by Jack Carr
“Good.”
The contract to extract uranium and diamonds from the CAR made the pittance paid to secure it well worth the small investment.
“Anything else?” Aleksandr asked.
Ivan paused. He wanted to ask about Medny Island. He wanted to ask about the rumors he’d since verified that his son was importing prisoners from Africa to hunt in the barrens of the Russian Far East. He wanted to ask his eldest son to join him at the family compound in the heart of Siberia. He wanted to know why his son had such hatred for him.
Instead he answered with a terse nyet before ending the call.
Aleksandr looked at what the American intelligence agencies called a burner phone in his hand. It was an unnecessary precaution. His connection to the bratva was an open secret. In fact, it was the very reason for his rapid ascension through the ranks. One did not cross or insult the son of bratva leadership and expect to be long for the world.
He’d use the phone for the remainder of the month and then drop it into the Moskva River.
His father was getting old. Old men make mistakes. Soon Aleksandr would leave government service with enough information to blackmail half the Kremlin. That intelligence, coupled with the power of the world’s most feared criminal organization, would see the Zharkov family influence solidified over Russian politics and business for another generation.
It was his father’s time to go.
CHAPTER 24
Yaak River Valley, Montana
THE TEAM HAD FILTERED in over the past few days, enforcers from Miami, Los Angeles, and Boston. Dimitry would have preferred that Ivan just hire a team of Wagner Group mercenaries to handle this, but he knew the CIA kept close tabs on those with Wagner affiliations trying to enter the United States.
They split into two teams of six, one led by Dimitry and one by Vitya. To build unit cohesion, each team slept together, ate together, and trained together. A few of the men had military experience but most did not. While Vitya performed his reconnaissance missions on the targets using the tools of his trade, Dimitry created a training schedule to turn these street thugs into something resembling soldiers.
In the mornings, they ran and hiked the trails that surrounded the lake, heading up the relatively gradual incline hills behind the cabin and then into the steeper mountains beyond. These daily journeys ensured that they were all fit to move overland in this terrain and helped them acclimate to the altitude. They were all young and adapted quickly to the physical training.
They would return to the barn each morning, shirtless and covered in sweat, their tattooed bodies on full display. Prison tattoos served like badges on a military uniform in the Brotherhood, with each crude ink design representing a significant crime or event. One could assess the experience of a gang member by their tattoos the way a white-collar employer could read a resume. Dimitry had only served as a senior sergeant in the Russian Army, but he wore the uniform of a World War II field marshal when it came to ink.
After breakfast, Dimitry led them through the process of field-stripping, inspecting, cleaning, and lubricating their rifles so that they would be intimately familiar with their operation. He built a makeshift firing range and personally guided each of the men through the process of zeroing their weapons. Each magazine was fully loaded and tested. Those that experienced stoppages made their way to the bottom of Okaga Lake.
During the afternoon, they practiced small unit tactics. The team learned the basics of fire and maneuver, bounding overwatch, and spent hour upon hour practicing the effective L-shaped ambush. Dimitry taught them everything except how to retreat. In order to keep the gunfire to a minimum, the men carried unloaded weapons and used the age-old “bang, bang!” method of simulating gunfire on the targets.
After dinner they were free to drink, smoke, and joke, bonding in the same manner that men have done under similar circumstances since the beginning of time. Many boasted about sexual conquests, either real or imagined. Tanya was a favorite topic. She was responsible for delivering groceries to the team on a semiregular basis, and the men all looked forward to ogling her tight body when she came to call. Cell phones were not permitted and, other than the satellite television that seemed to always land on adult entertainment channels, she was their only link to the outside world.
They trained six days per week and quickly began to act as a cohesive team. They would never stand a chance against a real military unit but, with the element of surprise on their side, they would get the job done. The key would be the target package, and Vitya was building a vivid intelligence picture on that front.
* * *
Vitya watched the screen of the iPad, steering the drone to track the vehicle’s progress below. The custom SUV was easy to spot, making target identification a simple process. He could hear the whine of its powerful engine as it climbed the hill. The driver eased off the accelerator as the vehicle crested the rise, moving almost silently as it approached the tight turn ahead.
He was close enough to see the driver’s bearded face as the Toyota rolled past, his attention diverted to something below, probably a phone or perhaps the stereo. The brakes engaged as the hairpin curve approached, and Vitya saw the red lights illuminated as the vehicle reached the corner. One couldn’t take this blind turn at more than 30 miles per hour and the thick copse of evergreens provided the ideal concealment that his team would need. That turn was where James Reece would die.
CHAPTER 25
Kumba Ranch, Flathead Valley, Montana
REECE STOOD BAREFOOT, STARING out at the lake behind his cabin. The water was dead calm, without the slightest breeze to ripple its surface. He adjusted his feet on the soft carpet of short pine needles and squatted to grasp the thick handle of the seventy-pound kettlebell before him. Exhaling sharply, he thrust his hips forward, driving the cast iron weight to full extension, keeping his core muscles flexed as it floated briefly at the top of its arc. Gravity swung the bell downward, and he let it fall between his legs as he sucked a breath of air into his lungs. Up he came again, repeating the process until he’d done ten perfect swings and set the weight back onto the ground. He dropped to his chest and executed ten push-ups, then went back to the kettlebell, alternating reps until he’d performed a hundred of each.
