Covenant

by Steven Konkoly

  Farrington stood up and reached behind her, his hand fumbling with the back of her miniskirt. For a moment, Jessica thought he had lost his mind. Before she could knee him in the groin, he ripped the cigarette-pack-sized wireless radio transmitter out of her back pocket and switched it off. The rest of the team did the same. He tossed the transmitter on the ground next to Vanya’s and stomped on them.

  “He’s not leaving in one of these vehicles,” said Farrington. “And we’re not setting up a perimeter.”

  The sound of approaching vehicles filled the street as the gunfire drifted further into the courtyard.

  “What the fuck, Rich?” she hissed. “They’ll kill him if we bail.”

  Farrington didn’t have time to explain the situation on the street. He needed one hundred percent focus until they had safely escaped Little Russia. They still faced a formidable enemy, and mission failure came in all sizes, small and large.

  “Daniel is in no danger. Sanderson has personally taken care of the situation,” said Farrington, handing her a loaded M4 rifle and two spare thirty-round magazines. “I’ll explain when we’re safe.”

  Farrington lowered his NVGs, taking in the bright green image provided by the rapidly approaching infrared headlights. Flashes exploded above them from the highest windows as desperate Bratva gunmen sprayed the arriving vehicles.

  “Deploy smoke,” he said. “Snipers get ready for pickup.”

  While he taped thick compresses to Vanya’s bullet wounds, Grisha and Ilya threw cylindrical canisters in both directions, heaving a few as far as the intersection. The smoke grenades popped, billowing thick clouds of smoke that rapidly filled the street. When the two armored Suburbans pulled alongside the team several seconds later, visibility was close to nonexistent.

  Farrington loaded Vanya into the back of the first vehicle, pulling Jessica inside before pulling the rear doors shut.

  “Let’s go!” he yelled, bracing for the sudden departure.

  The SUV raced forward, briefly stopping at the edge of the smoke screen to pick up Melendez and Gosha. The vehicle slowed a few blocks later, turning onto a fully lit boulevard lined with active shops and restaurants. He handed a bag of plasma to Jessica and ripped Vanya’s right sleeve near the crook of his elbow.

  “Keep us steady,” said Farrington, concentrating on the placement of the IV catheter needle in Vanya’s arm.

  “What’s going on, Rich?” said Jessica. “This doesn’t look like something you threw together at the last minute.”

  “Reznikov is gone,” said Farrington. “Hold that up higher, please.”

  “Rich, I’m fucking tired and agitated—a really bad combo for me,” she said, holding the bag against the rear compartment’s roof. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “The intel Karl Berg passed along indicated that Zuyev had departed Buenos Aires yesterday evening. No method listed, just ‘high confidence’ in his departure. Given the circumstances, we assumed that Reznikov travelled with Zuyev. They were gone before we received the intel.”

  Jessica shook her head. “Then what the hell were we doing back there?”

  “Saving Daniel,” said Farrington.

  Chapter 24

  Talia pulled the pin on a round fragmentation grenade and lobbed it down the hallway, landing it between two doors occupied by Bratva soldiers. She fired a quick burst at the gunmen to dissuade them from throwing it back, and ducked inside the stairwell landing. The walls and floor shook from the blast, fragments peppering the door frame next to her. A wave of burnt embers and thick smoke billowed past as she burst into the dark corridor with her team. She passed a set of closed doors and stopped, focusing her infrared laser between the scorched, open doorways ahead.

  The operatives behind her simultaneously breached the closed doors, blasting the doorknobs with shotguns. Her previously crisp green night vision had turned hazy from the smoke, the unavoidable side effect of using grenades indoors. She preferred not to use them, but they didn’t have time to engage in protracted gun battles on each floor. They were already pushing the outer edge of their time limit. A police response was inevitable with this much gunfire, even with the Americans messing with the police frequencies.

  A head peeked through the doorway on the right, followed by a rifle muzzle. Talia centered the green infrared laser on the head and fired twice, staining the door frame dark green.

