I curse and roll sideways. Heavy slugs chew the dirt around my boots and I thrust behind a screen of Junipers. That grants me momentary cover and gives me a few precious seconds to make my next move.
I ignore the helo's blazing searchlight and the gunner's barking rifle. I ignore the bullets that drill the undergrowth and trees around my position. Instead I focus on reloading the GP-25 and prime it to fire.
I grasp the weapon and raise it to my shoulder and hazard a glance around my cover. The Bravda helo's circling and closing for the kill. I tighten my trigger finger. It's now or never. It's do or die.
The helo soars closer. I slit my eyes and aim by instinct and loose another grenade. I'm rewarded by a red-orange flash as the grenade strikes. The Raptor jerks nose-down and its cockpit disintegrates. Broken Plexiglas and mangled metalwork spray the trees.
The stricken bird rolls and vaults into a death-spin. The door gunner flings from his seat and his rifle's lost.
He doesn't fall to the ground. Instead he dangles on his safety harness and slams headfirst into a giant Birch. Stunning impact shatters his skull in a burst of brains and flying teeth. Now he's dead weight and his corpse dangles on its leash like a headless mannequin.
Meantime the Raptor plunges end-over-end and crashes inverted. This time there's no explosion. There's gray vapor and wafting smoke. I probe the wreckage. The battered cockpit's empty. If the Bravda pilot survived I wish him luck. All bad.
I check my GPS and strike off through the trees. As I move I'm alert for danger and I keep the Ultimax up and ready. There's no point taking chances.
I reach the Jeep and stow my gear and leap behind the SUV's wheel and fire its HEMI. I pull a U-turn and roar along the trail and my headlights cut through the gloom. I scan my wing mirror for tails and find none.
I turn onto paved road and head south. A brand-new waypoint's programmed into my GPS.
I focus on my next move. There's another chance to nail Anton Zorin before the night's over. Granted it's a long shot but I have to try. I have to claw the bastard down. I hit the Jeep's accelerator and rocket toward another rendezvous with death.
TWO
Great Kills Park, Staten Island
Ninety minutes later
I leave Highway 440 and cruise east on Rockland Avenue. I'm guided by my GPS. I'm heading toward Anton Zorin's private estate. There's no guarantee I'll find the Bravda honcho but I mean to try. I mean to kill the SOB if I get a clear shot.
Zorin's forty-five and hails from the mean streets of Banakial. That's a tough-as-nails ghetto on the outskirts of Moscow. He served hard time in the old country for armed assault and smuggling contraband. He used bribes and blackmail to get his sentence cut short.
Three years ago he arrived in the U.S. with a false ID and a duffel bag stuffed with cash. He hit the ground running and murdered an informant working for the NYPD. He mailed the man's severed head to the District Attorney with a note that read FOOLS DIE.
To Zorin it was simple business and there was more work ahead. He organized a fierce and ruthless Bravda crew. His soldiers swore loyalty on pain of death.
That paved the way for Zorin's next move. He tested his mettle in a bloody turf war against other transplanted thugs. In this case the Albanian Mob. Battle lines stretched from NYC's Lower East Side to the north Bronx.
Zorin killed at least twenty men with guns and knives and bare hands. His reputation for bloody payback earned him the nickname Ubitsya. In Russia that means killer.
Over the next five years Zorin built an evil empire. His stock-in-trade was narcotics. It still is. Also gunrunning and loan sharking and prostitution and human trafficking. Zorin's a savage and the worst of the worst. Damn right.
I narrow my eyes and tense my jaw. My soul's pierced by hate and black rage. Military service channels that rage and hones it to a razor edge.
Likewise military service saved me from a troubled past. I grew up wild and mean and my life on the streets was endless war. The answer was to make war my profession. I enlisted in the U.S. Army and braved Special Forces training. The Green Berets.
