Anatoly's Retribution: Book Two

by Latrivia Welch

  “This fucking guy,” the other guard said under his breath as Ryan headed back into the house.

  All the guards were aggravated with Ryan’s constant posturing. He had been ordering them around since they arrived, but everyone thought him to be a prima donna metrosexual whose only uses for his hands were to slap up women and tidy his surroundings. It would have been a pleasure to kill him for free if he weren’t one of Popov’s little ATMs.

  However, the clock was ticking. Popov had made it clear, if Ryan couldn’t deliver on the money, put a bullet in his head and throw him out in the bay.

  Grabbing the generator by one handle while the other guard grabbed the other handle, they walked it from the garage into the kitchen and placed it in the middle of the floor.

  The echo of the clunky metal landing on the tile echoed through the bottom level of the house.

  Taking a breath, Vic tried to explain in laymen’s terms for Ryan. “These things are unsafe, especially in the house. They emit carbon monoxide,” he said, kicking the contraption. “The gasoline is extremely flammable, and you can get electrocuted from back feeding. It’s better not to have it in here and just depend on the larger one in the garage.”

  Ryan rolled his eyes, putting his hand up on his hip. His eyes narrowed on the wall of a man in his cheap black suit, crew cut and guns - the mafia assassin’s uniform. As far as Ryan was concerned, the guard was just a worker – opinions not required. And he was not about to be bossed around by some nameless Slav. It was clear that they didn’t see the big picture.

  Ryan snapped. “Well, if Anatoly Medlov shows up, I doubt that the fucking generator will be your biggest concern, especially if he fucks you up in the ass in the dark.” He pointed at the generator. “We keep it in here. End of discussion. Now hook it up and get back into your positions.” Stalking away, Ryan went to the living room and sat quietly with his phone, waiting to hear from Dmitry Medlov about the transfer. “Come on motherfucker, he said, resting his head back on the chair. “Make a move.”

  ***

  And making a move, the Medlovs were definitely doing. Already getting in position, they all prepared to make their collective assault - counting down the moments until the perfect time to converge on the house.

  But strategy was everything, especially as they had to battle both a natural disaster and a small army.

  No more heated emotion or childish outbursts. Anatoly had full control over his mind and his body. He prepared to use them both to put an end to the troubles of his heart. Fully focused, he zoomed in on his objective.

  “Team One move in from the main island,” Anatoly ordered over the radio.

  “Team one moving,” a Russian voice answered.

  Slowly, the trucks motored from their locations sprinkled over West Mashta Drive, Crandon Blvd. and Harbor Drive, the three main arteries of the deserted Key Biscayne Island, to cross over to the smaller Mashta Island situated between Hurricane Harbor and the Atlantic Ocean.

  Crossing the bridge, they separated into groups with some of the trucks moving down North Mashta and some moving down South Mashta to flank the house.

  With no traffic on the road and almost all of the residents evacuated, they were no longer worried about witnesses. The concern now was for Ryan’s lookouts who might be watching the road from the second floor of the Mediterranean style-mansion.

  “Team two, take your positions, over,” Gabriel said, as he crossed over the bridge with several SUVs behind him. Creeping across the standing water, he made sure to warn about the new impediment. “This shitty bridge may not last long. We’ve got waves crashing in on both sides. Do we have the boats ready to go in the harbor?”

  “Affirmative,” a voice answered with deafening winds in the background.

  Quietly, Anatoly sat in the driver’s seat of his truck with his father beside him on the far end of Mashta Drive as the winds blew so hard they threatened to tip his vehicle over.

  A large limb from a broken tree had already hit the windshield and cracked it, but even the raging storm couldn’t damper Anatoly’s fury.

  Rubbing his hand over the weapon in his lap, he watched the street from the turnoff to Mashta Place, a cove that led to the island’s most expensive property, certain to be empty because of its anchorage into the bay.

  Dmitry inhaled a deep breath and checked the side mirror. “Where is your head?” he asked his son.

