by DV Berkom
His growing interest obvious, Carlos flipped her onto her back and slid his pants off the rest of the way, freeing his erection. They came together in frenzied yearning, the uncertainty and danger of their lives spurring them on.
It wasn’t long before Leine forgot about Eric and the questions surrounding Glushenko.
Chapter 2
November 2006—Lithuania
Ilya blew on his hands to keep them warm while they waited for the general to inspect the merchandise. He never understood why his uncle always insisted on meeting their clients in the middle of nowhere with only a frigid tent and a small space heater for warmth. It wasn’t as though they couldn’t hold negotiations in a warmer climate like the Middle East or perhaps some small island nation in the Caribbean hungry for a cash infusion. Or, better yet, the larger arms conventions held throughout the world with all the flash of a Hollywood premiere and sexy models to chat up during his free time.
Hands clasped behind his back and dressed in the sharply creased military uniform of his small country, the sixtyish General Davi perused their offerings, lips together in barely suppressed excitement at the smorgasbord of imminent destruction in front of him. His two aides, dressed similarly but with far less bling on their uniforms, stood close by, side arms at the ready. One held a leather briefcase. Two of the general’s khaki-wearing grunts with AK-47s slung over their shoulders stood guard near the entrance. Outside the tent, two friends from Ilya’s uncle’s military days were keeping watch.
As Uncle Piotr had taught him, Ilya made sure to place the larger, more expensive weapons near the front of the display, with the less costly pieces at the back. They could always count on the general’s lust for the latest and greatest, even if the new features were more for show than actual use. Uncle Piotr had correctly pegged the general as an early adopter, one who must have the newest technology in everything, especially weapons, and was happy to pay the exorbitant prices attached to being first in line.
The general nodded at one of the submachine guns on display. “May I?”
“Of course.” Uncle Piotr stepped aside so that Ilya could assist Davi with the weapon.
The general’s expression switched to one of surprise as he lifted the gun to his shoulder. “It is so light.”
Ilya smiled, nodding. “The RK1700 is constructed almost completely of polymer, making it much lighter than a conventional submachine gun.” He picked up a more traditional gun, similar in size, and handed it to Davi. The general weighed both and gave the conventional firearm back to Ilya.
“Tell me about this.”
Ilya caught Piotr’s eye and gave him a quick smirk before turning to Davi. This would be an easy sale. The only question would be how many and how soon.
“The RK1700 is a prototype Personal Defense Weapon, not yet on the market. Due to our contact at the manufacturer, we were able to procure the first iteration of this state-of-the-art game changer.” When Uncle Piotr had offered a sizable bribe to the contact, he’d been more than willing to sell out his employer and steal the prototype.
Ilya continued. “Weighing only one-point-two kilograms empty, the 1700 has a magazine capacity of fifty rounds, fully ten more than other competing PDWs on the market.” As his uncle had instructed earlier, he paused to give the general a moment to absorb the information. Piotr gave him a quick, proud smile. Ilya nodded at the compact weapon. “As you can see, the smaller size will work well in close quarters. It uses a short stroke piston gas system, much like the MP7, and has better accuracy.”
The general sighted along the barrel, tracking an imaginary quarry, then returned the weapon to the display table. “But why would I take a chance on this untried Russian technology when I am able to purchase the German-made PF-2100 at a fraction of the price?”
Ilya glanced at his uncle for help. Usually the general didn’t balk at this stage of the negotiations. Piotr cleared his throat and stepped forward.
“I was unaware the Germans had opened up production of the PF-2100.”
General Davi smiled and rocked forward on his toes, obviously pleased to possess inside information. “They have for my new broker. In fact, he has offered me quite a deal if I purchase directly through him.”
This wasn’t good. The general was one of their best customers, representing at minimum fifty percent of their business.
“I can match his offer.” Uncle Piotr wasn’t about to let Davi flounce off to another dealer without a fight.
