by Dalton Fury
Another transmission from Slapshot captured Kolt’s attention, this time sounding concerned. “Gunshots; you good up there?”
“Roger, hold tight,” Kolt said. “One scientist KIA, girlfriend critical. What do you have out there? Any sign of Marzban?”
Kolt stepped toward Digger as he waited for Slapshot’s sitrep. He raised his right forearm, eyed the silver scalpel sticking out three or four inches, and motioned to Digger to yank it out.
“Serious?” Digger asked.
“Do it!” Kolt said, grabbing a handful of the bedsheet, balling up one corner, and placing it in his mouth. He laid his arm on the small desk and took a knee, looking away from the wound.
Digger stepped forward, gripped the scalpel fully, and held the arm down with his other hand. Kolt noticed Olga had moved to the man with the broken arm, kneeling next to him as if she was offering comfort.
“Son of a bitch!” Kolt yelled, his voice muffled by the bedsheet.
Kolt stood, took the instrument from Digger, and walked to Olga. He bent over, placed the blood-covered blade in front of the Ukrainian man’s open eyes, and looked at Olga.
“You do it,” Kolt said, “or I will.”
“No. He is innocent.”
“Ask him where Marzban is.”
“He doesn’t know,” Olga said, her eyes pleading with Kolt to leave the man be.
“Ask.”
Olga looked at Kolt as if she was about to make a decision on who the real enemy was, Kolt or the Ukrainian national with the broken arm.
“Last time,” Kolt said. “Ask him.”
Olga stood, took the scalpel from Kolt, and quickly turned back to the man lying on his back. She delivered the toe of her boot to the man’s ribs as if she were taking a World Cup penalty shot. She slammed her right knee down onto the man’s chest, waved the blade in front of his eyes, and machine-gunned two dozen harsh words.
The man shook his head, panted heavily, visibly challenged to get out a verbal reply.
“He ain’t talking, boss,” Digger said.
Olga placed the scalpel on his neck, letting him feel the seriousness, and then reached over to the dead scientist lying in his own blood. She slammed the scalpel down into the man’s chest, looked back at her problem as if she wanted to confirm he noticed, and pulled it up and out. She spoke again, from what Kolt could tell, obviously losing patience with the man’s resistance.
“Do it,” Kolt said,
The man shook his head violently side to side a few times, before finally speaking.
“He said ambulance, boss,” Digger said, understanding at least one of the Russian words.
Kolt reached down, grabbing Olga under the arm again, and lifted her to her feet.
“Let’s go!”
“What about them?” Digger asked.
Kolt looked at Olga, then back at Digger. He knew the girl would bleed out, figuring she wouldn’t get much medical attention now, not any that could save her. As for the other guy, he held a different status than the scientist. Killing the scientist and the girlfriend was the mission. Killing the scalpel-wielding Ukrainian was illegal as shit. If Kolt wanted the man dead he should have choked him out versus sticking him with the paintbrush.
Kolt also knew killing the Ukrainian in cold blood would certainly turn Olga against them. Yes, Kolt knew, if he valued Olga’s indigenous skills, it just might be worth letting the man live, to preserve that.
“Leave them,” Kolt said. “We’re heading for the ambulances.”
Olga and Digger led the way, Kolt a few feet behind. They blew by the dozen rooms on either side of the hallway and passed the empty gurney without seeing any sign of other humans. Kolt watched Digger corner-clear the stairwell, then hit the stairs.
Now at the back door on the ground floor, Kolt stopped to peek out the door’s window, hoping to get a visual on the situation. He strained his neck to look both left, then right, hoping to see his operators posted nearby. Nothing.
“Damn,” Digger said, looking out the other window. “Can you believe that?”
Kolt turned his head, moving his focus toward the ambulances, all three still parked side by side. A row of knee-high bushes partially blocked his view, but the vehicles hadn’t moved an inch from where he saw the two stretchers loaded earlier.
Kolt keyed his hand mike. “Whatya got, Slapshot?”
“Count fifteen on the deck,” Slapshot said, “all facedown.”
“Dead?” Kolt asked, confused by Slapshot’s last.
