A series of beeps indicted the phone had made a secure connection.
“Blackwing One reporting,” he said.
“Good to hear from you,” a gruff voice responded. “Did you go to see the doctor?”
“Yes, Mr. Grissom. Corrigan has been taken care of,” he said in a low voice. “He made the dead drop last night before he suffered an accident in the park. The police will report it as a mugging. And I recovered our material.”
As he spoke he slipped a tiny clear pouch from his pocket and held it up to the light. A microchip lay nestled inside the bag. The chip was stained with what appeared to be dried blood.
“Paulis can run around in circles chasing after his mole,” Grissom said with a chuckle. “I wonder how long it will take him to figure out that his own D/NCS led us straight to his star witness?”
“Whatever your leverage on Corrigan was, it worked,” the man replied. “Once he inserted the tracking chip during his exploratory surgery, I was able to activate it remotely on the day of the hearing. Burst transmission, short duration. Identified the real convoy. I shut down the transmission after I took care of Lapinski’s SUV. There’s no chance anyone else detected the signal. Corrigan removed it during Rebecca’s operation. It’s in my possession now. I’ll dispose of it shortly.”
“At least one goddamn thing went right,” Grissom muttered. “Look, there’s something else I need you to take care of. I’ve booked you on a flight to Geneva. I’ll brief you when you get here. You leave this afternoon.”
“What’s the new job?” the man asked in a monotone voice.
“Bernatto,” Grissom snapped. “He disappeared in the aftermath. Better than the authorities finding him, I suppose. But his asset, Takuba … that lunatic almost ruined everything. Poor judgment on Bernatto’s part. Allan is a loose end now, just like Lapinski was. And we both know I can’t have that. Not with what we’re trying to build. Everyone is expendable.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Then there’s Caine … You worked with the man. What do you think?”
“Caine will be a problem, sir. He won’t let this go. You and Bernatto took him apart, put him back together again. Just like you did to me, Tyler, and the others. But Tom … he’s missing a piece. He forgot the most important part of this job.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“He forgot how to be a weapon, sir. He never could get that through his head. He can’t let go of the past. It will eat away at him until there’s nothing left.”
Grissom was silent for a moment, then grunted into the phone. “Well. First things first. Get your ass to Geneva. We’ll deal with Caine later.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hung up the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. The mist was thinning as the morning sun came up. The streets were growing crowded with businessmen, tourists, children running to school.
He eyed the people rushing past him. No one paid him any mind. He was just another face in the crowd. Invisible. A ghost. He continued walking down the scenic street. His dark, flowing coat became a shadow, weaving between the bodies.
You didn’t listen, Tom, he thought.
You didn’t see me, but I was there … That night in Sudan, years ago. Jack tried to warn you. I heard him clear as day, through my earpiece.
He told you the same thing I told him, when we were back in the Unit. The only way to survive in this business … You have to be a weapon.
You have to fire and forget.
<<<<>>>>
Thomas Caine returns in…
CAINE: RAPID FIRE
Meet the CIA’s deadliest killer. His name is Thomas Caine. His record is classified. His past is a mystery. Until now…
Three action-packed thrillers. One killer collection.
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COLD KILL - Chapter 1
An explosion of light and sound filled the chilly air inside the Tsvet Sapfira Club. Spinning beams of neon shimmered as they danced across the glistening surfaces of the bar. Every piece of furniture in the club, from the chairs and tables to the glasses lined up across the counter, was carved from clear blocks of ice. As their frozen surfaces made contact with the air, they melted, releasing tiny droplets of moisture. The resulting mist refracted the club’s lights into a prismatic rainbow of colors.
At the entrance to the bar, patrons draped white fur parkas over their club attire, the freezing temperatures not deterring the young women in the crowd from wearing as little as possible. Their short, sparkling cocktail dresses exposed their long, smooth legs as they twirled on the dance floor. Goosebumps dotted the surface of their creamy skin, but they didn’t seem to mind.
