Agent Rising

by Ethan Jones

  Chapter Ten

  Maryland State Route 200

  Montgomery County, Maryland

  United States of America

  By now, their faces would have been splashed on all “be-on-the-lookout-for” police alerts from Virginia to Maryland and beyond. So Max was extremely careful. He avoided most of the major roads and large intersections, the obvious locations where the police, or the FBI, if they were involved, would set up checkpoints. Max obeyed all traffic laws and signs, never driving over the speed limit or doing anything to put their operation at risk. He drove east of Silver Spring in Maryland, but still within the Capital Beltway. They made their way around Wheaton Regional Park, further north in Maryland, and turned toward Colesville, Montgomery County.

  The detour and the law-abiding driving added a considerable amount to their schedule, but delays were the least of their worries. Time was not of the essence, since the team would be taking a private jet. The airplane would be ready whenever the package arrived.

  They spent most of the time in silence. Max had tried to strike up a conversation with Volkov, but after the first few exchanges, the discussion inevitably turned to the situation at hand. Volkov had vehemently denied the charges of treason and engaging in any subversive activity against Russia. “I love our country; I love our motherland,” he said more than once. Max wanted to ask him specifically about the murders of the GRU operatives, but he doubted Volkov would tell the truth in front of his associate and Feliks.

  At some point, Max turned on the radio, wondering if the Lakeside Café shooting had made the local news. He switched on from one channel to the other, but there was nothing. Feliks went online on his tablet and found a few Twitter posts that covered the incident—pictures of the aftermath showing the shattered glass windows and the area cordoned off with yellow tape. Considering no one had been killed in the gunfire exchange and that the perpetrators were still on the run, it made sense the police would be tight-lipped about the investigation.

  Max glanced at the rearview mirror as he had done every couple of minutes or so ever since they left the safehouse. There had been nothing there but regular drivers minding their own business. Max let most of them pass him, and they did so without as much as a second glance at the Escalade. But he wouldn’t relax, not until the airplane’s wheels touched the Moscow airport runway. And even then, he’d still be on high alert, just as he was at this very moment.

  This fevered state had heightened Max’s senses. That’s how—out of the corner of his eye—he detected a large dump truck switching lanes and speeding toward them. It had been hidden at the rear of a tractor trailer, which had followed the black Escalade for the last couple of minutes. Max sat up straighter in the seat and glanced at Feliks. “We’ve got company.”

  Feliks nodded. He had noticed the zooming truck, so he pulled his MP-443 Grach 9mm pistol from his shoulder holster. He cocked it, then glanced at Max. “Ready to say ‘Hello’.”

  Max reached inside his shirt and pulled out a thin silver necklace with a small angular cross for a pendant that was hanging around his neck. He ran his fingers along the cross, almost instinctively, as he did most times when he found himself squeezed into a tight corner. The necklace gave him peace, helped him think and make important decisions that could mean the difference between life and death.

  The truck was gaining on them. Max moved further to the right of the three-lane divided highway. With shoulders on both sides, there was plenty of room for sudden, last-moment maneuvering.

  Feliks looked at Volkov. “Are these your people?”

  Ava shook her head. “No, they’re not.”

  Volkov said, “If these were my people, you’d be dead already.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, without any pretense.

  He wasn’t scared, and that fact worried Max. Either he’s insanely brave, or a stone-faced liar.

  Max’s eyes went to the side mirror. The grille of the dump truck was getting larger and larger. He tried to look through the truck’s windshield, but the sunlight caused a glare. He couldn’t make out the face of the driver or of any passengers in the large cabin. There was a slight, very slight chance that the truck driver was just trying to pass them, annoyed at being stuck behind a tractor trailer for so long. Considering Max’s line of business, he knew this wasn’t coincidence.

  As if he needed confirmation, the truck’s window on the passenger side began to come down. The barrel of a submachine gun appeared. The gunman began to point it at their Escalade.

  “Gun, gun!” Max shouted.