“Behind the bushes, boss,” Digger said.
Kolt looked closer, focusing between the main shafts of the bushes, and realized there were bodies lying in the parking lot.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Kolt said, “did you?”
Kolt knew his men were running with suppressors, and that from inside on the second floor they wouldn’t hear anything. But, earlier, he was sure he had seen at least a dozen separatists from the second-floor window. He hadn’t counted them at the time, but that many bad guys usually drew a basic load of fragmentary grenades.
“Mexican stand-off at the moment,” Slapshot said from somewhere outside. “What’s your status?”
Kolt keyed his push-to-talk. “We’re up. At the black-side double doors.”
“Nothing’s moving out here,” Slapshot said.
Kolt thought it over, somewhat relieved that his men hadn’t smoked the Ukrainians outside. They were just in the way, not the mission, and being a nuisance didn’t come close to the threshold for declaring them a hostile threat. Not when they were lying on the ground. But Kolt knew they didn’t need any prisoners besides Marzban Tehrani.
“All elements, this is Noble Zero-One. We’re about to execute a call-out. Olga is leading out the back door.”
Kolt heard Slapshot acknowledge first, then heard Dealer break into the net.
“Be advised, the white side is unsecure. Watch your own six.”
Immediately, Kolt and Digger turned around and looked back toward the front doors and the counter where they had stashed the two separatists upon entering the foyer. Hearing Dealer’s warning, a situation they both knew was prompted by Kolt’s total isolation call on the ambulances out back, pegged Kolt’s spider senses, making him realize they had been careless with their security.
“Listen to me, Olga. We need you to walk out there and tell them we are here to take custody of the two men in the ambulance. Understand?”
“Digger, Russian lingo from here on out,” Kolt said.
“Rog,” Digger said.
“On what authority?” Olga asked, questioning Kolt’s order.
“Motherfucking Stalin’s authority!” Digger said.
Kolt turned to Digger and gave him the chill-out look before looking back at Olga.
“Look, we don’t want any more bloodshed here,” Kolt said, hoping to reason with her. “Whoever’s authority you think will work will do. Maybe Vladimir Putin.”
“They don’t resist Kiev because of Putin,” Olga said. “They think he is the devil.”
“Pick someone,” Kolt said. “Make it up for all I care. The others could return any moment now.”
“Sergei Kadyrov,” Olga said.
“Fine!” Digger said. “Let’s go.”
“He is known as the Chechen caretaker,” Olga said. “All in Ukraine fear him.”
“Perfect!” Kolt said. “We are right behind you. Keep them scared shitless, and Digger and I will go for the ambulance.”
Olga took a deep breath, reached up with her dirty hands and straightened her hat, then pushed a few fallen locks back up under the brim with her straight fingers.
“Moving!” Kolt transmitted.
Digger broke the door, letting Olga lead the way, and he followed her outside. Kolt made one last check of their six o’clock, Dealer’s warning still fresh in his mind.
Satisfied they were clear, Kolt caught up and passed Olga, barely letting her begin the ruse. Knowing their target was finally within grasp
, he resisted the urge to run to the back of the ambulance, and the desire to raise his rifle tactically. He knew they were vulnerable, but for the plan to work, to accomplish the mission and limit the bloodshed of anti-Ukrainian government forces, he needed to trust the Spetsnaz uniforms and Olga’s acting skills.
Not knowing what waited for them inside the back of the ambulance, Kolt stepped to the side of the door, grabbed the handle, and looked back at Digger. Kolt yanked it open, stepping out of the line of fire, and waited for his master breacher to engage or not.
“Clear!”
“Cover me,” Kolt said as he rotated the AKMS to his back and jumped into the cabin of the ambulance.
Kolt slid on his knees, closing the distance with the two men still lying on stretchers. He slipped in between them and studied both of their faces for a few seconds. The one on the right was easily recognizable. Even with his eyes closed Kolt was sure, without having to refer to the mug shots again. It was the second scientist.
Kolt placed two fingers on the scientist’s neck and held them there for a few seconds, hoping to find a pulse. The skin beneath Kolt’s fingertips was cold and clammy, and there was no pulse. Kolt delivered a quick eye thump to test for responsiveness. Nothing.
