by Ethan Jones
The woman did not return the nod. She pulled out a phone and began to tap its screen.
Maxim said, “How come the AP guys aren’t checking her?”
“Not sure. Maybe she works with them.”
“Or maybe they think she works with us.”
“They’re looking at her, but don’t seemed to be bothered by her presence. Oh, here they go.”
One of the contractors hurried toward the woman. He kept his AK rifle at a low ready position. At a moment’s notice, he could open fire, especially if the woman presented a threat.
She didn’t.
When he drew close to her, they exchanged a few words, then she showed him an ID card. Maxim was too far away to see what agency she belonged to. The ID card must have been impressive enough, because the man didn’t ask her to leave. He seemed to gesture to her to stay there and not come any closer. Then the AP contractor ran back to his position.
Maxim shrugged and turned his attention to the white Lada. Darko and his crew had spread out around their vehicle. Is their man in the same plane? Maxim peered at the Cessna, which was moving slowly because of the ongoing construction on one of the ramps closest to the runway. A large section of the tarmac was being replaced. A couple of rollers and a dump truck were parked next to a large heap of gravel and other heavily-packed debris that reached higher than the airplane.
“The mercs are on high alert,” Sasha said.
“Yes. I hope their man is not in the Cessna.”
“It could be. Maybe they’re picking up someone we’re unaware of.”
Maxim thought about it. The SVR wasn’t known to transport detainees and hand them over to private security companies. But then, AP wasn’t your run-of-the-mill contractor. If an oligarch paid enough money, they could get a seat even in the presidential plane. The president had four Ilyushin IL-96-300PU airplanes at his disposal. Maxim had read somewhere that one of them cost almost half a billion dollars. Two billion dollars just so a man can travel back and forth.
Maxim shrugged and said. “Let’s go check.”
When they were about ten yards away from Darko, he turned around. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Why, is your guy there?”
“He is, and so is your banker.”
Maxim’s eyes turned into slits as he frowned at Darko. “How do you know?”
“It’s my job to know things. Your guy is coming out first.”
“Is he now?”
“That’s what they told me.” He waved his phone at Maxim.
Darko’s other hand held the Bizon submachine gun. It was muzzle down, but still dangerous.
Maxim said nothing. He glanced at Sasha, whose eyes were locked into an evil stare-down with Darko. The contractor grinned at Sasha, then broke the stare. “Go pick up your banker.” He spat out the words with contempt.
Maxim didn’t move. The Cessna pilot was turning the airplane around. Then someone lowered the staircase. The first man who got out of the plane was wearing a grayish suit. He had short-cropped hair and was holding his pistol next to his body as he looked for Maxim. When their eyes met, the man gestured with his hand for Maxim to come forward.
“I’ve got your back,” Sasha whispered.
He had pulled out his pistol and was holding it in front of him high enough for everyone to take notice.
When Maxim was a couple of steps away from him, the man said, “We have the package, but he might be in bad shape.”
“What happened?”
“He badmouthed one of my men.” He gestured with his hand above his head as if he was ordering a drink at a bar.
Two men appeared at the airplane’s door holding someone between them. Maxim couldn’t tell who he was, because a black hood was placed over the man’s head. His hands were cuffed in front of him, and he was wearing a black felt coat and blue jeans.
Maxim’s left eye twitched. Is that really Rabinovich? “Who is that?”
“Who do you think?”
“I’m not paid to think.”
The man’s face twisted into a mischievous grin. “You wouldn’t be good at it. That’s your banker.”
“Rabinovich?”
The man groaned. “Are you expecting another banker?”
Maxim shook his head. “No. Remove his hood.”
“No, not here. Too many witnesses.” He gestured with the hand holding the gun toward the men standing by the Lada.
