“Da, so would I. A moving target is harder to locate. We must find them while Petriv has no reinforcements and take back Elana.” Sergei took another deep drink of his vodka, needing the warmth and feeling of control it gave him. “We need our own hunters on the ground, someone familiar with the country and who has the ability to hack into NSA and other systems to find her for us. Find me this person.”
“I agree and I might have—”
Sergei waved a hand cutting Ziv off. “First, report on the other problem you prefaced in your first report…the man, Crocker, and his people who shot my Elana.”
“Crocker was a Marine and has run his own mercenary team since he left the U.S. military.” Ziv consulted some notes on his computer tablet. “He has run operations all over the world, but his main work has been in Central and South America.”
Sergei nodded. That would be why he hadn’t run across the man before. He’d just recently expanded his gun-running and drug and sex trafficking business into Venezuela and Brazil. “What are you doing about tracking Crocker down?”
“I contacted the mercenary we use to run our guns into S.A., Joseph Peters. He knows Crocker and respects him.” Ziv gestured to the seat across from Sergei. “May I sit, Sergei?”
Sergei inclined his head. “So…can he find Crocker for us?” He couldn’t keep the growl from his voice.
“Yes. But…” Ziv leaned forward, his arms braced across his thighs, “…Sergei, Peters feels Crocker would be a good asset on the ground for us in the U.S. He’s already tracking Elana and could bring her to us. There is no love lost, as the Americans say, between Crocker and the traitor who hired him.”
“Peters feels Crocker would be willing to switch employers?” Sergei asked.
“Da.”
“Can we trust Peters and his friend Crocker?”
“With safety measures put in place…I would say yes.” Ziv paused. “Peters does good work for us.”
Sergei rested his head against the seat. “Will Peters act as my agent with this Crocker?”
“Da. He offered. He also said Crocker’s life is worth nothing now. He will be labeled a traitor because of his association with one. Our job would give him an easy exit from the U.S.”
Sergei grunted. “Have Peters make contact. I will double what the traitor paid Crocker. He is to kill Petriv cleanly and then bring Elana, unharmed, to my island home.” He leaned over and invaded Ziv’s personal space. “Crocker must also kill the two men who shot at Elana and show me video proof they are dead.”
“The shooters are already dead. They were killed during a shootout in Virginia with law enforcement officers.” Ziv smiled. “Petriv called law enforcement. He used the distraction to take Elana away and to the ambassador’s residence. Crocker managed to escape with a backup team.”
“Petriv has always been good.” Sergei shook his head. “Which is why I have kept my distance from the Ukrainian. Where is Crocker now?”
“The man is on the run. Our U.S. sources do not know where he is.”
“Peters can find him?” Sergei would rather use his own people to retrieve Elana, but they would be noticeable in the middle of the U.S. with their bad English and rough looks. They would be like hyenas attempting to blend into a crowd of kittens.
“Da.” Ziv’s forehead creased. “What about after Crocker delivers Elana? He and the rest of his team will know about your refuge.”
Sergei smiled. “We will kill them, of course. Make sure we can get our money transfer back.” As he reevaluated the entire situation surrounding Elana’s shooting, he stared out the jet’s window at the clouds below them. “Find out who the traitor is. We’ll do the U.S. and SSI a favor and kill him. He is a continuing danger to Elana.”
“I am working on it.” Ziv stood up.
“Good man.” Sergei tossed back his vodka. “The traitor sounds like a coward. He hires other people to do his dirty work. With Elana still alive to identify him, he will cut his losses and run. Find him, Ziv, and quickly before he goes to ground like the weasel he is. I want the ebal’nik dead for sending killers after my woman.”
“Our people are on top of all reports coming out of DIA, the FBI, and Homeland.” Ziv typed some things into his tablet. “If the traitor runs and reveals his identity, we’ll know about it as soon as the intelligence community does.”
“Also keep an ear on Interpol, Ziv.” Sergei scowled. “Elana’s uncles will seek their niece. They will also be on alert since the near miss by the Turtutovs. Warn Peters about the Chernovs and make sure he informs Crocker.” The uncles might be the key to finding Elana.
“I have already alerted our informants in U.S. Customs to watch for the Chernovs’ entrance into the U.S.”
“What would I do without you, Ziv?” Sergei smiled at his lifelong friend then scowled. “What are you standing there for? Go and make things happen.”
Ziv inclined his head, turned on his heel, and strode toward the rear of the jet where the rest of the jet’s occupants had hidden from Sergei’s wrath.