Fuck.
Kolt turned to the second stretcher, the one he hoped held their primary target. He looked at him closely, could see he was still alive, but couldn’t be positive it was Marzban. Kolt yanked the white bedsheet off the man’s upper torso, pulling it back to reveal his chest and stomach, and looked for the gut wound that Trip had reported back at the safe house. The man’s dark brown shirt was soiled, making it hard to tell.
Kolt grabbed the bottom of the shirt with one hand and pressed down with a balled fist into the man’s belly. The man jerked, spitting up blood that ran down the left side of his face.
Kolt reached for his hand mike. “I need a medic, Kevlar vest, and helmet, ASAP.”
Within a few seconds Kolt heard his men outside the ambulance behind him. He turned, saw them flex-tying the prone Ukrainians, and yelled to Olga.
She looked at Kolt, and responded to his wave for help. He leaned over to help her climb in the ambulance.
“I need you to positively identify this guy. The other one is dead.”
Olga scooted closer, looked hard at the dark-skinned man, who was returning the stare under labored breathing.
“Yes,” Olga said. “It is him.”
“Him, who?” Kolt asked, needing to hear her identify the man.
“It is Marzban.”
“Are you positive?” Kolt asked, turning away from Olga and looking back at the man on the stretcher.
Before Olga could answer, three rapid-fire shots rang out. The distinct sound told Kolt they were from a pistol, and he ducked out of habit, scrambling to lower his silhouette. He turned, looking over Olga’s body, as she was down too. Outside, he picked up the larger-than-life image of Marzban’s girlfriend, the thick-hipped woman they’d left barely breathing in her own blood back in the hospital room.
Kolt saw the barrel end of the Makarov, the pistol still up in front of her face with the slide locked to the rear, just an inch below her dark eyes. She was a mess, but seemingly oblivious that she had run the pistol dry, still acquiring a sight picture.
Kolt immediately second-guessed his decision to leave her to die in peace. He’d followed the law of land warfare and their combat rules of engagement to the letter by not executing her, and now it had come back to bite him in the ass. Before he could reflect more on his decision, the side of her head exploded, blowing brain matter and the distinct dark mist of blood into the air.
Two of Kolt’s men quickly closed on the threat, one of them pumping two more 5.56 mm suppressed rounds into her chest at close range.
Kolt looked around the interior of the ambulance, surveying the immediate area, unsure of where the three bullets had impacted.
“Olga!”
Kolt grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her over, her train conductor’s hat falling off her head, her brown hair dropping past her shoulders.
“Shit!”
Kolt held the back of her head, immediately feeling the warmth of blood as it seeped through his fingers. He laid her head down gently, knowing there was nothing to be done. In that moment, the fact that she was a woman didn’t even register. Olga had been a fierce warrior, and that’s what he would remember.
Kolt turned to Marzban, noticed more blood coming from the side of his mouth. His eyes were closed. Kolt shook him several times.
Don’t die, you son of a bitch. Olga’s death and those of the operators before her weren’t going to be in vain.
Kolt heard a familiar voice. It was one of his medics. “Whatya got, boss?”
“Don’t know.”
Kolt ripped the bedsheet completely off Marzban, throwing it to the side of the ambulance, out of his way. There, plain as day, fresh blood was covering Marzban’s groin and upper left leg and Kolt realized that either of the Makarov’s bullets could have had his name on them. Kolt found the tear in the trousers and ripped it open to expose the wound.
“He’s hit!”
Kolt jumped on Marzban and tilted his head back to open his airway. Blood gushed from his now-open mouth. Kolt didn’t bother to check for a pulse, going immediately to rescue breathing, squeezing his nose with two fingers and connecting his lips to Marzban’s.
Two quick breaths and Kolt went to the chest, placing the heel of his right hand on the breastbone, covering it with his left hand. Kolt leaned over Marzban and pressed hard downward, depressing his sternum several inches. Kolt repeated the thrusts, counting out loud with each depression. Blood bubbled from Marzban’s mouth with each thrust.
