by Cap Daniels
She drew her knife and stepped toward Barkov. I sprang toward Anya, and Dr. Richter cried, “No, Anastasia! Don’t do it!”
But we were both too late. Her blade pierced Barkov’s chest, and she drove it to the hilt with all of her weight, sinking into his beating heart. She stared into his terrified eyes and watched the life leave his wilting body.
Through bared teeth, she whispered, “YA serdtse Katereny.”
I am Katerina’s Heart.
To see other books in this series please visit:
amazon.com/author/capdaniels
THE BROKEN CHASE
CHASE FULTON NOVEL #2
CAP DANIELS
** USA **
The Broken Chase, Chase Fulton Novel #2
Copyright © 2018 Cap Daniels
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, historical events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Although many locations such as marinas, airports, hotels, restaurants, and buildings used in this work actually exist, they are used fictitiously and may have been relocated, exaggerated, or otherwise modified by creative license for the purpose of this work. Although many characters are based on character traits, physical attributes, skills, or intellect of actual individuals, all of the characters in this work are fictitious.
13 Digit ISBN: 978-1-7323024-3-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018946373
Cover Design: German Creative
Printed in the United States of America
** USA **
This book is dedicated to . . .
Anna, the real life “Skipper,” who has overcome challenges that would have left a lesser person in tears. You are a constant reminder of how determination, drive, and self-discipline can conquer all. You’re inspirational, frustrating, brilliant, beautiful, and fearless. Never stop ignoring limits and stretching boundaries . . . those are for the people who accept mediocracy, not you.
Special thanks to . . .
My phenomenal editor:
Sarah Flores – Write Down the Line, LLC
www.WriteDowntheLine.com
Her dedication to this series and to making me a better writer is not only remarkable, but invaluable. Her heart-of-a-teacher and spirit-of-a-cheerleader drive me to push myself beyond what I ever imagined possible in the creation of intriguing story lines, fascinating characters, and dramatic action. She makes everything I write immeasurably better. I hope I never have to write without her.
Inspiration:
Everyone who crossed my path in my five decades on Earth and provided the inspiration for countless characters who have been set free on the pages of this and other works of fiction. I hope my readers feel and hear themselves in my writing. I lack the imagination to create characters so full of life, energy, and passion, as the people in my life who constantly demonstrate that normalcy is never acceptable.
Prologue
It was Christmas 1981 when my missionary father told me we were going to Mar del Plata, Argentina, to help nuns care for children living in an orphanage. He told me it was important to make sacrifices to help people who weren’t as fortunate as we were in the U.S.
I was terrified. I didn’t want to go. It wasn’t because we were going someplace I’d never heard of—Mar del Plata sounded like a very cool place to a bilingual, six-year-old boy from Georgia. And any place called Sea of Silver had to be magical. I wanted to see it, just not at Christmastime. How was Santa Claus going to find me? How would he know where to bring the bicycle I’d been begging for all year?
The sea wasn’t silver. It was gray and I hated it. It wasn’t even Christmastime there; it was the beginning of summer. How could it be winter in Georgia and summer in Mar del Plata? I was never getting that bike.
I don’t think there was an orphanage either. If there was, I never saw it. I saw navy ships and a lot of soldiers with guns. My parents didn’t seem surprised there was no orphanage. I guess the whole point of being missionaries is to help whoever needs help wherever you are.
My mom stayed with me most of the time. We practiced our Spanish with the locals, and many times they wanted to practice their English with us. I liked that part, but not everything was fun. Some of it was horrifying.
The last night we were in Mar del Plata, my dad said, “Chase, you need to go to bed early. Your mom and I need to talk to Santa Claus.”
Of course I couldn’t sleep. Like any excited, curious boy, I pretended to go to bed then snuck into a little closet beside the kitchen. I hid behind a mop and broom and some old boxes and watched through the gap in the door. Santa Claus never came. Instead, my parents argued with an angry group of men, specifically one named Admiral Anaya.
Dad told him it was “un plan mortal,” a deadly plan, to invade some place called the Falkland Islands.
Admiral Anaya drew his knife, held it to my father’s throat, and growled in terrifying Spanish. “It would be a shame for your beautiful wife and little boy to wash up on the beach because you and your American masters were meddling in the affairs of Argentina. Now get out of my country before I am forced to feed you to the sharks.”
Three months later, Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands, but we weren’t there to see it. The morning after the meeting with Admiral Anaya, we were on the next plane out of Mar del Plata. I’d asked my dad if Santa Claus was an admiral in South America, but he never answered me.
We arrived home on Christmas day, and my new bike was waiting for me on our front porch. I’d never forget that Christmas, and looking back now, it should have been clear, even to a six-year-old, that my dad was no missionary.
1
What Now?
I watched Anya, the woman I loved, bury her knife into the chest of the man who’d cut her mother’s heart out twenty years earlier. Anya stood over the body of Dmitri Barkov, billionaire Russian oligarch, and reveled in the knowledge that her face was that last one he’d see before stumbling through the gates of Hell, and her voice was the last voice he’d ever hear.
