by Peter Nealen
The Russian started swearing at him, but stopped when the still-warm muzzle of the Krinkov was pressed against his forehead, and let himself be pulled the rest of the way into the living room.
Gomez hadn’t said a word.
The rest were flooding down the stairs from the loft. Bodies were hastily dragged inside, and then the door was swung shut again, with the remains of the table wedged against it to act as a barricade. It wouldn’t last long against anybody who was really determined to make entry, but they didn’t intend to stick around for all that long, either.
Brannigan looked around for Javakhishvili. “Patch that guy up, so he can move,” he said, pointing to the wounded man, who was still groaning, but not resisting as Gomez pulled his spare magazines out of the chest rig he’d been wearing under his coat. “And see what he knows in the process.”
He looked at his watch. It was just before midnight. “Ten minutes,” he said. “Then we’re moving. Anybody who grabbed a Krinkov, get on the windows. Sam, you still on overwatch?”
“Yeah,” Childress replied. “Though I’d be a lot more comfortable with it if somebody would bring me a gun.”
In the light of the first man’s flashlight, Brannigan took stock. They had two Krinkovs, the first man’s PL-15 pistol, the PP-2000, and an AEK 919 Kashtan, in addition to the two Tokarevs. That made two 5.45 short-barreled rifles, two 9mm Parabellum weapons, and one 9mm Makarov. The Tokarevs were almost out of ammunition. Which meant that their ammunition options were limited, as was their range.
Well, at least they had a prisoner.
“Somebody grab one of those Krinkovs and get it up to Sam,” he said. Bianco quickly complied.
The man was screaming again as Javakhishvili pulled off his boot, none too gently, while questioning him in a hard, cold, merciless voice. Javakhishvili might have had the experience to be a full-blown doctor, but he had the bedside manner of an interrogator.
The Russian was talking, in a low, pained voice, often interrupted by groans and screams of pain as Javakhishvili quickly and efficiently bandaged his mangled ankle. While that was going on, and Brannigan peered out the windows, looking at the still partially-ajar gate and the top of the fence, watching for a follow-up attack, Hancock stepped up next to him.
“Déjà vu all over again,” he muttered. Brannigan just nodded. He was remembering Al Fulani’s double-cross in Dubai, too. “What’s the plan?”
“Let Herc get that guy patched up enough that he can come with us,” Brannigan said. “Then get clear. Wring him dry. Find out where Gorev went.”
He couldn’t see much in the dark, but he could sense Hancock’s raised eyebrow anyway. “You really thinking of going scalp hunting at this stage?” he asked quietly. “We don’t have a good feel for the area, we’ve got very limited arms and ammunition, and we’ve already been burned.”
“He knows where our contacts on the other side of the river are,” Brannigan said. “Possibly even where their supply caches are. We’ll see if this guy knows where he is, carjack a couple vehicles, see if we can grab him before dawn, and then get the hell out of the city. We wring Gorev dry, then head north.” He was pretty well convinced that the bus ride to Rezina plan was out the window. Their enemies would probably be watching the public transportation hubs.
It was going to make getting out of the country difficult, too, but he decided he needed to focus on one thing at a time. After all, it wasn’t like it was the first time the extract plan had gone to hell.
“Why don’t we just call it and get the hell out?” Hancock asked. “If we’re already burned…”
It was a serious consideration. And Brannigan was severely tempted. He doubted that it was a deliberate setup; it was far too complex to be cost-effective, and he suspected that if Dalca wanted them eliminated, for whatever reason, she’d find a way to do it quietly, Stateside. She seemed like she had a certain degree of common sense. But they were way out in the cold, and their entire logistical network had just turned on them.
He decided it was going to depend on what information Javakhishvili could get out of their prisoner. If it was just local treachery, then Dalca’s information might still be good. And there was a burning, deadly desire in Brannigan’s chest to find whoever had been behind the Mexico incident. If Dalca’s intel was on the level, and Codreanu could lead them to them…
He turned to look at Javakhishvili, who turned off the commandeered flashlight just as he tucked the last tail of the bandage in, patted the wounded brodyaga roughly on the calf, and stepped back, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. His lighter flared in the dark, and the stink of cheap Russian tobacco filled the living room. He flicked the lighter closed and took a deep draw as he stepped away from the wounded man and closer to Brannigan.