I followed with tours in Iraq and Afghanistan and Syria and a dozen other war zones. I led deep recons into North Korea and Iran and Siberia. Recons. Yeah. And covert assassinations. My squad conducted long-range strikes behind enemy lines. A real-life A-Team.
Later there was personal devastation. I lost my pregnant wife to a brutal crime. I snared the men responsible and gave them the deaths they deserved.
When it was over I turned myself in at Fort Bragg and I expected the rope. But my commander had other ideas. He needed a soldier prepared to operate beyond the limits of the law. He laid out a secret plan to crush extreme criminals and terrorists.
He called his plan Project Brimstone. Like fire and brimstone. Like God's wrath in the Bible.
I went all in with Brimstone and now I hunt monsters like Zorin. I deliver justice from the barrel of a gun.
My GPS squawks and I turn hard right. I pass a hulking concrete structure. It's the long-closed Vinkman Insane Asylum and a sign on its locked gate reads KEEP OUT.
I turn left onto Black Marsh Road and after twelve miles I reach wooded terrain. My GPS squawks again and tells me I've reached my destination.
I turn off the road onto an unpaved trail and after fifty yards I brake and park. I'm surrounded by towering Firs and deep shadows. As always I take a moment to scan my surroundings. As always I grasp Warhammer and keep the big pistol braced for action.
I probe for signs of an ambush and find none. I quit the Jeep and pull the rest of my gear and after final checks I'm ready. I'm fitted with the grim tools of death.
Besides personal weapons I carry my captured AKSU assault rifle. It's equipped with a full 75-round drum magazine. Its GP-25 grenade launcher's loaded with HE and ready for action. Spare grenades hang across my chest in their stolen bandoleer.
I secure the Jeep and check my GPS and shove off. My route takes me through the trees across sloping terrain. I'm near the park's rugged coastline. Beyond lies the cold North Atlantic and I glimpse dark waves crashing onto jagged rocks.
Gray fog crawls inland and seeps through the trees and coils around me. Soon it engulfs me and its chill penetrates bone deep. The fog's an ally. Sure. I wear it like a cloak and it hides my advance.
I reach the estate's private marina. A Bravda sentry's posted on the short pier. He's gazing at the vast moonlit ocean. He's distracted and that's a fatal mistake.
I pull my Tanto war knife. The Tanto's blade is eight-inches long and black-coated and razor sharp. I'm a believer in edged weapons. They're efficient death-dealers at close range. They never jam or need reloading and they're damn-near silent in trained hands.
It's time to move. I leave the shelter of overhanging trees and stalk parallel to the shore. I reach the pier. The Tanto's locked in my fist and raised and I'm ready to strike.
The guard's twenty feet ahead as I edge up on his blind side. I plant each step with precision to avoid loose rocks and conifer cones. I've got to maximize stealth.
I shift closer and the guard's oblivious to my approach. He's still peering offshore. His profile's etched in the moonlight at a range of twenty feet.
I advance with determined speed and I'm focused on the kill. I close the remaining gap in three long strides. As I move I thrust out my free hand to cover the Bravda's mouth. I give his head a violent twist and slash with the Tanto.
My strike severs the man's jugular and splits his carotid artery. Blood sprays in fat droplets. I kick behind the sentry's knee and he folds and goes limp. I ease the corpse onto the pier and wipe the Tanto's blade clean on its jacket.
I sheath the knife and roll the corpse off the pier into dark water. There's a heavy splash. It's muffled by crashing waves in the near distance.
I shift inland toward my goal. I cover fifty paces and sentry number two appears. This one's more alert with his rifle braced against his hip. He's ready for action.
There's too much risk in using the Tanto this time. Instead I leave the knife in its sheath and draw my Uzi submachine gun. It's fitted with a twelve-inch Sionics suppressor. The sound can reduces the Uzi's normal bark to a stuttering rattle.
I brace the subgun against my shoulder and give a low whistle. The Bravda spins toward me and raises his rifle but it's too late.