A tall, broad shouldered man cut through the crowded club. He did not wear a parka over his dark suit. His deep-set brown eyes drank in the bar and its patrons with a smoldering, hungry gaze. His tan skin seemed oblivious to the cold. A tousled mane of thick black hair swept back from his lined forehead, while one heavy curl hung down in front of his face, lending his features a wild, disheveled look.
He pushed past a trio of girls laughing on the dance floor. They looked like models, or actresses... The club's sweeping lights revealed them in quick flashes. Long blonde hair, wide blue eyes, petite bodies perched on slim, gazelle legs. One of the girls slipped her hand onto the man’s chest as he passed. He stopped moving, and looked down at her.
“Privet vsem,” she said, her words slurred. “You are not cold?”
The man curled his lips into a smile. His nostrils flared.
“Nyet, my dear. In here is a tropical paradise compared to what I know as cold. Now, if you will excuse me.”
She laughed. “Why don’t you relax? Buy me and my friends a drink?” Her hand drifted down his shirt. "Don't you like us?"
He took her hand, gripping it in his long fingers. He leaned towards her, and spoke in a deep growl. “I am afraid I have business to conduct. Otherwise, I would like nothing better."
His lips parted, revealing ivory white teeth. His canines were large and pronounced, almost like fangs. "Lovelies like you and your friends... I could almost eat you alive."
At the sight of his leering grin, the girl took a step backwards. The drunken flush drained from her face, and she visibly paled. She yanked back her hand, but said nothing.
The man nodded. “Dobryy vecher… Good evening.”
He left the women behind, and continued across the dance floor. He walked past a row of sparkling ice sculptures, a series of frozen men and women intertwined in a variety of lewd positions. He ignored them, and approached an unmarked door at the rear of the club. A pair of beefy men in gray suits and fur parkas flanked the door.
One of the guards stepped forward. The man in black stood his ground, and lifted his arms to his sides. The guard patted him down for weapons, then took his cell phone and wallet from his pockets. Flipping open the wallet, the guard examined the man’s ID. Then he cupped his hand over his ear, and spoke into a slim wireless headset.
“Piotr Zasko,” he read, shouting over the music. A few seconds later, he looked up.
“Good evening, Mr. Zasko. He is expecting you downstairs.”
The man known as Zasko slipped his phone and wallet back into his pockets. He waited as the other guard opened the door for him.
Zasko stepped through the dark entrance, and descended a flight of stairs. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he heard the clang of the metal door slamming behind him. The music upstairs became muted and distant.
The stairs led to a cavernous underground storage room. The furniture here was not made of ice, but the air still held the chill of upstairs. Rows of shelves lined the dark, shadowy room, each one lined end to end with frosted bottles of vodka.
A deep voice boomed from the far corner of the room. “Piotr, welcome. It is good of you to come.”
Zasko turned towards a huge man marching towards him.
Sergei Rudov… head of th
e Rudov crime family.
The men hugged. Zasko stiffened as he felt Rudov’s arms crush around him. The man was pushing seventy years old, but he was built like a Russian tank. Zasko slapped his back, then gripped his shoulders. He stared into Rudov’s piercing blue eyes.
“I was sorry to hear about Alexi," he said.
Rudov nodded, but said nothing. He draped one of his muscular arms over Zasko’s shoulders and led him to the back of the room.
“Alexi, Alexi…” the older man muttered, exhaling a puff of mist into the freezing air. “He was good boy, but a fool, nonetheless. This business of his with the Red Wa syndicate, with this man, Pisac, the Devil… Foolish. He ruined our trade with the Chao Pho, and for what? Now he is dead, and he has led us into a war with this Red Wa gang. Our operations in South East Asia have suffered.”
“I thought you had new information?” Zasko asked, keeping his voice low. “That his killer was not part of the Red Wa?”
“Da, da. Come this way. Our guest has been most cooperative.”
Rudov led him around a row of colorful, expensive looking bottles. There, in a dark corner behind the shelves, a man sat tied in a chair. He was naked, and he shivered in the freezing air of the frigid room.
