by Vince Flynn
“Copy. How long?”
Rapp looked over at Azarov, who was pulling on his fatigues next to Cara’s still body. “Time?”
“I’ve never trained on this route with so much added weight,” he said, falling silent as he did the calculations in his head. “Fifty-eight minutes.”
“One hour,” Rapp said into his radio.
“Copy that. Fred’ll be there.”
“Scott,” Rapp said. “Get a couple of men on that chopper and send the rest of them ahead to the hospital in Quepos.”
“On it.”
Rapp tossed Azarov his radio and the Russian put it on before scooping Cara off the ground. Before he started out, though, he grabbed Rapp’s forearm. “If they come after us, it’s likely that one of the chasers will be Nikita Pushkin, the man who replaced me. Don’t play with him, Mitch. Kill him.”
CHAPTER 5
NORTHWEST OF ZHIGANSK
RUSSIA
THE semitruck fishtailed as it climbed the muddy road, intensifying Maxim Krupin’s nausea. His vision was clear, though. As was his mind. He hadn’t had an episode in three days, which he’d come to see as a mixed blessing. A welcome respite, but also a harbinger of things to come.
All he needed was another forty-eight hours of lucidity. Then he could return to Moscow with an excuse that would allow him to disappear into one of his homes and endure the inevitable attack in privacy.
The predicted rain hadn’t materialized but they had ascended into the low clouds hovering over this desolate part of Russia. Mist swirled around the vehicle, thick enough to force the driver to turn on his headlights. The reflection off the wet trees lining the road was sudden and surprisingly powerful. Krupin adjusted his gaze to the shadowed floorboard of the truck’s cab, fearful that the glare might trigger another attack.
Soon, hints of their destination began to emerge from the wilderness. Clearings scraped from the forest, concrete bunkers, and finally rows of rusting military vehicles and outdated artillery. Through the fog, military planes appeared and disappeared like a ghost fleet.
And in many ways, it was. This dump was one of a number of forgotten repositories to Soviet military—the war machine that had once struck terror in the hearts of the West. Some of the equipment would eventually be stripped of anything that still had value, but most would slowly disintegrate into the earth and be forgotten.
It was a sobering reminder of how Russia had fallen from grace, but also a perfect location for the task at hand. Thick cloud cover was the norm and the Americans were both aware of the site’s existence and indifferent to it—as were his many enemies inside Russia. While nothing was certain in these kinds of situations, he felt confident that he and his small security detail could slip in and out without fear of discovery.
A series of concrete and steel warehouses appeared ahead, scattered throughout the site almost as randomly as the refuse piled around them. The land had been cleared decades ago when this had been a working Soviet installation, but now it was in the slow process of being reclaimed by the forest.
The truck in front of them turned right toward the center of the complex while his own driver continued straight toward a warehouse on its northeastern edge. Finally, he circled on a worn track and backed toward a set of massive doors.
Krupin jumped out wearing the clothes of a common workman, opening the bay doors and taking a moment to direct the trailer into them. When the brake lights went on, he walked beneath a corrugated metal awning and found an unassuming door with the promised keypad next to it. A seven-digit code allowed him to enter and a moment later he was standing alone in a cavernous building that still seemed completely unremarkable.
He was initially surprised that no one was there to meet him, but upon reflection he shouldn’t have been. He’d limited the number of people involved to the bare minimum—perhaps even below that minimum. Convenience was irrelevant in this situation. All that mattered was secrecy.
This warehouse had been used as both barracks and offices at some point in the distant past, and there were still vestiges of those functions. Now, most of the walls had been at least partially knocked down in order to facilitate the movement of cargo and equipment. In some places, stacks of decaying wooden crates looked as though they hadn’t been touched in decades while in other places construction equipment showed evidence of recent use.
Krupin took the obvious path through the refuse, moving with uncharacteristic slowness. As he neared the back, the debris-strewn ground gave way to recently painted concrete. A glow, the source of which was hidden by a recently erected wall, grew in intensity until it overpowered the filthy overhead bulbs he had been navigating by.
On the other side of the wall was a clear plastic tent that measured probably fifteen meters square and four in height. It was full of medical equipment and machinery quietly raided from hospitals throughout Russia. The people tending that equipment had been similarly scavenged from different parts of the country, different specialties, and different experience levels. Everything had been designed to avoid creating a discernible pattern.
When Krupin saw the examination table and the gown folded neatly on top of it, he slowed further, finally stopping a few meters away. His entire life had been about control. His rise through the KGB, his entry into local politics after the fall of the Soviet Union. His move out of rural administration and into Moscow’s power elite. Then, finally, his ascent to the presidency and his transformation of it into a de facto dictatorship. Russia was now, for all intents and purposes, his. He ruled alone over its land and wealth, its commerce and finance, as well as its military and nuclear arsenal.
But most important, he controlled its information. The government controlled media fed the Russian people a steady diet of propaganda, enflaming their nationalism and building him into the father, savior, and symbol that they so needed. Within the Kremlin, he meted out truth and lies to his people with a dropper, making certain that no one could ever grasp the big picture, no one knew who to trust, and no one could anticipate or see further than him.
