The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2)

by Hurren, Craig

  “I don’t think so,” Kerr said, pointing at fresh tire tracks in the light construction dust on the floor. “He might have had the cage already and just had it delivered here today. The medical stuff is anyone’s guess.”

  “So he’s got other guys on the payroll?” Albrecht asked.

  “Don’t feel bad, buddy,” Kerr teased the sniper. “He never said we were exclusive or anything.”

  Fouts walked toward the cage. “Let’s get this done and get back to Kentucky. I can feel a drink coming on.”

  Kerr dragged Adler to the door of the cage, and Fouts bent to remove the golden nets.

  “I’m keeping these things.”

  “You can have ‘em. I don’t want no spider shit hangin’ around in my place.”

  With Adler’s body free of the nets, Kerr and Fouts hoisted him onto the gurney. Heavy rubberized leather restraints, reinforced with stainless steel wire, hung from the sturdy steel table. The men buckled their captive securely to the gurney then shut the cage door and locked the heavy padlock hanging from the locking mechanism.

  “Still worried about leaving this piece of shit unguarded?” Fouts asked Albrecht.

  The sniper turned to walk toward the door. “Not so much.”

  Chapter 29

  Althea Whyley could be blunt, but she was well liked for her pragmatism and firm but fair approach. Despite her distaste for politics, she’d risen quickly within the DoD, and her success had come as no surprise to her colleagues. While she respected the rules, her keen legal and investigative mind knew they sometimes required some creative interpretation. Her brother’s request had meant bending those rules somewhat further than she would have liked, but he’d made his case well. She would not ignore the possibility of serious criminal misconduct within her organization; even if the potential threat lay within the murky twilight realm of DARPA.

  Her brother’s suspicions, it seemed, were not unfounded. Althea had discovered some irregularities in Ian McAdam’s convoluted records and reporting system. The anomalies were far too well hidden to raise any red flags during a normal audit processes, but Althea Whyley was no normal investigator. She didn’t have enough to take the situation to her boss yet, but she was determined to ferret out the truth. She closed her laptop and called her assistant.

  “I’m heading home for the night, Wendy. Isn’t it time you left, too?”

  “I’ll be right behind you. Just have to finish off the daily run sheet.”

  Althea pushed her laptop into its carry bag and walked out of the office, waving goodnight to her assistant and the security staff. She took the elevator to her parking level and walked along the rows of cars toward her reserved spot. As her footfalls echoed through the lonely structure, a pair of eyes peered at her over the hood of her car. She reached out to unlock the door before suddenly pulling back in shock as a deep voice boomed at her from the front of the car.

  “You forgot again, didn’t you?”

  “Oh my God,” Althea said. “You scared me half to death, Brian!”

  “I did tell you I’d pick her up at six o’clock,” the mechanic said, rising from his position. “And I sure would appreciate you not running me over.”

  “Of course you did. I’m sorry, I did forget – again.”

  “No problem. I brought the courtesy car for you to take home. Darned good thing you’re late, too. While I was waiting, I gave the old girl the once-over and found a brake line off. You could have rolled right off the edge of the building.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Darned right. Why don’t you get yourself something new? I could fix you up with a nice Camry.”

  “Come on, Brian, you know this was Dad’s car. I’ll never get rid of her.”

  “Maybe, but she nearly got rid of you both tonight.”

  “How could that happen? You checked everything last service, right?”

  “Sure did. But you never know with these old brake lines. Looks like it might have corroded from the inside out, but I won’t know for sure until I get her up on the hoist.”

  Althea’s instincts wouldn’t tolerate such a coincidence. “I know she’s old, but you’ve taken care of her since Dad bought her. I can’t accept something like this just happening. Please let me know what you find as soon as you get her back to the shop. This is important.”

  Brain scowled as he came toward her. “Are you saying someone might be trying to hurt you? You want me to get security?”

  “I’ll be okay for now. Just get back to me as soon as you can please.”

  “The tow truck should be here any minute,” he said, handing her the keys for the courtesy car. “I called it in fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Great. And, please, keep this between us for now.”

