The Man From Belarus (Corps Justice Book 16)
Page 3
When they made it to the fifth floor, Daniel checked the hallway then pushed through with Cal and Liberty right behind him. They heard singing from somewhere down the hall. And the smell of food, real food, pulled them forward like a siren crooking her finger to unsuspecting sailors.
“Wow,” Cal whispered. Liberty’s ears perked up and she let out a little whine.
This was the delicate part. If their pursuers wanted to make a statement, now was the time. Enclosed, up five levels, minimal arsenal in hand. Basically, they were more exposed than they’d been in days.
They’d made it halfway to the singing and luscious smell when Daniel detected the slightest trace of movement. Miniscule, like the breath at the end of a breeze. But still something to the Marine sniper who was highly attuned to the details coming in and out of his life.
He was too late to turn. Before he could get the weapon from the holster the round shadow end of a barrel appeared from Unit 511.
“Bang, bang. You dead now, Marine.”
Chapter Eight
STOKES — STERLING, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY
Liberty yanked the leash from Cal’s hand in her rush to the creaked open door. The voice inside went from ominous to giddy.
“Hey, girl! It’s good to see you too!”
Gaucho, the swarthy Hispanic who was a mainstay of Cal’s crew, hugged the dog’s torso and let her lick him all over the face and his braided beard.
Cal relaxed. “You scared Snake Eyes.”
“Did I?” Gaucho asked innocently.
Daniel shrugged. “Is dinner ready?”
“Almost. Top’s been cooking for hours.”
With Liberty back on four paws and her tail batting like a pinball flipper behind him, Gaucho walked out and gave Cal a much-needed hug.
“It’s good to see you, my friend,” Cal said, unable to express in words how much he’d missed his friends—hell, his family.
“You too, Cal. Snake Eyes keeping you in line?”
Cal chuckled. “He’s doing his best.”
“Come on. You should try the appetizers. Stuffed mushrooms—I swear I’m gonna put on ten pounds tonight.”
Gaucho led them down the hall.
When they entered the unit at the end of the hall, Master Sergeant Willy Trent, a near seven-foot-tall black man with the physique of an NFL lineman, stood at the kitchen counter singing at the top of his lungs. Opera? Cal thought.
Both of Trent’s hands went to the sky when he saw them. “The gang’s all here!”
Cal was the first to get a bear hug that nearly squished the guts from his body.
“You been working out?” Trent said as he set Cal down. “You feel skinnier.”
“Briggs has me on a steady diet of Hardee’s and Wendy’s.”
“Aw man, that mess’ll do anyone in. Briggs!” Trent’s hug for the sniper was more reserved, a nod to Daniel’s status as resident pseudo-shaman of the team. “How are you, m’man?”
“I’m good, Top. It’s great to see you.”
Cal always marveled at the power of the few words that left his friend’s lips. Not a syllable wasted and with all the power of a statement from Mt. Sinai.
“Ho, ho, hold on,” Trent howled, pointing a finger at his best friend who was at the stove, scraping one of the pans with a fork. He went over to Gaucho. “What the hell are you doing?”
Gaucho shrugged. “It looked like it was burning. I thought I’d give it a stir.”
Trent towered over the man. “I’m talking about the fork.”
Gaucho looked down at the utensil, then back up at Trent. “What about the fork?”
“Boy, that’s Calphalon! That ain’t no T-Fal crap from Walmart! What’s the matter with you?”
“My mother used to make huevos rancheros with a fork.”
“I don’t care if your mama made whoopie with Colonel Sanders! Keep your nasty utensils away from my quality cookware!”
Gaucho dropped the fork on the counter. “Fine. Last time I try to help.”
“Damn right,” said Trent, shaking his head and muttering. “Genius on the battlefield, dumbass at the stove. And they’re not burning!"
He turned then to see Gaucho cramming stuffed mushroom appetizers two at a time into his mouth, then shook his head and went back to his cooking.
“The man’s a pain in my ass,” Gaucho said around a mouthful, “but he can definitely cook.”
The others laughed and joined in the carnage.
Chapter Nine
TRENT — STERLING, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY
He was more than glad to see his friends had come with a hearty appetite. His Johnson & Wales-trained skills could certainly put a meal on the table, but if that meal wasn’t devoured in record time, those skills weren’t worth a damn.
But more than that, he was happy to see his friends. Like Cal, Trent didn’t have family. This was his family.
“I’m sorry Neil couldn’t make it,” he said, clearing plates and handing them to Daniel, who’d volunteered to be dishwasher. “Have you heard from him?”
“Intermittently,” Daniel said.
Cal sipped from a bottle of local beer. “How come you guys get to stay here and we get to bounce from rathole motel to fleabag hostel?”
“You ever hear that a Marine Master Sergeant can steal the pants off of St. Peter if he wants?” Top said.
“I wouldn’t doubt it. But seriously, how did you swing this?”
Top pointed at Gaucho, who was laying on the couch, both hands on his stomach.
“Tio Armando.”