  He pulled at the steering wheel just as bullets hammered the side and the back of the SUV. The vehicle could sustain endless volleys of the small-caliber bullets fired by the gunman. They were not armored-piercing rounds, as no bullets had penetrated the Escalade’s shields. They wouldn’t use such bullets. Whoever wants Volkov, wants him alive.

  Max straightened the wheel and moved into the next lane. He switched gears and flattened the gas pedal. The SUV began to pull away from the heavy dump truck. They were still within a pistol’s maximum firing range, so Feliks slid half his body out of the window and aimed his pistol at the truck.

  The driver had taken notice and swung the steering wheel.

  Not fast enough.

  Feliks’s quick burst struck the windshield. To his surprise, the bullets formed a spiderweb crack, but didn’t shatter the glass. “Bulletproof glass,” he shouted.

  “I use armor piercing rounds,” Ava said.

  “Would you be quiet now?” Max said.

  Feliks cursed as more rounds pounded against the rear of the Escalade. Max swerved around the vehicle in front of him—a grayish sedan—then switched lanes again, weaving his way into traffic. He had to step on the brakes to avoid a collision with a slow-moving van, then accelerated and forced himself into a gap between a sedan and a Jeep.

  The gap was too small.

  The right corner of the Escalade crushed into the rear of the sedan. The force of the impact spun the sedan around. The driver lost control, and the car swerved into the next lane. A white truck crashed into its side and sent the sedan rolling across the lanes.

  “Good job,” said Volkov.

  Max detected no trace of sarcasm in the man’s voice, but the maneuver wasn’t his best job. However, it had bought them some time, and they had increased the distance from the dump truck.

  Not by much.

  Max looked at the side mirror as the dump truck veered around the crash site by driving into the shoulder. The driver returned onto the center lane, and the truck began to pick up speed.

  Feliks had pulled his AK-105 5.45×39mm carbine from a black duffel bag set by his feet. Before leaving the safehouse, the team had significantly increased its firepower. Max had anticipated trouble, as he always did, and was seldom wrong. Feliks racked the slide, then switched the rifle to fully automatic. He returned to his position, but it was hard to wield the rifle. Max tried to keep the Escalade steady and drive in a straight line, but that made them an easier target. Bullets must be striking all around Feliks, considering his string of curses.

  He fell back into his seat. Blood had appeared over his torn jacket.

  “You’re hit,” Max said.

  “A scratch.” Feliks shrugged. “The earlier wound also burst open.”

  Max checked the side mirror. All three lanes around them were clear of traffic but for the monster breathing down their neck. He reached for the gear shift. “Hold on, everyone.”

  He threw the car into reverse and kept going for a few moments in a straight line. Then he lifted his foot off the gas. He yanked hard at the wheel, turning it a hundred and eighty degrees, keeping his left hand down. The maneuver threw him against the door as the SUV began to spin around. “Get ready,” he said to Feliks.

  About halfway through the maneuver, Max threw the gear shift forward. He turned the steering wheel up and accelerated, as the Escalade shot forward.

  Feliks was ready for the right moment. He fired
at the truck driver as the two vehicles kept going toward a head-on collision. Feliks’s bullets stitched a ribbon along the windshield. He concentrated his firepower to the driver’s side, hoping at least one, if not more, of the bullets would be able to pierce the glass. It was possible, especially if he fired two or three times at the same exact spot.

  The dump truck kept barreling toward the SUV.

  Max gently turned the steering wheel to the left and began to switch lanes.

  The truck driver tried to block the escape. In doing so, he exposed his side.

  Feliks aimed his rifle fire at the driver’s window, letting out a long volley. The bullets shattered the window and a couple struck the driver. He fell backwards, then his head dropped onto the steering wheel. The truck began to veer to the right.

  Max stepped on the gas pedal, and the Escalade zipped out of the path of the dump truck, missing the right corner of the large hood by mere inches.

