Nothing in Marko's equipment load-out was standard Serbian issue, which distressed him, though it should have comforted him. As an American deep-cover operative, he hadn't fired or handled a weapon less than twenty years old since his arrival in Serbia two years ago. The model he held in his hand came fresh off the Zastava Arms assembly line, compliments of General Sanderson, but it felt alien to him. Instinctively, he knew everything he carried was superior to the ancient hardware handed down to him by senior members of the Panthers, who passed their equipment down to make room for newer toys. Still, it felt strangely uncomfortable.
He peeked around the corner of the garage and saw one of the men throw a lit cigarette out into the front yard. Another man talked excitedly into a small handheld radio and rapidly nodded his head. Showtime.
Marko released the weapon's safety and pulled a rain-soaked black ski mask down over his head. He peered cautiously around the corner, watching the men scramble off the porch. When they vanished from his sight, he moved rapidly down the unobserved side of the garage to the front corner and risked another peek. Everything looked just like he had expected. The lead SUV was already loaded with Radovan and the three men who accompanied him inside the lodge. The four commandos from the porch jogged toward the rear SUV.
He'd witnessed the same scene several dozen times before. Radovan always insisted that the team assigned to the rear vehicle wait for all of the members of the lead car to get situated. When he'd first seen this, he thought it might be for security reasons, but he’d learned firsthand that this was simply another one of Radovan's psychotic quirks. He also knew that all four members of the rear security team, anxious to get out of the rain, would be so preoccupied watching the lead SUV that he could engage them completely undetected.
He pushed these thoughts aside and instantly engaged a near trance-like mindset. He stepped out into the open and lowered his body into a tensed semi-crouch, aiming at the last man in the group. Through the Aimpoint sight, he placed the red dot on the man's upper back, just below the nape of his neck, and squeezed the trigger for a controlled burst. The weapon kicked considerably, but he kept it under control and repeated the process for the remaining three guards. He sprinted for the back of the empty SUV and reached it before the last guard hit the ground. None of them had a chance to react. If anything, a couple of them might have felt a warm, chunky spray. Less than five seconds had elapsed.
A quick glance back confirmed that all four members of Radovan's rear security team were dead, and Marko moved forward along the right side of the rear SUV, focused on Radovan's vehicle.
**
Radovan sat impatiently in the front passenger seat of his Range Rover, listening to the rain hammering the truck's thick metal roof. He hated these trips and absolutely despised handing their hard-earned cash over to Hadzic's "gang-banger worshiping" brother, Pavle. Radovan was a committed ultra-nationalist and had no tolerance for the newly arrived American "gangsta" music that had penetrated the Belgrade club scene. When Radovan hit the town, which he frequently did, Belgrade went hip-hop free. Nobody risked incurring the security chief's wrath.
"Why the fuck are we not out of here already?" he yelled at the rain-blurred windshield.
Directly behind him, one of the commandos shifted uncomfortably. Here we go again. He turned his head back over his right shoulder, equally annoyed with his infantile boss and the idiots in the other Range Rover. Through the wide back window of the Range Rover's gate, he noted a figure sliding down the right side of the rear SUV, but never had a chance to form much more of an impression about the situation. Several steel-jacketed bullets ripped through his skull, and the cabin of the SUV erupted in chaos.
Radovan was immediately hit by two of the bullets that passed unhindered through the commando's throat. One struck him in the upper left shoulder, where it stayed, and the other ricocheted off the metal head rest post and grazed the right side of his neck. The windshield in front of Radovan crumbled from the second bullet, and he instinctively grabbed for the short-barreled assault rifle that rested between his right leg and the door. Before his hand completed the twelve-inch journey, the front passenger door erupted in a fusillade of torn plastic, metal fragments, and safety glass.
His hand never touched the rifle. He felt incredible surges of pain at multiple points throughout his body, but remained conscious for a few seconds, vaguely aware that a figure moved across the front of the SUV, firing continuously into the vehicle. His head was violently snapped backward and to the left, leaving him with a view of a shattered body in the seat behind the driver. He tried to call out to the man, but couldn't form the words. He watched as a dark red stain splattered the bodyguard's window, and a red mist aerosolized the rear cargo compartment. This was the last thing Radovan would ever see.
Against all odds, the driver, Jorji, survived the seemingly endless hail of bullets. He was hit several times, but knew that he was not critically wounded. When the first bullets passed through the car, Jorji twisted his body to the right, pressing down on the center console, trying to present the lowest possible target to his attackers. This was not the first time he had been attacked in a vehicle, and his previous experience kept him alive a little longer than the rest of the Range Rover's occupants.
Several bullets pierced the back of his seat and tore into the top left side of his body, causing mostly superficial damage, but shredding muscle and tendon from his left hip all the way up to his shoulder. The extensive muscle damage along his entire left side kept him locked in place over the center console, with his face nearly buried in Radovan's lap. No matter how hard he tried, he could not sit up, which was another reason that he was still alive.
