by John Ringo
"Sawn, Kildar, I'm in the back."
"We are so out of . . ."
"Mike, this is the President."
"Oh, Jesus, sir, not NOW."
"Mike, is the package in movement?"
"I can stop it!"
"Do you have any forces in the way?" the President asked remorselessly.
"I take it back!" Mike yelled. "I was JOKING. I can STOP it. I've never fucking FAILED, sir. I am not about to start now!" He took a breath as he hit the first curve. He could see the lights of the other Mercedes up ahead. The guy didn't have that much of a lead on him. "I can stop it, sir. I am in pursuit at this time. I am sending continuous coordinates. All that I ask is that if you drop, you drop on me and not my men. If you hit my position, at any time, you will destroy the target. If that changes, you'll be the second person to know," Mike added as the Mercedes skidded through another turn.
"Very well," the President said nervously. "I'm out of the connection."
"Thanks," Mike said. "I can concentrate on driving."
"Do we actually have track on him?" the President asked.
"Yes, sir," the major replied instantly. "His BFT pad is updating his location every second and a half. The B-2 has the same track point and should be tracking."
"Send them definite orders to track on that source," the President replied. "When the track point is four kilometers from the origin point, they are authorized to drop." He pulled a card out of his pocket and consulted it. "Code Alpha, Charlie, One, Five, Six, Bravo, Niner."
"Yes, sir," the major said, swallowing but tapping the orders into the B-2 link.
"Kurt!" Sergei said into his throat mike. "Kurt, can you hear me?"
"Is he the one guarding my daughter?" Arensky asked curiously.
He seemed awfully detached, almost catatonic. Some people got that way when things went bad. Sergei, though, prided himself on keeping a cool head.
"Just shut the fuck up," Sergei snarled. He just had to clear the area. But the road was a nightmare, slick, twisting and climbing up into the mountains. He'd barely gotten a couple of kilometers, maybe three, away from the firefight. He had to get farther . . .
"Things don't seem to be going very well," Arensky replied, glancing over his shoulder. "What, did you think the Russian government was just going to let you walk away with smallpox? They, and the American and the French and the Germans and the fucking Nigerians are going to be hunting you for the rest of your very short life. Give up now."
"Just shut the FUCK up!" Sergei screamed. "Or your daughter—"
"Is either dead or already rescued," Arensky said, evenly. "Either way, that threat has grown weary, no?"
"Then try this one," Sergei screamed, pulling out his pistol and holding it to the scientist's temple. "Say one more fucking word and you are going to be splattered all over that window."
Arensky raised his hands in surrender and then pulled on his seat belt to tighten it. As the mobster put his weapon away the scientist braced his feet and shifted in his seat, grasping at the seat handles. After a moment he checked his watch, then braced some more.
"What in the fuck are you doing?" Sergei ground out. He was definitely feeling ill about this. He was practically shaking. No matter how bad an op had gone, he never shook. He was iron. Everyone knew that.
"Just bracing myself," Arensky said. "Airbags aren't perfect. I'm glad you chose a Mercedes, through. Oh, and checking the time."
"Why?" Sergei asked, wiping at his forehead. He was definitely shaking. Damn. Damn this man. Damn this op. Damn those fuckers back there. Spetznaz probably. He'd probably trained some of them for fuck's sake!
"Because as you were bundling me about and threatening me I was slipping three small needles into your thigh," Arensky said. "You probably didn't notice the slight pain what with everything else. One of them was coated in a product derived of ergot. It causes a reaction called Saint Vitus' dance. Think of it as LSD. Psychotropic, hallucinogenic, very effective. You're probably already feeling the effects; it's fast stuff. If that didn't get you, the second was coated in a nasty little microbe that is found in sink drains worldwide. Very rarely kills anyone despite that; most people don't eat food they pick out of the sink drain. However, if it is cultured by an expert and then stuck into someone's thigh, it will spread through the bloodstream rather fast. Oh, it's not going to kill you for three or four days, but that one was guaranteed. The last was, I'm pretty sure, botulinus toxin. One of the tins of meat you left us was rather swelled and the resultant culture sure looked like botulinus. And botulinus is nasty. A teaspoon would kill a city. The amount I gave you would only kill, say, an elephant. By the way, that would have killed me if I'd eaten it. Such great care you took, too . . ."
Mike slowed the Mercedes as he saw the vehicle he'd been chasing suddenly swerve from side to side then roll off the road.
When he slid to a stop near the wreck all he could see was airbags. Frankly, he'd always thought Mercedes overdid the whole airbag thing. Sure, one in the front. Maybe ones on the sides. But that wasn't good enough for Mercedes, oh, no. They had them on both sides, front and back, top and in the middle. If you so much as hit a pole in a parking lot you were suddenly smothered in exploding balloons.
The Mercedes SUV was upside down in a ditch on the left side of the road, the driver's-side window pointed towards him. He and Sawn approached, weapons pointed forward, as the balloons slowly deflated.