  “In the game,” Anatoly said without taking his eyes off the windshield. “My first objective is to get my sister back safe.” He adjusted in the seat. “Then, I’ll deal with Ryan Colt. Dinner then dessert, right?” He glanced over at this father.

  “No matter what you see in there, you can’t lose your cool. She might be…brutalized.”

  “I know.” Anatoly shook his head. “But whatever he broke, I can fix. I just need time.”

  If this operation had been just about going in to get Colt, they would have never gone through taking so many precautions, but shooting into the house blindly could end up getting his sister killed. So, in his father’s fashion, they measured twice and cut once.

  The island had gone dark ten minutes before when a transformer was knocked out by a large tree that had fallen on it, bringing down several powerlines and destroying a small compact car, giving them an opportunity to use the worsening conditions as cover.

  “It’s about that time. The calm before the storm is officially over. It’s time to rain down fire and brimstone,” Gabriel said, smacking his gum into the earpiece as he watched the back of Ryan’s house from the cameras that had been placed there by their men earlier in the day. The windshield wipers nearly drowned out his voice. Flipping to another screen, he zoomed in on the heat signatures showing up on the infrared thermal camera. “They’ve got power; must be a generator and a pretty bitching one too. More than likely, it’s in the garage. So, we need to take that out first. The element of surprise doesn’t matter anymore. We’re here.” Gabriel scratched his chin. “In terms of the perimeter, I’m counting at least five men toward the back of the house on the first level and an additional six on the second level in the room connected to the balcony, but there’s got to be a hell of a lot more than that on the inside. Otherwise, they’re making it way too easy for us.”

  “We’ve got the garage, boss,” Boris said, throwing his rifle over his back. “You’ll know when we’ve gotten rid of the generator.”

  “That’s affirmative. Move now,” Anatoly ordered.

  Marat wasn’t very confident that Boris had an idea that made sense, but he had gotten on the radio first and to keep down any confusion, he felt it best to follow his lead. “What do you have in mind, Boris?” Marat asked as Boris reached behind his seat.

  “This,” Boris said, pulling out an upgraded Russian-model RPG-7. He ran a hand over the portable launcher and nodded. “I took one from the last shipment to the house. Boss said I could have it. No generator in hell has a chance with this baby.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Marat said as Boris opened his door and jumped out of the SUV headed toward the side of the corner lot mansion. “BORIS!” he screamed, following him out into the rain.

  ***

  Inside of the house, things were much calmer after Ryan left the kitchen and retired to the living room where he fumbled with his phone on a continual loop and looked out of the windows.

  “Shit. We’ve got motion again,” one of the guards inside reported, watching the surveillance equipment from the kitchen table. He huffed and scrubbed a hand over his stubbly beard. “This fucking thing is useless in this weather. It goes off every five minutes. A motion detector in a hurricane?” He blew out a frustrated breath. “This is stupid.”

  Vic agreed. They were not equipped to deal with the weather or the Medlovs. It was turning into a suicide mission. “I know. I know.”

  First the generators, now this. Ryan’s bullshit never seemed to stop.

  “Cut it off,” Vic said, looking toward the entryway to
make sure Ryan didn’t hear him. A shrug proceeded his reasoning. “If they’re coming, they’re coming. We will waste more time checking that fucking camera every time a branch falls on the grounds than simply running more interior perimeter checks.”

  “Good point,” the guard behind the surveillance equipment said, turning off the motion sensors. “Fuck that guy.”

  ***

  After scaling the retaining wall and landing behind a thicket of palm trees and bushes that led toward the pool, Boris and Marat took cover to evaluate the layout of the backyard better.

  It was a small yard at half an acre, most of it took up by the oversized pool and deck, but the corners were lined with good hiding spaces.

  Boris pointed toward the back of the garage that backed up to the fountain in the courtyard. “That must be it,” he screamed above the howling winds.

