Raging Sun (A James Acton Thriller, #16) (James Acton Thrillers)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “How many?”

  “Hundreds within an hour, but only three were made all at the same time, all pinging off cellphone towers within the store’s area, and the only ones still all together.”

  Dymovsky smiled. “Where are they?”

  “Just outside Tambov. About six hours south of Moscow.”

  Got you!

  “Get me a chopper.”

  43

  Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  “Sir, we’ve got a problem.”

  Leroux jerked awake, his head bobbing up from its momentary perch on his chest. He looked at Tong who appeared aghast at having woken him. “What?”

  “Someone just pinged all three cellphones.”

  Leroux leapt from his chair, pointing at the screen, Tong immediately streaming the data to the large displays. “Origin?”

  “Moscow.”

  “All three?”

  “Yes, sir. One after the other.”

  Leroux cursed. “They’ve found them.” He stared at the still stationary dots, all one atop the other. “Why aren’t they moving!”

  “It’s a safe bet the Russians are on their way.” Child’s eyebrows rose. “Maybe they left them there?”

  Leroux shook his head. “No, if they did we would have been contacted with their new contact information. They know they need to be tracked in order for us to help them. They just don’t realize they’re also being tracked by the wrong people.”

  “Sir!”

  Leroux looked at Tong then where she was pointing.

  The blips were moving.

  “Christ, that means they still have them.” Child slammed his fist on his console. “We have to warn them.”

  “Agreed.” Leroux turned to Child who cut him off, his fingers flying over the keyboard.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve already been working on it. I’ll bounce the call over several dozen relays. They’ll never be able to trace it, at least not until it’s too late.”

  Leroux smiled. “Do it.”

  44

  Outside Tambov, Russian Federation

  Acton shifted his hips slightly to the left, beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t have tried lying on his stomach instead. At least this time he had a pillow under his head and a thick blanket underneath, protecting him from much of the road grime.

  The several bottles of water and generous helping of snacks within hand’s reach were also going to make this trip far better than last night’s ordeal. The sun was barely up, enough to give them some light, though if Zorkin was right, by this afternoon he’d be cursing what he now appreciated.

  Fourteen hours to the border.

  “I have a new appreciation of what it meant to be a spy in the old days.”

  Laura squeezed his hand. “Try and get some sleep. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Hon, if you can sleep in here, you’ve got a waaay more comfortable spot than I do.”

  “It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

  “There’s no—” Acton’s burner phone vibrated in his pocket. “What the hell?”

  “What is it?”

  “My phone.” He fished it out, fumbling with it in the cramped space, almost dropping it before he got it on his chest then flipped open. “Hello?”

  “Professor, destroy all your phones immediately. They’ve traced your current location.”

  The call ended and Acton stared at the phone for a moment before slamming a fist on the side of the truck. It jerked to a halt, they not even having cleared the dirt road leading to the farm.

  “What is it?” asked Laura as Zorkin’s door opened.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the old man. “Don’t tell me you have to go to the bathroom!”

  “I just got a call from someone. They said they’ve traced us to this location, and we need to destroy our phones.”

  “Quickly! Quickly!” shouted Zorkin. “Remove the batteries and give them to me!” The rear gate opened and the truck shifted as Zorkin climbed in, the sound of him struggling over the boxes mixed with occasional curses going unnoticed as Acton tore apart the phone, the others beginning to do the same.

  A board just over his head, near the cab of the truck, suddenly lifted. Zorkin’s hand reached in. “Give it to me.” Acton handed him the phone through the small opening, Laura passing hers then Vitaly’s. Snapping sounds overhead indicated Zorkin’s preferred method of disabling the devices. “Wait here.”

  The board was replaced, Zorkin climbing out the back, the sounds of him running down the lane, shouting something in Russian, quickly fading to nothing.

  “What do you think they’ll do with them?” asked Laura, the concern in her voice obvious.

  “I’m afraid to even think about it, but it won’t be good.”

  45

  South of Moscow, Russian Federation

  “The signals have gone dead, sir.”

  Dymovsky glanced at Filippov as he turned the laptop to face him. “When?”

  “Just now, sir. They started to move, another tower picked them up then the signals went dead.”

  Dymovsky frowned. “They must have figured out we were tracking them.”

  Filippov’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t make sense. How could they know that? I mean, how could they know that now. If they were concerned about it, they would have got rid of those phones long ago.”

  Dymovsky agreed, his junior partner correct. It did make no sense. “They must have detected our pinging their phones.”

  “Two archaeologists? There’s no way they could figure that out.”

  Dymovsky pulled out his phone, dialing headquarters. “This is Dymovsky. Has the mechanic talked yet?”

  “No, sir. I was just about to call you. The interrogator is requesting permission to escalate.”

  A vision of the old man, beaten to a pulp, flashed before his eyes.

  Use whatever means necessary.

  Moscow would condone it, of that he had no doubt.

  Though his soul wouldn’t.

  “Negative. We know everything he knows already. They were at his garage, brought there by Zorkin, and they left in a delivery truck that is now outside Tambov. We’ll pick up the trail there.” He hung up, turning to Filippov. “What concerns me more is how they knew to destroy their new phones. They must have help.”

