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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  She smiled slightly at the thought.

  Home. Maine.

  If someone had asked her five years ago if she thought she’d be calling Maine, home, she’d have called them daft. London was her home. Always had been, always would be.

  Then James entered her life.

  In a whirlwind of guns, knives, fists and explosions.

  And her life had never been the same.

  Her scar throbbed for a moment and she ran her free hand over it, tracing the outline under her shirt with her finger.

  Not all the changes were good.

  They had been talking starting a family when she had been shot, the damage inflicted by the bullet eliminating any hope of a future child.

  At least their own biological child.

  Her chest tightened.

  The cars began to slow and Zorkin showed his first sign of potential concern as he reached behind his back and gripped his weapon.

  I wish there were enough to go around.

  She was an excellent shot, James an exceptional one. Her money and their brief history had forced her to hire a security team for their dig sites. The head of the detail was ex-British Special Air Service, an incredibly dedicated former soldier who she felt completely safe with when James wasn’t with her. He and his men had agreed to train them in all manners of combat. Initially it had just been self-defense, but as their encounters became more violent, it was clear they needed to know how to shoot and kill.

  And they were good at it.

  Not as good as their detail, definitely not as good as the razor sharp Delta operators they had come to know, though still quite capable in a firefight.

  Zorkin pulled his gun out slightly.

  Another firefight?

  The two cars drove past them, the occupants staring at them, Laura’s heart in her throat, James’ hand gripping hers a little tighter.

  Then they pulled U-turns, coming to a stop in front of them.

  She suddenly felt the urge to pee.

  The lone occupant of the first car stepped out, saying nothing, instead simply getting in the back of the second car, his left idling.

  Wheels chirped and the second car raced away.

  Nothing said.

  Nothing exchanged.

  Except a dusty vehicle that looked deliciously comfortable.

  A four-door sedan.

  “Who were they?” she asked.

  Zorkin shrugged. “I don’t know. But more importantly, they don’t know who we are.”

  James’ eyes narrowed. “Then how’d they know we’d be here.”

  Zorkin gave him a bemused look. “You’ve never watched a spy movie before? This is how things are done.”

  James grunted. “What, conveniently?”

  Zorkin laughed, reaching inside and popping the trunk. “No, well-coordinated and compartmentalized.”

  They stepped over to the trunk and James whistled. “What the hell is that?”

  Zorkin grinned. “Our newest partner.”

  49

  South Kuril Islands, Russian Federation

  Japanese name: Chishima Islands

  “Sir, another vessel is approaching from the east.”

  Captain Yamada rose, stepping over to the port side of the bridge and raising his binoculars. Their damage from the previous collision was as expected—minor. Scraped paint, a torn anchor housing, nothing more.

  Nothing that would take them out of the fight.

  Should that be what was to come.

  He sometimes wondered what it must have been like to serve in the navy of the Empire. When the war started, it was the most powerful fleet in the world, Japan the fifth most populous country and the economic powerhouse of Asia.

  Now it was a shadow of its former self.

  He understood why. What his country had done was shameful, an ego driven bloodlust that had the mighty empire trying to save Asians from themselves, from their adoption of Western ways.

  They had hoped to become the counterbalance to the growing influence of American, British and Russian meddling in the region, China and the Philippines two prime examples of what could go wrong—one a puppet empire, the other under the thumb of the Americans.

  At least they were benevolent.

  Though superior.

  The new Japanese way was to be apologetic, inferior, self-deprecating, and he wasn’t a fan of it. Manners and civility had always been hallmarks of his country, but the shame it felt, seventy years later, was uncalled for. There was a bit of an awakening, what with the military finally engaging beyond its territory in peacekeeping operations, yet with an ever-belligerent China, not to mention the crazed lunacy of North Korea, Japan had to expand its military so that it could truly defend itself. The United States had promised to defend it against any and all enemies, but could they truly be counted on anymore? The ongoing disasters in the Middle East, the ever-increasing aggression by China in the South China Sea, unchallenged Russian aggression in the Ukraine—all of these showed that America was no longer willing to be the world’s policeman.

  Which was fine by him. It shouldn’t have to be.

  But let us defend ourselves!

  Their constitution, adopted after the war under the guidance of the American occupiers, restricted their military in so many ways, they would be able to put up a token defense at best should something happen.

  Like today.

  They had a dozen ships setting up the blockade, separating the North and South Kuril Islands, as the Russians called them. Islands that were traditionally Japanese, once with over 17,000 citizens living on them.

  Now they were a constant insult, Russian forces stationed far too close to Japan, on land they had stolen in the dying moments of his nation’s folly.

  The sad part was that now, the dozen ships here today, were nearly a quarter of the Japanese once mighty navy. The Russians only had half a dozen to counter them, sitting three nautical miles to the north, though more were on the way, and many more would be joining them.

  They wouldn’t be winning this if it came to a firefight.

