For a long time Madari didn’t say anything, and Dratshev was convinced he’d finally called Madari’s bluff. Then the man grabbed the second EMP rifle being held by the other armory guard, aimed the weapon downrange and squeezed the trigger. At first nothing happened, but then a moment later the weapon bucked hard against Madari’s shoulder, hard enough for him to cry out with pain, and then the air in front of the barrel shimmered as if under heat. A moment passed and a massive box made of what appeared to be steel or iron blew apart as if had been packed with high explosives.
Dratshev ducked reflexively and then turned his gaze slowly to Madari, who was handing the rifle back to the guard while rubbing his right shoulder.
Madari whirled to face Dratshev, a gleam in his eye. “That is just a small demonstration of what your genius has accomplished, Doctor. It is my intention to sell this technology to whoever will bid the most. In fact, I released the details of the public auction this morning to five countries. We should be hearing from them very shortly.”
“Clearly, I was wrong about you, Mr. Madari,” Dratshev replied. “You’re neither a fake nor an opportunist. You are, quite simply, a lunatic.”
“Perhaps,” Madari said. “But there are other lunatics throughout history who were able to achieve much more than I ever subsume I may. And for now, Dr. Dratshev, I will do this whether I have your cooperation or not. Think about it. You can profit by this—I will provide you the most advanced facilities at your disposal. Even after we auction this current technology, nothing says we have to stop there. With you by my side, we can develop weapons even more powerful and advanced—weapons I can use to equip those in my country who want to see the same thing as I can. Together, we can build the most powerful army on earth!”
“I…I can’t,” Dratshev said even as he knew that he would. Madari had been right about him. “And yet, I must!”
Ishaq Madari smile. “Excellent. Most excellent.”
CHAPTER SIX
Minsk, Belarus
“Mr. McMasters, welcome to Minsk.”
David McCarter shook the hand the woman offered him while the remaining Phoenix Force members looked on.
To have called her anything other than beautiful would’ve been absurd. She had short dark hair, cut pixie-style, liquid-blue eyes and full red lips. The high cheekbones arched gracefully and dipped to soft cheeks with just a hint of dimples at her mouth.
“Pleasure’s mine, Miss—”
“Mariam,” she replied, “but I prefer if you simply call me Mishka. My cover name.”
Just one of her many cover names, actually, although she probably assumed McCarter knew little about her. In the interest of keeping her friendly, the Phoenix Force leader opted not to let on that nothing could be further from the truth.
Muriel Annabel Stanish, age thirty-four, had been a CIA case officer for six years. She’d spent the first two operating Stateside with the documents section specialized in European forgeries. After distinguished service and at least half a dozen requests for transfer, she’d finally been assigned to Minsk, Belarus, to fill a vacancy—one that had occurred under rather dubious circumstances.
“You look rather surprised to see me,” Mishka observed. “I suppose they neglected to tell you I was a woman.”
“Not at all,” McCarter replied.
“Um, I think we’re just surprised,” T. J. Hawkins interjected with a disarming grin, “that we wouldn’t be meeting such a breathtaking young woman as yourself, miss.”
McCarter, teeth clenched and looking out of the corner of his eye, said quickly, “You’ll have to forgive my associate, but he thinks he’s bloody charming when he’s really just being annoying.”
Mishka chuckled and waved it away. “No worries, McMasters. I get that a lot.”
“Do tell,” Encizo said, eyebrows rising.
“More than might you think,” Mishka replied with a grin of her own. She clapped her hands together for emphasis. “But I’m certain you’re tired and would like to go to your hotel. I’ve arranged an entire floor of rooms for you at one of the local hotels. It’s in the downtown area with easy access to all the other areas, but still out of the way of the regular tourist flow. If you’ll follow me?”
As the warriors fell into step behind McCarter, who kept pace at her side, the Phoenix Force leader said, “Seems you thought of everything.”
“Meaning?” she asked.
“Your choice of hotels was…interesting. Just seems you’ve more experience than we were led to believe.”
She shrugged. “It only makes sense, really. I was certain from what I’d been told that you would want to remain inconspicuous and my…experience with the proprietors is that they are discreet.”
“And what do you know of our mission?” McCarter asked as they reached a sporty European-made coupe parked a fair distance from the hangar.
“Not out here,” she said, shaking her head. She pointed to a large custom van nearby. “You can ride with me. The rest will ride with Carnes in the van with your equipment.”
McCarter nodded and gestured for his team to do as instructed. He then squeezed his muscular frame into the small sports car that was fully loaded and boasted genuine leather interior. “Pretty nice ride the Company offers these days.”
“It’s my own,” she said. “Bought and paid for during my layover in Italy. I had it shipped here.”
“Seems like some serious dough to lay out for a CIA case officer.”
If the comment offended Mishka, she didn’t show it—cool under pressure and relatively unemotional. McCarter filed the information for future reference.
“My father ran his own company,” she replied. “Physicist for a defense contractor. That’s partly why they transferred me here.”