“Well, if he’s telling the truth, and I think he is,” he said quietly, “Gorev didn’t sell us out.”
“This ought to be good,” Hancock said dryly.
“Seems that these guys worked for a Vitalie Petrenko, a local Ukrainian Sovietnik,” Javakhishvili said. “Petrenko hated Gorev’s guts, and apparently didn’t know anything about anyone named Dalca. Or if he did, poor Dmitri over here doesn’t know about it.
“Apparently, Gorev and Petrenko used to work for the same boss, and Gorev was the favorite. Petrenko was the attack dog. When Petrenko offed the boss, Gorev moved in, took over a lot of the infrastructure, and froze Petrenko out.” Brannigan raised his eyebrows a little. They hadn’t had any inkling that Gorev was any kind of bigshot. He’d been an errand boy, to the best of their knowledge.
“Petrenko split off with some of his own brodyagi and had Gorev watched for months now. Apparently, they didn’t know who we were, but knew that our presence must mean that Gorev was setting up some kind of big deal, so they decided to hit him and queer it. It seems to have backfired; the big guy you shot on entry was Petrenko.”
“So, he doesn’t know where Gorev is?” Hancock asked.
Javakhishvili shook his head. “They thought he was here.”
“Son of a bitch.” Brannigan looked over at the wounded Russian. His eyes narrowed. “Ask him if Petrenko does business in Transnistria.”
Javakhishvili didn’t move, except to look over his shoulder and bark a question in Russian at their prisoner. The man replied shakily.
“He says sure, everybody in the Bratva does,” he said. “Why?”
“Does he know where to find weapons over there?” Brannigan asked.
Javakhishvili’s question seemed somewhat longer than Brannigan’s, but the wounded man nodded vigorously, speaking rapidly.
“He says yes,” Javakhishvili translated. “He can show us. There are houses that Petrenko and others use as staging points for shipments. They seem to have arrangements with some of the Transnistrian Army and the Russians. I think most of the Bratva does.”
“What are you thinking?” Hancock asked.
“I’m thinking that this guy might be our Plan B,” Brannigan said. “Get him ready to move.”
***
Flanagan and Gomez were the first out. Flanagan had commandeered the PP-2000, and Gomez was cradling the AEK-919. Instead of going out the front door, within line of sight from the still partially-open gate, they piled out the window that Javakhishvili had come in through, dropping carefully to the ground. The snow crunched a little under their boots, but the noise was still extremely faint after the racket of the gunfight.
Flanagan checked the corner, watching toward the gate from behind his submachinegun. There was no movement, and Childress had reported that several vehicles had rapidly fled the area within a minute of the end of the firefight, but he could already hear the sirens as the Moldovan Police responded to the reports of gunfire. They didn’t have long.
Gomez was already at the wall, his back to the bricks. He leaned his own submachinegun against the wall, the wire stock disappearing into the snow, and cupped his hands together. Flanagan turned, took two steps to him, put his boot in Gom
ez’ clasped hands, and stepped up to the top of the wall.
The alley beyond was quiet and empty. He suspected that the locals were keeping their heads down; they had to know that gunfire in their quiet neighborhood wasn’t a good thing. He briefly wondered, as he levered his body up onto the top of the wall, feeling the snow already start to melt and soak through his pants, if they knew anything about who owned the walled-in house.
Making sure he was balanced on top of the wall, he reached down for Gomez, who grabbed his 9mm subgun before reaching up and wrapping his fingers around Flanagan’s wrist. They were both wearing gloves; they’d at least come ready for the cold, but their gloves were wet, and they had to hold on a little tighter to make sure they had a solid grip. Flanagan pulled, drawing Gomez up high enough to grab the top of the wall with most of his arm, even as he let his own legs dangle, prior to dropping off into the alley.