“Mr. Ashikaga,” Rudov boomed. “I was just telling my friend here how helpful you have been. I’m sorry to have interrupted your vacation in Hawaii. This basement is a bit colder than the beach at Waikiki, eh?”
“This is the man you told me about?” Zasko asked. “The arms dealer who was working with Alexi and the Red Wa?”
Rudov nodded. “Eddy Ashikaga, meet Piotr Zasko.”
Two of Rudov’s men loomed over the shivering man. Judging by the cuts and bruises that marred his face, they’d been working him over for hours. One of them drove a meaty fist into Eddy’s stomach. The blow connected with a dull thud, and the man groaned in pain. He coughed up a mouthful of blood, and spat it on the icy floor.
“T-t-t-told you ev-ev-everything, s-s-swear!” the man hissed through chattering teeth.
One of the thugs, a tall slim man in a charcoal suit, grabbed a tuft of Eddy’s stringy black hair and yanked his head up. “You tell us again!” he barked.
Zasko recognized the man as Ivan Antonovich, Rudov's second in command.
Eddy’s head lolled forward as Antonovich hammered his gut with another savage blow. His arms and legs were thin and spidery, but his belly bulged over his waist, like a statue of Buddha. An intricate dragon tattoo snaked its way up his right arm.
As Zasko’s eyes travelled across the intricate tattoo, he noticed another odd detail. The man was missing two fingers from his right hand… they’d been severed at the first joint.
“P-p-please, I s-s-swear, that’s all I know!” the man pleaded. A spasm ran through his body. His shivering intensified. “S-s-so c-c-cold… C-c-can’t talk!”
Rudov chuckled. “Yes, I have to keep it cold down here. This is where I store my greatest treasures. The best vodkas in the world, not that ssat they serve upstairs. He stepped over to the shelf and caressed the bottles. His meaty fingers left trails in the delicate frost that coated their glass.
He stopped at one bottle, and hefted it from the shelf. It was crafted from gold metal, with a silver star stamped on the front. He pulled a gleaming stopper from the neck of the bottle, and took a swig.
“Russo-Baltique,” he said after he’d swallowed. “It is not to my taste, but this bottle cost me over half a million dollars. God knows how many rubles that is in today’s economy.”
Rudov took another long drink. With a sudden twist of his neck, he snapped his head around and spit the harsh liquid into Eddy’s face.
Eddy screamed in pain as the alcohol stung the cuts and lacerations that scarred his face.
“Just a taste, Mr. Ashikaga. A taste of more pain to come. Now you shiver from the cold. Soon you will shiver in fear. Fear of what I will do to you if I find out you are lying. Tell me again. Who killed my son, Alexi? Who delivered his corpse to me like a slaughtered cow?”
“M-M-Mark Waters. Honto ni, I swear! It was M-M-Mark Waters!” Eddy gasped.
“Who the fuck is Mark Waters?” Rudov bellowed.
Zasko put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Please, let me speak to him.”
Rudov looked up, his face flushed with rage. He took a deep breath, then slowly backed away from Eddy.
Zasko slipped his cell phone from his pocket, and scrolled through his pictures.
“This man you speak of, Mark Waters… Is this him?” He held up his phone and showed Eddy a picture.
The shivering man nodded frantically. “Y-y-yes, that’s him! That’s him! I know him from my yakuza days. W-w-word is he killed Alexi, and his Red Wa p-p-partner too! P-p-pisac, the Devil!"
Zasko patted Eddy’s bruised face. “Spasibo. Don’t go anywhere.”
He stood up and walked over to Rudov. “He is telling the truth, but this man’s name is not Mark Waters. Before coming here, I spoke with some old comrades in the FSB. Your son Alexi downloaded a file on this man before he was killed.”
Rudov took Zasko’s phone and examined the grainy picture. The man in the photo looked to be in his early thirties. His eyes were pale, and his features had a hard, drawn look to them.
“Who is he then?”