“So you were going to tell me how much you knew about our purpose here.”
“Enough that it might surprise you,” Mishka said. “You’re here at my request. Imagine my surprise when the Agency replied less than twenty-four hours later to let me know they were sending you.”
“We don’t work for the CIA.”
Mishka offered a light laugh. “I knew that the moment you stepped off the plane.”
“How?”
“You’re not the typical crew. I’ve been in this business long enough to know the difference between a standard tactical unit and black ops. You’re obviously troubleshooters of a different breed, and that’s fine by me.”
“Glad to hear it,” McCarter replied. “Because we were promised we’d have your full cooperation.”
“And you will.”
“So give me the rundown on what you know to this point.”
Mishka blew out a sigh through pursed lips. “Unfortunately, I don’t have much more intelligence outside of what you probably know.”
“No worries. I’ll start with whatever you give me.”
“Well, I think it goes without saying this city’s crawling with Russian heavies—mostly FSB and maybe a few contacts that were already in-country.”
McCarter nodded. “Agreed. Our people informed us they showed up in force as soon as Dratshev disappeared.”
“Right. From what I’ve heard, his abduction was most likely an inside job.”
“We were told that, as well, but we had a little trouble buying it.”
“Because?”
“Something just doesn’t bloody wash,” McCarter replied with a shrug. “There’s no logic behind staging an abduction of one of their own and then publicizing it.”
“I agree. Although I probably don’t have to point out the FSB has always placed great importance on propaganda. It could be they staged this for the purposes of security.”
“You mean, take Dratshev off the radar and then divert attention by blaming some outside, mysterious party.”
“You have to admit, they’ve done it before,” Mishka said.
“True. But despite their efforts, most competing agencies have been able to see through such attempts with relative ease. This time around the fact an outside party really did manage to kidnap Dratshev has merit.”
“I think you’re right.”
McCarter couldn’t resist a grin. “Glad we’re on the same level.”
“Why?”
“Takes less convincing when I tell you our plan.”
“Which is?”
“I’ll keep the details close to the vest for now, if you don’t mind. But what I will say is that we plan to pick up the FSB’s trail and see where it leads us.”
“Let them do the legwork for you.”
“Right. Plus, if this is a legit snatch, it won’t take the grabbers long to touch base with the Russian government.”
“Unless they have their own purposes for Dratshev.”
“That’s another possibility and I wouldn’t be so naive as to dismiss the theory out of hand.”
“If you—”
“Watch out!”
Mishka had turned to glance at McCarter and missed the dark sedan that rolled alongside the driver’s side of her coupe. They were traveling along a four-lane road that led to the Old Town part of the city.
McCarter reached beneath his coat and quick-drew a Browning Hi-Power from shoulder leather. He aimed at the small window behind Mishka’s seat as the dark sedan swerved toward the coupe and tried to collide with them in an attempt to force her to crash into the cars parked along the road.
Mishka saw McCarter’s reaction and smartly tromped the accelerator to bring the tail of the vehicle up enough to offer McCarter a clear shot at the vehicle.
“Sorry ’bout the window, love!” he shouted before squeezing the trigger twice.
The first bullet shattered the coupe’s window and the second took out the passenger-side window on the sedan. The outline of the man’s face was all McCarter could make out in the dark, but he didn’t have trouble discerning the surprised whites of his eyes. McCarter fired a third shot and the mask disappeared in a crimson spray. The sedan swerved off its intended course as the driver whipped the wheel hard left and put the sedan into a one-eighty.
McCarter whipped a small walkie-talkie from his belt.
“Gray One to team. You got that?”
“Saw it all, Gray One.” Encizo’s voice came back immediately. “Should we pursue?”
“Hell, yes,” McCarter muttered.
McCarter checked the side mirror and saw the van slow suddenly and then begin to swing to the right so Carnes, the driver, could perform a U-turn.
The next minute seemed to happen in slow motion as another sedan approaching from the oncoming lane swerved straight into their lane and picked up speed.
“Shit!” Mishka double-clutched, popping the gearshift to neutral and then reverse as she put her vehicle into a power slide.
The sedan brushed past them, missing by a margin so narrow it made McCarter shudder to think about it. Despite the ferocious attack, Mishka was performing admirably and McCarter felt staunch confidence with her behind the wheel even as his stomach rolled with the turn of the vehicle. In a car with a higher profile the maneuver would’ve caused them to roll but the low center of gravity kept all four wheels on the pavement. Mishka jerked something down and McCarter realized he’d not even noticed she’d managed to somehow engage her parking brake at some point.
The Phoenix Force leader heard an interesting hiss as Mishka disengaged the air-powered brake. That didn’t come standard in any sports car he knew of, which meant she’d had it installed after market. Without being told, Mishka laid in a pursuit course of the sedan that had tried to ram them head-on but the effort proved futile. The sedan had continued on course and smashed into the back of the van carrying the remaining members of Phoenix Force. McCarter felt a ball of rage form in his gut and ordered her to stop short of the sedan on its right flank.
