One of the escorts stepped ahead, brought the line to a halt at a door, and knocked three times. A voice from within called, “Enter!” The escort opened the door and held it for Merkulov. With a cautious nod, he stepped inside.
Merkulov immediately pegged the room as that belonging to an intelligence professional rather than a political appointee. It was an office with character, with a pair of bookcases flanking the polished wooden desk on each side. A pair of Russian Federation flags were posted behind the desk. Aside from that, there were almost zero identifying items. No personal photos, no war mementos, not even official certificates or degrees. As Merkulov approached the desk, he immediately recognized the man behind it. Merkulov snapped to attention and rendered a crisp hand salute.
“Tovarisch Generál-leytenánt,” Merkulov said.
Lieutenant General Anton Koldanovich Zakharin held up his hand casually and smiled. In many aspects, he resembled the President: lean build, thinning blond hair, and dead blue eyes. He dressed in a collared button-down tucked into gray slacks. His sleeves were rolled beneath the elbow, exposing his powerful forearms. All who had served in spetsnaz, osnaz, and any sort of active measure knew of Zakharin and his exploits during the Soviet heyday. Despite his unassuming appearance, Merkulov knew that those who underestimated or disrespected Zakharin were not known to survive the encounter.
“Stand down, tovarisch mayor,” Zakharin said. He gestured to the seat in front of the desk, and Merkulov immediately lowered himself into it. Zakharin pushed a full shot glass across the desk, then gestured to the bottle on the corner. “Pyatizvyozdnaya? Appropriate, given your performance abroad. Drink with me.”
Merkulov picked up the shot glass. The possibility of poison crossed his mind, but he knew to insult the general would result in something more gruesome. “If I may speak frankly, sir, I’m actually surprised you approve.” With that, Merkulov threw the shot down his throat. It burned in the best way, the way that American alcohol could only dream of achieving.
“I’ll admit, I had my concerns,” Zakharin said. “I read Tovarisch Polkóvnik Gradenko’s progress reports. High marks, except the area of your obsession with this American Ranger, Ivan Dillonovich Bradshaw.”
Merkulov took a deep breath and braced himself. “Yes, sir. I was out of line—”
Zakharin held up his hand to silence Merkulov again. “I know your story. I understand your motives, Tovarisch mayór. The end result was still achieved.”
Merkulov raised his eyebrows. “How so, sir?”
Zakharin motioned for Merkulov to come around the desk and look at his computer. A compilation of news clips played on the screen. Each of them had the same theme: one faction of Americans battling another. Mexican nationalists versus white nationalists. Black nationalists versus white nationalists. Impoverished versus affluent. Male versus female. Normal versus goluboi. Christian versus Muslim.
“All of these incidents have broken out in the past 48 hours,” Zakharin said. “The operation may not have been the earthquake for which we’d hoped, but it has certainly stirred the pot, pushed the Americans closer to the edge. The result of their mid-term elections will only further the division.”
“With a little help from our friends at the Internet Research Agency,” Merkulov said with a small smile.
“Of course,” Zakharin said. “But, that’s no longer your concern.” He poured himself another finger of vodka. “You’re actually officially dead.”
Merkulov’s eyes widened. “Sir?”
Zakharin pulled up an article from the BBC. The headline read:
Russian Diplomat Commits Suicide in Transit
Merkulov skimmed the article as Zakharin looked on. “You look well for a man who assaulted his escorts and turned a gun on himself in transit,” the general said. “A necessary deception to keep the Americans on an even keel and leave them susceptible to further influence operations.”
Merkulov nodded as he swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
Zakharin smiled again. “How do you rate your physical health?”
“Excellent,” Merkulov said without hesitation. “I am ready for assignment.”
“Are you fit for combat?” Zakharin asked.
The response was immediate. “Yes, sir.”
Zakharin nodded. “A week from now, you will be dispatched to the Central African Republic. You are to assume command of the company posted there.”
