My combat senses are on full alert and probing 360. I listen. There's something. A sound. A scuffle of footsteps in the darkness.
I crouch lower and pull my Tanto knife. I won't risk gunfire outside the warehouse. Even my suppressed Uzi makes some noise and that could bring more trouble.
The footsteps grow louder and they're accompanied by muted voices. I narrow my eyes and spot man-shapes pacing toward my position. It's two Bravda sentries making their rounds and they're armed with AK-47s. I missed them on my earlier recon.
In hindsight it makes sense. A foot patrol's prudent considering what's stashed inside the warehouse. The sentries edge closer. I stay silent and immobile and steeped in shadow. I won't engage. Any premature contact with the enemy could jeopardize my entry.
The sentries pass by twenty feet away and keep walking. I breathe deep and relax. I'm unseen. Undetected. I've used cunning and stealth to keep myself hidden.
The guards freeze in their tracks and one man whispers to the other. He turns and treads back toward my position. I mouth a silent curse. Somehow my cover's blown.
In truth most combat infiltrations are prone to fail. There's no such thing as an invisible soldier. It might happen in Hollywood movies but not in real life.
I tense with the Tanto and I'm ready to strike. The Bravda slings his rifle and reaches for his pant zipper as he nears the Dumpster. Now I realize. He hasn't seen me. He's answering nature's call.
The guard reaches the edge of the shed and steps between the Dumpsters. Now he spots me and reaches for his AK. But he never makes it.
I lunge with the Tanto and drive its eight-inch blade into his throat below his chin. I use my other hand to grab his shoulder and yank him off balance. He tumbles and I drive the Tanto deeper and twist to carve his voice box so he can't scream.
A geyser of blood erupts from his wound and sprays my gloved hand and wrist. The stricken man hits the ground faceup and claws at me with both hands. I pull the Tanto and slam its blade into his solar plexus.
There's another jet of blood and warm specks hit my face. I thrust the knife deeper and the gunner arches his back and shudders and goes stiff. One down. I drag the corpse into deep shadow then hazard a glance around the Dumpster.
The second guard's glowering with his AK slung across his chest. He calls out. "Mikhail?" Of course there's no answer. The man steps closer. "Mikhail!"
I'm ready with the Tanto and it's a cold extension of my right arm. The Bravda steps around the Dumpster and sees me and tries to swing his AK rifle in my direction. He never makes it.
I clamp my free hand to cover his mouth and slash with the Tanto. My strike severs his jugular and splits his carotid artery. He gushes blood and crumples and his death tremors fade and he goes stiff. Two down and how many left to battle?
I scowl and mouth a silent curse. The clock's ticking. Fast. It's a matter of time before someone finds the dead sentries or notices they're missing.
I sheath the Tanto and scan for more threats and find none. Yet. I kick off toward the warehouse and reach a loading dock and find a retracting metal door. Doubtless it's locked and even if it isn't I can't risk the din of pulling it open.
I press on and reach a fire escape. Its lowest rung's ten feet above ground level with a spring-loaded ladder. I make a running jump and grasp the ladder and pull it down on well-greased hinges.
I scramble up and reach the building's flat roof. So far and so good. My luck's holding.
A row of skylights marches down the center of the roof and each one's six feet wide. Through each window I get a grimy view of boxes and crates piled to varying heights.
Doubtless there's more freight on the floors below. Most of it's legit merchandise but hidden within there's a vast cache of opioids. Enough to poison the entire east coast.
I scramble toward the middle skylight. It's secured with a heavy padlock. A high-security model that's marketed as pickproof. No matter. I've come prepared. I kneel and open my backpack and spring bolt cutters and use them to snap the padlock.
I lay the cutters and the severed lock aside and raise the skylight's pane. Rusty hinges squeal in protest and I pause and scan for danger. There's no sign of alarm and no one rushes to investigate. My luck's still holding.