He landed lightly, bending his knees to absorb the shock, snatching up the PP-2000’s grip and bringing it to his shoulder to check both directions as he did. He took a single long step toward the street as Gomez dropped his own feet down toward the alley, helping whoever was next over.
One by one, the Blackhearts went over the wall and into the alley. The wounded Russian shooter was close to the back, and he was groaning and whimpering in pain the entire time, until Javakhishvili said something that sounded threatening, after which he shut up. Where he was stationed at the end of the alley, watching the street, Flanagan briefly wondered just what it was their new doc had told the guy, and then dismissed it. He was sure it had been something evil and sadistic; it seemed like Herc’s style.
He wasn’t sure what to make of their new doc. He seemed to be the kind to play a bit fast-and-loose all around. He was certainly a contrast to the late Doc Villareal. Villareal wouldn’t have dreamed of threatening a wounded man, and would have probably been protesting the idea of wringing the guy out. He’d flat refused to carry a weapon, citing his Hippocratic Oath. Somehow, Flanagan couldn’t see Herc even taking the Hippocratic Oath.
“Joe,” Brannigan hissed behind him. “Go!”
Flanagan didn’t need any further prompting. Quickly checking the street in both directions, he got up off his soaking knee, tucked the PP-2000 into his armpit, where the bulk of his coat should conceal it from casual observation, and started across the street.
It wasn’t going to fool anyone for any length of time. He was acting like he was just another pedestrian, but the street was deserted at that time of night, and the police weren’t just going to ignore a column of men walking away from the site of a reported firefight. Especially not if they went inside and found the bloodbath the Blackhearts had left behind them.
But the police weren’t moving that quickly. Maybe Petrenko had some of them paid off. Or maybe Gorev did, and they knew that the gunfire had come from one of Gorev’s safehouses. He could hear the sirens, and even see flashing blue lights off in the distance, but he was confident they could be several blocks away before any of the cops showed up.
Careful to keep his pace even and his eyes scanning everywhere, he slipped into another alleyway and headed south, away from the safehouse.
***
The wounded man guided them across the railroad tracks to a crumbling, abandoned industrial building sitting in an overgrown lot next to a lumber yard. There were tire tracks outside the gate, but they were being slowly but steadily covered over by the snowfall. It didn’t look like anyone had been there in a while.
Javakhishvili was helping the wounded man along, one shoulder under his arm to support him, the other hand holding one of the Tokarevs against his ribs. It had been a hasty matter to re-jam the four magazines they had for the Toks, but they’d done it before leaving, along with making sure all the other weapons were topped off.
The wounded Russian got the message loud and clear. If he led them into an ambush, or otherwise tried to betray them, he was going to get most of that magazine of 7.62x25 through his heart and lungs. Javakhishvili wouldn’t hesitate to do it, either. He’d whispered enough hateful nothings in Russian to the brodyaga that he’d made that abundantly clear.
Flanagan and Gomez stacked up on the gate, while Childress and Wade, with the Krinkovs, covered the flanks. The rest of the Blackhearts, except for Brannigan, who still had the other Tokarev, and Hancock, with the PL-15, were still carrying their improvised clubs, along with a few rocks, bicycle chains, and at least one coil of wire to use as a garrote. None of them would be particularly effective in a gunfight, but none of these men wanted to be empty-handed in hostile territory.
Gomez tried the gate, but it was padlocked. “Up and over,” Flanagan whispered. The wall was a good foot shorter than the one they’d hopped to get out of the safehouse.
This time, Flanagan provided the boost, and Gomez went up on top of the wall. Flanagan followed, the two men dropping down into the compound alone.
“Is this the place?” Javakhishvili asked in a whisper, in Russian. “Because if it isn’t…” He let the suggestion hang in the air.
The truth was, while “Herc” Javakhishvili had the talent and most of the training to be a doctor, he’d never wanted to be one. He didn’t especially like practicing medicine, even of the combat variety. He’d discovered that in the Fleet Marine Force. He’d kept up his certs since then mainly because having them tended to mean higher pay when he did PMC work.
He’d always felt that his real gift, though, was violence. He was not a nice man, and he knew it.
