Frozen Conflict (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 4)

by Peter Nealen

  Before the Blackhearts, now jocked up and armed to the teeth with five Vz.58s, two AKMs, two RPDs, and two wood-stocked Uzis, left the warehouse, Gogol offered to exchange phone numbers. Given how much the Blackhearts had paid him, he was willing to offer them any new information as he got it.

  Brannigan hesitated a moment. Getting involved with organized crime hadn’t worked out all that well, so far, despite the fact that they had just gotten their weapons and gear from these characters. He was reluctant to leave an open contact with these people.

  But information was information, and Gogol seemed to be genuinely interested in seeing Codreanu taken down. How he would react if he found out that the Blackhearts were there to capture the arms dealer, rather than kill him, was unknown, but Brannigan had no intention of letting him know that.

  So, he had agreed, and exchanged numbers with Gogol over one of the burner phones they’d bought in Chisinau. They’d been careful to make sure they got phones that used the IDC network, the only Moldovan cell company that operated in Transnistria, so that particular line of communication should be fairly open. Gogol had grinned, standing in the door of the warehouse, and promised that he’d be in touch.

  Part of the deal had also been turning Dmitri over to Gogol and his men. Brannigan had hesitated; he knew that doing so meant that Dmitri’s life expectancy could likely be measured in hours. But they couldn’t exactly drag him along with them any longer, and he had tried to kill them.

  He’d shrieked when the big gorilla had grabbed him by the arm, but he’d been in no shape to resist. And the truth was, the Blackhearts really weren’t in a position to object, not without a firefight that they couldn’t afford. They were still outnumbered and outgunned.

  Flanagan had gotten in the back of the UAZ, with his wood-stocked Uzi, screwing on the clearly scratchbuilt suppressor that Gogol had thrown in for “just a little extra.” “Somebody else drive,” he’d said. Gomez had the other Uzi in the other van, and the intent was pretty clear, even without having been stated. The two of them were going to be the recon element, doing the advance scouting on the objective. Having grabbed the only suppressed weapons they had, they’d effectively laid claim to the role.

  Childress still looked a little sullen that he hadn’t gotten to one of the 9mm submachineguns first.

  With hands on weapons and eyes watching the Russian mobsters closely, the two UAZ vans trundled out of the yard and into the dark.

  ***

  “Are we ready to go?” Codreanu demanded. He was bundled up for the cold, and sweating profusely under his long coat. The fire was roaring in the stove, and the dacha’s greatroom would have been stifling even in shirtsleeves.

  Vaduva turned aside from the window. “The boats aren’t here yet,” he explained. “And they’re not due for another hour.” After the close call a few days before, Codreanu and Lungu had both agreed that the river presented their best escape route. They just didn’t have the boats at the dacha to do it, at least not while bringing out the people and the valuables that Codreanu wanted with him.

  “Then we should chance the road again,” Codreanu said. He was visibly nervous; not all the sweat was from the heat of the room and the heavy coat. “They won’t try to attack us from the same place again so soon.”

  If the increase in Russian and Transnistrian security forces in the area had been an indication, Vaduva would have agreed. But his men had noted a definite drawdown in the Army patrols over the last few hours. And that wasn’t all.

  “There is a panel van sitting across the road just outside the gate,” Vaduva explained. “It’s been sitting there for the last two hours. My men haven’t seen anything, but if it were me, I’d have either a bomb or a hit squad in there. I think the front is a trap.” He shook his head again. “We will do what you want to do, sir, but I really think we should wait for the boats.”

  Codreanu stood there indecisively for a moment, his mouth working, fear in his eyes. But he finally nodded jerkily and started back upstairs. Vaduva watched him go, a little enviously. Drina was waiting up there. She’d become the boss’s favorite, since the attack. Of course, they’d been under siege, so it had been impossible to bring any more hookers in, so the options were limited. But Vaduva had to admit, as he turned his eyes back toward the grounds, that a man could do worse.