As she braked to a screeching halt, McCarter bailed from the coupe and made a beeline for the van—it had bounced onto the sidewalk and come to a smashing end in one of the storefronts—while he fired at the sedan on the run.
Four men exited the sedan, unaware McCarter had anticipated their moves. As a champion pistol marksman and veteran combatant, McCarter had never missed from that distance, which the first man out of the enemy sedan learned the hard way. Two 9 mm rounds caught McCarter’s target in the chest, puncturing his right lung and driving him backward. The man flopped against the sedan, bounced off and came to rest on the pavement.
The front-seat passenger managed to get clear before McCarter could track him, and opened up with an MP-5K on the run. Bullets buzzed past McCarter’s head like angry hornets, but the gunner hadn’t led the Briton correctly and none of the shots landed.
McCarter made the cover of the van just as Hawkins and Manning burst from the sliding door, both toting weapons from their equipment bags.
“Anyone hurt?” McCarter inquired.
“Bumps and bruises,” Hawkins replied even as Manning was already putting distance between him and his friends.
The Canadian warrior leveled his MP-5 SD6 at the survivors from the sedan and triggered a few bursts from the hip. This variant of the Heckler & Koch SMG had built-in sound suppression so the reports were little more than pops in the muggy night air. Two more of their enemy numbers were reduced, one taking a trio of 9 mm Parabellum rounds to the chest.
Hawkins joined the fray a moment later with his own weapon, identical to Manning’s, spraying a high sustained burst that swept across the hood and blew the driver’s head apart in a mess of blood, bone and gray matter.
The lone survivor popped over the roof a few times and triggered hasty bursts from his assault rifle before jumping into the driver’s seat and tromping the accelerator. The sedan blasted from the scene in a concert of squealing tires and roaring engine accompanied by the smoky aftermath of scorched rubber.
The sounds of battle died away, replaced by the distant two-tone wail of police sirens.
Encizo popped his head out from the open van door. “Driver has a monitor for the secure police bands. He says we’re going to have company in short order.”
McCarter’s expression soured as he looked over the now defunct van. Smoke wisped from the engine compartment and the odor of coolant and oil stung his nostrils. “Looks like your chariot isn’t going anywhere, mate.”
Mishka’s car pulled up before anyone could say more. The young beauty jumped from her coupe. “Store your gear in my trunk. Then split up and rendezvous at the hotel. Carnes can tell you where it’s at. I’ll meet you there.”
McCarter looked at his comrades, who all shrugged.
It was James who said, “Sounds like our best option at this point.”
McCarter nodded and his team went into action, daisy-chaining the gear into the open trunk of Mishka’s coupe. McCarter took the hotel information from Carnes, which he committed to memory before passing it on to Manning.
Through SOP, they already knew how to split up the assignments. Hawkins with James, Encizo with McCarter, and Manning on his own since he spoke French and could easily pass as a tourist. Carnes would accompany James and Hawkins since McCarter had memorized the hotel info and then given the information to Manning.
“We meet in two hours,” McCarter said. “No earlier. That should give all of us enough time to get there and scope it out before we check in. Get into trouble, send the pre-coded distress signal to the Farm. Questions?”
Nobody had any and McCarter nodded. “Good luck, mates. Move out.”
By the time the Minsk police arrived on scene, nobody but the dead remained to greet them.
* * *
NEARLY THREE HOURS passed before all the
men of Phoenix Force were reunited in the small, comfortable hotel in the heart of Minsk’s Old Town. The light of dawn spilled around the corners of the heavy drapes drawn across the windows in the room shared by McCarter, Encizo and Hawkins. All team members had arrived without incident, but Mishka had been unexplainably detained—when McCarter questioned her about it she’d simply shrugged him off or changed the subject. McCarter finally gave it a rest and just accepted she’d had her reasons for being late. Mishka had already gone far and above proving her loyalty and McCarter knew he had no cause to mistrust her at this point.
“You brought our weapons?” Encizo asked her.
Mishka shook her head. “Too risky. I decided to leave them at a secure location. At least until the police patrols have thinned.”
“We can’t be without that equipment, ma’am,” Hawkins said.
Mishka blinked. “I promise you, all of your equipment is perfectly safe. The cops are out in force looking for you. It’s better to wait. Trust me, I’ve been here awhile now and I know how things work. You don’t. If any of us were caught with even the pistols we carry now, they could land us in some remote prison for life. We’d have to shoot our way out.”
“Fine,” McCarter agreed. “Let’s get to this attack and see if we can’t figure out how we got bloody compromised. Mishka, you got any idea who those bastards might’ve been?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say FSB.”
Manning raised an eyebrow. “That sounds a little out of left field.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” McCarter said with a grunt. “If we accept her theory then we got big troubles.”
“Such as?” Mishka inquired.
“Well, for starters,” James said, “someone would’ve had to leak our arrival to the Russians.”
Domination Bid Page 6
