by Alex Shaw
He felt a roaring in his ears. The deformed rounds dropped out of the bottom of his windbreaker, causing dull thuds on the roof. He peered up and acknowledged the broken window two floors above, which he’d fallen from. He felt the back of his head; there was a painful lump. He realised that he must have taken the brunt of the fall on his back and shoulders; if he’d landed on his head, he would without a doubt be dead.
Akulov moved along the roof until he was on the outside of another window. Inside it was dark and he saw no movement. There was no way to open it, so he kicked it with his booted foot until the glass gave way and he pulled himself inside. He dropped feet first into the carpeted room and fought the urge to lie on the large, padded couch that took up one side of what he imagined was a consultation room. Akulov walked across the room to the door. He swayed but didn’t fall.
So he’d been shot in the chest twice, thrown out of a window and survived. Was this his second chance? He fancifully thought about the money in the bag, in the locker at the airport. It was enough to live on for a while, perhaps even to start again? But he was in Washington and the money was at College Park. A twenty-five-minute drive. No problem on any other day. Uninjured he could run it, or walk it but now? No this wasn’t a second chance given him by some divine being – it was the new ballistic vest. He had worn his, but Vlad had not; he was alive and Vlad was dead in a body bag in his Tahoe in the underground car park. He felt in his coat and then his trouser pockets for the keys. They weren’t there.
Akulov opened the door and started to walk. He breathed deeper, felt the pain, used it to sharpen his mind and found stairs leading down. The stairwell was dark but he could just about see the steps. He used the handrail for support, but felt stronger, steadier after each floor. He reached the bottom and took the door into the underground car park. And there he saw not his Tahoe, but an empty space and next to this a taxi. He hauled himself towards the taxi and realised that it was the same one he had been chasing. He tried the door. It opened. He clambered inside, dull needles of pain probing his chest. The key was in the ignition. He turned it. The engine tried to start but could only cough. The fuel warning light was on. The policeman had taken his Tahoe and left his useless, fuel-less taxi.
He slammed his fists against the wheel in anger and climbed out. He leaned against the roof of the car to support himself, and through the pain, inhaled deeply. He had failed.
A car horn sounded. Akulov opened his eyes, and realising he’d passed out, found himself on the concrete floor of the car park as the bright lights of an SUV washed over him.
‘Ruslan?’ a voice he recognised called out to him and then the bearded face of Oleniuk’s bodyguard appeared in front of him. ‘Are you hurt? Can you walk?’
‘Help me up,’ Akulov said.
Grisha grabbed the Werewolf’s arms and pulled him to his feet. ‘What happened?’
‘The taxi driver is not a taxi driver. He is a policeman and he shot me twice in the chest.’
‘You are wearing your vest?’
‘Yes, I am wearing my vest.’
‘Oleniuk sent me to bring you back to the airport.’
‘The policeman has taken my Tahoe. I presume he’s also taken the women and Filler.’
‘We must update Oleniuk.’
Chapter 26
College Park Airport, Washington, DC
In the summer night, the line of light spilling from under the hangar door acted like a beacon. It was visible to Chang and Tate from across the other side of the airfield, unlike their Tahoe, which was hidden behind them in a dip.
‘NVGs,’ Tate said as he lay on his stomach in the grass. ‘I’m praying they don’t have NVGs.’
Next to him Chang agreed. ‘If they do, we are screwed.’
They had stuck to a road named The Paint Branch Trail, which wound through the woods immediately opposite the airport and was separated from the runway by a thin forest and a wire fence.
‘You ready?’ Tate asked, the sound of nothing but the wind carrying across the open ground ahead.
‘Yep.’
‘You can still change your mind.’
‘Why would I do that? I told you, Jack, I have a duty as a police officer. Besides, I also have an armour-plated Tahoe between me and the bad guys.’
‘True.’ Tate took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Give me three minutes and then make your move.’
‘Got it.’
Tate got up to his haunches and within seconds was lost to the night.