That was all that needed to be said. Gaucho’s uncle was in deep cover south of the border. Once believed to be a traitor to his country, Armando was not only an American operative, but the head of a Mexican cartel who’d made big moves in the underworld. The only trick now was getting him out. They’d downed many an adult beverage trying to concoct ways to spring The Jackalope from his gilded cage. But that was a task for another day.
Gaucho let out a long belch then said, “So what’s the plan, fellas? I’m getting bored and fat from too much food.”
The silence that followed was all the answer they needed.
“How about we jump in a plane, talk to Brandon, and get this settled,” Top suggested.
“It’s too late,” Cal said.
“Too late for what, to make amends?”
“The wheels are in motion. They won’t stop until they find us.”
Top mulled skeptically over this last statement. He knew the president. Hell, they all did. What made Cal think that the rift between them couldn’t be mended? An idea hit him then.
“There’s something you haven’t told us,” he said plainly. “Something Brandon did.”
Cal didn’t answer. And once again, that was all the answer the others needed.
Chapter Ten
VOLKOV — MOSCOW — PRESENT DAY
He slipped easily from skin to skin. He’d been to Moscow too many times. The smell of cheap cigarette smoke. The minarets and the secret police. Since he was a child, the city had enraptured him and ignited a sense of adventure. The true Cold War was before his time, but he knew the stories. In truth, he was a child of that time, bred by the men who’d made it into what it was now: a corrupt and self-seeking organism that thrived on power and deception.
The driver of the rented Mercedes swerved to miss an old lady ambling across the street, blind to the world around her.
“Bitch,” the driver spat.
The Belarusian would’ve slapped the man were he not in Moscow. These Russians had no love for their own people. The mighty machine of oil and war standing toe to toe against the West had no sense of solidarity within.
“Pull over here,” he said.
“But, sir—”
“I said pull over.”
The Mercedes skidded to a stop, a horn blaring behind them.
The Belarusian stepped out of the car, glared at the offending driver behind them, and walked toward the old wo
man.
“Can I help you, grandmother?”
She did not look up, just kept walking. “Going to the store.”
“Let me take you there, grandmother.”
“I’m not so old,” she said.
He chuckled. “You’ve seen more of this city than the men who run it.”
Now she looked up at him. “You are wise for a child.”
“Thank you, grandmother. I did well in school.”
Now she took his arm as they both ignored the honks and shouts from the cars clogging the way. When she reached the far side, she patted his cheek, just like his own grandmother had once done.
“You’re a good boy,” she said.
He nodded, flashing a smile.
Off she ambled, seemingly oblivious to the world. The Belarusian took his time walking back to the car, even stopping in the middle of the road and lighting a cigarette. Oh, how they howled, until they saw his eyes.
They knew him without knowing him.
And so, perhaps they’d unconsciously turned their eyes from the sight of the old woman slipping the package into his hand. Or perhaps not. He knew he was safe either way.
He breathed a sigh of self-satisfaction. With the pass complete, he carried on with his voyage, off to the masters.
Chapter Eleven
VOLKOV — MOSCOW — PRESENT DAY
“Aleksandr, please, come in,” the portly master bellowed, smoke and vodka fumes pouring from his mouth.
“Sir,” Aleksandr said, bowing his head in deference.
“Finally, a real man to deal.” Then he raised his voice so the whole building could hear him. “Who knew that a Belarusian would do what a Russian could not.”
The Belarusian cringed inwardly, shunning the spotlight. When he glanced around at the cubicles, not a head looked their way. They were used to the old spy master’s barks and bites.
The big man slapped him on the back and then slammed the door to his office.
“What can I get you, Alek? Vodka? American whiskey?”
“Vodka please, sir.”
He’d only sip the stuff. He needed a clear head this day.
His boss wrangled a sloppy pour and handed the chipped glass to his underling.
“To the Motherland!” he toasted.
“To the Motherland,” the Belarusian answered, clinking his glass against the other.
The larger man downed his drink in one swig. Aleksandr the Belarusian took a sip that would make a nun proud.
“So, what brings you to Moscow, Alek? Perhaps you miss our nights in the clubs?”
The fat man’s belly jiggled as he did his best imitation of an electronic dance beat.
“Tempting,” Aleksandr said. “But my time is short.”
The master looked crestfallen. “I see.” He poured himself another drink and promptly pounded that one too. “What is it you need?” He plopped himself down in his desk chair, flab overflowing where grit and muscle had once been.
The Belarusian regarded the man with a jaundiced eye. He’d once respected him, but that respect had waned during the past decade. The trappings of a spy master hung from him like wilted fruit, stinking and ripe for the compost heap.
“I brought you something. Two somethings.”
The fat man’s eyebrows waggled. “Oh?”
The Belarusian nodded gravely. “I found the man you’re looking for.”
The fat man’s mouth dropped open. “The American?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t have a name yet,” the Belarusian lied.
“Aleksandr, I cannot go to the president without a name.”
“He knows how our business works.”
