Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  Lost…

  Somewhere a door closed, a draft of cool air billowing into the kitchen. Carol jerked awake, struggling for a moment to place her surroundings. The dream had seemed so real. As if he was still alive.

  But it was only a dream. A mirage of what could have been.

  She raised her head from the granite countertop, instinctively checking the surveillance feeds open on the laptop. Nothing. Everything looked right.

  But the door hadn’t been part of the dream.

  Where’s Han? Movement in the shadows of the living room—her hand flew outward, fingers closing around the butt of the Kahr.

  “Hold it, hold it.” Han stood in the doorway, his hands out. Open. “Easy.”

  Of course, she remembered, all of it coming back. He had gone out. “Find anything?”

  He shook his head, tossing his jacket on the island. “They’re having a party five houses down. You can hear the music from here, if you’re outside. Andropov has a few lights on. No movement. Any word from Harry?”

  “Nothing.”

  The former SEAL swore under his breath. “This feels just like the old days. All of it. Except we never worked in the US.”

  She saw his fist clench as he stared off into the darkness, his jaw moving, but no words coming out. “And you know the sick part? I enjoyed it. Despite all the deployments. Despite all the times I left in the middle of the night. Despite all the time I spent away from Michelle and kids. I loved every minute of it.” He paused, as if uncertain whether he dared continue. “I was living my dream—never realized how I was hurting her until it was too late to do anything about it. Not a day’s passed since that I haven’t regretted the time we lost.”

  Lost…

  2:07 A.M.

  The club

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  The girl stirred beneath his arm, her thin fingers running down over his chest.

  She had been good, Nasir thought, opening his eyes. Almost good enough to make him forget his peril.

  Almost.

  He reached out a hand, stroking her dark hair. She was gaunt, her ribs showing as she lay there on her side.

  In the semi-darkness, he could see his brother’s form sprawled over the white leather sofa near the other end of the lounge. The champagne bottle had been emptied in the course of the night. And replaced. And emptied again.

  Nasir shook his head, attempting to clear away the fog. His eyes picked out the figure of the shaikh, his body almost concealed by cushions. He was still moving.

  The Russian’s bodyguards still flanked the door, undistracted by the bacchanalian scene around them. He had to find a way…

  He lay back, forcing back the wave of panic that washed over him. Willing his breathing to slow.

  Calm down. He had to contact the American FBI. Somehow.

  He stared down at the prostitute in his arms, as if his solution lay with her. Maybe…

  Her name? His brow furrowed as he tried to remember. The women had been paraded before them, like prize heifers in the market, the Russian calling out their names as they passed.

  “Ileana,” he whispered, a finger passing along her cheek. She raised her head from his chest, fear and surprise visible in those dark eyes.

  He couldn’t trust her, couldn’t trust anyone. But he had no other choice. His left hand went out, groping around in the darkness for his discarded shirt. He pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of the pocket, extending it toward her.

  “I need…a phone.”

  2:15 A.M.

  “We have a problem, tovarisch.” Harry perked up at the sound of Alexei’s voice in his headset.

  “Just when I thought things were getting boring.”

  “I received a text from my man at the safehouse. Korsakov made a surveillance run through the neighborhood.”

  “Your man, Alexei? I thought you were just the consulate’s head of security. The personnel at a safehouse…they would fall within the purview of the FSB, wouldn’t they?”

  The Russian swore in exasperation. “You know who I am, Harry. You’ve always known. But I’m not risking the lives of my people for your op. I’m going to order him to evacuate the safehouse before Korsakov returns.”

  “You knew the risks when we began playing—and you have more to gain from this than I do. If the tracker stops moving, Korsakov will know he’s being conned,” Harry retorted, his tone cold as ice.

  “If I have to start shipping FSB officers back to Moscow in black body bags…” Alexei growled. “There’s no, how would you say it, ‘upside,’ to that.”

  There would be no budging him, that much was clear from the sound of the Russian’s voice. “I think there’s another way to accomplish our ends.”