*
Oleniuk stroked the nose of his jet. It was a moving monument to US commercial success. He chuckled nervously; it was probably the last remaining working jet on US soil. He had grown impatient and a nagging sense of doom crept into his consciousness like an uninvited guest to a family party. The helicopter had not returned. This could, of course, mean many things, but to Oleniuk it meant one thing and one thing alone: Jack Tate was alive. What was it about this man that made him indestructible? Oleniuk refused to let one unimportant, inconsequential individual prevent him from completing his mission, from achieving his destiny. He knew now that Akulov had survived and as soon as he and Grisha returned he would tell the Gulfstream pilot to prepare for take-off.
He returned to his office to make a cursory check of its contents. He collected the case containing the Chinese sat phone, held this in his left and clasped the Russian one in his right. As he re-entered the hangar containing the jet, he shouted an order for the main hangar doors to be opened, on both hangars. He refused to hide anymore. Within twenty-four hours, he would have swapped this dump for his dacha; he would enjoy a well-deserved rest before meeting with the president and handing him the list of his foes he had eliminated on his behalf.
The EMP attack and subsequent assassination by Blackline was a private operation. He had no mind to link the two for the president; he would simply state that he had contracted an assassin to undertake the kills for the good of Russia. The former KGB strongman would appreciate Oleniuk’s gesture; after all it was something the president would have done. And the man would then be indebted to him. While this would not make him step down, it would force him to back Oleniuk in the first future presidential election he could not contest. Then of course the fool would jump on the bandwagon when North Korea was denounced as the aggressor.
A shrill note echoed in the hangar, catching Oleniuk unawares. It took a moment for him to realise that his sat phone was receiving a call. He inspected the display, and his nose wrinkled. The missing taxi driver! ‘Where have you been?’
‘I was detained by the Washington PD; I am now on my way to you.’
‘You were at the British Embassy; you helped the hostages escape!’ Oleniuk yelled.
‘That is not what happened. This is urgent. I have urgent intel. I am here now – let me explain.’
‘You are where?’ Oleniuk asked, but the caller had cut the connection. Oleniuk stared at the screen as though it may come back to life and explain to him what was happening. The man driving the taxi he now knew had not been Li Tam, but rather a police detective. So what was it that the fraudulent taxi driver had to say, and how was he going to get to the airport? Before Oleniuk had time to ponder this further he heard a car horn.
*
Tate lay on the dew-covered grass and counted again the number of men around the target. The overspill of light from the interior of the hangar silhouetted them as they worked. One was standing by the open doors of each hangar, while four others kept guard, sweeping the area with assault rifles. It wasn’t until he saw one of the sentries in profile that he realised the man was wearing NVGs, the optics flipped up to save his night vision in the high-contrast environment. Tate was pretty sure that he was invisible, resting as he did in the slightest of depressions in the grass a metre in front of the perimeter fence, but he wouldn’t bet his life on it.
Tate swore silently. One gun against six was not good odds, but he would dare and he would win or be cut to ribbons. Tate fixed hi
s eyes on the empty space past the hangars, where Chang would appear in the Tahoe. It may have been his imagination, or the sound may have carried on the warm, night air but Tate thought he heard a telephone ring. Moments later, things went noisy. A yell from inside the hangar and then the sound of a car horn heralded the SUV as it burst into the pool of light, its own headlights now on full beam. This was his chance, and he was going to take it. Tate sprang up and sprinted in a straight line toward the hangar.
*
Striding outside, Oleniuk found his men, weapons ready, tactically facing an oncoming Tahoe. He knew what he was seeing but found it hard to understand. He asked his men, ‘What is it?’
‘One of our Tahoes, sir,’ the Russian nearest to him stated. ‘It could be Grisha.’
The Tahoe drew nearer but instead of slowing it accelerated and Oleniuk realised it was not his personal SUV. ‘Shoot the damn thing!’ Oleniuk roared.
