Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  Cuevas nodded. "Very wise. I suggest you move your left hand away from your waistband. If you have a knife there, I'll gut shoot you, and you'll take a very long time to die."

  He moved his hand away slowly. The Mexican nodded. "Very good. You have two minutes left."

  "I don't want to die!" Kennedy spluttered, "I'll give you anything, Mr. Cuevas. Anything you want, every dollar I have in the bank, my car, the house if you want it."

  He shook his head. "It's just business, Mr. Kennedy. If I let you get away with owing money, it sends the wrong message to other people. You have to die. You must see that. Your driver as well." He sneered, "Did you think he would protect you? He's a waste of time."

  Raider thought of the dead bodies strewn outside. Maybe they'd die in this place, but he'd taken a few of the enemy down with him. What he resented the most was the idea of this sneering greaseball getting away. That really rankled.

  "Time's up."

  "That wasn't two minutes," Kennedy protested.

  "I couldn't give a shit. Time to say goodbye, I have to go."

  The shot cracked out, but strangely it came from some distance away. The scream of pain came not from Jason Kennedy but from the drug dealer. The bullet clipped him in the shoulder, and he staggered, but kept hold of the Mac 10. Raider was already up and moving toward the Mexican, but Cuevas dived out of a glassless window and rolled onto the sand outside.

  He scooped up his Sig and raced after him, but his quarry had already disappeared into the warren of wooden buildings. He scanned the silent town.

  That shot had to have come from somewhere, but where?

  There were several possible hiding places, but he suspected he already knew the man's identity.

  "You took your damn time," he called out, "The bastard almost had us. Besides, that was lousy shooting."

  Joe Nguyen stepped out from behind the cover of a well a hundred yards away. He grinned at Raider, his normally impassive Asian expression displaying a vast amusement at his discomfiture.

  "I had to stop for coffee."

  He was clutching a Winchester Repeating Arms model 1892 Short Rifle. A nice looking weapon, one he hadn't seen before, even so.

  "How'd you miss?"

  He shrugged. "She's a beauty, yeah, but I only just bought her. I haven't had time to get it checked over and zero in the sights. Where'd he go?"

  Raider pointed. "Over there, the bastard has a helo. Let's go. We need to finish this now before he gets away."

  They raced through the silent buildings, but all too soon they heard the sound of an engine start-up. Then the distinctive rotor blade noise, a 'whup, whup' sound as a million dollar Bell Jet Ranger took off a couple of hundred yards away. Joe cracked off a half-dozen shots, but if he hit anything, it wasn't obvious. A few seconds later, the helo disappeared over a low rise, and the noise died away.

  "Fuck. I should have nailed the bastard."

  He grinned at Joe's chagrin. "At least we're still breathing, so score one for the good guys."

  "Is he the kind of person to bear a grudge? I mean he's a Mexican."

  "A Mexican drug dealer. He won't give up. That kind never does. When I can spare a moment, I'll look up friend Cuevas and explain that I don't give up either. As I recall, the SEALs trained us to always finish the job."

  "Let me know if you need a hand. I don't like to miss a shot, and I'll make damn sure he doesn't walk away next time."

  "Yeah, thanks. How did you find us?"

  "I got your message, and I broke every speed limit in the book to get here. It wasn't hard. When I came across the Porsche and the limo, I kind of guessed what had happened."

  Raider nodded. "It's lucky you were in the area. It's some coincidence. I reckon it's time to grab our Hollywood star and mosey on out of here. " He stared at his friend's grim expression, "What's up?"

  "It was no coincidence. I came to talk to you about Mariyah."

  "Has something happened to her?"

  "Not exactly. It's not what's happened, it's what's about to happen. She's in danger. Real danger."

  He felt a shiver in his spine. "Does this involve Abigail?"

  "It could. She needs you."

  Mariyah had given birth to Abigail shortly after they were married. She was Raider's only child, and not a day went by that he didn't think about her. After the divorce Mariyah had remarried. She was a corporate lawyer and worked for her father, Paul Vann in his New York office. The Vann family hailed from Ukraine and still kept strong links to the home country. Which sometimes caused them more trouble than they could handle, given the civil war that raged inside that benighted country. He knew Joe wouldn't have told him if it wasn't serious.