  “I will, but you’ve got me worried now. I don’t feel right letting you go on your own.”

  “You’re sweet, Brian,” Althea said, reaching into her bag and pulling out her Beretta. “but the car isn’t the only thing Dad gave me.”

  As she finished speaking, there was a dull thud and a sharp whine. Brian looked down at his chest to see a circle of deep red rapidly expanding through his coveralls. He reached up to touch Althea’s shoulder, which was also covered in a dark red liquid. Another sharp whine and Althea spun violently, searching for the source of the gunfire.

  Her shoulder burned with pain, but her retired Marine father had trained her well. She hunched and leaned to one side, gripping her Beretta with both hands. She found her mark and squeezed the trigger three times in succession. A loud grunt reported her success, but more shots came at her. She ducked behind the next car and got her eye down to floor level. She could see the wounded shooter’s leg draped across the cement as he reloaded his silenced weapon.

  Ignoring the pain, Althea steadied her hand and squeezed off two more shots. Her 9mm rounds flew under four cars to find their mark. The projectiles pierced the assailant’s leg, shattering his femur and tearing the femoral artery. The man screamed in agony, dropping his weapon. As blood flowed from his gaping wounds, he stared in disbelief at a nearby concrete pillar. Twelve years as an elite military operator fighting in over fifteen different countries, and I’m killed by a damned office worker in Arlington, Virginia. And a woman too!

  Hearing the clatter of the assailant’s gun on the ground, Althea moved quickly but cautiously toward his location. She could see her first shot had blown out his collarbone, and she already knew her last two rounds had also found their mark. But she wasn’t prepared for the arterial bleed. It’d been less than fifteen seconds since the last shots, but she guessed there were at least three pints of blood on the concrete deck already. She leaned down to put pressure on the leg wounds, but it was a pointless gesture.

  “Don’t bother,” the assailant gasped. “I’m done.”

  “Who sent you?” Althea demanded.

  The man just smiled weakly until he froze in place, eyes still open. Althea reached quickly to close them, then scrambled up and ran back to where Brian lay bleeding beside her Corvette. The bright opalescent aquamarine paint was lightly sprayed with a fine, red mist from her own shoulder wound, giving it a strange purple sheen. Dizzy from shock, she put her hand on the car to steady herself before leaning down to Brian. She could hear heavy footsteps running toward them, then shouting. She turned to aim her Beretta, but her vision closed down rapidly and she lost consciousness.

  *****

  Jake Riley and his crew found a private car big enough for the four of them outside Boryspil International Airport in Kiev. It was a tight squeeze, despite the dimensions of the old Mercedes, but they managed with Dozer in the front, and Mike Lee wedged in back between Jake and Priest.

  Jake gave the unshaven, overweight driver the address of a small electronics store in the Pechersk’kyi district.

  “No problem, Amerikanskiy,” The driver said. His unnaturally white teeth glinted in the afternoon light as he grinned at Jake before slamming his chubby foot hard on the gas pedal.
/>   “Now I know what the smallest sardine in the can feels like,” Lee said. “How far is it?”

  “About ten miles,” Jake said. “I just hope traffic isn’t too bad in the city.”

  “No traffic,” the driver said. “Happy holiday.”

  “What’s happy about it, mate?” Dozer asked. “I reckon this place is always depressing.”

  The driver didn’t respond. Instead, he began whistling merrily, barely missing smaller cars as he wove the big clunker deftly from side to side along the road toward the city.

  “Probably another political holiday,” Lee said. “I just hope we make it there in one piece.”

  “Four piece,” the driver stopped whistling long enough to say. “Four man, four piece. No problem.”

  “Jolly ol’ soul, isn’t he?” Priest said.

  “Jolly ol’ soul.” The Ukrainian repeated then started whistling again.

  Priest grinned across at Jake and shook his head. Jake leaned back, bringing his arm up to the rear window shelf in an attempt to offer Lee more shoulder room. His companion gave him a relieved smile.