A hailstorm of bullets hit the fast-approaching sedan, but the standard jacketed rounds were deflected by its ballistic plating. Oleniuk sensed movement, and then there was a flash. The barrel of a firearm flared in the darkness, and a commando twisted to the tarmac. Before he could issue an order, a second fell. The remaining four men realised what was happening. One went to ground behind the door, the second ducked back inside while the third and fourth rushed toward him.
‘We are being attacked!’ the first commando to reach him yelled. ‘Get inside!’
No words came from Oleniuk’s mouth as the larger, younger, and much fitter men hustled him back into the safety of the first hangar.
‘Shut the doors!’ Oleniuk ordered. ‘They must not hit the plane!’
‘Sir.’ The commando reached up for the door closure button, but a round pinging off the metal inches away from his hand forced him back.
‘Do it, you fool!’ Oleniuk bellowed.
The commando reached out again; this time he was hit in the throat. He fell to the floor, directly on the door runners.
Oleniuk took a deep breath. He would not be beaten like this! He had not been in combat for five long years, not since he had been shot by a man working for Simon Hunter’s E Squadron. Oleniuk felt his anger rise again, but this time he would let it explode out of him with devastating results. His two remaining ex-Spetsnaz commandos ran into the hangar and joined their colleague to make an arrow formation around their principal. Oleniuk nodded; the odds were still in his favour. Three highly trained men, plus him against whoever was shooting and whoever was in the vehicle. It was a fight all right but one that he would not lose. What puzzled him most though was who was attacking him and why? They couldn’t have come for Simon Hunter, surely? And of course no one knew about his operation … except Jack Tate …
The lights in the hangar went out. Oleniuk pushed his NVGs down over his eyes and the darkness around him became shades of green once more. Walking like a man on a rolling ship, he scampered towards the weapons locker, all the while being protected by his last three men. Oleniuk opened the locker and reached for a Beretta at the same time as one of his men opened fire. He turned just in time to see a projectile sail into the hangar. Behind his NVGs Oleniuk’s eyes widened and he shouted, ‘Grenade!’
A monstrous-sounding explosion rocked the interior of the hangar. The thunderclap reverberated off the metal walls, ceiling, and concrete floor and was immediately followed by a flash of blinding white light. Painfully dropping to his knees, nauseous, Oleniuk had the presence of mind to keep moving forward, with his rifle, away from the percussion grenade.
*
Jack Tate flicked the lights back on and scanned the space. There had been four targets before he had thrown the flashbang he’d found in the glove compartment of the Tahoe. He acquired one of the commandos lying on his back; he had been hit in the knee. With his NVGs on his face and arms and legs thrashing he resembled some sort of large beetle. Tate unleased a short burst from his HK416 directly into the man’s face and the beetle stopped moving.
He now saw another body, lying motionless in a pool of blood. Tate moved quickly to the body and dropped to his haunches, his eyes searching the rest of the space for threats. It wasn’t one of the commandos; it looked like a civilian. Who was it? Tate scanned the hangar – it was empty. That meant the three remaining targets, Oleniuk and his last two men must be outside.
Tate pushed back up to his leaden feet and made for the door when a pair of shots rang out. The first one hit his thigh, making him twist, and the second was like a hammer blow to his back, propelling him forward. Tate dropped and, arms not moving quick enough, was winded as he hit the unforgiving concrete floor with his chest and then temple … He groaned more with annoyance than pain; he’d come so close, it couldn’t end like this.
‘Welcome,’ Oleniuk’s voice boomed, ‘you are very good. You almost had us beaten with your little assault, but we are Blackline and you are, well, who are you exactly?’
Tate used the palms of his hands to push himself forward, to drag himself away from the voice that mocked him, but boots appeared by his face, and then two sets of muscular arms hauled him up to his feet. Tate was manhandled to face the Russian spymaster. Tate muttered, ‘Hello.’
‘Hello? Is that all I get from you, an informal greeting?’ Oleniuk tutted as he ripped off his NVGs and tossed them to the ground. He blinked, still feeling the effects of the flashbang. ‘You have killed too many of my men. Who are you?’
Tate looked the Russian in the eye. ‘I’m Jack Tate. I’ve come for my brother.’