She collapsed to the deck of the yacht and sobbed as her fury and realized vengeance poured over her.
I knelt beside her and pulled her close, hoping to find the right words. “It’s all over now, Anya. It’s done, and now it’s time for you to have the life and freedom you want. It’s time for you to have everything you want.”
Dr. Robert “Rocket” Richter, former fighter pilot turned American covert operative turned psychology professor—and Anya’s father—scanned the horizon for approaching boats. “I hate to break this up, kids, but we’ve got company.”
Anya wiped her tears and leapt to her feet. “What do you see, Papa?”
“It’s some of Barkov’s yacht crew, and they’re in our dinghy. Here, Chase. Take the binoculars. Your eyes are younger than mine.”
I trained the binoculars on the approaching boat. It was our dinghy all right, and they were pushing her as fast as she’d go and approaching our port stern quarter.
“There’s five of them, and they appear to be unarmed. We shouldn’t have much trouble repelling five unarmed men, but I have no idea what they’re planning.”
“They’re planning to take back their boat,” said Dr. Richter, “and we’re not going to let them.”
Anya had already retrieved her rifle and taken up a firing position across the stern rail. I heard the report of the massive rifle and watched her absorb the punishing recoil without taking her eye from the scope. Through the binoculars, I saw only four of the five men in the dinghy. The one who’d been on the bow was meeting his maker.
Dr. Richter headed for the interior of the yacht. “Keep holding them off. I’ll get us headed somewhere deep so we can
put a little distance between us and them and get rid of Barkov’s body.”
Anya cycled the bolt of her rifle to eject the fired shell casing and send another round into the chamber.
“Der'mo! on zastryal!” she grunted.
The rifle had jammed, failing to eject the fired shell casing.
“Give me pistol,” she demanded, laying her rifle on the deck.
I handed her my pistol and went to work on the jammed rifle, but it was no use. The shell wasn’t coming out.
The massive yacht slowly picked up speed as Rocket added power, but the dinghy was still closing in on us. Anya squeezed off two rounds from my pistol. I looked over the rail, hoping to see two more dead Russians, but shooting with a pistol and expecting to hit a target moving at twenty-five knots is a fool’s faith.
“Save your ammo. You can pick them off as they try to board.”
“Tell Papa to slow down. I will sink raft.”
I ran to the bridge and told Dr. Richter her plan. He pulled the throttles back, slowing the yacht to just under twelve knots. When I made it back to the stern deck, Anya was squeezing off rounds toward the dinghy as it advanced ever closer. I saw a bright flash and a puff of white smoke.
What was that? Did Anya hit the engine?
“Flare!” I yelled. “Get down!”
The signal flare left the dinghy, winding and soaring toward us. The burning phosphorous flare struck the bulkhead just above the door to the main salon behind us and fell to the deck. It ricocheted like a pinball. The brilliant orange fire racing across the deck and the white smoke filling the air caused me and Anya to stumble and collide with each other in a desperate attempt to evade the flare. Finally, it came to rest against Barkov’s body and continued to burn.
I was blind from staring at the burning flare. I called out, “Anya, are you okay?”
“I cannot see,” she said, “and I cannot find pistol.”
Almost nothing worse could’ve happened to us at that moment. We had no weapon to fend off the four remaining Russians advancing on us. Even if we had a weapon, neither of us could see to fire it. We were sitting ducks. Blind ducks.
“Can you get to Papa?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I can try.”
“We must go fast again. We are in serious trouble.”
That may have been the understatement of the century. I fumbled and stumbled my way through the yacht, trying to remember and feel my way to the bridge. I found the stairs and crawled up them as fast as I could, yelling “Full speed, full speed,” as I went.
The yacht picked up speed, but I feared it was too little too late. I found my way back toward Anya, hoping she’d regained at least some of her vision. When I reached the aft deck, I could barely make out her silhouette. From the sound and smell, I could tell she was emptying a fire extinguisher toward what was left of the burning flare. The fire died, and I could make out vague shapes and detect movement in front of me.
She put her hand on my arm. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m not burned, but I’m still blind. How about you?”
“I am same. I do not know what to do, Chase. This is very bad.”
I thought about what I’d do if I were in a dinghy chasing a mega-yacht. “There’s only one way aboard. They’ll have to come across the swim deck, and only three of them can make the jump while the driver holds the dinghy as close as he can. We’ve got to get down there and try to hold them off.”
We stumbled to the starboard side and found the ladder leading down one deck. We clumsily traversed the ladder and worked our way aft. Minute by minute, my vision was returning. I hoped the same was happening for Anya.
At the swim deck, we took up positions behind a pair of columns, hoping to ambush the Russians as they leapt aboard.
“How are your eyes?” I yelled.
“Is not good, but is getting better.”
“Mine, too.”
We appeared to be at top speed, and I could vaguely make out the outline of the approaching dinghy. It was going to be a challenging jump for the men, even if the driver could maneuver the dinghy through our wake and to the swim deck.
“They are almost here,” Anya yelled.