  The journey was relatively painless as predicted by their obviously knowledgeable driver. Soon they arrived outside the small storefront, offering cheap smartphones, jailbreaks, DVD repairs, and several other services.

  “Need a new phone, Jakey?” Dozer asked.

  “Not exactly.” Jake said, paying the driver and giving him a generous tip.

  “Jolly ol’ soul.” The man said through a wide grin before accelerating hard away from the curb.

  “That was different,” Priest said, stretching out his spine. “First happy cabbie, I’ve come across in the Eastern Bloc.”

  “Well, he did say it was a ‘happy holiday’,” Lee said. “Still no idea why though.”

  Jake led them into the store. The door triggered a chime and they heard shuffling from somewhere behind the deserted counter. A moment later, an under-sized door opened, revealing a head of disheveled hair atop a friendly looking, bespectacled face. The diminutive patron adjusted his glasses and peered across the room. An initial spark of recognition grew into a broad, toothy smile as he scurried to the counter. Lifting a wooden flap in the counter, he ducked under and wrapped his arms around Jake.

  “My friend!” he said. “It has been too long time, so very long time. How are you Mr. Jake?”

  “Looks like you’ve got a mate there, Jakey,” Dozer smiled.

  “It’s good to see you too, Raffy,” Jake said, squirming uncomfortably against the little man’s embrace. “Okay, that’s enough, little buddy.”

  “I can’t help it, my friend. I miss you very big,” Raffy released Jake and turned to the others. “Oh, Mr. Jake, your friends – always so big!”

  Much to Dozer’s surprise the small shopkeeper then wrapped his arms around the big Australian’s waist and gave him a squeeze. “Bloody hell, mate, he is a friendly little bloke, isn’t he?”

  Raffy released Dozer to repeat the clinch with Priest and Lee.

  “Satisfied?” Jake asked.

  The little man’s demeanor had suddenly adjusted to a slightly more somber level. “Yes, quite satisfied, thank you.”

  “Sneaky little bugger,” Priest said. “He was checking us for weapons.”

  Raffy put his index finger to the side of his nose and gave Priest a wink. “You can’t be too careful in my business.”

  “I didn’t know the smartphone business was so cut-throat,” Dozer said. “And what happened to that quaint Russki accent?”

  Raffy ignored him and turned to Jake. “The usual?”

  “Yup.”

  Raffy went to lock the front door and turned the store’s sign to ‘closed’. “Follow me,” he said, ducking through the flap in the counter.

  Jake followed him through, with the others in tow. The small store owner disappeared through the rear door, and the others had to duck and squeeze their way through the frame. They traipsed down a flight of old wooden stairs into a long, narrow hallway. Three doors along, and Raffy stopped to unlock several deadbolts and padlocks on a heavy steel door. He pushed the door open and went in. The others followed into the darkness while Raffy turned on the lights.

  Fluorescent tubes flickered to life. As their eyes adjusted, the other men looked around the room aghast. Jake smiled knowingly. “Raffy’s more into the optional extras than the smartphones.”

  “Ya reckon?” Dozer said. “Holy sheep shit, mate. It’s the mother-lode.”

  Raffy motioned around the room at the startling array of high-tech military weapons, knives, communications equipment and explosive ordinance. “Pick your poison, gentlemen. Will this be cash or bank transfer, Jake?”

  “Do you see any bags of cash with us? Same account as before, or have you had to change banks again?”

  Chapter 30

  “Pull the car over here,” said Vladimir Petrov. “We’ll walk the last fifty meters. I want to get a look at the surrounding buildings before we go in. Tell the others to keep their distance until we’ve been inside for five minutes, then move to their assigned positions.”

  One of his bodyguards, or bykis, dialed a number on his phone and spoke in Ukrainian, then hung up and looked at Petrov. “They will be ready for the signal, boss.”

  The big brigadier let himself out of the limousine. Stepping onto the curb, he adjusted his camel hair overcoat as his two most trusted men got out to flank him. The three men strode along the sidewalk, scanning the surrounding buildings for any sign of surveillance or movement.

  “Albescu must be very confident or very careless, boss,” said the byki on his left. “I see nothing.”

