by Brad Taylor
He felt embarrassment. He’d slipped time and believed he was somewhere else. Not in a ring, but in a fight to the death. Something he knew about.
The referee screamed at him, jabbing a finger in his face and telling him he was disqualified. He staggered away, seeing the man outside the ring again, waiting by the door to the gym.
He ducked under the ropes, heading to the locker room and ignoring the shouting from the other fighters. They didn’t know what he did. They didn’t know what a fight was like outside of a ring with a referee. He went inside, toweled off the sweat, sat on a bench, and waited.
The man entered, saying, “So you still fight.”
“Yes. It pays the bills. Unlike you assholes.”
The man laughed and said, “I guess you know who I am.”
“I don’t know you, but I know you work for Wagner. I could smell that stench above the sweat.”
The man nodded. He was pasty and flaccid, but he held the air of power, something Tagir understood from his past employment. Unlike him, Tagir was hard. With deep-set eyes, jet-black hair, a nose that had been broken more than once, and a fight record that was solidified in the arena moments ago, Tagir looked like the killer he was.
The man said, “Yes, I do work for Wagner. My name is Dmitri Pavlov, and I’ve been instructed to hire you for a specific mission. A delicate mission.”
Tagir smiled and said, “Like the Donbass? Like Aleppo? They’re all ‘delicate.’ Cut the bullshit. What you mean is you want a Russian solution without a Russian fingerprint.”
Wagner was the largest private military contractor in Russia, a country that actually forbade private military companies as illegal. But like most of the reality in Russia, it was only forbidden when the company in question wasn’t advancing Russian interests. Wagner had fought in the Donbass region of Ukraine, and continued in the cauldron of Syria, allowing the country to say there weren’t any Russian “military members” in those conflicts. Tagir himself had been to both, barely surviving an engagement in Syria where Wagner had decided that taking an oil refinery would be a good decision for its own monetary gain.
In February of 2018, they’d crossed the Euphrates River, a demarcation line adjudicated between the United States and Russia. An agreement that meant nobody would encroach without repercussions, but Wagner believed that it was a chimera. The United States wouldn’t stop them, and the company had been promised 25 percent of the proceeds from a refinery in US-supported control. They went on their own. They’d advanced with Russian T-72 tanks and a battalion constructed of a motley crew of Syrian fighters mixed with Russian mercenaries, driving toward a refinery in the hands of Kurdish fighters under the protection of the United States.
They’d swiftly taken the terrain, the Kurdish fighters leaving the battlefield against the onslaught, and they’d begun to believe that they were the most powerful force in the land, watching the hated Kurds flee under the armored attack.
And then they’d learned a lesson that had rarely reared its ugly head. The United States had shown time and time again that they would promise protection, only to let that promise wither on the vine. This time was different.
Led by US Special Forces members on the ground, the pathetic vacillation of the past vanished. The Kurds began to fight back. And they brought the entire destructive force of the United States with them. The artillery and airpower was relentless, decimating the armored advance.
The entire mission ended up a fiasco, with the battalion wiped out—to include upward of two hundred dead and wounded Russian contractors—but the Russian high command simply buried the fact that actual Russians had died in the assault. The press stories went back and forth, with some breathlessly talking about how the United States had taken on the Russian “army,” leading to World War III, and others saying it was a big lie in the mystical cauldron of Syria, but Tagir had learned a hard truth: It was all about the money.
He’d been evacuated with a leg wound, and had been instructed that his silence would pay dividends. He’d gone home to Dagestan, and as a reward for remaining quiet, had been given a choice slot in Ramzan Kadyrov’s mixed martial arts academy.
As the head of the Chechen Republic, Ramzan had built a formidable entertainment machine called Akhmat MMA, full of propaganda and hype, and many clamoring to earn admittance. The children of Dagestan and Chechnya were fighters, and this was an honor. Ramzan, a fierce fighter himself, wanted to build a fighting academy rivaling the vaunted UFC in the United States, centering his entire reign on the results, something that his master, Putin, enjoyed. Everyone in the North Caucasus was a fighter, and it was better for them to be fighting one another than the Russian state.
Tagir had felt at home, enjoying the challenge and believing that the Russian state would honor its promise, but when he’d seen the man outside the ring, he’d realized there had been no reward for his silence. Only the advancing of what the state wanted. Perfecting his killing skills.
Tagir watched Dmitri take a seat on a bench, and opened his locker, saying, “What do you want of me?”
Dmitri said, “We require someone who protects the state. Someone who cherishes Russia.”
Annoyed, Tagir turned to him and advanced, peeling off the bloodied hand wraps. He said, “Cut the bullshit. What do you want?”
Dmitri picked at some lint on his pants and said, “We want you to find a device. A phone. We have a friend from Syria who’s lost it. We want you to find it, and then kill anyone who’s seen it.”
Tagir kept unwrapping his wrists, turning back to his locker. The silence dragged on, neither man speaking. Finally, he said, “Why me?”
“Because you know the Côte d’Azur. Because you work for Wagner.”
“I don’t anymore.”
“Yes, you do. Or you’ll lose everything that we’ve given you for your sacrifices.”