“What company, sir?”
Zakharin smiled. “Wagner Group. You’re going home.”
“Yes, sir,” Merkulov said excitedly. He paused a beat, and the look faltered. “Sir, what of Ivan Dillonovich?”
Zakharin shrugged. “It is my understanding he is a fugitive from his own people. He will likely be dispatched by them. That aside, he is not your concern.”
“He knows my name,” Merkulov said.
“And he’ll think you are dead, along with everyone else,” Zakharin said. “Leave it be.”
Merkulov kept his thoughts to himself. “Yes, Tovarisch Generál-leytenánt.”
Zakharin clapped Merkulov on his shoulder. “You have done your time in the American mud. It is now time for you to resume what you do best: soldiering.”
“Yes, sir,” Merkulov answered smartly. “I will not fail you.”
“I know,” Zakharin said, his voice pleasant but the implied threat received in the clear.
Nogales, Arizona
15 September 2018
09:40 hours Tango (16:40 hours Zulu)
Ramón Perez sighed as he watched the vehicular procession crawl towards the port of entry. He had crossed between Arizonan Nogales to Heroica Nogales thousands of times over the past couple of decades, most of those times behind the wheel of the ‘97 Chevrolet 2500 he sat in at that moment. Usually, he had no cargo on the way into México. Sometimes, he would return empty-handed, particularly if he was traveled to visit family. Other times, he would be ferrying folks who had long waited to migrate north, away from the corrupt government and hyperviolent narcos, in search of prosperity and a future for their children.
As Perez searched his memory, he grew certain that this was the first time he’d ever brought cargo south.
When Perez’s sister, Alejandra, had been caught in a cartel crossfire just over a decade earlier, he’d sworn an oath before God on her grave. He promised to watch over her daughter, Gabriela, and protect her from harm. He had quickly been called to task on that promise. She had volunteered for the Peace Corps, working as both a paramedic and an English Second Language teacher. Gabriela, possessing her mother’s strength and refusal to remain silent, had grated the nerves of more than one buchon. She never knew it, but it was Perez’s information network and his personal intervention that had protected her.
Once she returned to the States and obtained her juris doctorate, Perez thought that she would be safe. In retrospect, he should have known better. Gabriela was always outspoken and unafraid of causing offense in her pursuit of justice. The man, Bradshaw, had helped Perez honor his promise to his sister, so it was without hesitation that he agreed when Gabriela asked to help him escape.
Perez drummed his fingers against the wheel. It would only be a couple of minutes before it was his turn at the customs gate. The sun hung in the horizon to Perez’s left, above the Sierra Pajaritos. The temperature had already reached the mid-80s, and was expected to peak in the 90s. The air conditioning was already running in the Chevy. Perez patted himself on the back for not only maintaining the system in the truck, but modifying it so those who had to remain concealed wouldn’t die from heat injuries in transit.
As the truck pulled past the US Customs and Border Protection officers, Perez gave them a friendly wave and a smile. The officer on post, a large, fair-skinned man, offered a tight-lipped smile and a subtle wave in return. Even after 20-plus years, a small part of him still felt a thrill at a successful deception. If they knew who was in his truck, Perez would have been lucky to survive the encounter with a few bruises. More than
likely, he would have been cut down in a hail of gunfire for aiding and abetting an alleged cop killer.
Perez inched the Chevy forward a few meters and came to a halt. Mexican Customs officers reported to the Secretariat of Finance and Public Credit, which revealed their primary function at the port of entry. Their uniforms were similar to their American equivalents, with the exception of different flags and languages embroidered in the fabric. Their colleagues north of the border also enjoyed greater pay and benefits, something the government in the D.F. was unwilling to provide.
As the Customs officer—a short, portly, clean-shaven man with a bulldog’s jowls—approached, Perez rolled down the window and smiled as he extended his American passport outward, the customs declaration form tucked inside.
“Good morning,” Perez said in his native Spanish.