Now he had stepped outside that universe. He didn’t know what functions the instruments or people in that tent performed. He was utterly ignorant as to what the vials lined up on the tray next to the table contained. He didn’t know what he would be asked to submit to or what secrets could be learned from his consent.
His body was betraying him but he was utterly powerless to remedy the situation or indeed to even understand it. The potentially deadly truth was that he was entirely at the mercy of the people inside that circle of sterile plastic.
Due to the bright interior of the tent, no one was able to see out. He watched them, savoring his last few moments of having the upper hand. All were filled with the nervous energy that he’d come to expect of people anticipating his arrival. They busied themselves checking and double-checking their equipment, while Dr. Eduard Fedkin sat working on a computer that had no connection to the outside world.
The cold finally prompted Krupin to move again. He wasn’t noticed until he pushed aside the plastic flap that served as a door. Fedkin leapt from his chair and rushed toward him.
“Mr. President! I was brought here with no prior warning. Some of the people with me were pulled from their beds. Even their families—”
“Calm down, Doctor. There are security concerns that have to be acknowledged. We’re suffering traitorous protests throughout the country, illegal economic sanctions, and NATO closing in on our borders. If there’s even a hint that I might be in need of medical treatment, it could mean chaos.”
“I understand, sir, but there’s no way to communicate with our colleagues and relatives who—”
“Then we best confirm my good health quickly so that I can return all of you home. My understanding is that you’ve been provided with everything you requested and that all the tests and lab work can be carried out here. No samples are to be removed and no outside sources are to be consulted.”
“For this round of tes
ting, that’s correct. But if we find—”
Krupin raised a hand, silencing the man. “You’ll use no drugs or anesthesia that could incapacitate me or have any effect on my mental function. And time is of the essence. I’ve made arrangements to be absent from Moscow for two days and not a moment more. Am I understood?”
CHAPTER 6
NEAR DOMINICAL
COSTA RICA
NIKITA Pushkin slowed as he approached the southeast edge of Azarov’s house. The wall was little more than a gaping hole that likely wouldn’t support the remaining structure for long. Fire was taking hold of the building but the blazing debris strewn out in the jungle was proving inadequate to spread through the wet foliage.
One of his men was down, now little more than a piece of meat pierced by countless nails and screws. Flames from the house would soon consume him, making extraction more complicated. Normally, that would be an issue that demanded his attention, but now it rated no consideration at all.
Pushkin stepped into the flickering shadow of a palm and went completely still. There was little of importance to see from this position, but a great deal to think about. If Azarov’s woman was alive, then he was gone—running through the jungle in an effort to get her to help. If she was dead, though, the situation changed significantly. He would be standing similarly motionless just beyond the firelight. Waiting. Watching. Making those famously precise calculations as to how he could inflict maximum damage on the men who had taken his American girl from him.
Azarov’s location, though, was only one of a number of deadly mysteries. What had happened to Pushkin’s sniper? Who was the man that had appeared in the house at just the critical moment? What was the strength of his team and what were their orders?
The first—and perhaps least critical—question was answered when his earpiece crackled to life.
“We’ve located sniper one, sir. He was killed by what appears to be a single shot to the head. We’ve also found the fifty-caliber rifle placement that was used to fire down on our team.”
“And the man responsible?” Pushkin prompted.
“There’s no sign of him. We can’t even find tracks in or out.”
“Do we have any information on Azarov’s position or the position of the man who went into the jungle with him?”
“Negative. We have a drone in the air, but the jungle canopy’s too thick in the general vicinity of the house.”
Pushkin considered retreating to his vehicle, but the idea didn’t last long. He’d enjoyed the advantages of an overwhelming force, the element of surprise, and a power outage that covered a full third of the country. There was no way he was going to stand in the middle of Krupin’s office and make excuses as to why Azarov was still alive. To see the disappointment in his eyes and watch the knowing nods of the men who trained him. To hear how they’d never really expected him to be capable of defeating the infamous Grisha Azarov, even now that he had retired to a soft life in the tropics.
No. He’d rather die here and rot.
Pushkin began moving again, searching the perimeter of the jungle. If he found the woman’s body, then the battle lines were drawn. If he didn’t, then she was alive and Azarov would be on the run, hampered by her dead weight.
“Converge on the house,” Pushkin said into his throat mike. “I’ll need two men with me to pursue the target. The rest will remove our casualties before the authorities arrive.”
“In order to collect our dead, we’ll have to expose ourselves,” came the hesitant reply over his earpiece.
Pushkin didn’t bother to respond, instead slipping into the jungle and paralleling the intensifying fire. It was impossible to know how many men his team was up against, but he was less concerned than his subordinate.
It was clear that the opposition was highly professional and that would play to his advantage. Their mission, for whatever reason, was likely to protect Azarov and they’d focus entirely on that. Using resources to harass the retrieval of casualties would be a waste of resources.
