Agent Rising

by Ethan Jones

  Wright continued, “Nothing suspicious was found at the house. The residents are not there, but that doesn’t make this a missing person’s case. Detectives are checking some phone numbers and addresses, but they shouldn’t bring up something serious, or should they?”

  Feliks shook his head. “They shouldn’t.”

  “But if they do, you have the right guy on the job.”

  Max offered a polite smile. “Glad to have you working with us. Now, how do we bury this?”

  “Your friend here has done enough.” Wright cocked his head toward Feliks. “And I’m doing the rest. I’ve offered my help to the investigation team, and they took me up on it. I’ll make sure this case grows cold.”

  The tone of self-satisfaction in Wright’s voice didn’t sit right with Max, but he wasn’t about to complain. The detective sounded credible, but Max needed more proof. “We’d like to see the police records. Everything they have on this case—”

  “Feliks said you might ask for them…” The detective leaned back and reached for his briefcase.

  The waitress had just stepped around the counter and was bringing Feliks’s breakfast.

  Max picked up his cup and glanced through the window. The blinds were half drawn, but his vigilant eyes caught a glimpse of two men bent at the waist rushing toward the rear entrance. They had their pistols drawn. He couldn’t be sure they were police officers, but he knew they were bad news.

  When his eyes returned to Detective Wright, Max was looking straight at the muzzle of a pistol.

  Chapter Eight

  Lakeside Café, Lake Thoreau, Reston

  Virginia, United States of America

  Max had no time to react, because Feliks leapt like a leopard across the table. His arms and body pushed the pistol away from Max’s head, but not before Wright was able to fire a shot.

  The pistol rang out like a cannon, inches away from Max’s head, and he felt his brain hurt. He was disoriented for a moment, then the waitress’s screams jolted him back to reality. She had collapsed to the floor and was cowering behind a table. He glanced at Feliks, who was exchanging blows with Wright. They were both rolling on the floor, and Wright’s fingers were still clenched around the pistol’s grip. Feliks was trying to pry it away with his left hand locked around Wright’s wrist.

  Max turned his attention to the gunmen outside, but they had disappeared. Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, one of the construction workers shouted, “DC Police, freeze.” He pointed a shotgun at Max. “Or I blow you to pieces.”

  Max didn’t even flinch at the ominous sight. He knew the officer was shouting empty threats. A gunshot blast at such range would certainly kill or at the very least wound Wright, perhaps even fatally. And Max knew about the American police rules of engagements: He and Feliks were unarmed, at least as far as the police could tell, and posed no immediate threat. He’s not going to open fire.

  Max leaned over the two men still fighting on the floor. He kicked Wright in the side of the head, but he was still relentless. Then Max put his boot on Wright’s thick throat, and leaned on him. The detective gasped for breath and dropped his pistol.

  Feliks grabbed it and started to turn around.

  “No, don’t,” Max shouted.

  He took the chair nearest to the booth and flung it toward the police officers, then dove into the next booth right after Feliks.

  The gunshot blast erupted. The pellets ripped a hole through the top of the booth’s hardwood frame, sending slivers all over them. A few pricked Max’s face, but overall the blast left him intact. No pellets had hit him. The officer must have aimed high, and the shot column had spread in all directions. Max glanced at Feliks’s bleeding arm. “Give me the gun…”

  “Kill them all.”

  Max had no such intentions, but he also had to stop the officer’s volley. So he fired a round that shattered the window’s glass. “Get out and bring the car around. I’ll hold them back.”

  Feliks crawled through the window as Max fired in the air in the direction of the officers. He tried to hit a couple of the fluorescent lights. Suppressive fire to slow them down.

  It didn’t work.

  A second gunshot blast tore apart half of the booth’s back and frame. Chunks of wood struck Max’s head, but his left arm shielded his eyes and most of his face. A couple of slivers stung his neck but without causing major damage.

  He sighed. I didn’t want it to come to this.