  “It’s American, sir! The USS Shiloh. Part of Carrier Strike Group Five.” His XO smiled. “Their captain wants to speak to you.”

  Yamada suppressed his emotions, instead crisply taking the comm. “This is Captain Yamada of the JDS Atago. Identify yourself and your intentions, over.”

  An American drawl responded. “This is Captain Shephard of the USS Shiloh. We are under orders to act as mediators in this situation, over.”

  Yamada frowned. “There is nothing to mediate, Captain. This is Japanese territory and we intend to defend it, over.”

  “Captain Yamada, are you prepared to die for it? Sir, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but every ship in the Russian Pacific Fleet is heading in your direction, including their submarine fleet. You will not win this fight.” There was a pause. “At least not without help.”

  “Your help?”

  “If you’ll have it.”

  Yamada drew a deep breath. “I’ll have to confer with my superiors.”

  “You do that. In the meantime, we’re just going to park ourselves riiight over here.”

  Yamada smiled slightly as he watched the USS Shiloh slow, taking up a position between the two navies.

  Broadside.

  His XO grunted. “He’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”

  50

  E-391 Southbound, Russian Federation

  “You’re heading south.”

  Zorkin nodded. “Yes.”

  Acton’s eyes narrowed. “But I thought we were heading west?”

  “No, that’s what you were meant to think.”

  “Huh?”

  “Young Vitaly thinks we are heading west. So do our hosts from last night. Right now everyone honestly believes we are heading west, and the vehicle we were in is actually heading north, back to Moscow.”

  “Huh.” Acton nodded slightly. “It was all a ruse to mislead them if they were interrogated.”r />
  “Exactly.”

  “Clever. Except that the people who delivered this car know we’re not heading west.”

  Zorkin shook his head. “No, all they know is they delivered a car. They have no idea where we’re going. We should be safe until the next checkpoint, and fortunately there are none before the border, unless something special has been set up.”

  “And wouldn’t there be?”

  “Not if everyone thinks we’re heading west.”

  “And if you’re wrong and there is a checkpoint?” asked Laura, leaning forward between the seats, Zorkin insisting Acton sit up front, it appearing more natural to anyone who might cross their paths.

  Zorkin glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Then, my dear, we avoid it.”

  Acton waved the tablet showing footage from their new partner, a small drone with transmission capability. Footage from its camera was streaming to the tablet showing the road ahead. “Who’s flying this thing?”

  “It’s automatic. Tied to the device. I’ve set it to keep one kilometer ahead of us, so just keep your eyes on that screen and the moment you see something, you let me know so we can stop.”

  Acton grinned. “This is so cool! I had no idea this type of spy tech existed. Where’d they get it?”

  “Probably the same place I’d get it.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “eBay.”

  51

  Narita International Airport, Tokyo, Japan

  “Don’t tell them what we’re looking for unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”

  Sasaki bowed slightly in acknowledgement of his final instructions from Minister of Foreign Affairs Yamazaki. “Understood.” He paused. “How far are we willing to go?”

  Yamazaki lowered his voice. “The Prime Minister has ordered troops and vessels into the area. Troops are landing on the unoccupied islands as we speak. At the moment we’re avoiding direct contact with Russian installations.”

  Sasaki’s eyes widened slightly. “He’s escalating the situation while sending me to Moscow to de-escalate it?”

  “He’s strengthening your hand. And your job is not to de-escalate, it’s to retrieve the Imperial Regalia, no matter what. You must convince them that we are prepared to fight to have our property returned, and they need to realize that the cost may be too high, as the Imperial Regalia are of no importance to them.”

  Sasaki frowned. “I fear the cost may be too high for us, as well.”

  “That is not for us to debate. We have our instructions. You must succeed, otherwise there will be war.”

  “Will we return the islands if they return our property?”

  Yamazaki frowned, leaning closer so only Sasaki could hear. “I have been told, no, however I sensed hesitation when I was briefed. Intentional hesitation. Should that be what you must promise, then do so. I’ll make it work. Somehow.”

  52

  Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  “Sir, we’ve got a message from Special Agent Kane.”

  Leroux breathed a sigh of relief. Nearly ten hours had passed since they had heard anything, the phones the professors had used no longer transmitting, and the only progress—if it could be called that—was satellite footage showing a brief helicopter visit to the farmhouse the professors had stayed at overnight.

  And nothing since.

  They hadn’t been able to find the truck on any routes heading south or west, east and north having been ruled out. The only good thing was there were no reports of them having been captured, so they were still out there, somewhere, fleeing for their lives.

  And at this moment, there was absolutely nothing they could do to help them.

  Though hopefully Kane was about to change all that.

  He rose, walking over to Child’s console. “What is it?”

  Child’s eyebrows rose slightly. “It’s just an IP address.”

  “Bring it up.”

  Child’s fingers tapped at the keyboard, a video feed appearing on his console. “Huh, what’s this?”