Through my distorted vision, the dinghy appeared to be gaining on us at an alarming rate. They were plowing through the turbulent water and closing in quickly. The men were yelling orders at each other, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Anya shouted, “They are going to run raft up onto yacht.”
Their plan was a good one, and it worked flawlessly. As my eyesight improved, I saw the dinghy’s bow lunge over the edge of the swim deck and continue forward until three quarters of the dinghy was aboard the yacht. All four men leapt with practiced confidence, landing unbalanced on the deck.
Taking advantage of our ambush position and their lack of balance, I leapt forward and landed a front kick in the first man’s chest, sending him tumbling backward into the turbid water. I heard Anya engage another of the men but couldn’t see anything out of my peripheral vision. A fist I hadn’t seen coming landed squarely on my left jaw and sent me staggering back toward the interior of the yacht. I was dazed and still only able to make out shapes directly in front of me. I turned my head wildly, trying to make the most of my limited vision. I caught a glimpse of a man racing toward me, so I threw my best right jab at what I hoped was his face. He ducked the punch and plowed into my gut with his shoulder. Knowing there was a bulkhead behind me, I let his force propel me backward, hoping his head would hit something solid before mine did. It almost worked, but our heads crashed into the bulkhead simultaneously, sending both of us to the deck, dazed.
As I tried to gather my wits, I could see Anya in silhouette fighting desperately for her life. I had to finish off the man who’d driven me into the wall and get to Anya before the other two men overcame her. I scrambled to my feet and powered forward toward my opponent, throwing punches as I went. Some of them landed, but most were wasted effort. He grabbed my wrist and twisted away from me with such speed he ripped me off my feet, leaving me sprawled across the deck, vulnerable. His boot landed solidly in my left kidney, and I yelled in pain. By some miracle, I’d captured his foot immediately after his kick, so I jerked as hard as I could and felt him land on the deck beside me. He threw two more punches that landed perfectly in my ribs, knocking the breath from my lungs.
I was in the fight of my life, but Anya was battling two men while I only had to deal with one. I hoped she was doing better than me. My aggressor wasn’t getting up very quickly, so I took advantage of my position and threw an elbow at his face, hoping to break his nose. I missed and landed my elbow in his throat, crushing his airway. Although he wasn’t unconscious, I’d taken away his ability to continue. Not willing to risk the chance of him rejoining the fight, I threw a right cross to the side of his head, knocking him out cold.
I blinked, trying to focus on Anya’s fight. My vision was better, but still not back to normal. I could see that one man had Anya in a vice-like grip from behind, while the other tried to advance on her from the front. She was kicking like a wild animal and thrashing violently. It didn’t appear either of her attackers saw me dispatch their partner, so I had a momentary advantage. I capitalized on it and drove my left arm under the chin of the man holding Anya. I secured the choke hold while Anya kept kicking, holding the other attacker at bay. The headlock did its job and the man in my arm collapsed. Anya dropped to the deck, landing on her left hip, and thrust a thundering side kick to the remaining aggressor’s groin. It doubled him over just feet in front of her. As the man bent forward, I forced my palm into the back of his head and sent him accelerating toward the deck. When the collision of face and deck occurred, the man’s body turned to pudding, and he also collapsed in an unconscious heap.
“You are okay, yes?” she breathed.
“Yeah, I’m good. How about you?”
“I am not hurt, and eyesight is coming back. We must push bodies into water
now.”
Although I was uncertain about dropping three more Russians into the Florida Straits, I followed her directions, and we slid the bodies into the foaming water behind the yacht.
We felt our way into the interior of the yacht and headed for the bridge.
“It’s about time you two showed up. Did you roll out the red carpet for our guests?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “We made them feel right at home, and now their new home is somewhere on the bottom of the ocean.”
“Well done,” he said. “Now we have to send Barkov to join them.”
Anya and I returned to the stern deck where Barkov’s flare-burnt corpse lay.
She found a pair of diving weight belts in a locker and held them up. “This will send him to bottom forever, yes?”
I loved Anya’s Russian-accented English.
“Yeah, I think forty pounds should do it.”
We strapped the weight belts to the body of the man who’d caused Anya so many years of pain. After learning that the man she'd known and worked for had been the animal who murdered her mother, Anya had finally avenged the woman whose death had haunted her for two decades.
We wrestled Barkov’s bulk across the stern rail and watched him disappear into the turbid water in the yacht’s wake.
Anya placed her hand atop mine on the rail. “Zakonchennyy.”
Indeed, it truly was finished.
Anya, born Anastasia Burinkova, had been a Russian SVR officer until her mission to capture, interrogate, and possibly kill the American assassin who’d killed the legendary Russian assassin, Anatoly Parchinkov, aka Suslik the gopher. Suslik had turned out to be three men—identical triplets who’d roamed the globe for a dozen years, killing at the behest of the Russian mafia. I was the American assassin Anya had been dispatched to find. She found me all right, but when she and I fell in love, instead of delivering me to her Russian master—Dmitri Barkov, who now lay dead at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean—she joined forces with me to find and kill the remaining Parchinkov brothers.