‘Brother?’ Oleniuk’s eyes bulged and then he seemed to understand, but asked Tate the question regardless: ‘Who is your brother?’
‘Simon Hunter.’
‘Hunter has a brother? How was it that I did not know about you?’
‘Perhaps Blackline is not as great as you think it is?’
‘I am truly happy that you are here. It is highly fortuitous.’
Tate waited.
‘You have impressed me, unlike your snivelling brother, Simon.’
‘If you harm him, I’ll kill you,’ Tate hissed through the pain.
‘You both like to make threats!’ Oleniuk raised his Beretta.
‘I’m not going to tell you again. Let my brother go, Oleniuk, and I’ll let you live.’
‘Ha, ha! What fun, as we used to say at school!’ He switched to Russian. ‘Let him go.’
The commandos loosened their grip, and Tate stumbled to his knees. Blood ran freely from his thigh onto the floor. Tate switched to Russian; it seemed only polite to do so. ‘Why do you want my brother?’
‘Bravo, you speak excellent Russian, of course you do; I should have expected no less,’ Oleniuk’s eyebrows arched. ‘From a member of E Squadron who operated in Ukraine! Am I correct? Or are you just a skilled amateur? Come on, a man with your skills and determination? Do not now play dumb with me, Jack. I should liquidate both you and Simon for pitching E Squadron against my Ukrainian operation, for directing The Shadows, for meddling in the sovereign affairs of Russia! But I want intel, a bargaining chip, leverage.’
Tate’s mind struggled to comprehend the words. Oleniuk knew about the special operations group, whose existence was above classified – but more worryingly, he knew that Simon and he had been a part of it. The realisation made Tate shudder; there was a Russian mole somewhere within SIS or her close allies. Tate said, with more conviction than he felt, ‘You are delusional, Oleniuk!’
‘It has to be.’ Oleniuk’s eyes narrowed as his left hand stroked the scars on his neck. ‘I saw you – I remember you now. I know it was you. You gave me this.’
‘For a dead man you look well.’ Tate wanted the Russian to know what he had been responsible for.
‘I am just glad you are an awful shot.’
‘You moved.’
Oleniuk’s nostrils flared. ‘It is easier to hit a stationary target, as you will soon see.’ His left hand started to crawl toward his neck, but he caught himself and formed a fist. ‘I asked y
our brother questions; he wasn’t very helpful, but he will be.’
‘I’ll never talk.’
A sneer formed on the Russian’s lips and he slowly shook his head. ‘This is why your journey finishes here, today, and your brother will travel with me to Moscow.’
Tate battled to control his anger. His life was one thing, and he knew it would end in violence; Simon deserved more. ‘This isn’t Ukraine, Oleniuk. You can’t cross the border, kidnap foreign nationals, and place them on trial in one of your kangaroo courts.’
‘You are correct, that would have proved too problematic even for me, which is why six targets were executed.’ Oleniuk paused. ‘I want to make certain that you understand the full magnitude of your failure before you die. Six men are now dead and the world will never know who was responsible.’ Oleniuk looked, in Tate’s opinion, manic.
‘I will hunt you down.’
‘Really? From beyond the grave?’ A frown passed over Oleniuk’s face. He looked at one of the commandos behind Tate. ‘Go outside, check where that damn Tahoe is!’
‘Yes, sir.’ The commando exited the hangar.
‘You will not be around to tell anyone about my operation, Tate. No witness, no crime.’ Oleniuk’s right arm moved; his Beretta acquired Tate as its target. ‘But what is the point of killing you now, when I can do it in a few minutes’ time in front of your brother?’
*
The shooting had stopped. Did this mean Tate was in the clear? Chang had passed the two hangars, turned the wheel sharply, causing the heavy Tahoe to pitch and stutter before the traction control switched on. It came to a halt at the end of the access road but facing the giant tin boxes. He waited a minute, saw no movement, and waited a minute more before driving onto the grass and happily breaking through the perimeter fence. Now the Tahoe was hidden again in its original position. Chang hoped the diversion had worked.