  “And that would be?”

  Harry was about to reply when he looked over the railing, down to the club floor below him. Ileana had just emerged from the VIP, standing there in the midst of the crowd, buttoning her blouse.

  Their eyes met through the flashing strobes and she put her head down, working her way through the boisterous crowd.

  “I’m about to make contact, Alexei,” Harry intoned, watching her ascend the stairs. “How did she escape your notice?”

  “I was texting.”

  Harry stifled a laugh. “Heaven help us, you sound like my nephew. Eyes on the prize, tovarisch.”

  The young prostitute’s eyes were downcast as she moved toward his table, steps furtive. Her pale skin was covered with a thin sheen of sweat, her hands trembling as she took a seat across from him.

  “I did…as you asked,” she began hesitantly. “But I learned only a little. They did not want to talk in front of us, I think.”

  It had been a long shot—a hope that the men would neglect operational security in the presence of the women and the liquor, as so many men had done, throughout the history of mankind.

  Apparently not this time.

  She cleared her throat. “The man who took me asked me to come out here, to bring him something. And I don’t know how to get it.”

  “What is it?” Harry asked, leaning forward, taking in the look on her face.

  “A phone.”

  5:30 A.M. Eastern Time

  Graves Mill, Virginia

  The sound of a door opening and shutting reached Thomas’s ears through the cold morning air, an alien sound in the stillness. His head came up, scanning the ground through his binoculars.

  Nothing.

  “LONGBOW, I have movement.” The Texan paused. “Someone’s starting the car.”

  The information was so unexpected that it took Thomas a moment to react. They hadn’t planned for this. Not now.

  But it wasn’t his decision to make, and Richards never hesitated. “Move in, move in. Prepare to execute on my signal.”

  Thomas pushed himself up, the loose folds of the ghillie suit flowing around him—a white ghost arising from the stubble of the snowy cornfield.

  The dark muzzle of the Beretta led the way as he moved forward, clutching the pistol in both hands.

  The moment when a surveillance mission went hot…

  “The car started, David,” Rhoda announced, the screen door of the double-wide slamming shut as she reentered the trailer. “No severed wires, no flat tires. No bombs.”

  Her voice betrayed her skepticism. He looked up from where he sat at the kitchen, an open box of .38 Special cartridges in front of him. The Ruger GP-141 in his hands was well-worn, the bluing almost entirely gone.

  It had been years since he had held a gun, and his fingers trembled as he slipped a final cartridge into the chamber.

  “I know you think I’m paranoid,” he acknowledged, pulling himself to his feet. He swayed slightly and reached out for her hand to steady himself. “But I can’t afford to underestimate him. Not again.”

  The Jamaican woman smiled finally, wrapping his left arm around her shoulders. His right hand hung down by his side, holding the Ruger. “Remember, David, the world’s thought me dead for a long time. I know the
se fears. They’re natural. Now, if we’re going to go…”

  Click-click. Nothing more over the radio, but it was enough to tell Thomas that Richards was in position, out there in the darkness. He found himself holding his breath, his body pressed against the siding of the trailer, the Beretta held low in front of him.

  Safety off.

  The light inside the double-wide went off, the parking lights of the Honda Accord the only illumination remaining.

  Click-click. Get ready.

  A pair of figures emerged from the door to his left, a woman and a heavyset man leaning on her shoulder. Stevens?

  They had just reached the bottom step when the laser aimpoint of Tex’s Glock came out of nowhere, centering on the man’s chest. “Stop right there—let me see your hands!”

  The Texan’s shout didn’t have the desired effect. The figures separated, the man standing there silhouetted for a moment against the faint glow of the parking lights. His hand coming up.

  Gun.

  The realization had barely entered Thomas’s mind before the pistol spat fire, the report shattering the stillness of the cold Virginia night.

  Instinct took over, the nightsights of the Beretta centering on target. His finger squeezing the trigger.