  “Left clear,” she heard in her earpiece.

  “Right clear.”

  They moved up to the next set of scorched doors and threw flashbangs inside, repeating the room-clearing process. Both shooters were already dead. One from Talia’s bullets. The other from her fragmentation grenade.

  “Assault Two, what is your status?” she said, waiting for the team clearing the other wing to report.

  A few moments later, Assault Two responded.

  “We’re getting close to the last hallway. Same pattern. Two out of three rooms are empty,” said the commando. “They should have more people inside.”

  She agreed. Resistance had been fierce on the outside, but once her team breached the gate, the numbers didn’t add up. Intelligence suggested that part of the Bratva garrison would be absent, not most of it.

  “Copy that. Keep looking,” she said. “Ground, this is Assault One. What is your status?”

  “Perimeter is secure,” said the garbled voice. “No police response, yet.”

  She stopped between the open doors. Police sirens blared nearby.

  “Ground, I’m hearing police sirens,” said Talia.

  “Ummm. Yeah, we hear them too, but they’re pretty far away,” said the voice, in what she could swear was a light Indian accent.

  “Zulu Two, this is Assault One. What are you seeing and hearing on the ground?” she said, getting no response from the Mossad sniper.

  “Any unit, respond,” she said.

  “This is Assault Two. The sirens sound really close,” said the commando.

  “Can you see our vehicles from your position?” demanded Talia.

  “Stand by,” said Assault Two.

  One of the team’s operatives crouched next to her, pointing a shotgun down the hallway.

  “This is taking too long,” said Avi. “Where the hell is Reznikov—or any of the high-level mafiya?”

  She was starting to get a bad feeling about the operation. Even if the voice hadn’t been Indian, it didn’t sound anything like the American operative in charge of ground security.

  “Assault One, this is Assault Two. The vehicles are still there, but that’s about all I can see. I think we started a fire on the ground floor. Elizalde is filled with smoke,” said the other team leader.

  “We didn’t start a fire,” said Talia, stepping into the room facing Coronel Dorrego Avenue.

  She smelled it before she reached the window. Chemical smoke.

  “Assault Two, abort the mission,” she stated. “Ditch your radios and switch to secure cell phones. Assemble in the courtyard immediately.”

  Talia removed her wireless transmitter and turned it off, stuffing it in one of her cargo pockets. When she emerged from the room, each team member had done the same.

  “What now?” said Avi.

  “We move directly to the courtyard and assess the police situation,” said Talia, “while I make a phone call.”

  She formed up in the middle of the group and unzipped the pouch on her vest containing an encrypted satellite phone, dialing the number to a newly established Mossad safe house in the slums of Montevideo. The call connected after a long wait.

  “Terminate the American,” she said, before anyone answered.

  “Is that any way to treat allies that give more than two billion dollars a year in military aid to the Jewish state?” said a voice she distinctly remembered from earlier that day.

  It sounded a lot like that pretentious asshole in charge of the Americans. General Sanderson. Former general. David had warned her not to trust him—but he gave her no indication that he wasn
’t fully committed to finding Reznikov. She should have listened.

  “What did you do to my operatives?” she demanded.

  “They’ll be fine,” he said. “And I don’t mean fine in the Mossad interpretation of the word.”

  “Reznikov was never here, was he?” she said, following her team down the stairwell.

  “Intelligence indicated that he left Argentina last night,” said Sanderson.

  “So you abandon my team in the middle of the most dangerous city block in Buenos Aires?” said Talia. “I don’t get it.”

  “I needed to keep you occupied until I recovered my operative,” said Sanderson. “It took a lot longer than expected to find him.”

  The door below them burst open, emptying two armed men onto the second-floor landing. Bright green muzzle flashes illuminated the stairwell walls, and the Russians dropped into a tangled heap.

  “It sounds like you’re busy. I’d love to continue this conversation later,” said Sanderson.