**
Marko dropped to the soaked gravel near the front left tire of the Range Rover and rolled over onto his left side, which gave him easy access to the hip satchel containing the second ammunition drum. The gun's barrel sizzled as the rain struck the dangerously overheated metal. A hundred thoughts and stimuli flashed through his brain, which were immediately prioritized and processed for his use. His trance reduced useless distractions like emotion, hesitation or fear, and enhanced his focus on the highly specialized skills required to survive.
"Reload weapon" was at the very top of the list. His weapon wasn't empty, but he knew that seventy-five rounds didn't last very long at the rate he had fired. In the flash of a synapse, "driver still alive" was also broadcasted, and his eyes narrowed. He had fired long bursts into each passenger as he moved counter-clock wise around the SUV. After targeting the rear right guard and Radovan, he fired a lengthy burst at the driver through the rear right door window. Marko knew the bullets had passed through the seat and connected with the driver, but the man's demise was not conclusive, and he knew it.
He detached the drum magazine and threw it out of the way. The second drum was out of the satchel and attached to the light machine gun in a blur of his hands. Marko popped up from the ground into a low crouch, keeping well below the window, and fired a sustained burst through the center of the front driver door.
**
The silence felt like an eternity to Jorji, but he knew his lifespan was now measured in seconds, unless he could take the offensive. Jorji lifted his head up far enough out of Radovan's blood-soaked lap to catch sight of the assault rifle jammed against the door by Radovan's leg. Jorji knew this was his only hope. His only weapon, a small semi-automatic pistol, was jammed under is right armpit in a concealed holster, and he couldn't lift his body to free it. Not that it would have mattered if he could. Jorji was left handed, and a bullet had passed through the back of his left elbow, rendering his arm useless. He strained to slide his right arm free, and his hand managed to reach the rifle just as several bullets punctured the driver door and put an end to any hope that he might survive.
**
He raised his body enough to see into the Range Rover, keeping the gun aimed forward. He saw the driver leaned over Radovan's lap, but couldn't be sure the man was dead.
Through his weapon's sight, he centered the red dot on the back of the man's skull. One quick trigger pull put an end to Radovan's security team.
He pulled back up against the house and absorbed the entire scene. The carnage resembled a well-executed ambush, and there was little chance that anyone would suspect the attack was perpetrated by one person. The vehicle was shredded on all sides by bullets, and most of the safety glass lay shattered on the packed gravel. He fired from nearly every angle around the car, leaving shell casings scattered everywhere.
He saw that two of the guards behind the rear SUV had fallen on top of each other and immediately decided that he'd stuff one of them into the trunk of the luxury Mercedes in the garage. He'd dump the car into one of the lakes near Belgrade. The absence of a junior member of Radovan's inner sanctum would lead Hadzic to suspect that this was an inside job, and if anyone took a close look at the ground around the bodies, they would only find the washed-out evidence of three deaths.
He decided to skip any further house surveillance and moved toward the door. He had done a mixed job of keeping the noise level down and didn't want to waste any time if Pavle's bodyguards had been alerted.
The silencer had worked perfectly and ensured that the automatic weapon would not draw anyone's attention. He could barely hear the gun's internal mechanisms over the rain storm. The Range Rover was a different story, and he was not at all satisfied with the noise created by the bullets that impacted with the SUV's heavy steel frame. To Marko, it had sounded like multiple, low speed fender benders, and it nearly jarred him out of his operational mindset. He had backed up against the house more out of fear than a rational tactical decision. It was the right decision, but this was not how he had been trained to operate.
He reached his right hand over to the doorknob and tried to twist it. It didn't move. Wasting no time, he reached into his hip satchel and removed an object that resembled a small plastic explosive charge. He tightly jammed it between the doorknob and door trim. He pulled a small plastic device out of a pouch on his vest and slid it upward along the door from the first small charge. The device's LED turned green about two feet above the doorknob. Deadbolt. He placed a second charge against the trim, right where the LED flashed green. He quickly pulled a small cotter pin on each of the homemade devices and pressed himself flush against the paved stone wall of the lodge.
In rapid succession, each device ignited and burned intensely for five seconds. The thermite packages created very little noise, but generated an incredible amount of smoke, usually on both sides of the door. He pushed firmly on the heavy oak door, which gave way now that the locks had been melted. He held his breath and stepped into the house. The caustic smoke obscured his vision and burned his eyes momentarily, but he immediately recognized that he was on a small landing. Several stairs led up into the house through an enclosed stairwell that separated the landing from the main house and kept him out of sight.
His ears picked up a familiar sound, which relieved him of any fears that his attack had been compromised. A hardcore rap song from Dr. Dre's Chronic album vibrated throughout the lodge. His mouth formed a thin grin as a Serbian accented "Yeah motherfucka" echoed alongside Snoop Dog's lyrics.
He eased up the stairs and peeked around the corner. The lodge's ground floor was an open concept space, which gave him a clear view straight through the kitchen, into the great room. He didn't see any smoke detectors in the kitchen, which allowed him to relax the pace slightly.
The ceiling opened up just past the eat-in kitchen area to form a two-story great room, with floor to ceiling windows on the far wall facing Marko. A dark gray slate fireplace and chimney split the middle of this wall and disappeared into the timber-framed ceiling. The men were stationed around a rustic, dark wooden coffee table, which was centered on the fireplace, and littered with a pile of mixed currency. A dimly-lit chandelier hung low over the coffee table, attached to the ceiling by a thick, black chain.