  The 9mm slug caught the man high in the chest, sending him reeling backward. Thomas fired a second time and he collapsed onto the snowy ground, the gun falling from his fingers.

  Threat eliminated.

  Thomas moved forward to the side of the fallen man, kicking the revolver to the side. Out of the way. The woman was sitting back against the rear wheel of the Honda, seemingly in shock. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  He switched on his flashlight, looking down into the man’s pale face, and his heart nearly stopped.

  As if through a dream, he heard Tex’s voice calling out, “I’m coming in”—heard himself acknowledge the warning. It seemed surreal.

  The director…

  He dropped to one knee in the bloody snow, his fingers closing around Lay’s wrist—feeling for a pulse. Ever so faint. They were going to need the one thing they didn’t have. A medevac…

  2:39 A.M. Pacific Time

  The club

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Voices. The young whore and one of the Russian’s bodyguards—at the door of the VIP. Fear flowed through Nasir’s veins, and he fought against the urge to open his eyes.

  He had tried to go to sleep after she left, but it was impossible, his body rigid with tension. The Americans could reason it away however it pleased them, but it was his life at stake here.

  If she betrayed him…

  Nasir felt the leather cushions of the couch shift as she straddled his body, bending forward to kiss him on the forehead. A small hand holding a phone slipped into the pocket of his jeans, and his heart began to beat again.

  His eyes flickered open to see her smile. Beautiful, Nasir thought, relief flooding over him. He reached up, his hand finding the back of her head, his lips capturing hers.

  Life itself was a beautiful thing.

  2:45 A.M.

  The abandoned mansion

  Beverly Hills, California

  “Do you have it on your screens?”

  Carol paused, Harry’s question still ringing in her ears—a strange feeling of disquiet seizing hold. A premonition of evil.

  It had nothing to do with what they were doing. It was a feeling far more primal than that.

  Her mind flickered back to the day her mother had lost her battle with cancer. She had known, before the call even reached her at work.

  It was the same feeling.

  “Are you there, Carol? Do you have a fix on the phone we gave the subject?”

  “Y-yes,” she stammered, shaken. She glanced over to find Han regarding her strangely. Focus. “Yes, I have his positioning data on my screen. Working on getting audio from the phone now.”

  Smartphones, she thought, trying to banish the misgivings from her heart. The average owner had little to no idea of the power of the device he held in his hand. It was a microphone, a camera, a tracking device, and—when compared to the technology that had existed when she had done her first hack—a supercomputer.

  A few keystrokes and she was in, activating the phone’s microphone with a single click of the mouse. Another moment, and the audio went streaming out live over her network, to both Harry and Vasiliev.

  It took her a second to recognize the sounds, and then a flush spread across her face.

  Vasiliev was the first to react. “Well, at least someone gets to enjoy their evening.”

  6:17 A.M. Eastern Time

  Graves Mill, Virginia

  He heard it long before he saw it, standing there in the darkness—a pair of chemlights in his outstretched arms.

  The unmarked UH-60 Blackhawk came swirling out of the darkness, descending into the snowy cornfield. Its downwash threw up snow and stubble, buffeting Thomas in the face. He never even flinched.

  Numb. He felt numb, as if he was living a dream. Two figures slid from the open door of the helicopter, the foremost man limping across the uneven ground toward him.

  “Is he still alive?” Kranemeyer demanded. The DCS made a foreboding figure in the night, leaning heavily on his good leg. His black eyes seemed to take on a demonic aspect in the red glow of the chemlights.

  Thomas nodded. “We’ve got him on a table in the trailer—Tex is with him, but it’s not looking good.”

  “Have you dressed the wound?” This from the man behind Kranemeyer. It took a moment for Thomas to place his voice, and then he remembered—a surgeon on the staff of the Special Activities Division.

  He nodded, turning to lead the way back across the cornfield. “The bullet—my bullet,” he added, as if realizing it for the first time himself, “collapsed his right lung. The occlusive dressing sealed the wound, but the cavity hasn’t expanded yet—not completely.”