  Chapter 12

  They staged the vans in a pullout that looked like it served as a marina on the riverbank during the summer. Right at that point, it was an abandoned stretch of bare ground, covered in snow, slush, and ice, with the ice stretching several meters out over the Dniester itself. It was also unlit, and less than five hundred yards from Codreanu’s dacha. While the bushes along the Dniester’s bank were low, there were a few trees, as well, to provide some concealment.

  Their civilian clothes weren’t good camouflage, especially with all the snow on the ground. But they had to make do. Time was of the essence, and there wasn’t exactly a good place for Westerners to walk in and buy winter camouflage utilities in Ribnitza. So, Flanagan and Gomez slipped into the bushes, crouched almost double, and started toward the dacha, their Uzis in their hands.

  Flanagan was in his element. He’d honestly enjoyed being a point man the best when he’d been a Recon Marine, because he’d really gotten to exercise his woodscraft in that position. He’d always been stealthy in the woods, and now he used every bit of skill he had, moving smoothly and quietly between the bushes and reeds along the riverbank.

  It was still rough going; there wasn’t as much light in Ribnitza as there might be in a Western city of comparable size, but there was still plenty, and with the clouds above and the snow below, it cast a lambent glow over everything, making it impossible to completely hide in the dark. So, he had to stay low, trying to stay down in the bushes and the reeds, instead of being silhouetted against the lighter colors of the snow and the dead vegetation.

  Ahead, he could see the lights of the dacha through the stand of trees surrounding the grounds. The spotlights blazed a brilliant white, the cones of illumination sharply outlined by falling snow.

  He and Gomez were moving in a sort of slow, careful leapfrogging pattern, with each man finding a concealed position to hunker down and cover the advance of the other. Gomez had just settled beneath a tree, still about two hundred yards from the dacha, when he held up a fist, the gesture just barely visible without night vision and in the shadows under the boughs. Flanagan froze where he was, the Uzi in his shoulder, and peered through the dim glow of the snowy night, trying to spot what Gomez had seen.

  It took a moment; the men a hundred yards ahead of them were wearing white. They were little more than impressions of movement in the vegetation. But they were clearly moving with intent, and they were moving like soldiers. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that they were there for the same reason the Blackhearts were. They were facing the dacha, after all.

  One, two, three…there’s four and five. No, wait. Six. Flanagan cursed silently. He reached down to his chest rig and squeezed the push-to-talk button on his German radio three times. That should tell the rest of the team, currently moving toward a jumping-off position closer to the dacha itself, that something was wrong.

  He immediately thought of Gogol’s story about other Westerners coming into Transnistria. Brannigan hadn’t been the only one to pick up the subtext. And he thought he had a good idea of just who these mysterious figures in the snow ahead of them were. If he was right, it meant that they were about to lose their chance at Codreanu, if they didn’t do something quick.

  But six on two was not good odds, even with the element of surprise. He had no idea just how effective the Uzi’s suppressor was going to be, either. But they had to try something.

  As deliberately and as quietly as he could, he lifted his boot and started to move toward Gomez. They’d have to coordinate this very carefully.

  ***

  Redrum checked his watch. He and the rest of his team were sitting in the back of an anc
ient, creaky five-ton truck, half a block from Codreanu’s gate. The panel van that Vaduva had fingered as an assault vehicle was just ahead of them, but contrary to Vaduva’s assessment, it was empty. It had been left there as a decoy, and so far, it appeared to be doing its job. Codreanu hadn’t stirred yet. But it was only a matter of time.

  Redrum and his team were kitted up in Kryptek Yeti camouflage utilities, with matching chest rigs and high-cut helmets. He’d been less than impressed when Flint had brought the stuff in; it wasn’t common in this part of the world, and if they were spotted, they’d start people scratching their heads. But Flint had been, as usual, dismissive of his concerns, simply replying with, “Then don’t get spotted, pussy. It’s pretty simple.”

  Yeah, you showed everybody that in Mexico, didn’t you, asshole? The fact that he knew he wouldn’t actually say that to that murderous bastard didn’t sit well with Redrum. He looked down at the M21 in his hands and got ready to take his frustration out on Codreanu’s security.