  Leroux pointed at the main screen. “Put it up.” An overhead shot of a road cutting through a fairly unremarkable landscape appeared. “What the hell am I looking at?”

  “Drone footage?” suggested Tong. “It would be about the right height.”

  “Get me a location on this.”

  Child worked his magic, the map of Russia showing the last known location of the professors—the farmhouse—updating to show a new red dot. “Southern Russia. It must be them.”

  Leroux watched the footage for a few moments. “Can anyone see them?”

  A chorus of negatives.

  “Okay, they’re heading south from their last known location, and they’re significantly south. That means we can now rule out the Ukraine.”

  “Whoever’s flying that thing has a pretty steady hand,” commented Child. “I mean, look at that. It’s flying nearly perfectly straight and level.”

  Leroux smiled. “It’s tethered.”

  “Cool!” Tong blushed, dropping her chin slightly. “They must have it set to travel ahead of them so they can see any roadblocks.”

  Leroux smiled. “Smart.”

  Child grunted with appreciation. “Huh, I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.”

  53

  Northbound M-6 Highway, Russian Federation

  Vitaly’s first instinct was to slam the brakes on and turn around, but that would be useless.

  You can’t outrun a radio.

  Besides, it would go against Zorkin’s instructions. He had managed to travel all morning and afternoon without encountering a checkpoint or any other unwanted attention. He could honestly say he had had no opportunity to ask for help from the authorities.

  Until now.

  He slowly came to a halt behind a long line of vehicles, his mind reeling with what to do. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his slamming heart, the blood rushing in his ears as sweat rolled down his back.

  What should I do?

  He opened his eyes, staring at the checkpoint ahead.

  You do what you were told!

  He blanked, closing his eyes once again.

  What was I told?

  He sucked in a long, slow breath.

  Turn yourself in.

  He sighed, opening his eyes slightly, the line of vehicles still not having moved.

  Okay, how do I do that?

  His thumbs tapped on the steering wheel.

  You don’t sit in a truck and patiently wait. Move!

  He turned the truck off and jumped out, rushing toward the checkpoint ahead, waving his arms in the air. “Help me! Help me!”

  Officers spun toward him, heads leaned out car windows, and guns aimed at him.

  He stopped.

  Several guards charged toward him, shouting at him to get on the ground. He complied, just as he imagined an innocent person would. As he was cuffed, he turned his head and made eye contact with the man who seemed to be in charge. “Please, you’ve got to help me. I was kidnapped and held at gunpoint!”

  “Sir, it’s him!” One of the officers standing nearby waved a piece of paper, Vitaly’s driving license photo briefly visible as the page twisted in the wind.

  The man in charge stepped forward as Vitaly was hauled to his feet. “Vitaly Orlov, you are under arrest.”

  “But I’m innocent!” he cried. “I did nothing wrong!” This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to tell them the story and everything would be okay.

  But nobody had said what to do if he never got a chance to actually tell his story.

  Panic began to set in, his heart slamming even harder, his vision beginning to blur as his breathing grew more rapid.

  I have to get out of here!

  He wrenched at the iron grips holding his arms and was rewarded for his efforts.

  With a rifle butt to the face.

  54

  Security Station, Kashira, Russian Federation

/>   “Who did this?”

  Dymovsky shook his head as he entered the interrogation room, his suspect bloody and whimpering, it clear he had taken a beating.

  “He says the man who abducted him did it.”

  Dymovsky stepped toward the young man, tilting his swollen face back to get a better view. “These wounds are fresh.” He turned the man’s face to the left. “And that looks like the butt of an AK-74.” He glared at the commander of the checkpoint. “Now how am I supposed to know the truth when the first thing out of your mouth is a lie?” He held up a finger, cutting off the forthcoming reply. “I’m done with you. Leave and get me your second-in-command.”

  The man flushed, anger raging across his face, though he didn’t dare talk back to someone from the Prosecutor-General’s Office.

  It could be a career ender.

  The man stormed out of the room, getting the last word in with a slam of the door.

  Dymovsky didn’t care.

  He sat at the table, across from young Vitaly and retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, sliding it across to the young man. “I’m sorry for what they did to you.” The boy said nothing, the handkerchief left untouched. “Now, why don’t you tell me what really happened. And I promise you, if you tell me the truth, no one will lay a finger on you again.”

  Vitaly looked up at him, trembling, still saying nothing.

  Dymovsky leaned forward, his voice gentle. “You have my word.”

  A cathartic sob erupted then a story spilled, so fantastic, so full of bullshit, it had to be the truth. Sort of. He had no doubt the story had been fed to him by Zorkin, any former member of the KGB a master at deception, and he had no doubt the young man had rehearsed his story for hours while driving here.

  But despite being well told, it was bullshit.

  It’s the eyes.

  You could always tell from the eyes. At least with the amateurs, which this kid clearly was. He thought he was helping his father, so he could be forgiven for what he had done.