I hit the Uzi's trigger and loose a three-shot burst of Scimitar hardpoints. The 9-millimeter solid-copper Scimitars tumble after impact. That causes massive wounds in human flesh.
All three bullets strike the man's chest at 1500 feet per-second. Blood jets from his gaping wounds and he topples with a muffled grunt. His heels drum on a bed of Fir needles and his corpse goes limp.
I step across the body and continue on. Two down and how many left?
I have to stay vigilant. I re-check my flanks and backtrack. No one appears but shifts will change and there's a risk fresh guards might find me.
It's time to move and I forge ahead. My route takes me upslope for a quarter hour. I crest a rugged cliff and spot a brooding mansion. It's two hundred yards inland. It's Zorin's lair. It's an HQ and a nerve center.
I shift along the cliff's edge through swirling fog. I concentrate to make sure I don't veer off course. One misstep and I'll plunge off the cliff. Endgame.
I need to reach the mansion's rear gate and start my penetration. Then I'll find Zorin and kill him. Speed and grit will give me the edge I need. Provided I don't run into an errant gunner. Provided my luck holds firm.
I cover fifty more paces and reach a looming boulder. There's sudden motion and a guard steps around the rock and spots me. We're at bad-breath range. We missed each other in the dark and fog.
The Bravda's eyes flare wide in shock and he raises his weapon. There's no time to aim and I react without thinking.
I smash the Uzi's metal butt against the man's forehead. He gasps and drops his rifle and staggers back with a stunned expression. My strike carves an ugly gash across his hairline and blood gushes down his temples.
I draw the Tanto and lunge but I never get the chance to strike. The guard backflips and plunges over the edge of the cliff. It's a drop of ninety feet.
I peer down into stormy darkness. Breakers hiss and churn across jagged rocks. I glimpse the guard's pale face uplifted on the swell. Then he's sucked away and doesn't reappear.
I check my wristwatch and scowl. I'm behind schedule. It's a matter of time before someone finds the dead guards. Or they fail to report in. There's no time to waste and the doomsday clock's running. Each second hits like a hammer inside my skull. Each second brings new danger.
I veer along the cliff and reach another stand of Firs. I shift through the woods and in minutes I reach my waypoint. I'm fifty yards from the mansion's rear gate. A six foot-high brick wall encircles the house and grounds.
I stay inside the trees and drop into a crouch. There's one task to complete before I move out. It's a vital step in my assault.
I spring a Wasp micro drone and launch it from the palm of my hand. The Wasp weighs forty ounces and it's made from carbon fiber. It's designed for special ops and proven in combat. Navy SEALs used a Wasp to scout Osama bin Laden's hideout in Pakistan.
I guide the drone with a Remote Control Unit. The RCU's 4K view screen gives me an image of the ground. That comes from an infrared camera mounted in the Wasp's belly.
I pilot the Wasp downrange. Its fan motor produces a faint hum and it won't alert Bravda personnel. I keep my eyes on the view screen.
The Wasp glides over the stone wall. Its camera reveals manicured grass punctuated by Junipers and Red Oaks. I nose the Wasp farther downrange and Zorin's mansion appears.
I study its layout in detail. It's a sprawling Gothic design. It's dark and solemn and ugly. A gravel driveway loops around the manse and connects to front and rear entry gates.
I roll the Wasp into a circular flightpath and keep scanning. Red blobs show on-screen and they're Bravda guards. They're patrolling the mansion's exterior. I count twelve men and I reckon I'll find at least a dozen more guns inside the house.
Another blob shows on my screen and it's smaller than a human form. I zoom the Wasp's camera and the image intensifies and I recognize a roving guard dog. That's no surprise and I'm prepared.
My drone scan's complete and I guide the Wasp back toward my location and land it and stow it. I palm a Spyhawk counter-surveillance unit. I point the Spyhawk's antenna downrange and get an alert. There's a CCTV security camera and it's dead-ahead. It's mounted over the rear gate.