General Davi remained silent, apparently weighing his options, and then said, “I’m sorry, but I have an agreement—”
“Does our history mean nothing to you?” Piotr asked.
Ilya detected barely suppressed anger in his uncle’s usually calm voice. Ignoring the cold sweat trickling down his back, Ilya stepped forward, breaking the stare down between the two men.
“We do have something that I am certain your new broker does not,” he said, defying his uncle’s warning glance as he moved toward an empty table at the back of the tent. He reached under the table and brought out a stainless steel case.
“Ilya, I don’t think the general is interested in this—”
But the general had perked up considerably and was already walking toward Ilya. His aides followed him, curiosity sparking in their eyes.
Uncle Piotr sighed and joined them. He leaned in close and whispered, “What the hell are you doing, Ilya? These have already been sold.”
“Do you want to lose him?” Ilya whispered back. “Tell him we’re taking orders.”
“Gentlemen.” Ilya made a point to look around the tent, as though checking to make sure no one else was nearby. Stupid, he knew, since they were out in the middle of nowhere, but if he had learned one thing from his uncle, it was that an effective sales pitch required at least an element of theater.
“Have you ever heard of NUCLEUS?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” the general answered, irritation lacing his voice.
“Then you know their work is considered proprietary by the United States government, and that only a precious few multinational companies are allowed access to their data.”
General Davi nodded, his attention riveted on the case.
Ilya continued. “For the past five years, my uncle and I have cultivated a member within this organization. A member who until recently had been understandably wary of our overtures.”
Uncle Piotr took over the narrative. “Due to a shift in his circumstances, he is willing to work with us, as long as the money is sufficient and if we are careful with whom we share these secrets.”
“I’m listening,” the general said.
Ilya moved to unlock the case, but Uncle Piotr motioned for him to stop. General Davi frowned, clearly annoyed. Don’t provoke him too much, Uncle, Ilya prayed. The general was known for his short fuse and impatience, especially when it came to weapons. Rumor had it he’d killed a man who took too long to load the magazine of a gun he wanted to use.
“Before I allow my nephew to show you what is in that case, I need assurances that you will continue to call on our services first before purchasing elsewhere.”
Ilya watched the general closely, looking for signs that he was considering his uncle’s request. Davi remained inscrutable.
“All I ask is that you give us first chance to win your business,” Piotr added.
“Done.” Davi waved his hand, dismissing Piotr’s concerns. “What is this weapon that is so amazing?”
Uncle Piotr smiled and nodded at Ilya to open the case. Nestled in protective gray foam were three four-inch rounds, with an additional round split open to reveal the interior. A thin booklet, stamped Top Secret next to the company’s logo, lay next to the open round.
General Davi stared at the case. “Bullets? Why would I need this? I have already more than enough stockpiled in my warehouses.”
“Not like these you haven’t.” Uncle Piotr selected one of the brass-jacketed projectiles and held it up. “Meet the first small a
rms smart bullet.”
Davi narrowed his eyes. “Am I to believe this actually works?”
“Yes.”
The general shook his head and laughed. “My dear Piotr, don’t be offended, but there has been talk of a so-called smart bullet since the seventies. So far, none have lived up to their promise.”
Ilya slid the case closer to the general. “This one does. There is a tiny computer chip embedded inside the casing.”
“A counterweight has been placed near its nose, much like a rocket, and the fixed fins near the tail keep its trajectory true,” added Piotr. “Optical sensors have been placed near the head.”
Davi leaned closer to inspect the interior view of the round.
Ilya continued. “We’ve done field trials. It’s the most accurate bullet either of us has ever fired, and will course-correct for up to twenty-five hundred meters.”
“Two and a half kilometers?” The general’s mouth popped open in surprise. His aides glanced at each other, obviously impressed. Davi nodded at the aide with the briefcase. “This could make an assassin out of my secretary. I’ll take as many as you can produce. How much?”