  “You better hope we get out of here. All of us,” said Talia.

  “I have little doubt you’ll safely navigate your way out of this mess. I left you a duffel bag filled with smoke grenades next to the vehicle on the sidewalk. I trust you’ll put them to good use. I recommend taking Coronel Dorrego Boulevard south. Police have already set up vehicle barricades a few blocks north,” said Sanderson. “And, Neta?”

  She froze on the stairs. Neta Brin’s team didn’t even know her real name.

  “Yes?” she said, expecting a threat.

  “Don’t forget your sniper,” said Sanderson. “You can talk to him on the tactical net again.”

  “I won’t forget,” said Talia, disconnecting the call before muttering under her breath.

  “Any of this.”

  Chapter 25

  The thick metal access door squealed, but he barely had the energy, or the will, to take his head out of the toilet bowl to see who had entered the room. He managed to lift his head a few inches, blurry vision adjusting to the watch in his face. Crusted vomit covered most of the watch face, a reminder of his wretched condition. Not that he needed one. Despite the thick yellowish film, he managed to determine what he suspected. This wasn’t one of his regularly scheduled meal times.

  “Damn it!” a gruff Russian voice yelled into the room. “We gave you a toilet and buckets for a reason.”

  Zuyev? He hadn’t seen that asshole since they arrived at the dock. Reznikov pushed against the dirty plastic toilet seat with his arms, hoping to gain enough leverage to separate himself from the stained bowl. He teetered backward, coming to rest against the rattling wall. Zuyev appeared in the doorway and shook his head with a look of disgust.

  “I would have put the ‘Please Clean My Room’ sign on the door handle,” said Reznikov, “but someone locked my room—from the outside!”

  “Security precaution,” said Zuyev.

  “It’s been forty-eight hours!” said Reznikov, suddenly feeling energized.

  “I like to be conservative with the protection of my most valuable investments,” said Zuyev. “Especially in light of what happened at the resort.”

  “We got lucky at the resort,” said Reznikov.

  Zuyev eyed him curiously.

  “Two of their people were dead before we left the room!” spat Reznikov.

  “I thought you were too drunk to notice that,” said Zuyev.

  “I miss nothing,” said Reznikov. “Even when I can barely see straight! Next time they will not botch the job.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” said Zuyev.

  “You don’t know these people,” said Reznikov, rising from his crumpled position on the bathroom floor. “Killing me is their number one priority!”

  “We’re taking you where nobody would think of looking,” said Zuyev. “Somewhere you’ll be perfectly safe.”

  “Something tells me I don’t want to hear the rest,” said Reznikov.

  “We can let it be a surprise,” said Zuyev.

  “No,” said Reznikov. “I’ve had enough surprises for a lifetime. Where are we going?”

  “Back to Russia,” said Zuyev.

  Reznikov’s knees buckled, his sudden descent arrested by Zuyev’s sturdy hands.

  “Easy, my friend,” said the Bratva commander, bracing him against the bulkhead. “You look green.”

  “You’re hilarious,” said Reznikov. “I need a drink.”

  “The last thing you need is a drink,” said Zuyev, motioning toward the empty bottles protruding from the sink.

  “Vodka makes the crazy voices go away,” he said. “And I just heard the craziest voice so far. It said I was going back to Russia.”

  “Russia was the highest bidder,” said Zuyev.

  Reznikov squinted, wondering if he was still asleep with his head in the toilet. Russia? Shit. No doubt he was headed to the Black Dolphin. Nobody escaped from that place.

  “Prison,” said Reznikov. “I should have known.”

  “Prison?” said Zuyev. “You’ve lost all sense of optimism.”

  “A year spent in the jungle sleeping with cockroaches will do that to a man,” said Reznikov, now slightly hopeful that he wasn’t headed to a maximum-security prison.

  “Point taken. It’s been a long year for all of us,” he said, nodding at his bodyguard. “But now we move on.”