The man hanging upside down in the straps was alive and, amazingly, unscratched from the crash. Okay, so maybe that many airbags had a purpose. On the other hand, he was having convulsions. It was clearly Sergei, though. He might be foaming at the mouth, but it was Sergei.
Mike considered putting a few rounds into his head and then thought better of it. The guy might have information they could use. Waste not and all that.
He ducked down and looked to the other side of the vehicle.
"And who are you?" Dr. Arensky asked.
"Mike Jenkins," Mike replied, head on the side to look through the vehicle. "I work for various people. Right now I'm getting paid to get you, and some stuff you're carrying, away from bad people."
"Oh, glad to meet you," Dr. Arensky said. "I seem to be stuck."
"Yeah," Mike said. "What's wrong with Sergei here?"
"Oh, that," Arensky said with a shrug. "Mr. Jenkins, can I call you Mike?"
"Sure," Mike said, trying not to giggle at the unreality. "Wait just a sec, though." He keyed his throat mike. "Hello, God on High. You still listening?"
"Go, Mike," the President answered, tensely.
"Got the package," Mike said. "Call off the flyboys. Arensky is alive as well. Getting out will be interesting, but the package is secure."
"Glad to hear it," the President said. "Good job. Tell me when the material is . . . fully safe."
"Yes, sir," Mike replied, unkeying the mike. "Just make sure you make the payments. Sorry, you were saying?"
"Mr. Jenkins, Mike, let me suggest something to you," Arensky said, smiling despite being stuck in the seatbelt and dangling upside down. "I know that you do a lot of hard things in your line of work. That you piss off a lot of people."
"That's a given," Mike said, tilting his head again.
"Mike, Mr. Jenkins, my friend," Arensky said, grinning. "Let me give you one piece of advice. Take it for what you will. Piss off terrorists, piss off mobsters, piss off your president if you wish. But never ever piss off a microbiologist."
Chapter Thirty-Two
The BFT device in Adams' thigh pocket buzzed just for a moment. Time.
The snipers were using .338 Whisper sniper rifles. The rifles were big as was the round, but it was subsonic and the silencers were integral, part of the mass of the rifle. The two guards at the front door, shielding their cigarettes against the wind and rain, never knew what hit them. They slumped straight down, red blotches staining the wall behind them where their heads used to be.
The strike team crossed the road fast and sil
ently. Shota was in the lead but even before he reached the door two teams of two Keldara each split left and right down the side of the building. The rest stacked behind the leaders, spread to either side in two wings of heavily armed, and armored, figures.
Adams was two men behind Shota and prayed that the big Keldara was finally going to get it right.
The big man was wearing body armor normally carried only by demolition squads: massive torso armor, heavy leg coverings and a helmet with integrated blast-shield faceplate. In addition, extra heavy-duty ceramic "chickenplates" had been installed not only in the torso but also thighs, shins and cup over the crotch. The armor and plates would have slowed a lesser man to a waddle, but Shota trotted up to the door, stopped, pressed the shotgun against the lock and triggered one round.
The blast of the shotgun rang through the street like an alarm but it didn't even occasion a shout. Too many guns were fired for too many reasons in Gamasoara for anyone to notice a single shot.
That was about to change.
The Keldara, despite the fifty-pound padding on his leg, kicked the door hard enough that it was flung off its hinges, then . . .
Took one, two, three, four, FIVE steps into the room. At a good solid trot. Hallelujah!
Of course, while he was doing that he was being fired on from three separate directions. Three of the former Spetznaz guards had been playing poker at the table in the front room and did not react kindly to a large man blasting their door down.
The heavy duty body armor shrugged off even the point-blank rounds from AK assault rifles and before Shota could finish his trot, Oleg and Adams were through the door, leaning to either side and using his bulk, and armor, as cover.
Three short bursts, nine rounds of 5.56 high velocity bullets and the former Spetznaz were down and dead. They were wearing body armor, too. But there was a qualitative difference between theirs and Shota's. And 5.56, at these ranges, had the penetration to break anything less.
Not that either Adams or Oleg fired at their center of mass.
Shota shot one as he was falling. It seemed like the thing to do. Nobody had said you weren't supposed to shoot someone, just because their head had been turned to pulp by three 5.56 rounds. No women, no kids. Dead bodies didn't count as either.
"NEXT DOOR!" Adams shouted, pointing across the small entry room. As he said it, there was a "crack" of a grenade from in the building. "MOVE!"
Each of the rooms down the hallway had a window.
Each of the rooms was occupied by men, identified as Russian guards. Valid targets.
Each of the windows had simple panes of glass protecting the interior from the elements.
But like a baseball thrown by an overzealous child, which flies out and breaks mommy's plate glass window as the children who had been playing watch in horror and fascination, hand grenades have no problem breaking such panes.
Less.