I prop the skylight half-open on a built-in strut. That leaves enough room for me to slip down and make my entry.
First I need to complete another task and it's a vital part of my plan. I reach again into my backpack and pull a SpyScan fiber-optic camera. Its semi-rigid plastic wire allows me to see past obstacles and that makes it perfect for my next move.
I need to recon the floor's interior layout. That way I'll be points ahead when I'm make my drop.
I activate the SpyScan's 4K view screen and lower the camera wire through the open skylight. That gives an image of the storage area with its boxes and crates. I rotate the curved wire to scan the room.
There's a large observation window that overlooks the lower levels of the warehouse. There's a glassed-in office and it's occupied even at this late hour.
A man sits at a desk in a high-back chair and he's focused on a glowing PC screen. I hit a button on the SpyScan's controller and zoom the image.
The man's face comes into sharp relief and it's Igor Petrov. There's no question. I can't mistake those blocky features and black hooded eyes.
Petrov wears a short-sleeve shirt. I study the Bravda tattoos on his arms. Stylized scorpions with Cyrillic script. More tattoos reach up from under his collar and coil around his neck and throat.
My intel's proven correct about the location of Petrov's office. It's proven correct about his presence here tonight. I reposition the SpyScan lens and probe the area beneath the skylight. I search for guards and find none. No one's waiting to snag me when I hit ground zero.
I retract the SpyScan and stow it in my backpack. Now I have to get inside. Then I'll snatch Petrov and make him spill Anton Zorin's location.
I unzip my jacket and pull the Uzi and let it hang on its sling across my chest. I slip my feet through the opening and hang by my fingertips and peer down.
I'm positioned to land on a sturdy crate six feet below. From there it's a short hop to the floor itself. Simple. Sure. No big deal.
I draw a breath and lock it behind gritted teeth and release my grip. At the same instant my gut pulls tight and I know something's wrong. I've miscalculated my drop. I hit the crate off-center and tumble sideways and hit the floor with a dull thud.
I roll and spring upright and mouth a curse. I've blown my chance at silent entry. I grasp the Uzi on its sling and sweep its stubby muzzle upright. There's no time to attach its suppressor.
The office door flings open and a figure appears and it's Petrov. His face is a mask of shock but he recovers fast and reaches for a pistol on his hip. I beat him to the punch with an Uzi burst.
Scimitar slugs bore in and Petrov's skull dissolves in a crimson halo. He topples facedown and his corpse twitches in a spreading pool of blood. Damn it! The mission's shot to hell.
There's a warning shout and running footsteps from the floor below. I pivot toward the room's access door in time to see it burst open.
A gunner lunges through and spots me and fires his wheelgun. I'm already diving and rolling and the bullet hurtles wide. Another bullet burns past my ear. I curse and level the Uzi one-handed and squeeze off a blazing salvo. Scimitars rip through the gunner's chest and he pitches sideways.
Another man follows with an AK rifle and I nail him with another Uzi salvo. He screams and spins out of the frame into bloody oblivion.
I scuttle behind a large crate and a shotgun roars from the edge of the doorway. Buckshot hammers the crate but no pellets reach me. I shift ahead and reach the end of the aisle and hazard a glance toward the open door. Three Bravdas crouch there with guns raised.
I palm an M-67 and yank its pin and lob the fragger at my opposition. A high-explosive blast splits the air and the three men reel under spraying shrapnel
.
I follow through with a 9-millimeter burst that drills the smoky portal. I'm rewarded with screams and glimpse bloody figures sprawling onto the floor.
The Uzi's bolt locks back on empty and I ditch the spent magazine and reload fast. I glance at Petrov's corpse and curse again. My prime objective's a wash but I can get lethal payback. Hell yeah.
I reach inside my jacket and pull an M-9A1 incendiary grenade. It's another design from the Picatinny Arsenal. The M-9's filled with napalm and it'll start a raging fire and burn this filthy den to ash.