He heard movement ahead and crouched, concentrating on the rhythm of the jungle and crackle of the flames behind him. A second rustle of leaves was followed by a gurgling moan.
Pushkin crept forward, finding one of his men dangling from the branches of a tree, nearly three meters from the ground. His arms and legs were grotesquely broken and his body armor glittered with partially penetrated metal. A rusty bolt was lodged in the side of his neck.
His head moved in Pushkin’s direction, though the clear face shield attached to his helmet reflected only flames. The young Russian felt his anger flare—at the disaster that this simple operation had become, at the deference and respect that Azarov commanded but that always seemed just beyond his grasp. At the uselessness of the soldier suspended above him.
Pushkin raised his weapon and fired a silenced round that penetrated beneath the man’s chin. Blood spattered the inside of his face shield, distorting the reflections on the glass as he went limp.
Keeping him alive would have been little more than a distraction for the extraction team. And what if he survived to return to Russia? What would he be capable of? Warming a cot in some forgotten military hospital, straining the military’s already disastrously tight budget?
A voice came to life over his earpiece. “Our drone has picked up a single man approximately half a kilometer down the draw leading southeast, Major. He’s moving fast, but stopping periodically.”
Pushkin tapped his throat mike in acknowledgment and penetrated deeper into the jungle, scanning the slopes on either side of him as they rose and steepened. With only one man accounted for, he moved slowly, feeling the heat from the fire subside along with the illumination.
It was in that twilight that he came upon an empty metal crate with a bloody rag and other first aid implements next to it. But no body. And while it was impossible to know the girl’s current status, she appeared to have been alive as recently as a few minutes ago.
The fact that Azarov was carrying her physical and emotional weight was good news but not so much so as to overcome the existence of the crate. It was now certain that he was armed, wearing full camo and boots, and had access to food and water. His mysterious companion was likely similarly equipped.
“We’ve picked up the lead man,” came a voice over Pushkin’s earpiece. “Approximately three quarters of a kilometer down the same draw. He appears to be carrying the woman.”
In light of that, Pushkin felt comfortable responding verbally. “And the second man?”
“He was keeping an interval of about two hundred meters when we lost him beneath the canopy.”
“Understood. And my backup?”
“Currently approaching the southeast side of the house.”
Pushkin lowered the night-vision monocular attached to his helmet and gazed down the loosely defined path in front of him. It was unlikely that there would be booby traps. Azarov would be reluctant to put anything on his property that his woman or staff could stumble upon and there were too many animals deeper into the wilderness. That meant Pushkin could move fast, catching and killing the trailing man before intercepting Azarov.
He activated his throat mike. “I’m in the jungle approximately fifteen meters down the draw, preparing to chase. Have the men follow me and protect my flank. We’re not leaving this place until we have Azarov’s head.”
• • •
Rapp kept an easy pace, taking care to avoid the endless vines, roots, and rocks on the jungle floor. No reason to push—he didn’t want to run up on Azarov until he was just about to break out onto the road where they were to rendezvous with the chopper.
He looked up at a steep slope to his right and examined the mudslide that had at some point collapsed it. The strip of empty dirt was open to anyone watching from the sky but was also the first practical path he’d seen leading to high ground. After a brief hesitation, he turned up it, dropping to all fours as he scaled the loose, damp earth. At the top, he flipped down Azarov�
��s night-vision monocular and set it to maximum magnification.
He’d almost decided that he wasn’t being followed when he spotted movement approximately two hundred yards to the northwest. Whoever he was, he was moving with improbable speed over the steep, unpredictable terrain. Could it be Nikita Pushkin? The man he’d been warned about?
Rapp scanned back and forth, finally picking up two more men behind, both moving at a less superhuman pace. Another minute of scrutiny turned up nothing more. Whether that meant his entire opposition consisted of three men or that he was just missing the other fifty spread out under the canopy, was impossible to determine.
What he was sure of, though, was that the lead man was going to overtake Azarov before he could make it to the chopper. The former Russian assassin had softened considerably since his retirement and while Cara probably only weighed a buck fifteen soaking wet, that wasn’t trivial under the circumstances.
Coleman’s voice suddenly came to life over his earpiece. “These assholes look like they’re going to gather up their casualties and back off. You want us to make their lives miserable before we bug out?”
“Negative,” Rapp responded. He still had no idea what the hell Russians were doing there, but if they were willing to leave, he saw no reason to get in their way.
“Copy that. See you at the LZ.”
Rapp took a pull of plastic-tasting water from the CamelBak’s hose as he scanned the narrow draw he’d come down. Irene Kennedy had discovered that Maxim Krupin’s cyber warriors were responsible for collapsing Costa Rica’s power grid. What she hadn’t been able to figure out was why the president of Russia would put himself at risk in order to harass a tiny Central American country that threatened precisely no one. After her Russia experts had come up similarly empty, her mind had turned to Grisha Azarov—the only thing in Costa Rica that Krupin might be interested in.