  The massive Bratva beast opened the liquor cabinet and removed an unopened bottle of Russian Standard. Reznikov watched the man’s freakishly large fingers twist the top. He flicked the cap into the sink, bouncing it off the bottles onto the counter.

  “Glasses, please,” said Zuyev. “We’re celebrating.”

  “What are we celebrating?” said Reznikov.

  “Your appointment as director,” said Zuyev.

  “Director of what?”

  “A joint venture that will make us all very wealthy. Come. This is not an appropriate place for a toast,” said Zuyev, pulling him out of the bathroom.

  Still dizzy from his perpetual state of nausea and intoxication, he allowed Zuyev to guide him toward the steel hatch near the front of the soiled and littered room. Reznikov had spent several hours retching in bed, unable to stand or even crawl his way to the bathroom—until the booze ran dry. While leaning against the kitchen counter during his first resupply run last night, he eyed the bathroom, somehow making the lucid decision to forego his urine- and vomit-soaked bed. He hoped to never see this room again.

  A wave of humid air surged through the hatch, making him reconsider leaving the air-conditioned sanctuary. He could handle the filth. Heat was another story. They emerged on a metal platform two stories above the main deck. The steel creaked and groaned from the ship’s movement. A strong wind swept across the platform, making it difficult for Zuyev to urge him forward.

  “Come on,” yelled Zuyev, pulling him toward the starboard side of the vessel.

  Reznikov stared at the black clouds in the distance, fighting the urge to look down at the rolling waves.

  “This is far enough!” said Reznikov, grabbing the safety rail next to him.

  “Don’t you want to see the sunset?” said Zuyev. “The storm is moving in right on top of it. A spectacular sight.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about sunsets,” said Reznikov. “Let’s get the toast over with before we’re blown overboard.”

  With glasses in hand, Zuyev’s bodyguard poured them a full shot of the clear alcohol.

  “To the Bratva,” said Zuyev, raising his glass.

  Reznikov lifted the glass to his mouth, nodding at the mafiya boss before downing the shot. “The Bratva.”

  The glasses were refilled within seconds, Zuyev leading another toast.

  “To your new position as director,” he said, downing the glass.

  Reznikov hesitated. “Exactly what am I the director of?”

  “Russia’s new bioweapons program,” said Zuyev, grinning. “Under the Bratva’s direct supervision, of course.”

  “Of cour
se,” he said.

  Reznikov considered throwing himself over the side of the platform, but quickly determined that the distance to the main deck wasn’t far enough to ensure his death. Nothing spoiled his suicidal moods more than the uncertainty. With his luck, he’d end up paralyzed from the neck down, sipping alcohol through a straw. Instead of a questionable death, he settled for the shot of vodka, followed by another. A slow demise was better than a botched one.

  “Full research facility?” said Reznikov.

  “State of the art,” said Zuyev.

  “State funded?” probed Reznikov.

  “Not officially. State protected.”

  “No doubt state denied,” said Reznikov.

  “You catch on fast, my friend. The program doesn’t exist,” said Zuyev. “Come. We have better accommodations for you. From now on—you are one of us.”

  Reznikov nodded uneasily, not exactly sure he liked the implications associated with Zuyev’s statement. One of us sounded a lot like one of ours—forever—and he had big plans outside of the Solntsevskaya Bratva.

  ****

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  Work by Steven Konkoly

  The Zulu Virus Chronicles—Bioweapons/post-apocalyptic thrillers

  “Something sinister has arrived in America’s heartland. Within 24 hours, complete strangers, from different walks of life will be forced to join together to survive the living nightmare that has been unleashed.”

  Hot Zone (Book 1)

  Kill Box (Book 2)

  Fire Storm (Book 3)

  Fractured State Series—Near-future black ops thriller

  “2035. A sinister conspiracy unravels. A state on the verge of secession. A man on the run with his family.”

  Fractured State (Book 1)

  Rogue State (Book 2)

  The Perseid Collapse Series—Post-apocalyptic/dystopian thrillers