Tagir turned around and said, “My sacrifices, or my silence?”
Dmitri said, “Call it what you want, but we need this device back.”
Tagir closed his locker and turned around, saying, “What’s in the device? Why?”
Dmitri shook his head and said, “You don’t question. You execute.”
Tagir smiled and said, “If you want my skill, you’ll answer my damn questions. I’m not running to the sounds of the guns because you ask. I did that once before, and it didn’t end well.”
Dmitri hesitated, then said, “Look, the GRU is helping a man from inside Syrian intelligence. I don’t know what they’re doing—honestly I don’t—but he’s lost a phone that has sensitive data on it. It was stolen by a child. A street urchin. And we need to get that phone back. That’s all I know. The GRU is going crazy over it. They asked if Wagner could help, and your name came up.”
“So I get the phone back? That’s it?”
“Yes. Well, you’ll have to kill anyone who’s potentially seen it.”
Tagir paused, then said, “Kill them.” Not a question. A statement.
“Yes.”
“What’s on that phone? What could be so important?”
“I have no idea. I get the contract, and I execute.”
Dmitri reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. “Here’s your plane ticket. The GRU is tracking the phone. You fly tonight. The phone is in Monaco.”
Tagir took the papers and said, “I’m alone on this?”
Dmitri said, “Not at all. A lot of the property in and around Monte Carlo is owned by one Russian or another. We have contacts, and they’ll facilitate your travel.”
Tagir knew that to be true from the time he’d spent in the area. There were so many Russians that instead of French/English menus in the restaurants, they were French/Russian. He turned back to his locker, looking in the mirror.
He said, “When I kill them, will I be acknowledged by the state?”
“What do you
mean?”
“I mean, I’ve killed many men for you, and nobody cares. My men have died, my brothers have been slaughtered, and you don’t give a good Goddamn. For once, I’d like to be acknowledged, instead of hidden.”
Dmitri stammered, then said, “We of course understand what you’re doing for the motherland. We believe that—”
Tagir cut him off, saying, “You fucking sicken me.”
Dmitri stood up, incensed, saying, “You work for the state, and that should be enough. You work for me. Your apartment, your stipend, your ability to fight in the arena is because of me. Say no, and go back to living on the streets of Dagestan.”
Unfortunately for Dmitri, even after seeing the fight, he failed to realize the death that was in the room.
Tagir slowly turned and said, “You think you own me? Seriously? Give me your hand.”
Confused, Dmitri said, “What?”
“Give me your hand!”
Hesitant, Dmitri held out his hand. Tagir took it, rotated it around, and then placed his thumb on the joint of the center finger, holding it loosely and looking Dmitri in the eye. He said, “Is this for the state, or for Wagner?”
Dmitri said, “I don’t understand.”
Tagir said, “It’s a simple question. Is this for the motherland or for your profits?”
Confused, Dmitri began trying to worm his hand away. He said, “You’ll get a lot of money!”
Tagir pressed his thumb forward, torquing the hand to the left, controlling the joint. He looked into the eyes of Dmitri, seeing the pain. In that moment, Dmitri realized that money meant nothing to Tagir.
He shouted, “This isn’t for Wagner! It comes from the highest levels. It’s not for profit.”
Tagir twisted the joint a bit harder, eliciting a yelp from Dmitri and causing him to fall to his knees. Tagir held the joint lock for a breath, then let go of the hand. He said, “I’ll do it. But not for the money. Remember that, because if I find out you’re lying, I’ll pretend you’ve seen the phone.”
He exited the room, leaving the Russian on the floor holding his damaged wrist.
11
Jennifer exited the building and saw the two Koreans in front of her. She went down the steps, studiously ignoring them and keying her radio, “Blood, Blood, I’m out. You have me?”
He said, “Yeah, Koko, I got you. So does everyone else near me. I think they believe you’re someone famous. They’re all looking. Exit fast, or the Koreans are going to notice.”
She did so, going past them into the street, saying, “They’re probably wondering why I’m the only one dressed up. That place wasn’t what I envisioned.”
He said, “I see you. Keep going straight. I’ll link up. And by the way, since Pike can’t say anything on the net, can we just skip the callsigns?”
She kept walking, saying, “You’ll get no argument from me.”
Jennifer walked toward the fountain in front of the casino—a large circular mirror on a pedestal showing the reflection of the pool below. She used it to keep eyes on the two Koreans, seeing them descend the stairs. She said, “They’re on the move. Where are you?”
She felt someone tap her on the shoulder, and jumped a little. Brett appeared next to her and admired her in the mirror. He said, “You look like a heartbreaker. Gonna be hard to say I’m your date for this surveillance effort.”
She turned to him and smiled, saying, “Not hard at all. You should have seen who I started the night with.”
He returned to the Koreans in the mirror and said, “I’m not seeing how we make this work. We stick out like a sore thumb with you in that getup. Pike should have left you inside. We don’t look like we match.”
Jennifer said, “It’s not that bad. I’m dressed for a night out, and you’re sort of dressed for a night out.”
Brett said, “Too late anyway. Here we go.”