  “Third floor window, two townhouses up on the left,” Petrov said. “Have someone ready to take him out after we go inside.”

  The byki kept his head facing forward as Petrov had taught him, but caught slight movement from the sniper’s rifle muzzle in the window Petrov had described. He spoke softly: “I’m sorry, boss. I should have seen it.”

  “You’re a good soldier, Sasha, but when you seek a sniper, you must think like one. Slow your eyes and change your focus. You don’t seek a man, you seek the extension of the man. Two centimeters diameter of hardened steel in the corner of a darkened window is not easy to spot if you’re looking for the wrong thing.”

  “It won’t happen again, boss.”

  “I know it won’t, Sasha. I know it won’t.”

  The byki spoke into his Bluetooth headset, as the three continued toward Gyorgi Albescu’s impressive four-story townhouse. Two large, rough-looking thugs sat on a wall to one side of the gated entrance. Each of their jackets bulged at one side. Petrov guessed they concealed Uzi Pros, the Albescu crew’s weapon of choice. As a man of precision, Petrov held little respect for such messy, indiscriminate bullet-sprayers. Two more thugs guarded the entrance itself, and two more stood inside the gate. Petrov and his men took mental notes of all details.

  As they approached the heavy steel gate, one of Albescu’s guards motioned for Petrov and his bykis to raise their arms. He gave each a light frisk before speaking into a walkie-talkie. A loud clunk emanated from the lock mechanism, and the gate swung inward. Petrov led his men through and up the front stairs. The heavy oak door opened inward, and they were met by two more guards. These men were well-dressed and cordial, but their eyes displayed hard-earned experience. While Petrov had been unimpressed by the exterior guards, he knew these two could present problems, if it came to that.

  One of the interior guards led Petrov and his men into the main entrance hall, where a beautiful young woman wearing a household staff uniform took their coats and scarves. Petrov smiled in amusement at Gyorgi Albescu’s blatant attempts to copy Sergey Ugolev’s ordered and sophisticated household. The younger man obviously admired Petrov’s pakhan, and hoped to emulate Ugolev’s success in more ways than one.

  With their coats removed, one of the interior guards searched each visitor more thoroughly. The other guard checked the champagne carry
-bag then opened the crystal flute gift box, reverently lifting the red velvet lining to check beneath. Then he closed the lid and handed both gifts back to Petrov’s byki. Petrov silently accepted the security measures. Albescu had every right to be vigilant. He was the new mover and shaker in Kiev, and his risk level ran high.

  The guards then led Petrov and his men into the grand reception room. Its polished wooden floors reflected two identical curved staircases leading to the next level. The stairs framed a huge painting of an ancient battle scene. Petrov wasn’t familiar with the work, but suspected it had been created by one of the old Russian masters. At the top of the stairs, the leading guard stopped to knock on an ornately carved oak door. The door swung inward, revealing two of Albescu’s bykis, and an office equal in opulence to Sergey Ugolev’s own.

  The young Romanian crime-lord looked up from his desk, his jet-black eyes sparkling with rat-like intelligence. His sharply featured face creased into a supercilious smile as Petrov entered the room.

  “Welcome, Vladimir Petrov,” Albescu said in English, walking briskly toward his guest. “Welcome to my humble home. I hope your trip was not too cold.”

  Petrov smiled back. The younger man’s false modesty irritated the experienced brigadier, but he wasn’t here to insult the man. “You’ve made yourself very comfortable, Gyorgi Albescu.”

  Petrov kept the conversation formal as a mild display of his distaste for having to conduct this meeting at Albescu’s base, rather than at the home of Ugolev. But as the more senior pakhan was not yet back from America, protocol dictated that the Romanian was within his rights to host the ceremony.

  “I must say I’m a little disappointed Sergey Ugolev couldn’t be here in person,” Albescu was saying, “but you know I’ve always liked and respected you, Vladimir. I know the timing of this ceremony is important to the other pakhans, so I accept your proxy.”

  “It is my honor,” Petrov continued playing his role. “Shall we begin?”