“Da,” the wounded man replied through gritted teeth. The shock had worn off, and he had to be in a considerable amount of pain by then. “There are two Bukhankhi in there. And they run.”
“You first,” Javakhishvili said, pushing him toward the wall. There had been no way he was going to send the prisoner ahead without letting their pointmen check the compound out first, but now that they had a foothold, and would have eyes—and gun muzzles—on the guy the whole time, they could let him lead the way, to spring any traps or ambushes ahead of them.
It took some doing to get the wounded man up over the fence, and some help from Bianco and Curtis. Then Javakhishvili shoved the Tokarev in his pants, acutely aware that there was a round in the pipe, and jumped up to follow, praying he wasn’t about to blow his balls off. The Tokarev was not known for being a safe weapon to carry loaded.
He got to the top of the wall and straddled it, knowing that he was skylining himself in the process, especially with all the snow and the clouds turning the night in to a vague orange glow. But he really didn’t want to put his weight on that pistol. Hastily swinging his leg over, he dropped to the ground, hit awkwardly, and managed to catch himself on his hands in the snow before sprawling on his face.
The Russian gangster was down on the ground, moaning again. He must have landed badly on his wounded foot. Javakhishvili reached down, grabbed him by the coat, and jerked him to his feet by main force. He didn’t feel much pity for somebody who’d come after them shooting and gotten shot in the process. Guy should feel lucky we need him alive. For the moment.
“Are there any more locks or booby traps we should know about?” he asked in Russian, yanking the Tokarev out of his waistband and digging the muzzle back into the Russian’s ribs.
“Nyet,” the man gasped. “The lock on the gate is all. This is just a staging area for extra vehicles. It isn’t even used for anything else.”
“Well, for your sake, I hope that’s true,” Javakhishvili said, giving him a shove toward the garage at the base of the abandoned building. Three stories of dingy concrete block were studded with black, empty windows, like eyes in a dead skull.
Neither Flanagan nor Gomez had said a word, but had just spread out to either side of the gate, their submachineguns at the ready and their eyes scanning. There was enough illumination that they didn’t need to worry much about the lack of night vision goggles, at least not while they were still outside.
The wounded man led the way into the gar
age. He wasn’t acting furtive or sneaky; he was just in a lot of pain, limping with every step, especially since Javakhishvili was behind him with the pistol, prodding him forward instead of supporting him. He hauled up the rollup door without much hesitation. Clearly, he wasn’t worried about getting blown up.
Gomez had apparently palmed a flashlight from one of the dead. He flicked it on and shone it around the garage. Sure enough, there were two UAZ-452 off-road vans, one painted a pale blue, the other an indeterminate blend of off-white, flaking red, and rust, parked inside.
“Stay here,” Javakhishvili said to their prisoner, dragging him down to a sitting position against the wall. Flanagan stepped over to the blue UAZ, only taking his support hand off the PP-2000 to test the door handle. The door creaked open. It was unlocked.
“Holy crap, keys are in the ignition,” he said, as he stepped up into the cab. “You guys might want to get on the other side of the wall, just in case,” he called.
“We’ll stay right here,” Javakhishvili said, grinning down at his prisoner, who didn’t look at him. “You sure there’s no boom-boom wired up in here?” he asked in Russian.
The prisoner just shook his head. Javakhishvili looked up at Flanagan and shrugged. The black-bearded merc just shrugged back, swung into the driver’s seat, put his PP-2000 up on the dash, and reached down. He might have muttered, “Here goes nothing,” just before he turned the key.
Javakhishvili involuntarily tensed. But the UAZ turned over twice, then caught with a dull rumble. Nothing exploded. Flanagan held a thumbs-up out the door.
They still had to check the other vehicle, but it looked like they were in business.
Chapter 9
It was just getting light as they entered Rezina, the two UAZ vans keeping about half a kilometer of separation between them. Brannigan was in the lead vehicle, along with Javakhishvili and their reluctant companion. The man had finally stopped whimpering and subsided into a sullen silence, only broken when Javakhishvili asked a question.