  "I assume it involves Ukraine?"

  Joe hesitated for a moment, and he winced. "I think it may have more to do with some place further east."

  He closed his eyes. "Tell me it's not Russia."

  "It's complicated," Joe murmured, "But yeah, it's Russia."

  At that moment, Jason Kennedy limped up to them. "Hey guys, we got out of that one okay."

  Nguyen and Raider stared at each other. The ghost town was strewn with bodies, and hundreds of cartridge cases from the battle they'd fought lay on the sand amongst the ruined timber structures. And Pablo Cuevas had escaped. Raider stared at him.

  "My friend, it's not over. We'll get you out of here, and when you get back to LA, I suggest you take a long holiday."

  "A long holiday? For what reason?"

  "Cuevas."

  Chapter Two

  Joe had a car parked on the highway, close to the wrecked Porsche and the damaged limo. A BMW M5, the model with the twin-turbocharged V8 engine. He swung a U-turn and hit the gas for a fast return journey to Los Angeles. At first, Kennedy objected to abandoning his prized but damaged status symbol to rust in the desert. They suggested he wait with it, and they'd call in at the first repair shop they came to, and fix up for a wrecker to come out and collect it.

  "We'll leave you a loaded gun to deal with Cuevas when he comes back."

  He decided to leave it to the insurance company. "But I still need to get to Vegas. It's really important. Moreover, you'll have to stay with me, Raider. That's the job you took on, and this time you'd better make sure there are no more screw-ups. After that fuck-up in the desert, I don't want it to happen again."

  He was quiet for the rest of the return journey to Los Angeles. They let him out close to a doctor's office, where he could get treatment for his injuries. He walked away muttering threats and curses, but Joe had already driven away. Now they could talk.

  "I assume we're not driving all the way to Mariyah's place in New York City?" he said to Joe.

  He grinned. "No way. This is just a corporate hire car. I have to return it to the Hertz office at Los Angeles International, and we can take the next flight out. First class to New York."

  "Corporate hire. Does that mean Paul Vann is picking up the bills?"

  "Not exactly, no."

  He was silent for a moment. He didn't want an answer to his next question. But he had to know.

  "Tell me you're not still working for Alexander Dragan?"

  A pause. "It's kind of complicated."

  He noticed Joe couldn't meet his eyes. "I'll take that as a yes."

  He didn't answer. Raider recalled the problems he'd had the last time he did a job for Alexander Dragan, an operation to Ukraine with Joe, Al Miller, and Waite Sullivan that should have been straightforward. They'd ended up locked into an epic tussle with pro-Russian paramilitaries, and had extracted themselves only with difficulty from the furor that surrounded an assassination plot on the Russian president, Vladimir Putin. As a result, Raider had outstanding arrest warrants on his head from both the Russian Federation and the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. So far, he'd stayed one-step ahead of the law by taking on crap jobs, looking after morons like Jason Kennedy, until now.

  He sighed. "Okay, how does Mariyah come into this? I get the connection, your
boss Alexander Dragan, her father Paul Vann, they're both from Ukraine. As I recall, Ukraine is locked into a bloody struggle with Russia. But what's the connection to Mariyah?"

  "I don't have all the details," Joe replied quietly. Raider gave him a skeptical look, but Joe shook his head, "Honest, if I knew I'd tell you. All I know, is it relates to a family heirloom, a jeweled chest that belongs to Mariyah. Somewhere along the line, a bunch of Russians stole it. Paul is anxious she gets it back."

  "If the Russians have it, he may as well wave goodbye to this thing."

  "He says it's important, real important, something about the fate of nations in the balance if it isn't returned. You know the way he talks."

  "That doesn't make sense. It sounds like garbage."

  "Maybe, maybe not, but that's what he said. Vann want us to recover it for Mariyah. Alexander Dragan has even offered to fund and supply the operation through the Dragan Foundation. Well, he can afford it, he's a billionaire."

  "The Dragan Foundation is just a front to smuggle guns to Ukrainian nationalists. I told him to go fuck himself after the last time."