  The truck swerved across the lanes like a wounded snake. Then the driver—if he were still alive—or the passenger regained control of the truck, but only for a moment. The truck swerved another time, then flipped onto the driver’s side. It slid forward for a few yards, scraping the asphalt and lifting sparks. Then the hopper fell off.

  The next moment, a gigantic explosion engulfed the truck in bright yellow flames. Black smoke began to curl up from the scorched wreckage.

  Max looked at Feliks. “How goes it?”

  Feliks shrugged. “It goes. They’re not doing so well.”

  Max nodded, then turned his head. “How are you doing?”

  Ava gave him a small smile. “I’m okay.”

  She didn’t look a bit shaken by the ordeal, but then Max wasn’t expecting her to be.

  Volkov nodded. “You did pretty well. I’m impressed.”

  Ava said, “And that doesn’t happen often.”

  Max nodded. “We can’t identify them now or hang around. We’ve got to go.”

  He was beginning to turn the SUV around from the shoulder where he had parked when he noticed a silver Jeep gaining on them. He wanted to think that the driver was an impatient man, in such a hurry to something so important that he wouldn’t let a burning truck stop him.

  But Max knew better.

  All traffic in the three lanes had come to a stop. No one was going anywhere—except for the silver Jeep. Max looked at Feliks and said, “Silver Jeep. Driving up the shoulder.”

  Feliks nodded. “Let’s get ready for them.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Maryland State Route 200

  Montgomery County, Maryland

  United States of America

  “Who are these people, and how did they find us?” Volkov asked in a voice full of frustration.

  “I should ask you that question,” Max replied.

  “They don’t work for me. They’re shooting at all of us.”

  Max floored the engine as they swerved around the smoke-billowing wreckage. “They want to kill us, so you can escape.”

  Volkov shook his head. “It’s not that.”

  Ava said, “You have a traitor in your team.”

  The thought had occurred to Max before she said the words. He and Feliks had been extremely careful and vigilant. No one had been following them since they left the safehouse. The only other possibility was that someone had planted a tracking device in the Escalade. Max didn’t have the tools, the training, or the time to find the bug that was transmitting their location to whoever wanted Volkov. Max said, “So you have nothing to do with this?”

  “None whatsoever.” Volkov’s voice was firm. “This isn’t my style.”

  Feliks said, “We don’t want to know what that is.”

  Ava said, “If you give us guns, we’ll show you.”

  “Over my dead body,” Feliks said.

  Max ignored her words and looked at the side mirror. The Jeep was still there, drawing closer. There was no traffic up ahead, so Max kept his foot on the gas pedal. But he knew this wasn’t sustainable. Sooner or later, they’d hit traffic, and the Jeep would catch up to them. Their flight would soon be over, and they’d have to fight.

  Max glanced at Feliks to inform him of the decision, but as Max turned his head, he noticed another vehicle appearing in the rearview mirror. A white pickup truck. Max bit his lip. It was now clear he wouldn’t be able to evade both pursuers. But would they be able to fight them both?

  Feliks said, “More bad guys.”

  “Yeah. You ready?”

  Feliks slammed a new magazine into his AK-105 carbine, then loaded another AK rifle for Max. “Let’s put an end to this.” He picked a couple of smoke grenades from the duffel bag. “Plan B?”

  “B plus.”

  Feliks took two fragmentation grenades. “We’re good now.”

  “Hold on.”

  Max tapped the brakes, then drove the Escalade onto the shoulder near the median. When he stopped, Feliks handed him the rifle and the duffle bag. Max stepped outside and threw the duffle bag over his shoulders. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said to Volkov and Ava, and for good measure, removed the car keys from the ignition.

  “Don’t get killed,” Ava said.

  Max grinned. “Not planning on it.”

  He left the door open and ran toward the sloping median. He lay flat on his stomach, put the duffel bag next to him, and used the metal guardrail for cover. Max aimed his rifle at the Jeep, which was now about seventy yards away. The Jeep was most likely armored, and his bullets would do little to stop the attackers. But the volley would slow them down, hopefully enough for Feliks to get to a good position and use the grenades.