The two men had shuffled the hooded detainee closer to Maxim. He glanced at the detainee’s shoes. They were dusty and beat-up brown ones. Rabinovich wouldn’t be caught dead wearing those. He remained calm, keeping the blank look on his face. Maxim couldn’t have anything betray him now. He was surrounded by gunmen: the ones who were trying to pass off this poor man as Rabinovich and the AP crew, who was probably here to pick up the banker. If he was on the plane.
Maxim ran his fingers along a thin silver necklace with a small angular cross for a pendant hanging around his neck. He did this almost instinctively whenever he found himself squeezed into a tight corner. The necklace was one of the few things he had inherited from his mother, who had died while giving birth to him in Berlin. The necklace gave him peace, helped him think, and make important decisions that could mean the difference between life and death.
The gray-suited man said, “Take him and go.” He tipped his head toward the vehicles as if his words were not clear.
Maxim nodded. “Right away.”
He took hold of the man’s right arm and pulled him forward. “This way.”
The gray-suited man said, “He can’t speak, because we’ve gagged him. And he can’t hear you. Earplugs.”
Maxim said nothing but hurried his steps toward the UAZ. A disquieting feeling was boiling up in his stomach. His heart banged harder in his chest. He had never been in such a situation. This was not his first transfer, and he had been in firefights before. But not like this, when he didn’t know who he could trust…
Chapter Seven
Sheremetyevo International Airport
Moscow Oblast, Russia
As he passed by Darko and his men, they seemed to give him a look as if Maxim was a loser, a dumb loser. He shook his head ever so slightly. I’ll show all of you.
He turned his head toward the blonde woman, but she was gazing over his shoulder with an indifferent look on her face.
When he neared the UAZ, he whispered to Sasha, “He’s not our guy.”
“Why? Let’s go and—”
“No, we’re outgunned—”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“No, we’ll play this smart. Get in the car.”
“But—”
“Just get in the car.”
Maxim gave a final glance at the gray-suited man, who waved a negligible goodbye with his left hand. The FSB agent opened the UAZ’s rear door, then pushed the detainee in.
Sasha said, “Who’s this schmuck?”
“Don’t know. Let’s ask him. But after we’re out of sight.”
Sasha started the UAZ.
Maxim kept his eye on the side mirror. He doubted the men would bring out Rabinovich until Maxim and Sasha were gone. But he had to check.
The gray-suited man was chatting with his men, but no one came out of the airplane.
As soon as Sasha turned the corner of the nearest building, Maxim said, “Stop, stop, right here.”
Sasha hit the brakes.
Maxim slid out of the SUV. They were still watching, so he couldn’t come out in the open. He took out his phone, switched the camera on, then crouched near the wall. He placed the phone close to the ground, then moved it slowly around the corner, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed.
It wasn’t.
Maxim saw clearly what was happening around the airplane. The gray-suited man had turned around and was shouting something at the two men who were climbing the staircase. A moment later, Rabinovich appeared at the door of the airplane. It was just for a split of a second, but Maxim saw his face clearly.
“The banker’s here,” Maxim said.
“And this guy is the co-pilot,” Sasha said.
“Yes, they weren’t expecting us and had little time to improvise. Secure him, and let’s go back, pick up our guy.”
Before he could get up, a bullet shot the phone out of his hand. Glass and metal slivers cut into his left hand as more bullets thumped against the wall.
“Pop the trunk.” Maxim walked to the back of the UAZ.
He removed his jacket and picked up one of the AK-105 rifles, checked the magazine, then cocked the weapon. He repeated the same actions as he readied the second rifle. He took them both, then jumped into the front seat. “Go, go, go.”
Sasha needed no further encouragement. The tires spun over the gravel as the UAZ drifted around the corner.
Maxim opened up with the rifle. He wasn’t aiming at anyone in particular, but his shots were intended to stop or slow down Rabinovich’s transfer to the white Lada or the black Jaguar.
A barrage of bullets hammered their vehicle. The gray-suited man was firing from a position he had taken next to the Cessna’s staircase.
The UAZ was armored, but Maxim wasn’t. Sasha jerked the wheel, so that the driver’s side would take the hits.