  “Time now,” he said quietly. Flint and his team should be in position. They’d had enough time. There was RUMINT on the street, that they’d gotten from some of their criminal contacts, that Codreanu was making a break for it that night. Redrum would rather catch him flat-footed than risk having this turn into a stern chase.

  Faust kicked open the tailgate, and the team started piling out of the truck. Cat and Lèzard took up covering positions, while the rest started flowing toward the gate leading onto the dacha’s grounds. Skinner started the truck with a rumble; he’d pull it up to the gate once they had Codreanu.

  At a fast jog, Redrum quickly left the truck behind. Bèstia and Faust were close behind him, with Cat and Lèzard bringing up the rear. They were pros; they kept their intervals with their M21s, wrapped in white athletic tape, held at the ready.

  Redrum could hear Bèstia behind him, and momentarily felt a prickle between his shoulder blades. He knew the Frenchman liked him about as much as he liked Bèstia, which was not at all, but he was fairly confident that the paycheck would keep the Frog from trying to shoot him in the back. At least, for the moment.

  Once this job was over, all bets were off. And he already had a plan to deal with Bèstia if and when the time came.

  The gate was coming up. Codreanu’s people had definitely turtled since they’d hit the place last; there weren’t any guards on the outside. That wasn’t to say that they hadn’t put any nasty surprises inside, though the last couple of days’ surveillance hadn’t spotted anything in particular. They seemed to have strongpointed inside the house and called it good.

  Granted, Redrum hadn’t been expecting a great deal of professionalism or tactics from a bunch of Romanian gangsters. Their specialty was selling drugs, weapons, and hookers, along with knifing each other. They weren’t even close to his team’s class.

  Still, that didn’t mean he was going to go running in there recklessly. That was what Flint’s team was in position for.

  He slowed as he neared the gate, starting to move quickly from tree to tree, a white ghost in the scattered glow of the city lights on the snow. He tapped his transmit button. “In position,” he whispered. Lifting his M21 to the ready, he crouched by the tree trunk and waited.

  Any minute now.

  But the storm of covering fire he’d been expecting didn’t start. The quiet stretched out, broken only by the faint wind rustling the bare branches overhead and the fainter rumble of what little traffic there was on the streets of Ribnitza at that hour. What the fuck, Flint?

  A shot rang out, entirely too close. That was just down on the other side of the grounds…oh, fuck. That fucking asshole! He got to his feet and started for the gate at a sprint.

  The gate was closed, as he’d expected. It was also on a motorized track, which meant busting through a lock and swinging it open was out of the question. That had been why the diversionary attack from the base of fire position had been vital. And now it sounded like Flint had changed the plan on the fly, as more shots rang out, the sharp barks of 5.56 controlled pairs being answered with panicked bursts of pistol-caliber automatic fire and the occasional heavier rattle of AK fire.

  Slinging his Serbian rifle on his back, Redrum jumped up, hoping he wasn’t about to get shot from the house, and grabbed the top rail of the gate with both hands. He pulled up, trying to brace a boot against the stone or concrete column to one side, but his sole was packed with snow and ice, and slipped. He banged against the gate painfully, his shoulder feeling the wrench as he dropped. Grimacing, he hauled himself back up, and this time managed to get enough purchase that he could lift himself up to the top of the gate, trying not to impale his nuts on the spearhead tips of the vertical bars.

  Throwing another leg over, he dropped to the ground, hitting hard and feeling his knee protest the impact. Then he was surging away from the gate, unslinging his M21 and moving down the driveway toward the house, moving from tree to tree as he went.

  Dim, pale figures moved in the trees to the south, along that side of the fence, leapfrogging toward the house. Flint had thrown the plan out the window and decided to make the assault himself. Redrum cursed as he drove forward, not even stopping to check if Bèstia had made it over. He kind of hoped that the guy had sat on one of the bars and skewered his taint.

  Wild, unaimed gunfire was spraying from the windows at the figures rushing the house. Flint’s team returned fire ferociously. Unlike the Romanian gangsters, Flint and his guys were aiming, and the fire from the house fell off dramatically as bullets tore through the windows, forcing them to take cover.