“His real name is Thomas Caine. His background is… complicated. The FSB’s files are incomplete. But one thing is clear. He is a killer. He is dangerous.”
Rudov’s eyes blazed with cold fury as he stared at the phone. "Antonovich, take our guest to the shipping yard. Lock him in a container. I will decide what to do with him later."
Ivan nodded, and gave Rudov a knowing look. He barked some orders in Russian to the other thug. Then he whipped out a folding knife, and sliced Eddy's bonds. They hefted the scrawny man to his feet and dragged him towards a pair of metal doors, ignoring his pitiful whimpered protests.
Rudov handed Zasko back his phone. “Come with me.”
The older man led him to a dark corner of the storage room. Another shelf of vodka was mounted to the wall, next to a painting of the Trinity Cathedral. Rudov slid aside the painting, revealing a small glowing keypad. He entered a code, and shelves slid aside to reveal a hidden door in the wall behind. It swung open with a hiss.
Zasko followed Rudov into a smaller room. Fluorescent lights flickered on automatically as they entered. Zasko turned, and watched as the door slid shut behind them, locking with a click. A second keypad was mounted next to the closed door on the inner wall.
The chamber was empty, save for a stuffed velvet armchair and a small glass table. A tiny remote control sat on the table, next to a hardwired intercom panel. A digital thermometer was mounted on the wall to their right. The temperature held at minus four degrees Celsius.
A pair of heavy fur robes hung on the wall beneath the thermometer. Rudov grabbed one, and threw it over his suit. He tossed the other to Zasko.
"Only three men alive know of this place,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. "Antonovich, my second in command. Just him, and two others. Good men, men I trust."
“So this is where you keep them,” Zasko said, flashing Rudov his toothy smile. “Seems risky.”
The older man nodded, then picked the remote up from the table. He pressed a button, and Zasko heard the hum of electric motors engaging. A frosted glass panel at the far end of the room slid up into the ceiling. Behind the glass stood a towering display cabinet, shrouded in mist.
The mist cleared. Transparent partitions divided the shelves into rows of square cubbies.
Each cubby held a severed head.
“This chamber is not on any floor plans,” the old man growled. “The walls are sound proof, and no cellphones, no wireless signals of any kind, can penetrate them. Everything is hardwired to my office upstairs. Intercom, temperature, security… everything. In here, we may talk freely.”
Zasko’s breath quickened as he took a step towards the case. He clasped his arms behind his
back, and paced back and forth, gazing upon the grizzly trophies. Their skin was pale white, and frost crystals hung from their limp, matted hair.
A similar expression graced all their faces, frozen in place by death and ice. Their mouths were twisted into screams, their unblinking eyes wide with panic. Each severed head was a horrific visage of fear.
Zasko’s eyes darted over the display of horrors. "I remember some of these. Others… well, there have been so many. Not every hunt was stimulating. Some prey are more skilled than others.”
Rudov pointed to an empty cubby near the top of the case. “There. That is where I want this man’s head. Alexi may have been a fool, but he was still my son. I want to see his killer’s face in here, alongside the rest of my enemies. You may indulge your... appetites… with the rest of him. But his head is mine."
“I understand,” Zasko said. “But these men…” he gestured to the cabinet. “They were gangsters, informants, petty thieves. Caine is nothing like them. It may be wiser to simply shoot him and be done with it.”
“Nyet!” Rudov’s voice was hard as steel, and it echoed off the frost covered walls of the hidden chamber. “He must be hunted. He must suffer. If I were younger, stronger, I would see to it myself. But you Piotr… You will bring me my trophy. And when it is over, I will come down here, sit in my chair, and look into his lifeless eyes. I will see that in his last moments, he feared me more than death itself.”
Zasko nodded. “Very well. I have assembled a team. They are good men, professionals. I have worked with most of them before, in Spetsnaz GRU. Their commanding officers have been well compensated. They will not be missed for a couple days.”
“Good. Then all we need now is the prey.”
Zasko took one last look at the trophy case. He shook his head.
Thomas Caine series Boxset Page 100