I pivot toward the room's observation window and aim the Uzi and fire a zigzag blast. The window explodes in an outward avalanche of pebbled safety glass. I free the M-9's pin and toss it through the opening.
The green cylinder tumbles and plunges into the depths of the main warehouse. The grenade's fuse blows and there's a bright flash as the napalm ignites. There's a whooshing roar as the napalm spreads in flaming liquid streamers.
I prime a second M-9 and pitch it through the window in a different direction. There's another napalm blast and another burst of flame. The building's fire alarm shrieks and sprinklers burst overhead but it's too late. The system's not meant to fight U.S. Army fire-bombs.
I've got a single M-9 remaining and I won't let it go to waste. I arm the burner and lob it across Petrov's corpse into his office. The can bounces over his desk and blows in gushing napalm. Acrid fumes flare my nostrils and there's a rippling heat wave.
It's time to go and I shove off and reach a fire exit door and kick it open. I bail out and race down the fire escape. Black smoke billows from the warehouse and trails me as I descend.
I reach the fire escape's bottom rung and leap onto the ground. I land on all fours and wobble and regain my balance.
There's motion and an armed figure appears. I roll sideways into cover behind the loading dock. At the same time the Bravda's shotgun roars. It's aimed high as the man seems unsure of his target.
Two cracks of muffled thunder signal explosions inside the warehouse. I take advantage of the momentary distraction and break from cover. I fire my Uzi on the run and tag the shotgunner before he can react. He topples and triggers a spastic shotgun blast toward the moon.
I keep running. A Magnum handgun explodes behind me and a bullet slams between my shoulder blades. The hammer-blow impact pitches me onto my face and I gasp and gulp air. The world blurs and I groan and suck more air and blink hard to clear my vision.
I grit my teeth and push upright and kick off running. My Kevlar bullet-proof vest stopped the slug that should've killed me. There's a raw throbbing pain where the bullet struck and doubtless a nasty bruise. At least the slug didn't penetrate the vest.
As I run I fire the Uzi one-handed over my shoulder. A hasty slashing burst. I don't know or care where the bullets strike. I need to delay any trailing Bravdas and buy time.
I turn and reach the fence and shove through the flap I cut earlier. There's another explosion inside the warehouse and I glance across my shoulder. Thunder convulses the night and a toadstool of flame rears from the building's roof.
I shove upright and bolt downrange and a wail of sirens hits my ears. I wish the city fire fighters good luck and hope the warehouse will be ashes when they arrive. That way it'll pose minimum risk and work.
I reach the Jeep and leap inside and fire its HEMI and roar out of the alley. I veer onto the street on squealing rubber and spot a Bravda Escalade. It's surging away from the warehouse and through its main gate. I mean to engage. Damn straight.
I won't let the bastards escape. I drop my window and pull my Glock 17 and brace it across my wing mirror and charge ahead. The Escalade rolls toward me in the oncoming lane.
I aim the Glock with cold precision. The Bravda driver sees it coming and spins his wheel and veers from my line of fire. I correct and squeeze off a Black Talon burst. The Escalade's windshield disintegrates and the driver's face dissolves into something inhuman. Something horrific.
I hit the Jeep's accelerator once more and I'm past the swerving SUV. I check my rearview and watch the unguided Escalade drift sideways. It loses speed and rams a light post and shudders on impact.
I rocket through an open intersection and crank a hard left on Scarsdale Road. In my wing mirror the warehouse glows red-hot and melts onto its foundation.
Chemicals and burning opioids combine to feed the inferno. Burning shrapnel rains from the structure and there's a pulsing heat blur. Tongues of fire reach out to sear a fleeing Bravda. He screams and beats at his burning hair and clothes with melting hands.
I put the hellstorm behind and veer hard left and hit I-287. I reach the Tappan Zee Bridge and power west toward New Jersey.