  "He's prepared to forget the past. He said this is more important."

  "I still say fuck him."

  "Don't forget, this is for Mariyah, and for Abigail. Dragan said it's a simple job, just fly over there, grab the chest, and bring it back. An in and out job."

  "That's what he said last time. As I recall, we took on a unit of Spetsnaz, the Russian SVR foreign intelligence service, and Putin's Presidential guard. We were lucky to get out alive. If it's so easy, why does he need us? He can go fuck himself."

  Joe smiled. "I guess he sees it as a way of mending fences. There was a lot of bad blood after the last time. He's not a bad guy, not when you get to know him."

  "Bullshit. Tell me, if it's a simple matter of Mariah's property being stolen by a bunch of Russian hoods, why is she in danger? It doesn't make any sense."

  Joe nodded slowly. "I agree. As far as I know, the story is she promised this heirloom to someone else, but she changed her mind. So they got upset."

  "How upset?" He was more and more puzzled. Because they'd been married, he knew Mariyah as well as any man knows his wife. She was levelheaded, not someone to get involved in some arcane deal, double-crossing shady Russians.

  "They threatened to kill her if they didn't get hold of it."

  He stared at Joe in astonishment. "Kill her! So they were really pissed."

  "You could say that. They'll tell you more when we get there."

  They reached LA, and Joe drove to a mailbox office where they could leave their weapons for forwarding by courier to New York. They returned the Beamer to the Hertz car park, and the attendant gave them directions to departures. The building was dark and empty, humid and dank in the ever-present heat and the presence of crowds of passengers passing through every day. As they walked up the staircase toward the exit, a man stepped out.

  "Gimme your money, both of you. Quick!"

  He was as thin as a pencil and wore a long, thick parka that had the unmistakable stamp of 'thrift shop' about it. He had new two hundred dollar trainers on his feet. His sallow skin was pockmarked and almost gray, under a mop of tangled, greasy hair. He could have worn a badge that stated addict, but it wasn't necessary. He was a walking advertisement for the evils of substance abuse.

  "Why?" Joe asked him.

  The addict waved the small pistol he held in his shaking right hand. A Saturday night special, a worn, scratched Smith and Wesson .38 revolver. Probably he'd hired it for the robbery from another addict.

  "Why? Are you shittin' me, man? I got the gun. You don't give me the cash, I shoot you in the guts."

  Joe shook his head. "No, you won't. Walk away, pal. You picked the wrong people for a stick up."

  "What?" It was almost possible to see the worn cogs of his brain operating as he worked through a number of possibilities, "Are you cops or something?"

  "Nope."

  He relaxed a little. "Right, hand it over, or I shoot. Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Mister. You're a second away from a bullet in the guts."

  Raider waited. There was no need for him to intervene. When Joe moved, it was like a well-rehearsed ballet. Smooth, elegant, a slight twist of his body to one side, the left hand faked out his opponent, and the right hand seized his gun, twisted, and broke his wrist. He screamed in agony as he dropped the weapon.

  "You broke my fucking wrist."

  "That's right. You can limp to the emergency room and get it fixed."

  "Limp?"

  Joe moved again, his leg slid past the other guy's leg, and again he twisted ever so slightly.

  "Aarrgghhh! Jesus Christ, you broke my leg."

  "I've done everyone a favor. It'll keep you off the streets for a while. Stop you threatening innocent people with a gun. Now beat it."

  "My gun..."

  Joe grinned. "Don't even think about it." He bent down, scooped up the little pistol, and dropped it into his pocket, "Get out of here. In three seconds, I'll break the other leg, and you can crawl."

  He limped away, cursing and swearing. They continued on to the terminal. The pistol went down a convenient drain. As they walked into departures, Joe gave him a quizzical glance.

  "How do you manage to get around, with your ID and mugshot on every computer between here and Moscow?"

  "They're not looking for Ray Johnson. It's amazing what you can buy in the Los Angeles underworld for five thousand bucks. It's quite genuine. The real Ray Johnson disappeared a couple of years back. I understand it was some kind of a Mafia hit."

  He grinned. "Just so long as they know he's dead, and they don't join the queue to come after you."

