. Over ambitious, maybe. But it was the best they could come up with under the circumstances.

  Even if she could manage the disguise, she knew she would still stand out. To date, she hadn’t seen any female workers, and certainly none with her light olive complexion. But it would be far better than sneaking around wearing black tactical gear and a drop holster.

  Wan slowed and turned off the main road onto the hard-packed sand. Ahead, beyond the shimmering mirage, was the village of Boitshwarelo. Home to several thousand Batswana, the small oasis was an eclectic collection of grass roof huts, concrete hovels painted with colorful murals, and rickety wooden structures. A blip in the vast desert, Boithshwarelo’s only notoriety came from being the de facto gateway to the Kabo mine.

  From the opposite edge of the village, they would access a narrow, paved road that served as the mine’s only vehicular access. For forty kilometers, the access road would cut through the sea of Kalahari sand and deposit them at the enormous compound.

  Haeli and the rest of the team had studied the maps and satellite imagery and were satisfied they had a working knowledge of its layout.