“Good morning,” the officer—J. Gutierrez, by his name tape—replied. He accepted the passport and looked it over. “What’s your final destination?”
“Manzanillo,” Perez said.
“Purpose of your visit, sir?” Gutierrez asked.
“Pleasure. Going to visit family.”
“Anything to declare?”
Perez shook his head. “No, sir.”
Gutierrez reviewed the customs declaration form, signed it, then stamped Perez’s passport. He kept the declaration form and returned the passport. “Welcome to México, sir.”
Perez nodded. “Thank you.”
The road was far less congested past the port of entry. Perez said nothing until the port shrunk to a dot in the rearview mirror. Only then did Perez check his surroundings before glancing over his shoulder.
“You’re clear!”
The sound of latches being undone reverberated through the cab, and the backseat cushions folded upward. Bradshaw emerged from the hidden compartment, his face and hair drenched in sweat. He looked to Perez, an incredulous glint in his eyes.
“I thought you said the AC worked, man,” Bradshaw said.
“It wasn’t working?” Perez asked, his brow furrowed.
“Hell no,” Bradshaw said as he climbed out of the compartment. He returned the seat cushions to their proper position, then plopped down in the seat. “Hot as a motherfucker in there.”
Perez frowned. “I’ll need to get that fixed.”
Bradshaw slid on a pair of gas-station sunglasses and rested his hands on his thighs. “I imagine a lot of folks coming north get smuggled in like that.”
“If they’re fortunate enough to catch a ride,” Perez said. “Most of them walk. I actually only use that compartment for rush jobs. Most time, I prefer to doctor paperwork and bring them across in plain view. Obviously, in your case, that isn’t an option.”
Bradshaw nodded slowly. “I get it.” He hung his head, then met Perez’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “I shouldn’t complain. You’re saving my life at great risk to yourself.”
Perez shook his head and waved his hand. “Nonsense.” He changed topics. “You want to grab breakfast?”
“Yeah,” Bradshaw said. “I’m starved.”
“Be sure to use the bathroom while we’re there,” Perez said. “We’re running this truck until it’s nearly empty. The sooner we get you to Manzanillo, the better.”
“No backseat driving here,” Bradshaw said. “Do what you’ve got to do.”
The car fell silent again. Bradshaw glanced out the window. The knot in his chest returned, stronger than before. A storm of thoughts clouded his mind, a mixture of wondering who in the White House pulled Hawthorne’s strings, logistical concerns, wondering where his final destination would be, and the strife of having to leave home.
The storm’s lightning was leaving Gabriela Rivera behind.
Bradshaw’s eyes reddened as the tears streamed down his cheeks. He fought to mute his sobs, which only worsened the tightness around his heart. His body trembled uncontrollably as his walls came down in the first free moment he’d had since the nightmare began.
Perez glanced in the rearview mirror. When he saw Bradshaw, he opted to hold his peace. Perez’s eyes returned to the road and he did his best to ignore the emotional display.
He knew as well as most that some needed to grieve alone.
Don’t miss the next pulse-pounding entry in the series…
FORSAKEN
PATRIOTS
NIGHTMARE EXODUS
With a federal warrant issued for his arrest, Jack Bradshaw has fled the United States. His destination: Indonesia, a non-extradition nation.
Bradshaw manages to stay under the radar…until he intervenes against a crime in progress, killing the brother of a powerful crime lord with connections to the government.
As the focus of a nationwide manhunt, Bradshaw is once more targeted by both sides of the law. With the assistance of a pair of highly-trained vigilantes, Jack Bradshaw will do what he does best: attack.
COMING 2019 TO AMAZON.COM!
Sign up for Steven Hildreth, Jr.’s mailing list: https://tinyurl.com/HildrethMailList
And follow him on social media:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/StevenHildrethJr
Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/StevenHildreth
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/StevenHildrethJr
Website: https://www.stevenhildreth.com
Fault Lines Page 36