Jennifer looked in the mirror and saw the Koreans circling around the fountain to the right. Brett slid his hand into hers and started walking left, on the opposite side of the fountain. He said, “What indicators do we have?”
“None, really. One used his phone, whispered to the target, he gave them an order, and then they left.”
“Did he talk on the phone?”
“Nope. Just looked at it. Pike thinks it could be an alert from the hotel room. Speaking of which . . .” She keyed her earpiece and said, “Knuckles, Knuckles, this is Koko.”
She heard, “Go.”
“You get the call about the team splitting?”
“Yeah. You’re on them, right?”
“I am. I’m with Blood now, and we’ve got eyes on, but Pike wanted to relay that they could be headed back to you. They left right after your call saying you were in.”
“Pike thinks I hit a trip wire in here? Something they set up?”
“He doesn’t know. He just wanted me to keep you on your toes.”
“While he plays poker?”
She smiled and said, “Pretty much.”
The Koreans went around the fountain gardens and entered the shopping area to the north of the casino, Brett and Jennifer falling in behind them. One of the Koreans glanced back, and both Jennifer and Brett caught the look.
Brett said, “We need to let ’em go.”
Jennifer said, “If they circle to the west, they’ll end up at the back entrance to the hotel.”
“Nothing we can do about that. If Knuckles did trip an alarm, they’ll know it was a team, and they’ll be looking for the bad man behind them. We’re getting hot. Gotta let ’em go for a second.”
He keyed the radio and said, “Knuckles, this is Blood, our heat state is elevated. We’ve got to let them wander a bit before we reengage, but they might be headed your way. They’ll be unsighted for a couple of minutes.”
Knuckles came back and said, “Can you keep tabs at all, or does unsighted mean you might lose them?”
“We might lose them.”
“Well, that’s just great. What’s the time hack to our location?”
Jennifer pulled a map up on her phone and whispered, “Five minutes. Maybe less.”
Brett relayed, and Knuckles said, “We’ve got at least fifteen left. We need eyes on, fuck the heat state. I’m either breaking out of here now, mission abort, or staying, and I can’t stay without eyes on.”
Jennifer saw the Koreans disappear. Literally, they were in view one second and gone the next. She keyed her earpiece and said, “Knuckles, unsighted, I say again, unsighted.”
He said, “I’m breaking down.”
Brett said, “No, no. We’re on them. They went down a stairwell. Hang on.”
He sprinted across the gardens and found a slash in the ground. An escalator leading below the surface of the gardens. Jennifer said, “I read about this. There are tunnels underneath the streets all over the place here.”
Brett stepped on the escalator, an electronic eye springing it to life, the noise spreading out like a fog. He said, “Come on.”
They went down the short escalator, reaching the bottom, and Jennifer saw a tunnel snaking out left and right, empty, the lighting harsh, with shadows that reminded her of a horror movie. She whispered, “Which way?”
Brett held up a hand, and she remained mute. Then she heard them. The clacking of heels echoing in the empty tunnel. He pointed left, toward the hotel, and she nodded. They began following, and their own shoes began making noise, overshadowing the Koreans’. Brett stopped and whispered, “Take off your heels.”
He removed his shoes, and she did the same, now barefoot. He whispered, “We’re going fast.” She nodded, and he took off at a trot. Not really a run, but with enough speed to overtake the echoes they were hearing.
They went about a hundred meters, and Brett stopped, holding his hand in the air. Jennifer strained her ears, but heard nothing.
She saw Brett’s expression, and realized he thought they’d missed them. Or they’d stopped and were conducting the meeting with the Syrian.
He pointed forward, and rounded another corner, moving fast, and she saw his head snap back like it had a string attached to it. One of the Koreans appeared, leaping at him and grabbing an arm. She saw Brett flip in the air and slam into the ground. She caught something out of the corner of her eye, then what felt like a baseball bat slammed into her side, knocking her into the wall. She bounced off it, falling to her knees. She looked up, seeing the other Korean man in a fighting stance. Behind him, she saw Brett struggling to rise, the first Korean on him, thumping him in the head.
Her enemy snapped his hips, whirling his leg in a tae kwon do spinning kick with enough force to crack her skull. Without conscious thought, she did what she’d been trained to do, an instinctive reaction born from relentless sessions with Pike. She sprang to her feet, and in the span of a microsecond, the foot whipping around, she executed, slamming her eyes closed just before impact, waiting on the pain.
She succeeded in deflecting the kick, leaching off the energy of the blow as she rotated around, and trapped the enemy’s leg.
It staggered her, slamming her into the wall again, but in no way cracked any bones. Like catching an impossible pass, amazed the ball was in her hands, she opened her eyes, and was as surprised as he was at the turn of events. She saw his eyes widen in shock, and thought, Yeah, asshole. Girl fights back.
He began to spin to get out of her grasp, and she worked against him, twisting his knee and locking up his ankle. She pushed forward, using her body weight to fold the joint, driving her elbow into his thigh for a fulcrum and dropping to the ground. She heard the gristle snap, and then his scream. She released his leg and grabbed a handle of hair in both hands, slamming his head into the marble of the wall. He dropped without another sound.