  He slid onto the floor and over Wright, still struggling to catch his breath. Max pointed his pistol at the two officers. The first one had just reloaded his shotgun when Max planted a bullet in the officer’s left thigh. He fell to the side.

  The second officer aimed his pistol at Max, who slid back, flattening himself next to Wright. As expected, the officer didn’t fire, worried he might hit the detective. Max took advantage of the situation and squeezed the trigger. He double-tapped the second officer in the arm, causing him to drop the pistol.

  Max was surprised at the accuracy. He didn’t consider himself a great marksman, but the distance—no more than twenty yards—and the adrenaline rush had made things easier. He shouted at the officers, “Stay down. I don’t want to kill you.”

  He jumped to his feet and rolled through the window and onto the grass on the other side.

  Gunfire erupted from his left, and bullets whizzed overhead. He turned the pistol in that direction and fired blindly and high. He dashed toward the Land Rover that Feliks had driven very close to the shattered window. When he flung open the door, Max zipped toward it, firing a few more rounds. “Go, go, go,” he shouted at Feliks.

  The GRU agent yanked at the steering wheel. Although Max knew the maneuver was coming, he was unprepared for it. The swift turn threw him against the glass, but his shoulder cushioned the hit, and his head didn’t strike the glass.

  A couple of rounds thumped against the back of the SUV, but didn’t hit the tires or the glass. Feliks pulled the wheel again, and the Land Rover rocketed out of the parking lot and out of sight of the police officers. “They’ll give chase,” he said and cursed out loud.

  “Maybe not. They’ll need to take care of the wounded.”

  “Did you kill anyone?”

  “No, we’re not here to kill policemen. Did you?”

  “I tried. Got one, but he had body armor.”

  Max looked at Feliks’s gaping wound on his left forearm. “That’ll need stitches.”

  “At the safehouse. We have a doctor.”

  “What just happened there?” Max tipped his head toward the café as the Land Rover barreled through South Lakes Drive and turned onto Sunrise Valley Drive.

  “Betrayal happened, what do you think?”

  “I gathered that, but how did that happen? How?”

  Feliks shrugged and looked in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know.”

  Max turned around. No one was behind them, but the situation could change in a heartbeat.

  “He sold us out.” He wanted to add that Feliks said he could trust Wright, but, instead, Max bit his lip.

  “Maybe the FBI got close to him … or someone at the station, the precinct, whatever they call it.”

  “Did you blackmail Wright?”

  “Yes, compromising material.”

  Max shook his head. Blackmailing someone into submission and turning them into a double agent was the surest way to have it all backfire. There were easier ways, and bribery, although expensive, was the first go-to for most agents. Bribery, however, didn’t work with some people. Blackmail did. While not everyone wanted to gain something, everyone had something to lose. “We’ve got to let the safehouse team know.”

  “Why? The police aren’t going there…”

  “They’ve seen our faces and know who we are. Your man back there probably had told everything to the police…”

  Feliks cursed Detective Wright and his poor mother. “We should have killed that dirty traitor.”

  “We have better things
to do, like find a new vehicle. Turn here.” Max gestured to the right at a side street that led to a large parking lot full of cars, SUVs, and a few vans and trucks. A series of office buildings rose from all sides.

  “Something old, but strong.”

  “As long as it keeps us off their radar.”

  Feliks took a couple of turns, then drove slowly by the entrance to a glass building and studied the vehicles parked around them. “There,” he pointed at a silver Chevrolet Impala near the farther end. “That’s an easy pick.” His face formed a small smile.

  One of the early skills every covert operative learned was how to survive on the run when everything went sideways. Finding a new, safe vehicle topped the list. Older models, like this sedan, made it almost effortless for a pair of trained hands with the right tools to get into any vehicle within a matter of seconds.

  Feliks had no tools and no time, but he had determination.

  He glanced around the empty parking lot, then pulled out the pistol. He hit the driver’s side window, and smashed the glass. As expected, no alarm went off. Even if it had, Feliks knew how to disable it within a matter of seconds. Car alarms didn’t really protect cars as much as owners liked to believe. Most of the time, when someone heard a car alarm, their mind would automatically think someone pushed the wrong button on the keypad.