  “They have Zorkin.”

  Dymovsky nodded. “Yes, but he should know better. Why would he leave those phones on?”

  “He’s old, sir. He probably just screwed up.”

  Dymovsky peered out the window of the chopper. “Possibly. But I doubt it.”

  46

  Westbound E-38 Highway, Russian Federation

  The whine of the engine was almost overwhelming, conversation no longer possible. It was clear that Zorkin was pushing the vehicle to its limits as they tried to put as much distance between them and the farm as they could. Zorkin had said nothing upon his return except to keep quiet, their journey immediately resumed.

  I hope the old couple get away.

  He frowned. But where would they go? He and Laura had the CIA’s best helping them. Who would help an old Russian couple? From the looks of things they had little to no money, the daylight revealing what was at best a subsistence farm.

  If something happens to them, it’s our fault.

  His stomach suddenly churned, his mouth filling with bile.

  He said a silent prayer.

  The truck abruptly ground to a near halt before jerking hard to the right, sending Acton slamming against the side of his mobile coffin. He cursed, slightly miffed that Zorkin wasn’t taking things a little more gently.

  Maybe I should drive for a while so he can see what it’s like under here.

  They came to a stop, the engine shutting off and the door opening. “Everybody out!” shouted Zorkin, the sound of the rear gate dropping moments later then boxes being moved overhead adding to the confusion.

  “What’s going on?” asked Acton, t
he first board pried out of the way, Zorkin’s red face revealed.

  “We’re switching vehicles.”

  He reached down and pulled Acton upright before climbing down to the ground, leaving Acton to move the rest of the boxes, Laura and Vitaly soon joining Zorkin behind the truck. Acton looked about, it a barren piece of road, not a vehicle or sign of civilization in sight beyond the asphalt.

  “I don’t see anyone,” said Laura.

  “They’ll be here.”

  Acton held a hand up to shield his eyes, staring down the road, seeing nothing. “Should we be exposed like this? I thought they knew our faces?”

  “They do, but they know this truck by now.” Zorkin suddenly pulled a gun from his belt and pistol-whipped Vitaly, the young man dropping to the ground in a heap, crying out in pain as his hand darted to a bloody tear in his cheek. Laura cried out, rushing to the young man’s aid as Acton stepped forward and expertly disarmed Zorkin with a move taught him by Laura’s former SAS security team.

  He kicked the weapon aside and gripped their supposed friend by the shirt.

  Zorkin smiled. “Very good. Textbook. But thirty years ago I would have stabbed you with this.” Acton followed the man’s eyes down to see a knife pressed against his ribs.” Acton eased his grip. “Why the hell did you hit him!”

  “To save his life.”

  Acton had to admit that wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “Huh?”

  Zorkin gently pushed Acton’s hands away then knelt beside the young man, tears in Orlov’s son’s eyes. Laura glared at Zorkin, though said nothing. Zorkin pushed Vitaly’s head to the side, examining the wound. “Good. It looks real.”

  “Because it is real, you bloody lunatic!”

  Zorkin chuckled at Laura’s outburst, but kept his eyes on the boy. “Listen, this is your story. You picked up the professors at the airport because your father told you to. Then you saw them outside the hotel and offered them a ride, not knowing what was going on because your father had sent you to get the car to take them back to the airport. They instead told you to take them to the parking garage. You did so because you didn’t know anything was wrong.” Acton began to relax as the yarn to save the boy was laid out. “You then showed them where to buy new phones, then you were picked up by me. I forced you into my van at gunpoint. We went to the garage then to the farmhouse. I told you that if you said anything I’d shoot you and your family. We arrived here, I ordered you out then I pistol-whipped you. You woke up, found the keys to the truck in your hand, and headed back to Moscow to turn yourself in.”

  Zorkin pulled Vitaly to his feet, the boy’s eyes still watering, the sniffling subsiding as the fear of the moment slowly dissipated. “I-I’m going back to Moscow?”

  Zorkin nodded. “Yes. Your part here is finished. You need to get back and turn yourself in at the Prosecutor-General’s Office. They’re probably the ones trying to track us.” He raised a finger. “But I want you to obey the speed limits! Don’t attract any unnecessary attention. The longer it takes for you to get there, the better. Don’t do anything suspicious like drive too slow. Just be natural. But, if you’re pulled over or encounter a checkpoint, you tell them your story.”

  “And what do I tell them?”

  “Exactly what I just told you to tell them.”

  “And if they ask where you’re going?”

  “You don’t know.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Exactly. So you’ll be telling them the truth.”

  Acton handed a handkerchief to Vitaly. “Press this against the wound. You need to stop the bleeding then clean yourself up. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb if you have to pull over for gas or anything.”

  Vitaly pressed the handkerchief against the wound, wincing. He looked back at Zorkin. “But I do know.”

  Acton froze, exchanging a quick glance with Laura.

  “What do you mean?” asked Zorkin.

  Vitaly motioned toward a sign just ahead indicating the highway number and direction. “We’re heading west, toward the Ukraine I guess.”