His chest heaving and his shoulders searing with lactic acid, he picked up his bow and tried to get his breathing under control as he drew. His arms felt the let-off of tension as the cams engaged, and his eye found the green fiber optic sight pin through the rear peep entwined in the bow’s taut string. The aperture of his vision blurred everything but the sight as his thumb found the cold aluminum of the release. He didn’t fight the pin’s movement, but increased tension using his upper back muscles, transitioning that pressure naturally to his thumb, the sight picture settling into an ever-decreasing orbit at the target’s center. The snap of the bowstring echoed in his ears as the carbon fiber arrow sped from zero to 340 feet per second in an instant. His eyes did their best to track the arrow during its half-second flight and his ears registered the hollow “twock” of its impact on the target.
He drank water from a Nalgene bottle as he caught his breath and progressed to a series of Turkish get-ups, box jumps, shoulder presses, and goblet squats with kettlebells of various sizes. He alternated each section of his workout with a shot or two from his bow in preparation for a bugling elk at thirty yards. To prepare for just such a moment, Reece practiced shooting under the stress of a tough training regimen.
His combined workout and archery session had lasted the better part of an hour. After a quick shower, he slipped on a pair of semi-clean jeans, a T-shirt, and trail running shoes. The compact 10mm Glock stayed in the chest rig for his trail runs so he press-checked his SIG P320 X-Compact and placed it in the holster behind his right hip.
Be prepared.
Raife would be out watching his big muley buck at this time of day, so Reece skipped his shop visit and took the most direct route off the property. He was a few miles
from the ranch’s main gate on his way to town when his phone came alive. The hilltop was the first area with reliable cell service during his weekly trips to Whitefish and, inevitably, alerts would sound as text messages were received.
It was a clean cell phone, or as clean as one could get in the age of information. It was purchased through and registered to the Hastingses’ land management company. The only people with the number were the Hastings clan, Vic Rodriguez at the CIA, and Katie Buranek. Most days he could expect a photo of her getting ready to go on a news segment or views from her workout running through the Washington Mall. It was their way of maintaining a long-distance friendship, or was it something more?
He glanced down at this morning’s picture: Katie holding up a copy of John Avlon’s book Washington’s Farewell. She’d managed to add a graphic to the photo saying, “You’ve got to read this! It’s fantastic!” Reece had no idea how to add graphics to a photo but couldn’t help but smile at the image. He’d have to stop by Bookworks in town and pick it up or have it ordered. He briefly wondered if he was becoming too predictable. He dropped his phone back in the cup holder and brought his attention back on the road as he approached the turn ahead. His grin faded as his thoughts returned to the present; if he were planning an ambush, he’d do it right here. After a lifetime of war, it was hard to turn off the primal side of the brain. Old habits die hard.
CHAPTER 26
Yaak River Valley, Montana
THE HIT TEAM ROSE to their knees as the SUV rolled through the kill zone. Selector switches went to fully automatic and nervous fingers quivered over triggers. The vehicle’s forward progress slowed to a mere crawl, providing the perfect opportunity.
Now!
Vitya initiated the ambush with the explosive device, filling the kill zone with flying debris and dust. A second later, the entire team raked the vehicle with 7.62mm rounds, splintering glass, puncturing steel, and ripping through plastic as the bullets chewed through the SUV’s exterior. The deafening roar of the fully automatic gunfire was brief, followed by the metallic chatter of a half-dozen simultaneous magazine changes. A second volley of fire from the high ground raked the smoldering vehicle as the maneuver element moved down the embankment, opening up at close range as the support team’s magazines ran dry.
Vitya pushed toward the vehicle, his men firing as they went to ensure their primary target had no chance of survival. As their weapons all went dry, Vitya saw the youngest member of the team change magazines and run forward to the driver’s-side door. He stuck the muzzle of his AK through the shattered window and emptied all thirty rounds into a mannequin at knifing distance. That had not been part of the plan. Vitya would have to keep an eye on Oleg Guskov.
Dimitry blew the whistle, ending the exercise. Though the men had fired live ammunition, the target vehicle had been a derelict Isuzu Trooper towed on a long rope by the farm’s John Deere tractor. The SUV was riddled with bullet holes and the ambush had been a complete success. After weeks of training, rehearsals, equipment checks, and more rehearsals, the assassins were ready.
CHAPTER 27
Glacier Park International Airport, Kalispell, Montana
REECE LOOKED UP AT the LCD monitor on the wall and back at his RESCO dive watch. The flight from Minneapolis was running a few minutes late. You could probably get away with parking curbside at such a small airport, but Reece had parked in the short-term lot, not wanting to get a ticket from a local cop looking to do his part in the Global War on Terror.