  He slid into the driver’s seat, while Max stood watch. He thought he heard police sirens shrilling through the air, but maybe that was his worried imagination. He looked at Max while still fumbling with hot-wiring the car, and a moment later, the engine rumbled to life.

  “We’re good,” Feliks said.

  He got out and helped Max carry everything they needed from the Land Rover.

  In less than thirty seconds, they were out of the parking lot and heading toward the safehouse in the northeast part of Washington, DC.

  Chapter Nine

  Michigan Park

  Washington, DC, United States of America

  The safehouse was in a nondescript red brick two-story apartment building on Taylor Street. Max and Feliks had informed the GRU team about the estimated time of their arrival and their skirmish with the police. Volkov and Alexandrova were to be ready for the transfer handover, and a doctor was to be on site to tend to Feliks’s wounds.

  Feliks parked a couple of blocks away from the safehouse. During their hour and a half drive, they hadn’t noticed anyone following them, and they didn’t expect anyone would, because of the vehicle switch. However, one could never be too careful, considering their assignment and the hostile environment in which they were operating.

  Max walked a couple of steps in front of Feliks, to make it clear who was in charge. After the shooting, Feliks’s attitude had improved, but only slightly. He still harbored a certain amount of resentment that this was not his operation. Max shrugged. I’ve treated him fairly.

  When he came around the corner, a black Cadillac Escalade was parked very close to the back entrance to the apartment building. The transport vehicle. According to Max’s specifications—as per the standard FSB transportation protocol of highly valuable detainees—the Escalade was to be armored, with run-flat tires, bullet-resistant windows, doors, and engine compartment. He stopped and ran his hand over the hood of the black beauty, admiring its flawless design. The powerful SUV boasted a 6.2L V8 engine that produced 420 horsepower.

  “You can’t wait,” Feliks said.

  Max smiled. “You’re right.”

  He was still walking to the back door of the apartment building, when it opened and a blond man stepped outside. He was wearing a black-and-orange leather bomber jacket. He nodded at Max and said, “Morning. My name’s Rustem Khasilik.”

  “Maximillian Thornichinovich, well, Max Thorne, as Americans like to call me…” Max shook the GRU team leader’s hand.

  Khasilik gave Max a sideways glance.

  Max said, “Long story.”

  “Well, come in.”

  He entered the narrow hall, followed by Khasilik, who took Feliks to one of the bedrooms. The doctor had already arrived and was waiting to treat Feliks’s wounds. Max made his way to the kitchen. He nodded at a couple of GRU operatives, then his eyes rested on Volkov, who was sitting on a couch and reading a newspaper. The man hadn’t noticed Max, so he turned his head toward the blonde woman standing by the window. He thought he had recognized her from somewhere, but couldn’t be certain because he could only see a part of her profile. A white butterfly bandage covered parts of a dark bruise on the side of her forehead.

  As she turned around, it dawned on him. She was the woman who had been at the Sheremetyevo International Airport when the incident had taken place. Afterwards, no one had been able to locate her … But there she was, Avelina Alexandrova, the associate of the traitor…

  The woman gave Max a knowing smile, then said to Volkov, “Our man is here…”

  Volkov looked up right away. His eyes also flickered with warmth and recognition, and Max thought he noticed a hint of déjà vu. Have we ever met? Perhaps a meeting, or a training session. He racked his brain but came up empty. Volkov put his paper away and stood up. “Mr. Thornichinovich, I assume?” He stepped forward for a handshake.

  “Sit down, old man,” someone shouted from the kitchen.

  Max shook Volkov’s hand, but said nothing.

  “Are you here to take me home?” Volkov’s voice rang sincere with a certain amount of eagerness.

  “You sound like you’re going on a vacation.” Khasilik walked into the living room. “You’re going to jail, then you’ll be shot.”