  "They know. They sold me the ID. They said it was their way of leveraging some profit on the hit."

  An hour later, they boarded the first class section of a Boeing 757. The slim and pretty cabin attendant fixed him with a dazzling smile that seemed to have been glued on. The smile faded when she noticed his mussed up clothes and the trickle of dried blood on his face.

  "Uh, Sir, are you okay? You appear to have had an accident."

  He grinned at her. "It was no accident, I assure you. They meant it. I'll clean up after we take off."

  The smile started to return. She'd convinced herself he was joking. "Sure, if there's anything I can do to help."

  "You have a first aid kit?"

  "Of course."

  "In that case, I'd appreciate some help cleaning and dressing the wound before we land."

  "I, uh..." She thought about it for only a few seconds. Maybe it was her training, maybe it was his beaten up surfer looks, but she nodded, "I'd be glad to, Sir."

  They took off, and when the seatbelt light went out, she called him to go forward to clean up. He returned to his seat from the first class bathroom, and Joe inspected him carefully.

  "She did a good job, that girl. It took a long time for such a little cut, how come?"

  "She took a lot of care to get it right. She has a kind of holistic approach. It must be the way the airline trains them these days."

  Just then, the cabin attendant approached them, and she gave Raider a dazzling smile. Beneath the immaculate makeup, her face was slightly flushed, as if she'd been exerting herself.

  "Would you like some champagne, Sir? Perhaps something to eat, something to…" She met his eyes, "To help regain your strength."

  He ordered coffee and a Danish, and it was all Joe could do to stop himself laughing.

  "I guess getting shot isn't as bad as they say."

  "Only if you're flying first class. You heard anything from the others lately, Waite and Al?"

  Joe grinned. "One guess."

  "They're fishing in some miserable, soaking wet, storm-ridden hellhole."

  "Got it in one. Last I heard they were off the coast of Newfoundland with that Grand Banks they bought."

  "Rather them than me, the crazy bastards."

  "Yeah."

  Ke
nnedy International, New York

  He was tired after all the exertion. Maybe it was the effect of the champagne, or the cabin attendant's ministrations, but he put his head down and slept most of the way to New York. The undercarriage thumped down, and it woke him up for the remaining minutes of the journey. They exited the aircraft, and he pocketed the tiny piece of paper the cabin attendant gave him as he walked past.

  "We hope you enjoyed your flight, and that you fly with us again soon, Sir."

  "Thank you, Ma'am, it's been an experience. Catch you again soon."

  They swapped intimate smiles, and Joe dragged him out to the walkway, and they walked through to the arrivals hall. A uniformed chauffeur waited for them with a sign that stated Mr. J. Nguyen. It was unlikely Paul Vann knew of his fake ID, and he appreciated the fact the greeter omitted his real name. When the Feds are hunting you down like a dog, a high security international airport is not the kind of place you want your name to be made public.

  They drove through nightmare traffic, cocooned in the soft leather upholstery of a limo that was long enough to take an entire platoon, with space left over for their weapons and equipment. The vehicle stopped outside the imposing office block of Vann, Ruben, and Turner. Ten minutes later, they were ushered into the office of the great man himself. Paul Vann, corporate fixer and born in Ukraine, a man with the brain of a computer and a heart that could cool a martini in two seconds flat.

  He was leaning against an oak bookcase filled with leather bound legal tomes, and reading a document in his hands. A tall, fit-looking and handsome man, with short, immaculately groomed black hair and unusually, a goatee beard that was pure gray. At first sight, his eyes were a conventional rich, mid-blue. It was only when you got closer you realized it was an illusion. The eyes were empty, like flecks of hardened steel through which he viewed the world. He wore no jacket, just a tailor-made shirt with a Yale tie. The casual look for the busy lawyer, although the sleeves were fastened with Tiffany cufflinks. For Mr. Vann, casual only went so far.

  He glanced up as they walked into the office, his eyebrows raised as if he was surprised they'd arrived, standard lawyer's tactic. Vann advanced on Raider, his hand held out like a bayonet, ready for the power shake. When it came, the grip was exact, firm, and confident. The message was that Vann was in total control of his destiny.