"This hardly seems fair," Danes said, plucking another frag grenade from the pouch at his side and arming it.
"Says you," Jachin replied as the window two behind the current one exploded outward in fire. "They can always toss them back."
He pulled the pin and threw it through the window, hard and to the side, so that it was likely to hit the far wall and bounce around a bit. They might just reach it in time for it to explode.
Danes followed with his own, thrown up through the broken window, aimed at the ceiling. He could see forms moving in the darkness as men scrambled to throw on clothes, body armor, grab weapons, whatever was necessary to prepare themselves for a battle out of nowhere. If either of them noticed the breaking window, they were far too encumbered to try to find the grenade bouncing around in the dark room.
He moved on. He wasn't going to be by the window when his present exploded.
"Open it!" Adams yelled. "Just use the knob!"
Shota paused and turned the doorknob, opening the door politely. Rifle fire cracked down the hallway in a much less polite fashion.
"Back!" Adams yelled, throwing a flashbang into the corridor then pulling Shota back from the door. "You okay?"
"Fine," Shota answered. "I am good. I like this armor."
The flash-bang went off with a massive "crack!" and a flash of light and heat.
"GO!" Adams yelled, yanking the massive Keldara around and pushing him into the hallway.
Shota shot one of the screaming men in the hallway in the face as a door near the far end blew in, throwing a body into the hall.
"Forget them!" Adams screamed. "CHARGE THE FAR DOOR. GO! NOW! TAKE IT DOWN."
Shota lowered his head and bulled forward, throwing the two remaining fighters in the hallway to the side as Adams stayed right behind him. He ignored the rooms to either side; the teams following him had them to deal with, and he could hear the cries of "CLEAR!" following him in a wave. There were occasional cracks of fire, one or two rounds, always followed by the "CLEAR!"
He was concentrated on the far door. That was the target, the only thing that mattered.
One more defender and they were done.
Katya wasn't sure what caused the chair to suddenly scrape but she could tell by the sound that Kurt was on his feet. A moment later there was the shot from a gun. It wasn't a rifle like the Keldara used, something bigger, booming through the building. She heard a click, something like a briefcase might make opening. Then sharp, rapid footsteps.
Before the second burst of fire from the guards in the front room, Kurt was at her side. She felt the shackles come loose and longed to use her special fingernails on the bastard. But with the blindfold still on she couldn't be sure quite where to strike. And she knew she'd only get one shot.
He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her across the room. There was a click of something again and a dragging sound. She slid her hands up to her head and flicked the blindfold up just as she was yanked forward again. She had just enough time to see that the fireplace in the room was false, a doorway that led to a tunnel. But the second yank forced her to stumble forward, completely off balance and held up only by her hair. For a moment the pain half blinded her; then she had her balance back again and prepared to strike. Before she could the light was extinguished again as the false fireplace slid back into place. Kurt let her go and all she could do was stand in stygian darkness.
"We expected some such stupid attempt by the Russian government," Kurt said, flicking on his flashlight. "The best of the Russian special forces leave for better opportunities. Such as this one. You will be coming with me. Don't think to try anything stupid."
"Why Herr Schwenke, why would you think I would do anything stupid," Katya said, flicking the blindfold off and sweeping her fingers up to rake at his face.
Schwenke was fast, credit him for that. The strike that should have taken out an eye, and pumped his eye socket full of neurotoxin, just grazed one cheek.
"It's the little Russian hooker," Schwenke said, springing back and flashing the light in her face. He gave a chortle. "How very . . . rich."
"Katya Ivanova at your service," Katya said, taking up a cat stance and mentally triggering the combat hormones held in a pouch under her left arm. She could feel the world slowing down and, to her, her speech blurring. There was a distant explosion but her ears automatically muted it, her vision focusing down to concentrate on the target. "Or, rather, in the service of the Kildar. You may call me Cottontail."
"The fucking Keldara," Schwenke said with a grin. "You switched you little bi—" He had automatically reached for his gun and as it came out in an expert draw it slid from nerveless fingers to the floor. "Wha . . ." He swayed and nearly dropped the flashlight as well but seemed to draw strength from some inner well. "What did you do to me, you bitch?"
"You have your cocktails, I have mine," Katya answered, sliding forward gracefully, hands held in a panther strike position, nails forward and hooked. "In this case, a little neurotoxin, made from cobra venom or so they told me. Courtesy of the United States government. I have the ant
idote. It's in my fangs. You're welcome to sample it."
Schwenke sprang backward then carefully knelt and came up holding a smaller pistol from an ankle holster. But his hands shook so hard he was going to have a difficult time hitting even a target as relatively large as Katya. He clearly knew that.
"Who is the cobra and who the mouse, now?" Katya asked, swaying from side to side as the man backed away. "Can you hit me little man? Or can I pump you full of my little cocktail, first?"
She slid forward and sideways, striking at the gun hand. Kurt fired while backpedaling. Both missed.