  Volkov ignored Khasilik’s outburst and kept his eyes on Max’s face. Max said, “Yes, you’re going back to Russia with me and my partner.”

  Volkov glanced to Max’s right side. “Him?”

  Max shook his head. “No, Khasilik’s job is done.”

  “Not yet. Not until he gets into the transport vehicle,” the GRU team leader said.

  “Yes. And that will be in fifteen minutes. My partner needs some medical attention.”

  “What happened?” Volkov’s voice rang with genuine concern.

  “Nothing that involves you,” Khasilik said.

  Max shrugged. “We had some complications, but things have cleared up.”

  “The police,” said Volkov’s associate. “You ran into the police…”

  Max nodded. “You’re right, Ms. Alexandrova.”

  “Call me Ava.”

  Khasilik said, “No one asked you anything, did we?”

  Ava gave him an irritated smile. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  Khasilik stepped forward, but Max reached for his arm. “I’ve got this.”

  The GRU operative pushed Max’s arm away. He eyed Ava for a long moment, but she returned a defiant glare. “Watch your mouth, or I’ll take you to the basement. And you won’t like it.”

  “I’ve got this,” Max said again.

  Khasilik nodded, but remained in his place, just four feet away from Ava.

  Max said, “Let’s just all take a seat. We have to wait. Is there any coffee?”

  “No,” one of the agents replied from the kitchen.

  Max shrugged. “We’ll get some at the airport.” He looked at Khasilik, who was still standing, while Volkov had returned to his couch with Ava sitting next to him. “Get me the action report and the rest of the files.”

  Khasilik nodded and gestured to the men in the kitchen. One of them made his way into the hall and returned shortly with a few manila folders. He handed them to Max, who began to browse through the pages. He studied them for about a minute, then looked at Volkov. The man had returned to his paper, seemingly without a care in the world. His calm had begun to unnerve Max. He had escorted dozens of people to prisons, courthouses, safehouses. The detainees were never this calm and peaceful, unless they had a backup plan.

  A plan that involved an escape.

  Max had a stellar record. No one had ever escaped while in his custody. Things aren’t about to
change now. Neither Volkov nor Ava are escaping on my watch.

  He flipped through the report’s pages, looking to learn something new and useful. He was searching in particular for something that could support his theory that Volkov was fighting a private war. Max just couldn’t shrug off his deep premonition that something personal had happened to drive Volkov into starting the series of assassinations. Max trusted his hunches. They had never been wrong.

  There was nothing in the report.

  He sighed and looked up, just as Feliks came into the kitchen. His entire left forearm was bandaged. Feliks met Max’s worried eyes and said, “Looks worse than it is. The doctor insisted on strapping the entire wrist and elbow, to avoid any reopening of the wound. But it’s all good.” Feliks wiggled his fingers.

  “All right. Then we should go.” Max closed the folder. “I’ll hold on to these.”

  Khasilik shrugged. “Just make sure they don’t fall into the wrong hands.”

  “They won’t.”

  Volkov and Ava stood up at about the same time.

  “Feliks,” Max said.

  His GRU partner pulled out a couple of metal handcuffs from one of his jacket pockets. “Ladies first.” He walked over to Ava.

  She put her hands in front of her.

  When it was Volkov’s turn, Khasilik walked over from the kitchen. “Allow me the pleasure.”

  He twisted the man’s arms so hard behind his back that a cry escaped his lips. He winced in pain and leaned forward as the cuffs clasped his hands together. “There,” Khasilik said, “Now he’s ready to see our motherland again. For the last time…”

  Volkov offered Khasilik a scowl. “I think we’ll meet again. At that time, I won’t be this polite.”

  Khasilik grinned. “Dream on, old man, dream on.”

  “I’ll take it from here.” Max held the detainee’s right arm gently, eager to end his humiliation. “Gentlemen, thank you for your hospitality.” He tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible while his words carried the sting.

  Khasilik said nothing, but the evil grin never left his face. His eyes spoke louder and clearer than anything he could have said. The obvious message was: This isn’t over.