  Zorkin leaned in, raising a finger. “You can’t tell them that. Under any circumstances.”

  Vitaly’s eyes bulged with fear. “I-I won’t.”

  “Good.” Zorkin handed him some cash. “For gas and food along the way.” He shook Vitaly’s hand. “Good luck, young man.”

  Acton shook Vitaly’s trembling hand, Laura giving him a hug.

  You’re going to need it.

  47

  Outside Tambov, Russian Federation

  Dymovsky watched out the window of the helicopter as the door to the humble farmhouse opened, an elderly couple stepping out onto their porch, no hint of fear evident, despite the advance team already searching the property. They shielded their eyes from the dust, Dymovsky watching a milking pail bounce across the property, slamming into the side of their weathered abode.

  The door slid open and he stepped down, crouching under the blades as he walked toward them, Filippov slightly behind him, the pilot powering down. Dymovsky pulled out his ID, showing it to the old couple.

  “I am Agent Dymovsky from the Prosecutor-General’s Office. I believe you know why I’m here.”

  The old woman glanced at her husband, a slight hint of concern momentarily visible. It was gone before she looked back. She motioned toward the door. “Please come in. I just put tea on.”

  Dymovsky paused for a moment then nodded. He was exhausted, and a cup of tea might be just what he needed. And if it put them more at ease, it might loosen their tongues.

  Filippov seemed shocked at the offer’s acceptance, though wisely said nothing.

  The old lady motioned toward two chairs in the kitchen.

  “Thank you.” Dymovsky sat, Filippov at his side. He sniffed, the smell of fresh biscuits filling the air, the golden brown bits of heaven sitting in a basket, nestled in a red and white checkered tea towel.

  His empty stomach growled.

  The old lady turned into the hostess he had no doubt she regularly was. “You look hungry.” She grabbed the basket and put it in front of them followed by a block of butter and two knives. “Eat.”

  Dymovsky smiled, grabbing a biscuit as his tea was poured. “Thank you. I haven’t had anything since yesterday.”

  Filippov overcame his reluctance and he eagerly slathered butter on his own, it instantly melting, soaking into the steaming biscuit. Dymovsky smothered his own then took a bite, the warm creation melting in his mouth.

  He moaned.

  “This, ma’am, is the best biscuit I think I’ve ever tasted.” He took another bite, savoring it, a slow chew allowing him to enjoy all the sensations this woman’s hand had created. “I’ll deny this if you ever repeat it, but I think this is better than my mom used to make.”

  The old woman was blushing at the compliments, her husband saying nothing, instead sitting expressionless across from them, his tea untouched. “Please, I’m sure your mother’s are delicious.”

  “They are,” smiled Dymovsky, tapping the table. “But yours are here.” He finished his last bite then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, downing his tea. “Incredible,” he said as he put his cup down. “Now, down to business. Viktor Zorkin was here earlier with an American professor and his British wife, along with a Russian citizen named Vitaly Orlov. Don’t bother denying it, we know it to be true.”

  The old man finally spoke. “It is.”

  Dymovsky managed to hide his surprise at the easy admission. “You let them stay?”

  “Of course. Viktor is an old friend. He was travelling through the area with friends and needed a place to stay.” The man finally took a sip of his tea. “Wouldn’t you invite a friend in need to stay the night?”

  “He was in need?”

  “Of a place to rest. He was delivering something and picked up the others on the way here.”

  “He picked them up.”

  “Yes, that’s what he said. Where they were going was on his way.”


  “Did he say where?”

  The old man made a face. “Donets’k, I think.”

  Dymovsky glanced at Filippov. “That’s near the Ukrainian border.” He looked back at the old man. “Why would they be going there?”

  The old man shrugged. “You’d have to ask them that.”

  “I intend to.” Dymovsky rose. “You’ll be taken to Moscow for questioning as soon as a transport unit arrives.”

  This elicited the first emotion out of the man. “But who will take care of the animals?”

  “Animals?”

  “This is a farm! Our eldest son was killed in Afghanistan, our youngest in Chechnya. We’re all that’s left.”

  Dymovsky frowned, peering out the window at the barn. “Call a neighbor, tell them to tend your farm while you’re away.”

  “H-how long will we be gone?” asked the wife.

  Dymovsky regarded her, truly feeling for them. “I wish I could tell you.”

  Perhaps forever.

  48

  E-38 Highway, Russian Federation

  “Someone’s coming!”

  Laura gripped her husband’s hand tightly as two cars raced toward them, the first they had seen since Vitaly had left with the truck a few minutes before. She was tired and sore, her entire body aching, though she wouldn’t let James know, he too much of a worrier when it came to her.

  They were both in misery.

  And he didn’t need to share in hers.

  As the cars rushed toward them, Zorkin didn’t seem concerned, though it was clear from the grip her husband was returning, he was. And so was she. Three people, standing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, matching the descriptions of wanted criminals, had to be a major red flag to any law enforcement that might happen by.

  And still, Zorkin seemed unconcerned.

  I just want to get home. Forget the beach, forget the sun, take me home to Maine.