  Taking advantage of the lull, Redrum broke into a sprint, just as soon as he noted that Bèstia was alongside him. He pounded up the driveway, or tried to. The driveway hadn’t been thoroughly plowed, and his feet tried to fly out from under him as he slid on the thin layer of new snow sitting atop compact snow and ice. He nearly face-planted, but managed to catch himself, moving forward in more of a fast glide. The crash behind him told him without looking that Bèstia hadn’t learned the same lesson fast enough.

  Redrum didn’t slow down. He knew that he was taking a risk, effectively charging the front door on his own, but Bèstia could pick himself up. Getting past the ice-slick driveway, he mounted the stone steps two at a time, his M21 in his shoulder and ready.

  Cat was right behind him, stacking on the other side of the door, the wiry little man as silent as his namesake in the dark. Faust and Lèzard were next, with Bèstia, blowing bloody bubbles from his nose and cursing in French under his breath, limping in the rear.

  Cat turned his back to the wall and donkey-kicked the door. Small he might have been, but he was strong; the jamb splintered under the brutal impact, and the door cracked. A second kick sent it flying inward, and Redrum plunged through, following his M21’s muzzle.

  A Romanian gangster with an Italian Spectre submachinegun in his hands had turned, eyes wide, as the door smashed open, but he didn’t have a chance to use the weapon that he had pointed in the wrong direction. With a thunderous, rolling crash, the shots so close together that they made one noise, Redrum double-tapped him in the head, snapping his skull back with the impact and spraying blood and brain matter over his companion, who had ducked down below the windowsill to reload.

  Redrum took a split second to verify that the crouching man blinking blood out of his eyes wasn’t their target, then he shot him, too, with a hammer pair to center mass followed a fraction of a second later with a follow-up shot to the side of the head. The man had stiffened under the first two impacts, but hadn’t gone down. The headshot dropped him.

  By then, Cat, Lèzard, Faust, and Bèstia had flooded into the dacha’s greatroom after him. Gunfire thundered and muzzle blasts flashed flame in the dimness; the gangsters had turned off all but a few shrouded lamps to try to offer their attackers less visible targets. Redrum shot another gangster who was spinning toward them, an AK-103 in his hands, right as Faust dumped the same target with a five-round burst.

>   Cat and Lèzard were professionals, double-tapping their targets and then following up with single shots as needed. Faust and Bèstia had simply switched their M21s to automatic and were hosing down the gangsters with five- to six-round bursts.

  It was all over very quickly.

  Redrum’s ears were still ringing from the heavy gunfire in such close quarters. He cursed his Serbian rifle’s lack of a rail system that he could mount a flashlight on. “Somebody turn on a damned light,” he snarled. “Cat, go make sure Flint doesn’t come in shooting.”

  Though I wouldn’t put it past that sonofabitch to do just that, and tell the Board later that he’d thought we’d all been killed. He’d get away with it, too.

  It turned out that not all of the lights inside the dacha had been turned off; the Romanian thugs hadn’t been that cunning, after all. Most of them had been shattered by Flint’s fire from the south. But Faust found a couple that were still intact and moved them to where they could shed some light on the bodies.

  Redrum was starting to worry a little. None of the forms lying sprawled on the floor that he could see were moving. It would be just his luck, the way this op was going, that Codreanu had pointed a gun at them and gotten himself shot. Or, more likely, he’d been shot, just because. Faust and Bèstia in particular hadn’t seemed to be devoting a lot of attention to target discrimination. At least one of the bodies on the floor was clearly a girl, probably one of the prostitutes that Codreanu kept in his entourage.

  As he worked his way across the room, however, it looked like all the bodies were Codreanu’s goons. There were a few Kalashnikovs, that one Spectre, and a couple of old Vz.61 Skorpion machine pistols among them; about what he’d expect for a bunch of gunrunning gangsters. There were two dead girls, too. But no sign of Codreanu. He’d know; he’d memorized the target photo in the package.