  “Going to be hard to use a fucking RPG in a hurricane to hit a garage! They don’t do well in crosswinds, you idiot!” Marat screamed from behind Boris. He looked around for an alternative approach. “There has to be a better idea.”

  “It’s got a reflex sight. And they don’t really care about the element of surprise anymore. They want the generator gone. That’s what the boss said!” Boris motioned for Marat to follow him. When they got into a proximity that ensured little-to-no error, a hair short of fifteen feet, Boris dropped to one knee, took aim and send the grenade barreling into the structure.

  Even in the winds, the distinct sound of the RPG scudding through the air could be heard.

  Upon impact, the deafening explosion shook the entire Northeast quadrant of the island. A plume of smoke rushed up into the dark sky.

  “Bull’s-eye!” Boris screamed in exhilaration. He got on his radio. “Move! Move! Move!”

  Marat glanced over at Boris, who was grinning sheepishly, and shook his soaking wet head. “Confucius said only a dumb ass uses a cannon to kill a mosquito!”

  Boris dropped the RPG and whipped his large automatic rifle over his shoulder as two men came from the back door, shooting in their direction. “Depends on the fucking mosquito!”

  ***

  On cue, Anatoly rounded the bend with his seatbelt on and approached the house at ramming speed. A small bricked wall and strategically placed high bushes separated the mansion from the street along with an iron gate that was more for show than fortification. Pushing his foot down on the accelerator as far as it would go, Anatoly hit the iron fence, bending it out of place and sending it flying into the drive. He and his father jumped out with their weapons and few other little party favors to greet Ryan properly.

  Gabriel and Vasily were shortly behind. Six SUVs pulled up to the front of the house and the men jumped out with their barrels pointed, running toward the house against the powerful winds.

  “Get in position!” Ryan screamed, shooting out of the window.

  The shards of glass exploded through the front of the house, bringing with it the wind and rain. He crouched down, taking cover behind an interior wall, and sent rounds in the direction of the gunfire without looking around the corner.

  He could barely hear himself think, having never been in an active shooter situation. The blasts and explosions rattled his ears and his mind. All he could see was the muzzle fire of guns coming from Popov’s men and from men outside.

  “We can’t hit shit with the wind!” Ryan screamed as Vic came running with his rifle.

  Ignoring Ryan incessant whining, Vic laid down heavy rapid gunfire from behind a tall post, and then dropped his mag to reload. “Get the girl!” he screamed toward Ryan. “I’ll cover you.” Moving from behind the post, he propped the weapon up against his shoulder blade and sent rounds toward the broken windows.

  Ryan sprinted across the room as fast as he could and headed toward the stairwell to get to Anastaysia. Covering his head, he dodged the flying bullets, running behind the line of Popov’s men who were laying down fire.

  Dmitry was done with the pleasantries. Certain that most of the men were concentrated around the front of the house, he pumped his Mossberg 930 shotgun, aimed for the wooden door and released a round powerful enough to leave a hole the size of a beach ball in its center. Hurling a grenade through the hole, he ducked behind a large palm tree several feet away to avoid the bullets that whizzed through the air.

  The explosion roared over the storm.

  “What the fuck!” Vic screamed realizing the blast had landed him squarely on his back. Grabbing his bloody head, he shook off his concussion. Crawling to his gun as his men sent rounds from covered positions, he rolled over on his back and pushed away from gunfire, sending rounds as he took cover again.

  “Don’t let them get through that fucking door!” he exclaimed as he saw a man come barreling in from the outside. “Shit!”

  Anatoly was the first man through the mangled front door. He dove in head first, shooting guns in both hands, and hitting a guard who was running from the foyer with a round as he slid across the tiled floor. His body hit the floor with a thud. In a combat roll, he jumped behind the entry way and drop his mags. Chunks of wall exploded around him mixed with rain water and glass. After jamming fresh mags into his weapon, he quickly checked around the dark corner.

  “One in the foyer!” a man screamed, pinpointing Anatoly’s location.