I have to blind the camera before I can proceed. I palm a Stingray anti-sensor gun and aim it at the CCTV and pull the Stingray's trigger. That sends an invisible EMP pulse downrange. The pulse will fry the CCTV's circuitry. At least I hoped so. I'm counting on it.
I use the Spyhawk to read the camera's activity and confirm it's out of action. I stow my electronic gear and kick off running. I cover thirty yards of open ground and reach the wall and climb with nimble motions.
Atop the wall I crouch like a gargoyle. I draw a Vet-Gun dart pistol and thumb off its safety. I blow my whistle. It's ultrasonic and canines alone can hear it.
The dog I spotted charges into view and it's a Doberman Pinscher. A powerful breed. The Doberman's responding to the whistle call. His action's based on instinct and training. It's a show of loyalty and courage.
I aim the Vet-Gun and hit its trigger. There's a soft pop and the gun's CO-2 cartridge propels a tranquilizer dart on target.
The Doberman's on full alert and snarling and bounding toward my position. The .22-caliber dart impacts and he staggers and sits down and rolls over. He's inert and no longer a threat.
The Doberman's a hunter and I respect his mission. He's not my true enemy. Have I missed any more canines?
I reload the Vet-Gun and blow my whistle. No other Dobermans charge or bark and I'm satisfied. I stow the dart gun and the whistle and stay crouched atop the wall. The fog coils around me. It seeps across the estate's grounds and swirls around the mansion's Gothic parapets.
I let my combat senses probe for any sign of hostile action. There's motion at the farthest edge of my sight. I crouch even lower on the wall. I keep the Uzi's suppressor pointed toward the motion and catch hushed voices.
I narrow my eyes and spot three man-shapes advancing in my direction. Three Bravda guards on patrol. The men push through the fog and follow a route along the estate's perimeter. I stay immobile. I'm trusting in the dark and fog to conceal my profile.
I face a decision. I can let the guards go and continue my penetration. Or I can hit the men with my Uzi and drop them in their tracks. If I let the men go I've avoided the risk of premature exposure. If I kill them I'll shave the odds by three.
I make my decision and aim the Uzi as the murky figures step closer. Another moment and the men emerge through the swirling fog. They carry sidearms and Saiga combat shotguns. I don't waste time trying to determine their exact orders. It's enough to know I have to nail them.
The nearest Bravda poses the greatest threat and I target him first. I aim and draw the Uzi's trigger. A Scimitar slug explodes in the man's face and he topples over flaccid.
The man next to him gasps in shock and swings his Saiga in my direction. But he's too slow. A Scimitar drills his forehead and he spins and tumbles.
The third man's spattered with blood and he opens his mouth to shout a warning. He never gets the chance. A Scimitar shatters his jaw and two more bullets drill his torso. He folds beside his comrades and the three corpses lie silent and stiff.
I scan for more Bravda sentries and find none. It's time to move. I leap off the wall and drop inside the estate and hit a fighting crouch. I hold the Uzi ready and let my combat feelers probe. There's no visible opposition.
I spring up and bound over the dead men and lope toward the house. I reach a stout Juniper and drop behind its foliage. I'm fifty yards from the mansion's sprawling rear patio.
I grit my tee
th. How much longer before the carnage behind me's discovered? How long before someone raises a Red Alert? How long do I have to complete my penetration?
I prime myself for a headlong rush toward the mansion's patio door. I carry a lock-cracking kit and that should get me inside the house. In theory. I'm about to shove off when security lights blaze. The halogen glare drives needles into my eyes and imprints onto my retinas.
A frantic shout goes up to my right. I pivot in that direction and keep low as someone fires an automatic weapon. It's metallic clatter sounds like a submachine gun. Doubtless a 9-millimeter like my Uzi.
Bullets streak past my temples and I curse and go to ground. I'm covered by the Juniper's stout trunk and low-hanging limbs. I pull the Uzi's suppressor and stow it. The time for stealth's over and the weapon handles faster without a sound can hanging off its muzzle.
Hard Target Page 3