“A name, Alek, I need a name.”
“I will have a name.”
The wheels in the older man’s head finally turned the corner. “You need something.”
“A small thing.”
“Tell me.”
The Belarusian did, and the request elicited a frown and deep gurgle in the old spymaster’s stomach.
“That is not a small thing.”
“That’s why I came to you. Who else could get this approved but the hero of Berlin?”
The fat man’s face slackened. “Very well. It will be done.” He grabbed the cigarette pack from the desk and shook out a pile. “And the second thing?”
The Belarusian knew better than to come to Moscow without something concrete. An offering. One that served his needs.
“The man in the second cubicle, Asiatic.”
“Filip?”
“Yes.”
“What about him? He’s making great inroads.”
“He’s spying for the Chinese. You should have him shot. After interrogation, of course.”
The fat man took a great, heaving breath, and poured himself another drink. He raised the brimming glass. “Tvoye zdorov’ye.”
“No,” said the Belarusian, “to your health.”
Chapter Twelve
LENA — RICHWOOD, WEST VIRGINIA — AGE 13
She stared down at the crumpled piece of paper.
Gunnery Sergeant Terry Shamblin.
She had to Google what a gunnery sergeant was—the Marines. “One of their senior enlisted. Often called Gunny by peers and junior enlisted.”
She looked up from the paper to the house. It had seen better days. Bermuda grass had taken over the lawn, splashing up the sides of the house like green sea foam. Every filthy window was shut with curtains stained like nicotine teeth.
This was the house where her search had led.
Gunnery Sergeant Terry Shamblin. Her only link to her father. That and the letter she’d received in the P.O. box on her 13th birthday.
Little Rabbit,
I hope you find friends in school. Don’t forget to be a child. Have fun if you can. I didn’t do enough to prepare you to be a young woman. I am sorry for that. Know that not all boys are bad and not all girls are good. Be smart. Keep your eyes open. We’ll be together again one day.
Being together would be impossible. He was dead. He’d sometimes talked of the afterlife. Heaven or some such thing. In her solitude, hope of heaven was gone, replaced by a loneliness so complete that even in crushing crowds she stood alone.
Her father mentioned friends. That was a joke. Who would be friends with the strange girl whose parents were always gone? At least that’s what she’d told them. She was a fair forger with plenty of her father’s chicken scratch samples to work from.
She detected movement too late. Just a shadow. More ghost than reality.
“Who are you?” came a grizzled voice.
“I’m looking for Gunnery Sergeant Terry Shamblin.”
She’d said that name thousands of times in her head, hoping beyond hope that the person behind the name had the answers she needed.
“I didn’t ask you who you were looking for. I asked you who you were.”
She felt desperation slinking up her neck.
“Are you Gunnery Sergeant Terry Shamblin?”
“Go away.”
Like hell, she thought.
“You knew my father,” she said abruptly.
No answer for a long stretch.
“Who are you?” The voice seemed kinder somehow now.
“You knew my father.”
And then something broke, some deep dam that she’d built pound by concrete pound. She repeated the words with a stifled sob.
“Please. You knew my father.”
Despair overwhelmed her reason. Maybe they would come for her now, she thought. In those first days, she hadn’t eaten or slept for fear of the bad men coming. When she’d finally emerged, half-starved, eyes bloodshot and seeking, it was more animal than girl returning to the world. And now, she felt herself descending again. It was over. All the tests. All the waiting for letters from her father. And it had all led to nothing.
“You want something to eat?”
She looked up and saw a man of average heigh
t, dark beard stubble splattered with white. Eyes red and set in wrinkled pits, but not unkind. There was a bulge at his side, a sidearm of some kind. Small caliber by the look of it, or small capacity at least.
“Are you Gunnery Sergeant Terry Shamblin?”
“You don’t have to use the whole rank, you know. Just call me Terry.” A hand reached down like the offer of some god. She grabbed it and stood.
“You knew my father.”
“You said that already. Maybe you should tell me who your father is.”
She could smell the whiskey on his breath. Her father liked whiskey, but only on cold nights after a long day shooting.
She told him her father’s name, noting the slight rise in a single eyebrow.
“Well. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. You sure you’re not hungry?”
She realized she was starving and nodded her head eagerly.
“I don’t have much. Wife left last year,” he said.
“You should at least cut your grass.”
“Ha. Yeah, I should. Come on, kid. I’ll make you a PB&J. You can eat it while you watch me drink. Seems like I might need it to hear what you have to say. Somehow I don’t think it’s about my lawn.” He reached out a hand. “You know my name, kid. What’s yours?”
“My name is Lena.”
It felt strange telling a stranger her real name. But this had been her father’s friend. It had to be okay, right? God, she hoped it was okay.
She returned his handshake, firm, like her father had insisted. And she met his eyes. There was life there yet.
Chapter Thirteen
STOKES — STERLING, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY
“Tell me we’re in the clear.”
“I can’t promise anything,” Neil Patel said on the other end of the video conference call.