“Stop, stop,” Maxim said.
He got out, crouching, and opened up over the hood, this time concentrating the fire at the Lada. One of the AP contractors was firing from the rear. His bullets shattered the UAZ’s headlights, sending a spray of shards over Maxim’s head just as he’d dropped behind the hood.
Maxim then turned his AK rifle toward the gray-suited man, but he had disappeared behind the staircase.
A scream came from the woman, who was lying on her stomach by the Jaguar. Its windows had burst open and pieces of glass covered her back. One of the AP security contractors was targeting her.
Maxim looked at her. “You’re hit?” he said.
The woman returned a puzzled look, then shook her head. “No, I … I don’t think so.”
“Stay there. I’ll come to get you.”
She nodded and didn’t move.
Maxim shouted, “Sasha, cover me.”
“Where are you going?” He stopped his barrage.
“To get that woman out. Then I’ll go for the plane. You take the Lada.”
“Got it.”
Sasha stood up near the driver’s door and began to lay suppressive fire to cover Maxim’s advance.
He tore across the ramp as bullets zipped around him and whizzed overhead. He dropped next to the woman and checked her. Bullets had missed her, but she had cuts on her arms and the left side of her face. “Can you get up?”
She returned an uncertain nod.
“Good. Get in the back seat. I’ll turn the Jag around.”
He opened the door for her and helped her inside. The volley of bullets had subsided as the shooters had turned their attention to Sasha and the UAZ. Maxim fired a few rounds until he emptied his magazine. His bullets didn’t hit anyone, but gave Sasha some breathing room.
“You’re all strapped in?” he said to the woman.
“Yes, yes, I’m good,” she replied in a weak voice.
Maxim slammed a fresh magazine into the AK rifle and squeezed off a short burst. Then he slid into the Jaguar’s driver’s seat. He threw the car into reverse as one of the AP contractors turned his submachine gun toward Maxim.
Maxim pulled the trigger. The AK’s bullets cut through the man’s body, and he fell face first into the tarmac.
Maxim went for a few seconds in a straight line, then lifted his foot off the gas. He yanked hard at the wheel, turning it as far as it would go, keeping his left hand down. The maneuver threw him against the door as the Jaguar began to spin around.
More bullets pounded the side and the back of the car, but none hit Maxim.
About halfway through the spin, Maxim slammed the gearshift forward. It was perfect timing, for what he lacked in shooting skills he more than made up in driving. He straightened the wheel and accelerated, as the Jaguar shot forward.
A couple of rounds clipped the back, but he was able to round the corner of the building. He came to a slow stop and looked at the woman. She was still shaken.
Maxim said, “You’ll be okay. You’ll be fine.”
She nodded slowly.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“I … I work for the GRU. I’m here to observe the transfer.”
Maxim frowned. “GRU? What’s the army intel service doing here?”
“I … I can’t tell you. Not now, anyway.”
Maxim nodded. He jumped out and ran toward the building. When he came close to the corner, he stopped, waited for a moment, then stole a peek. No one fired at him, but there was no sign of Sasha firing from the UAZ toward the Lada or the airplane. The Cessna had started to roll onto the ramp and was heading toward the nearest runway.
Maxim ran toward the UAZ, but didn’t call out to Sasha, not wanting to bring attention to himself. When the FSB agent was about halfway, Darko stood up from the right side of the Lada and fired a quick burst at Maxim. One of the bullets grazed his left arm right above the elbow.
He dove into the grassy patches next to the building and rolled away from the bullets. He ignored the stabbing pain and the blood oozing from the wound and turned his AK toward Darko.
He was gone.
A moment later, the Lada’s tires screeched. The driver—Maxim suspected it was Darko, or the other remaining contractor—swung the vehicle around, then sped away toward the furthermost runway.