After fifteen minutes I clear the bridge and turn south on Crusher Road. At a red light I pull my iPhone and fire off a coded text message. Moments later I get a confirmation. I've asked for an emergency meet and my contact's agreed.
I leave Crusher and roll south toward Weehawken township. Thirty minutes later I cross the Weehawken Turnpike and head east on Newkirk Road. I find my exit and turn on Zep Street. My rearview mirror shows no tails. So far I'm clean.
I turn left on Zep and park outside the meeting place. It's called The Big Shot Sports Bar. There's a three-story building on my left. I grimace. A sniper could be hiding there and ready to loose a shot.
Tense seconds elapse. Nothing explodes in my face and that's a good thing. A bullet in the chops won't help me. Not one bit.
Hannibal Chang's green Fiat 500 angles into view and he's dead on schedule. He turns and parks so our cars point in opposite directions. Now our open driver's windows align.
I lock eyes with my contact. He's a thin-faced Asian with a Fu Manchu mustache. He's a paid snitch. "You've got the information?" I ask without delay.
Chang nods and spits out an address on Manhattan's Lower East Side. It's the location of Zorin's tenth-floor penthouse. Doubtless he's not home but I might find clues to his present whereabouts. It's a meager lead. Granted. There's nothing left to do but try.
I pull cash and hand it to Chang. "Ten bills."
At the same instant I snap my gaze toward sudden motion. There's a moving shadow and it warns of imminent danger. It warns of imminent death.
A black Escalade swerves into view and the front passenger levels a shotgun. There's a muzzle flash and Magnum buckshot drills the Fiat's windshield. Chang's skull explodes and his bloody corpse shudders and slumps.
I curse and power out and check my mirror. The Escalade surges close behind and the shotgunner's primed for another attack. He aims and triggers a hasty shot. There's a blast of muzzle flame and heavy pellets wallop the Jeep's tailgate. Damn!
I veer into an empty parking lot and crank a U-turn and face the street. The Escalade turns toward me on screaming rubber. I'm ready. My window's down and the Glock's in my fist. I hit my accelerator and thrust ahead.
The chase driver swerves to evade and the passenger brings his 12-gauge into action. It's a slick move. Yeah. But it's too late.
I brace the Glock and trigger a blazing salvo. The shotgunner screams and gushes blood and lurches from sight. I snarl and squeeze off another salvo. Bullets rupture the Escalade's windshield and the driver falls slack and loses control.
I go ballistic and trigger a third hellfire barrage. The Escalade's front tires blow and it slews hard left and rams a Dumpster. There's a shriek of ruptured metal and all motion stops.
I reload the Glock and power back toward my opposition. I have to finish the job. I want revenge for Hannibal Chang.
A stocky figure bails from the Escalade. He raises a Skorpion machine pistol but he never makes the shot. Black Talons drill him and he twists and tumbles into a boneless heap.
I scan for new motion and find none. It doesn't take much mental effort to pin the dead men as a Bravda hit squad. Somehow Zorin discovered the meet and ordered a strike.
I spit a curse and punch out of the lot and hit the open road. I've got to as
sume the information Chang gave me's compromised. Which means it's useless. I mouth another curse. The mission's damn near FUBAR.
Headlights flare and blaze behind me and I check my wing mirror. A vehicle looms and I expect another Escalade. This time it's a Jaguar. An XJ sedan. Its V12 powerplant growls and it surges closer. It's a chase car and no mistake. Another Bravda hit squad.
I gun the Jeep and cut hard across two lanes of traffic and break off behind the main drag. The Jag swerves to follow on screeching tires. I'd prefer to shake the trackers but that's not realistic. Which means I need to stand and fight. Again.
There's a muzzle flash in my rearview and a bullet drills the Jeep's tailgate and zooms into empty space. I check the rearview again and glimpse the Jag bristling with guns. Steady fire crackles from the sedan's open windows.
Hard Target Page 6