Kolt felt his medic climb into the ambulance, crawling around him to Marzban’s exposed neck, and check his pulse.
Kolt hit a count of thirty, moved back to Marzban’s head, and administered two more rescue breaths.
“He’s gone, boss.”
Kolt barely heard his medic. He had to save this miserable fuck of a terrorist. Killing Marzban was not the mission. The United States wanted Marzban captured. He was tapped as an intelligence bonanza—with a little luck, ripe for enhanced interrogation techniques—and was the only link to the North Korean miniature nuke warheads. Killing Marzban equated to mission failure.
Kolt rose up over Marzban’s chest again, rapidly depressing the man’s sternum deeper and deeper, hoping to jump-start the man’s heart.
“Boss!” the medic said. “No pulse. He’s dead.”
Kolt ignored him, continuing to press.
“C’mon, damn it,” Kolt said, “don’t you fucking die on me.”
“He’s lost too much blood,” the medic said.
“Damn it! Help me!” Kolt said, picking his count back up at twenty-two.
Then, before he could give another chest thrust, Kolt felt a massive bear hug squeezing both of his arms tight to his sides.
“Racer!” Slapshot said. “It’s okay, man. Let him go.”
Kolt’s heart pounded. He couldn’t break his stare from Marzban’s slack, lifeless face.
“Gotta have him alive, Slap.”
“Allah’s hands now.”
“He’s too important,” Kolt said. “We need this guy.”
“More important than Max or Philly?” Slapshot said, letting go of Kolt. “Fuck this asshole.”
That snapped Kolt out of it. He looked at his squadron sergeant major. He knew Slap was right. Marzban had valuable intel. They’d been after him a long time, and not bagging him alive meant they would be at a dead end on the mini nukes and back to the drawing board. But when it came right down to it, Kolt could live with this outcome, especially because it meant his men would, too. Kolt would rather Marzban take his martyrdom trip here while the squadron lived to hunt another day.
Fuck him. Kill ’em all and let Allah sort them out. Kolt smiled at his very politically incorrect thought.
“We ready to
exfil?” Kolt asked.
“All flex-cuffed, and vehicles standing by,” Slapshot said.
“Get a few proof-of-death pics of Marzban and let’s roll.”
FOURTEEN
Startled awake by the sound of bells ringing, Cindy “Hawk” Bird sat up in her sleeper cabin on the train. Bundled in tension and confused, she rotated on her panty-covered rear end, steadied her hands on the side of the bed to save a tumble, and placed her feet on the floor. Puzzled as to why she had only one sock on, she scanned the tiny room but found nothing amiss. She rubbed her wrecked eyes and shook her head.
Where is my sports bra?
Hawk stood, caught a trace of her own body odor, and paused to balance the nausea in her stomach. She felt K27/K28’s cold passenger cabin floor beneath one foot, and wiped her neck-length auburn hair out of her eyes. The ringing seemed to be getting louder. She reached for the water bottle on the small table and slipped the nozzle under her nose to be sure it was plain water, and not full of the dog that bit her, before taking a long pull.
Hawk felt the train slowing, recapped the bottle, and dragged herself to the dingy red curtains hiding the filthy windows. She pulled one curtain aside, rubbed a balled fist on the glass, peered through the clean spot, and tried to focus on the buildings buzzing by. Yes, they were stopping, all right, and dusk was falling, barely offering an opportunity to make out the blurry signage on the drab gray and whitewashed buildings. It was enough, though, to confirm that they were now somewhere in China.
Where the hell are we? How long have I been asleep?
A series of buildings and the glimpse of a river jarred a memory. This had to be Harbin, a city of seven million inhabitants straddling the Songhua River. Her cramming of Asian geography didn’t let her down. Once a small rural settlement, its name literally meaning “a place for drying fishing nets,” Harbin embraced the major technological advances in the twentieth century and had been launched from backwater to one of the largest cities in Northeast China.
Feeling every bit like a rotting crab net, Hawk looked at her watch, fumbled with some basic math, and realized she had slept for the last eight hours. That meant she’d slept through their previous scheduled stop at Shenyang, the railway hub of Northeast China.