Maxim fired the last of his magazine at the Lada, then tossed the AK to the ground. He sprinted toward Sasha and found him sitting on the gravel next to the back of the UAZ. A pool of blood was forming next to him. Maxim looked at the wound about six inches above Sasha’s knee. “How bad is it?” he asked Sasha.
“I’ll live.”
“Of course you will.”
“The bone’s broken.”
“Where’s the co-pilot?”
“In the back seat. Dead.”
“How?”
“A bullet hit him.”
Maxim popped the trunk, then pulled out his rucksack. “I’ve got the clot kit, so I can patch your wound—”
“No, I can do that. Go after them. Don’t let them leave.”
“You’re sure?”
“Stop wasting time and go.”
Maxim looked at Sasha’s tired eyes, then at the AK rifle next to his feet.
Sasha said, “There’s maybe a couple of bullets in there. No extra mags.”
“I’m out too, but I’ll take it.”
“Stop them. At any cost. And make them pay for this,” Sasha said in between gasps.
Maxim stood up. “Let’s start those eighteen minutes.”
Chapter Eight
Sheremetyevo International Airport
Moscow Oblast, Russia
Maxim jumped into the driver’s seat. The heavy UAZ shot forward as he kept his foot on the gas. Spiderweb cracks had formed across the windshield, so he used the metal buttstock of the AK rifle to push it away. The Cessna had a considerable lead. It had already reached the runway. The pilot was turning the airplane around.
Maxim gave a cursory glance at four dead bodies strewn about the ramp. The gray-suited man wasn’t among them. He must have gotten on the plane.
Maxim cursed out loud and glanced at his rifle. Even if he were the greatest sharpshooter, the likelihood of stopping the airplane with only a few bullets was very slim. Besides, his arm was injured. What can I do? I can’t let them get away…
The Cessna had straightened out and was picking up speed. It was going to take off at any moment.
Maxim had a few seconds to make a decision. His eyes went to the construction site and rested on the large heap of debris. He nodded to himself. Yes, this might work, or it might end up killing me.
He flattened the gas pedal, and the heavily-armored UAZ barreled toward the sloped hea
p. Maxim opened the door, and, when the UAZ was a couple of feet away from the mound, he jumped out. He bit his lip, ignoring the pain coming from his shoulder’s hitting hard on the sandy tarmac.
The UAZ climbed the mound, shooting upwards toward the sky.
The Cessna had just taken off.
Maxim glanced up, praying the trick would work.
The UAZ flew in a large arc, heading toward the climbing airplane. He wondered if the vehicle would fall short of the target. As the UAZ began to drop down under gravity’s pull, the pilot tried to maneuver the Cessna out of the way.
Too late.
The nose of the UAZ came crashing into the engine on the starboard side of the plane. The Cessna exploded into a gigantic orange fireball. Metal and plastic shards fell all around him, and Maxim crawled close to the mound to protect himself from the fiery hailstorm.
A few moments later, he stood up and observed the wreckage. Black smoke was billowing from two large hulks, while tall flames were eating up remains scattered over a large area. Maxim shook his head. No one could have survived that explosion.
He turned his head in the other direction. The white Lada had turned around and was headed toward him. In the distance, a few police cars were giving chase to the Lada.
Maxim grimaced as pain seared through his shoulder and his entire body. He glanced at the blood dripping from his arm wound, then his eyes went to the dump truck parked next to the debris mound. Maxim smiled. That should be able to stop the Lada and that dog, Darko…
He limped to the truck and struggled to climb up to the driver’s seat. He looked for the keys in the sun visor, but they were not there. He glanced at the center console and found them. He turned on the ignition; it took a few moments, but the truck roared to life. Maxim pulled the seat belt across his chest. It’s going to be a rough ride. He began to steer the heavy beast around as he hit the gas and turned to meet the Lada.
He let up on the gas as the heavy truck swung onto the runway, straightening the wheel as he headed directly for the Lada. Darko, or whoever was driving it, was now perhaps two hundred yards away. The two vehicles were coming fast toward one another, the distance closing with every passing second.