  Heavy footfalls echoed around the bottom floor as guards scurried to take cover.

  Taking a deep breath, Anatoly stuck his Glock 34 out slightly from his position and hit one of Popov’s men in the leg as he tried to run across the living room.

  “Ahh!” the man screamed out in pain, reaching for his wound.

  As the man fell to one knee, Anatoly shot him again, this time in the throat.

  Dmitry was right behind Anatoly. Making his way through the door in blacked out tactical gear, he pumped a round into the wall, hitting the man on the other side.

  Anatoly sent another round as his father provided cover, hitting a man who poked his head from behind the sofa in the living room.

  “Move back! MOVE BACK!” Vic screamed, hearing gunshots from behind him. Turning, he saw dead bodies slumped over on the floor. “FUCK!” He was down at least five men. They had to regroup before it was too late.

  At that moment, Marat threw a man through the back window, sending his body into the generator on the floor. Boris was on his flank, shooting toward the men who were aiming at them from the second-floor balcony. None of them could get a clear shot because of the rain.

  As Marat and Boris came in through the back, they laid down surgically placed rounds with their suppressed weapons, having much more luck with trajectory inside of the house than outside of it.

  Vic knew he could not save everyone. Their best cover would be from the second level. Signaling to what was left of his team, he motioned for them to get to the staircase.

  The flood of Dmitry’s men was quick to follow their boss’s lead. Coming through the windows on the first floor, they unloaded the first of their arsenal, pushing Popov’s men back. The sound of gunfire echoed through the streets, harmonizing with the raging storm.

  Anatoly and Dmitry moved with their men through the dark house, clearing each room. It was impossible to sneak up on anyone with the wet floors and glass, but they hoped to find anyone who might have been cut off during the fire fight and unable to flee upstairs.

  Slowly advancing into the den where Anastaysia had been, Dmitry heard someone in the corner push back into the darkness. He turned quickly and stepped to the right, barely missing a bullet meant for his back. The light from the muzzle lit up the room, giving away the man’s position. Returning fire with his shotgun, Dmitry nearly severed in half the guard hiding in the shadows.

  He turned to find another man running toward him with his gun pointed. With not enough time to pump his shotgun again, he dropped it and pulled his knife from the sheath attached to his back. In one fluid motion, he stepped forward and flicked his wrist, sending the sharpened point into the man’s chest. Th
e gun went off, sending a round into the wall.

  Dmitry made two steps toward the man and yanked the knife from his chest, and at the same time clutching him by his throat. Raising him off the ground, Dmitry plunged the combat knife into the man’s neck and dropped him.

  “Go to night vision,” Anatoly said over the radio.

  Dmitry smirked at the timing. His night vision had been ruined during the front entry push. He’d just have to do things old school.

  Marat and Boris along with four other Medlov soldiers met Anatoly by the great room.

  “No one else is down here,” Marat said, pointing towards the ceiling. “They’ve run like rats up there.”

  Anatoly looked up at the ceiling and nodded. “Let’s go get them.”

  ***

  “Cover this door!” Ryan screamed at the remaining guards who had retreated to the hall to serve as the last stronghold between themselves and the Medlov Men. “Make sure no one gets through this door!”

  Kicking open the bedroom door, Ryan came in with his gun pointed and hands trembling. “Get over here!” he screamed, running over to the bed. In the dark, he tripped over Clover’s body.

  “Shit!” he cursed.

  Anastaysia was laughing frantically, foaming at the mouth as her high took over her senses. “My brat is soooo very close,” she mocked, biting her bloody lip in satisfaction.

  “Shut up!” Ryan screamed. His eyes were wild in desperation, heart beating fast as he fought with the ropes tied around her wrists. Setting her free, he hit her again. “Stop laughing, you silly bitch!”

  Scrambling into the far corner of the room and placing her in front of him for cover, he pressed the gun against her temple and listened in the darkness as the fire fight continued.