While Uncle Piotr and the general haggled over price, Ilya returned the 50-caliber round to the case. When the general’s aide opened his briefcase, Ilya forced himself not to stare. He’d never seen that much money in one place before—all of it US currency.
Ilya glanced up at a muffled thud on the outside of the tent. A succession of cracking sounds erupted near the entrance. Both of the general’s guards staggered backward and crumpled to the ground. Stunned, Ilya froze before his brain kicked into gear. He yelled a warning to his uncle as he slammed the case closed and dropped to the ground under the table. Frantic, he reached for his side arm. His spirits plunged with the memory of the general’s insistence that he hand over the weapon to his uncle when the meeting started.
This can’t be the general’s doing—I saw his guards fall.
More shots cracked. Closer, this time. Three more bodies thudded to the ground. Ilya stayed where he was, his breath coming in short gasps as he fought through panic. Fear bloomed in his chest, magnifying his thundering heartbeat as he muttered a prayer for survival.
There were only three shots. Maybe the gunman has spared Uncle Piotr. Ilya remained on the ground, too scared to look, warmth spreading through his crotch as he pissed himself.
“What are you doing?” The general’s outrage was belied by the slight waver in his voice.
Three shots, three bodies, and the general is still alive. The gunman has killed Uncle Piotr. Ilya craned his neck, trying to see under the edge of the tablecloth. His uncle’s body was nowhere to be seen. A pair of legs appeared in Ilya’s view—camouflage pants tucked inside tall boots.
“I’ll take that, General.”
The thick accent sent a chill careening down Ilya’s spine. How did the Frenchman know about this meeting? If anything, only a handful of people knew of his uncle’s extracurricular activities. If this man was actually the feared arms dealer known as the Frenchman, then the smart bullets were most certainly lost and Ilya and the general would soon be dead.
He could only guess what had happened to Uncle Piotr’s men—two old military buddies who were supposed to be outside the tent monitoring the surrounding farmland for intruders.
“I was going to tell you about this as soon as we spoke again.” General Davi’s voice faltered and he paused. “Wait—where is the other case?”
Ilya shrank back, clutching the prized bullets to his chest. He needed to escape, burrow beneath the tent’s wall, run for his life. But his legs wouldn’t move. Helplessness overwhelmed him, and he fought back tears.
The man with the French accent sighed, reached down, and raised the tablecloth. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, strangling the case with his hands.
“Get up. Now.” The Frenchman’s command brooked no argument. Hot tears coursed down Ilya’s cheeks as he scrambled to his feet.
“Don’t shoot me,” he pleaded, angry with himself for having given up his side arm. He hadn’t thought anything of the general’s request at the time—not with his uncle’s friends keeping watch outside. The Frenchman held out his hand and wiggled his fingers, dark eyes snapping with amusement. His narrow face and dark goatee reminded Ilya of the devil.
A shudder surged through him at the thought.
Reluctantly, Ilya put the case on top of the table and slid it toward him. The Frenchman opened the locks and, eyebrow arched, scanned the interior. Satisfied, he snapped the lid closed and put the case under his arm. The briefcase with the general’s money was in his free hand. He then waved the general over to stand next to Ilya.
To his credit, Davi looked more angry than afraid but did as he was told. Ilya took solace in the general’s show of apparent bravery and willed his tears away. If he was to die, then he would die well.
The Frenchman raised his weapon. Heart hammering in his ears, Ilya squeezed his eyes shut. The general sucked in his breath.
The Frenchman fired.
For a moment, Ilya thought he might already be dead, but then the general slumped to the ground beside him. When the second bullet didn’t come, Ilya opened his eyes to slits. The Frenchman was perusing the other weapons.
None of them were loaded, or Ilya would have attempted to assassinate him. The Frenchman was the scourge of Russian arms dealers everywhere—a menace to be eradicated. No one was immune from the man’s reach. He operated by his own impenetrable code, which included stealing and murder if it suited his needs. Ilya would have been a hero.