He spotted Pavle immediately, which was not a difficult task. Pavle was paralyzed from the waist down and confined to a wheelchair, which currently faced the fireplace. Both of Pavle's outstretched arms embraced the deep hip hop beat with a slow, synchronized wave. Each hand held a thick stack of American bills.
He assessed the bodyguards. A large, stocky man in a black turtleneck sweater and brown jacket stood in front of Pavle, bouncing up and down completely out of rhythm. The second bodyguard sat on a dark, rich leather couch to the left of the table, nodding his head to the steady rhythm and rolling what Marko assumed to be a marijuana joint. He didn't see any obvious weapons and chuckled at the pathetic crew in front of him.
Ready to make his move, he took the time to touch the razor-sharp edges on both the front and back of the climbing axe. The axe would provoke the final outrage. The inevitable civil war between two of Slobodan Milosevic's largest paramilitary groups would tear Belgrade apart from within and give Marko the cover he needed to tie up a few more loose ends before vanishing. For the first time in several years, he felt hopeful.
His time in this shithole of a region was rapidly coming to an end, and he intended to walk away with a little more than just the satisfaction of a job well done. Pavle held the key to his brother's vast criminal fortune, which would soon belong to the United States government—minus a small finder's fee. He caressed the axe's blade once more before he lowered his body to a full crouch and slipped into the kitchen. He still had a long day ahead of him.
BACK IN BLACK
May 25, 2005
Chapter One
2:35 p.m.
Portland, Maine
Daniel sat at a brushed metal, modernist workstation in his expanded cubicle, staring blankly at a sleek flat-screen monitor. An MBA from Boston University's School of Management had earned him a little extra space in one of the outer cubicles and a partial view of the tall pine trees behind the building's rear parking lot. His one-hundred-square-foot home at Zenith Semiconductor was as close to the "corner office" as modern workplace design theory would allow, and he had fellow MBAs like himself to thank for it. At least his position entitled him to a frosted glass "privacy door," which he could slide shut to emphasize his desire to remain undisturbed. Few of the staff and entry level management had this option and were therefore vulnerable to constant, unannounced intrusion.
His door had only been closed for fifteen minutes, and he'd already counted at least five lingering shadows behind the translucent glass. He continued to stare at the market analysis presentation on the screen, unmotivated to continue. His indoor soccer team pulled the late slot the night before, and he still hadn't recovered from a three-hour sleep deficit. He shook his head and decided to take a walk around the ten-thousand-square-foot cubicle "ghetto," known more formally as the third floor.
He stood up from his sleek designer chair and surveyed the immense room. At six feet tall, Daniel could effectively see over the cubicles. Just as he slid the door open, his phone rang.
"I almost escaped," he muttered and plopped himself back down into the soft chair.
He put his headset on and pressed a button on the gray desk phone. "Daniel Petrovich."
"Daniel, it's Sandy. I have a call for you from Azore Market Solutions."
"Do you know who it is?" Daniel said, surprised to be hearing from Azore so soon.
"They didn't say," Sandy said, one of the junior assistants assigned to the marketing department. "Just that they needed to talk with you immediately."
He had contracted with Azore Market Solutions to provide raw data for an overseas regional marketing analysis, but didn't expect to hear from them for another month. He usually conducted business with them via e-mail, so he was slightly concerned about the call. If Azore couldn't deliver the data, he'd have to start the process from scratch, which would put Zenith's South American market expansion efforts behind schedule, and his job at risk.
"All right. Put whoever it is through. And Sandy…would you please ask who's on the line next time? I don't
know if I'm talking to the CEO or a janitor," he lamented.
"I don't think it's the janitor, but I'm not sure. Do you want me to ask who it is before I put the call through?"
"No, don't worry about it this time," he said and hung up.
Several cubicles away, Sandy shook her cropped brown hair and rolled her eyes. “Fucking janitor bullshit," she mumbled as she transferred the call.
Dan shut the door to his cubicle and pressed the button to connect the call. "Daniel Petrovich."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was hoping to reach Marko Resja," the male voice said, betraying no emotion.
Daniel felt a surge of adrenaline fire through his central nervous system, and his brain switched over to a long dormant mode of operation, instantly ceasing to function as Zenith Semiconductor's Emerging Markets' Analytical Lead. He stood up slowly, glancing down the vast sea of cubicle tops.
"I'm not in the building, so you can sit back down," the voice said.
Daniel remained standing and opened the cubicle door.
"Are you sitting?"
"I am," Petrovich replied.
"That's better. Do I have your attention?" the voice said, which confirmed that he was not under direct surveillance.
Daniel activated the "wander" function of his headset. "You never lost it."
As long as he remained on the third floor of Building A, his headset would function without a hard-wire connection. He might be able to get a slight head start on whatever was coming his way. He opened the top drawer of his desk, pocketed his keys and cell phone, and started to walk toward the nearest staircase.
The Jakarta Pandemic Page 61