He was dressed in what passed for formal attire by local standards, clean Kuhl pants and a half zip. His beard was a bit shaggy, but all in all he thought he looked presentable. He felt self-conscious holding the bouquet of flowers and shifted them nervously from one hand to the other, finally dangling them down his right leg like a drawn saber.
Was he being too forward? Shit. He hadn’t done this in a long time.
The CRJ 900 regional jet seemed to move in slow motion as it taxied toward the jetway, finally releasing its passengers into the newly renovated terminal. Reece waited as the plane’s occupants passed out of the secure area of the terminal: a cowboy, a traveling salesman, an elderly couple. He finally saw her through the glass. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she dragged her roll-aboard suitcase, a copy of Brad Thor’s Backlash tucked under her arm. Wives shot dirty looks at husbands who’d turned to look as she passed.
Her face lit up when her eyes met Reece’s, and he felt himself smile. It felt good. She laughed and stomped her feet as she drew near, letting go of her bag as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He kissed her cheek, and she took his face in both hands, turning his head for a quick peck on the lips, erasing any doubts about where their relationship was heading.
“The mountains certainly agree with you!” Katie said approvingly. “You look great.”
“You do, too. You always do.”
“Stop,” she said, in mock embarrassment.
She turned his head and ran her finger over the pinkish scar on his scalp where the neurosurgeons had done their work. “Barely noticeable.”
“Not too rough looking?”
“Not by a long shot, though I’m not sure what I think about this,” she said, running her fingers across his beard. “Looking a little gray, Mr. Reece.”
“It’s the mileage,” he acknowledged with a raised eyebrow.
“Expecting someone special?” Katie inquired, nodding her head toward the flowers.
Reece suddenly became aware of the bouquet he’d picked up on the drive in.
“Oh yeah, sorry. These are for you.”
“They’re beautiful,” Katie said, bringing them to her nose. “Thank you, James. So thoughtful.”
Reece picked up her suitcase as they moved through the airport, his eyes subconsciously sweeping the area ahead; first hands, then bodies, then faces. The sixth sense that had kept warriors alive since time immemorial was reminding him that his peace could never last.
* * *
“This is spectacular!” Katie said, taking in the majesty of Montana.
Reece drove as they talked, steering the Land Cruiser up the Flathead Valley toward Kumba Ranch. “I’ve always loved the mountains. I also need to keep a low profile for security reasons. I’m still processing the fallout from Odessa and from… well, you know…”
“I understand. So,” Katie said, changing subjects, “what do we have in store for the weekend?”
“Nothing too crazy. I’d love to show you around the ranch and do some hiking. Raife and his family are dying to meet you.”
“Sounds great. I’m up for anything!”
“Ever fly fished?”
“I may have dabbled a bit,” she said coyly.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s the one thing my dad enjoys almost as much as golf. He and his doctor buddies would do one big fly-fishing trip a year. He started taking me and my brother out on weekends when we were kids.”
“I’m self-taught, so maybe you can give me some pointers.”
“I’d be happy to. I even brought my Winston four-weight.”
“What’s a Winston?”
“Oh, James, I have so much to teach you.”
“You’ll lose cell service in a minute and probably won’t have it again unless we come back to town. Do you need to make any calls?” Reece slowed the SUV and navigated the tight turn that wound through the timber.
“Nope. I’m all yours. No distractions.”
She powered off her iPhone and dropped it into her purse, then feigned dusting off her hands to symbolize her release from the electronic leash.
They caught up throughout the drive, Katie admiring the view and Reece pointing out various landmarks as he drove through the property. He paused the Cruiser at the crest of the hill above his cabin to give them a commanding view of the lake, then steered down the track toward it.
“Is this it?” Katie asked.
“This is it.”
“Wow!
What a view!”
Reece pulled the truck sideways in front of the cabin and Katie was out before he could make it around to open the passenger door for her. She stood in the dirt driveway admiring the home.
“Incredible,” she said as Reece led the way to the front door, holding it open and stepping aside with a welcoming wave across the threshold. Katie stepped inside, taking in every detail. She walked to the center of the living room and looked upward to the vaulted ceiling. Reece stood silently just inside the door, waiting for a sign of approval.
“Well, what do you think?”
She looked almost teary-eyed as she faced him, her flushed face illuminating with a bright smile. “It’s beautiful, James. I love it.”
“Can I get you something to drink? I have beer, wine, water. I can make coffee.”
“I’d love a beer. It’s past five on the East Coast.”
“A woman after my own heart.”
Reece pulled two bottles of Wheatfish, a local lager, from the refrigerator and popped the caps using a Bottle Breacher from the kitchen drawer. He handed one to Katie and raised his own in a toast. “Uh…”
“To new beginnings,” she helped, tapping the neck of his bottle with her own before taking a long pull without breaking eye contact.
They walked through the French doors and out into the cabin’s backyard, which essentially ran uninterrupted to Canada. Katie kicked off her boots and walked barefoot on the carpet of soft grass as Reece led her toward the water. The temperature was a perfect 71 degrees and a cool breeze blew across the gin-clear lake, causing tiny waves to ripple softly against its bank. The lake’s opposite shore was framed by mountains covered in towering emerald pines.