As if sensing his thoughts, the Frenchman turned to look at him. His piercing black eyes noted everything, like a predator on the hunt. At least, so Ilya imagined.
“You’re wondering why I didn’t kill you,” he said, his tone conversational.
Ilya shook his head. He found it hard to speak. He spotted Uncle Piotr’s lifeless body a few yards away on the floor and started to shake.
The Frenchman smiled, stepped closer. “Tell everyone you know what happened here today.”
A giant of a man carrying a submachine gun pushed a hand truck through the entrance past the guard’s bodies. The Frenchman acknowledged him and turned his attention back to Ilya.
“Tell them it is pointless to resist, as I will continue to gain control by any means necessary.”
The giant began putting the weapons back into their cases and stacking them on top of each other on the hand truck.
Ilya finally found his voice. “Why did you kill my uncle?” The reality of his loss had begun to sink in.
The Frenchman smiled. “Because that’s the only currency your kind understands.” With that, he turned and left.
His knees suddenly weak, Ilya gripped the table for support. How would he explain this to his aunt and his mother, or even worse, Piotr’s brother, Uncle Vladimir? He watched his uncle’s blood seep onto the ground from the bullet wound to his head.
A quiet rage burned in Ilya Kovshevnikov’s chest.
Chapter 3
November 2006—San Francisco, California
Three days later, Leine completed the Glushenko job—her way—and flew back home to Northern California, her misgivings about continuing to work for Eric at the forefront of her mind.
What the hell was she going to do? It wasn’t like she could put “former assassin” on a résumé.
Too many years ago Eric had found Leine at a gun range near her home in San Diego, shortly after her father was killed during a covert operation for the army. At sixteen, she was an expert markswoman thanks to her father’s insistence she become proficient with every kind of firearm available. She also had a firm working knowledge of hand-to-hand combat and could hold her own in a brawl with aggressors twice her size.
In addition to the barely suppressed rage that burned inside of her from losing both parents at a young age—her mother had died of cancer two years earlier—Leine had the practical skills Eric liked to see in his recr
uits. She basked in his attention and lavish praise and was soon his protégé at the Agency.
If Leine quit the Agency now, she’d have to freelance. Working as an assassin for hire for anyone who came along didn’t suit her, and she was loath to make abrupt changes in her life. She had a teenage daughter to care for, and resigning would change their lives. They’d have to leave their peaceful, albeit expensive, home on the vineyard near the foothills of Calistoga. The generous paycheck she received each month would be difficult to match elsewhere, no matter what kind of job she found.
Besides, she believed in what she did: take out the dirtbags of the world to make it a safer, saner, place. A kind of legacy to leave her daughter.
She pulled up outside of her friend Marta’s deceptively plain house on the outskirts of Santa Rosa and parked. Marta and her husband, James, were her daughter’s godparents, and they looked after her whenever Leine had to leave.
“Good to see you,” Marta said when she answered the door. Leine walked inside and they embraced. Marta was from Spain and had met James when he’d been in Madrid studying architecture. They married and moved to California, where James was a partner in a local firm.
“April,” Marta called up the stairs, “your mom’s here.” She smiled at Leine. “Can you stay a while? I know James would love to see you.”
“Sorry, much as I’d like to, we need to get home,” Leine said. April bounded down the stairs, two at a time, purple backpack in hand, her long auburn hair streaming behind her. Tall and slender, she had a defiant look in her green eyes, reminding Leine of herself.
Damn, she looks more like me every day. Disconcerting, to say the least.
April gave Marta a hug goodbye. At five-nine she towered over the older woman. She glanced behind Leine. “Where’s Carlos?”
“He’s still overseas, but should be back tomorrow.” Eric had given him a last-minute assignment, and instead of coming home with Leine he’d flown to an undisclosed location.