  He laid a heavy curtain of fire, concentrating his rounds on the Jeep’s tires and the hood. Some of the rounds struck the windshield, which, as expected, didn’t shatter. The driver swerved left and right, but kept advancing, albeit at a slower speed.

  Max’s eyes found Feliks moving forward through the grassy patch next to the tree line. There was a fence separating the forested area from the grassland, but overhanging branches still offered a certain amount of protection. Feliks stopped for a moment and fired a quick burst.

  The Jeep stopped.

  It was the moment they had been waiting for.

  Max unzipped the duffel bag and pulled out one of the smoke grenades. It was of the canister type, silver-colored, about eight inches long and two inches thick. Once it had exploded, it would serve to effectively screen Feliks’s movements from the enemy.

  He pulled the grenade’s ring and threw the grenade as hard as he could. It shot upward in a large arc and fell a few feet away from the Jeep. White smoke erupted, veiling the vehicle from sight.

  Max reached into the duffel bag and took a fragmentation grenade. Unlike the first, this one was designed to pepper the enemy with deadly shrapnel on impact. Depending on the armor level protection of the Jeep, the grenade’s metal fragments could be completely useless, or cut through the vehicle like a drill gun through drywall.

  Max repeated the same gesture. The grenade shot through the thickening smoke wall. The explosion came maybe two seconds later along with a bright orange flash.

  Uncertain of their tactics’ success, Max turned his head toward Feliks, but didn’t see him. Max waited for a few seconds, but Feliks was nowhere to be found. Is he crawling, and that’s why I can’t see him? He glanced back at the Escalade. Volkov’s head was not visible through the tinted window.

  A string of bullets kicked up dirt next to Max. He slid further down the median, moving fast and away from where the bullets had landed. The shooters might be firing blindly, but stray bullets killed the same as those aimed at the target.

  He advanced about ten yards and readied another fragmentation grenade. Sporadic gunfire from the Jeep, or the truck—Max couldn’t be certain, as the smoke curtain had stretched across the highway—came from at least two locations. Then a long volley came from the other side. That has to be Feliks. Kill them all, whoever they are.

  H
e pulled the grenade’s ring and threw it at the stopped Jeep. Before the explosion, Max fired the rest of his magazine. He dropped to a knee and reloaded the rifle. Then he looked across the highway and into the grass, looking for Feliks, but he wasn’t there. Come on, Feliks. Where are you?

  Max listened for a moment.

  No gunfire.

  Max looked at the Escalade and could barely believe his eyes. Ava was dashing toward Feliks’s location. What is she doing? Where is Volkov? “Hey, stop, stop. Get back—”

  A couple of gunshots whizzed dangerously close to his head. His voice had betrayed his position. He rolled onto the grass, then moved to the right, closer to the Jeep, making as little noise as possible. His plan was to flank the vehicle and come up behind it.

  When he had advanced about six or seven yards, he fired a couple of quick bursts. Gaps had formed in the thinning veil of smoke, and the Jeep’s outlines were visible. Max thought he noticed at least one body sprawled onto the asphalt. He put a few bullets into that body.

  Single shots came from the other side. “Feliks, hey, Feliks?” he shouted as loud as he could.

  Before anyone could answer, the white pickup truck turned sharply, almost ending up in the median. Max aimed his rifle at the truck, but its driver had no intention of staying in the firefight. He sped in the other direction.

  Max turned his attention to the Jeep’s occupants. As he walked around the back, he noticed a second body stretched near the rear wheel. The body was face down, so Max couldn’t identify him. But the black-and-orange leather bomber jacket did all the talking. The dead, or wounded, man was the GRU team leader, Khasilik.

  Max began to seethe, but his rage was replaced by shock as his eyes returned to the grassland. Instead of Feliks, he found Ava. She was standing tall, was no longer handcuffed, and was holding a rifle aimed at the Jeep.

  Chapter Twelve