  The surgeon shook his head. “There’s only going to be so much I can do—we’ll need to prep him for immediate transport to a Level One Trauma Center.”

  “That’s not happening.” Both men turned to look at Kranemeyer.

  The surgeon took a step forward, his mouth opening in protest. “We’re talking about the life of the DCIA.”

  “As am I,” Kranemeyer replied, cold resolution in his voice. “He’s been targeted for assassination—he was driven underground, and he preferred to let people think he was dead or taken hostage rather than face the alternative. And my people have risked their lives extracting assets from hostile countries because of it. He’d better have a good reason…or I’ll kill him myself.”

  3:49 A.M. Pacific Time

  The club

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  “They’re moving.” Carol’s voice, over his earpiece. Harry’s gaze flickered across the club, toward the VIP.

  “Do you have eyes on our subjects, Alexei?”

  “Negative.”

  A burst of static interference over the connection, and they heard a Russian voice. Clearly himself on the phone. “…don’t care. Find Pyotr and don’t take any of his crap. I want to know where he is every second of the day until this whole thing is over. Stay on him.”

  Vasiliev murmured a curse. “That’s Andropov—I recognize his voice.”

  “And Pyotr…” Carol left the thought unfinished, but everyone knew what she was thinking.

  Harry closed his eyes. Your only safety out in the night was in being able to stay one step ahead of a disintegrating situation. Manipulating it to your will.

  Adapt. That was what made the spy. “Do you still have a visual?”

  A moment’s pause, then Carol replied, “Yes.”

  “You and Han need to make the snatch.” He could hear her sharp intake of breath, hear the hesitation in her voice when she spoke again.

  “I-I don’t know if I can…”

  “It isn’t a question of if. Alexei and I won’t be able to make it back to California in time
. The two of you are going to have to grab him. Right away.”

  Silence. Then, “Have you seen Andropov and the Arabs yet?”

  “No. You, Alexei?”

  “Nyet.”

  “The tracker is fifty meters away from your position and moving west,” Carol announced. “I’m picking up street noise…there must be another exit from the VIP.”

  Harry pushed back his chair, nearly knocking into a dancing couple behind him. A blue strobe hit him full in the face and he ducked his head down, moving down the stairs onto the club floor. “Stay on them—we can’t afford to lose track of them. Alexei, meet me on the street ASAP.”

  The rear doors of the dirty gray van opened and Nasir vaulted inside, taking his seat on the bench along the side of the vehicle. It was a work van, used to transport migrant workers around the city, and his nose wrinkled at the smell.

  His hand slid into the pocket of his rumpled jeans, feeling for the cellphone. There.

  Jamal slid in beside him, still chuckling. “Good, wasn’t it, brother?”

  Nasir felt himself nod, his sweaty fingers closing around the phone, running along the plastic case as he tried to pry off the back. He closed his eyes as more of the martyrs climbed into the van, forcing himself to focus.

  The back of the phone came off with what seemed like an unnaturally loud snap, and Nasir’s eyes darted around the darkened interior of the van, certain that someone must have heard it.

  Nothing. They were laughing among themselves, backslapping over their prowess of the night.

  He felt the exposed battery beneath his fingers, ever so close. Almost there…

  The cold night air struck Harry in the face as he burst through the door of the club, descending the steps onto the street. Vasiliev was just a moment behind him, his silver hair glistening in the glow of the streetlight. “Where now, tovarisch?”

  “He’s northwest of you now—in a vehicle from the sound of it,” Carol interjected. “Two hundred meters and building.”

  There was no time for indecision. “Never going to catch them on foot,” he announced, turning to the Russian. “We’ll need your car. I’ll take up pursuit from here.”

  “On what?”

  “I’ll find something,” Harry shot back, eyeing a blue and silver Harley parked near the curb. “Carol, can you overlay the GPS map with a street grid and send it to my phone?”