* * * *
Sunday morning, December 4th, Rural Virginia
Crocker’s personal cell rang. He looked at the number and didn’t recognize it. He let it go to voice mail.
He’d expected a return call from MacLean before now. He hadn’t heard from the asshat since yesterday afternoon. Once Crocker and his men had reached the safe house on Saturday evening, Crocker had drafted an e-mail about the situation in Virginia and requested intel on Petriv’s current whereabouts.
There’d been no response to that last communication. Crocker had a bad feeling about the lack. Had MacLean sold them down the river after the debacle in Virginia? He wouldn’t put it past the douchebag.
After several seconds passed, he retrieved the voice mail message. “Sam, it’s Joe Peters. Call me, asshole.”
Joe Peters? The last time he’d seen his old Marine buddy, they’d done a number on some Colombian paramilitary group working for a drug lord who’d had the audacity to infringe on their employer’s fields and workers.
Crocker’s lips twisted into a grin. Those had been fun times—and profitable ones.
Last he’d heard, Joe had gone to work for one of the foreign crime syndicates working to get a toehold in South America. If things continued to go south on his current job, Crocker might again be wielding his trade in S.A. with a new face and identity.
He hit the “call” number for the voice mail message and waited for his old friend to pick up.
“Yo, Sam! Thanks for getting back so quickly, man.” Joe took an audible deep breath and blew it out. His voice held a strain that was out of place for the man he’d known. Joe never broke a sweat in a firefight; he had fucking nerves of ice-cold steel and titanium balls.
“What’s up, Joe?”
“You, my friend, are in deep shit with my current employer.”
Yeah, the tension was so thick in Joe’s voice Crocker swore he could feel it coming across the line to strangle him.
“What the fuck?” Crocker couldn’t see how his current situation would relate to anything Joe might be involved in.
“I’m working for Sergei Demidas.”
Crocker’s gut roiled. “Demidas! How did I cross that crazy Russian motherfucker?” Crocker took several breaths in an attempt to get past the constriction in his throat before he added, “And why in the fuck are you working for him? He’s crazier than Charles Manson on a good day.”
That was an understatement. Demidas was a one-man Armageddon in the making with his inside access to old Soviet nukes. Crocker had him at the top of his “will not work for” list.
Joe answered, “He pays well—and what I’m doing for him is right up my alley, yours too, for that matter.”
“Not even on my worst day, buddy. I’d never work for Demidas.”
“You have no choice now, not if you want to continue breathing.” Joe’s tone was blunt and harsh.
The hairs on Crocker’s nape stood up as a chill swept over
him. “What the fuck? Talk to me, Joe.”
“The Mall shooting. I recognized your guys, Dillman and Peavey.”
“So? They were on a job…and it has nothing to do with Demidas’s drugs, weapons, or sex trafficking.”
“The bitch they shot at?”
“Yeah?” Crocker’s stomach began to knot with dread.
“The woman is Demidas’s long, lost love, Elana Chernov Fabrizzio.”
“Shit!” Crocker mentally groaned. What were the odds it would be Demidas’s lady love who’d overheard him hiring on with MacLean? And then got her ass shot by his losers?
Joe cleared his throat. “Demidas wants Dillman and Peavey dead—and you on his payroll to bring the woman to him. Sam, you don’t have a choice about working for Demidas any longer. If you don’t accept his offer, he’ll make sure you’re dead…and you won’t go easy. Good news is, he’s willing to overlook your part in placing his woman in danger and double what you’re being paid by the DIA asswipe who hired you to butt-fuck SSI.”
God, the Russian had some good intel if he knew the background to the whole clusterfuck. “Guess Demidas hasn’t heard yet,” or hadn’t told Joe, “but Ed and Mike were killed in a shootout with some local cops yesterday afternoon.”
The Fairfax County Sheriff’s Department hadn’t released the details of the goat rope to the news media yet. He only knew they were dead, because Jones had heard it on the police scanner as they raced away from the scene.
Joe inhaled sharply. “Man, that sucks.”
“Yeah.” Crocker didn’t say anything for several seconds then added, “So, Joe…am I going to survive after I take Demidas his woman?” Crocker would find out just how good a friend Joe was by his answer.
“Probably not.” Joe snorted. “Definitely not. But I’ll bring my team up from South America and back you up. I’m tired of cleaning up after Demidas. He’s worse than the Colombians—and that’s saying a lot.”
Crocker smiled. Same old Joe. They’d saved each other’s asses many a time in the Hindu Kush. Shared food and water…hell, even body warmth during one really bad mission that had them stranded in a cave for three days in a blizzard. The man was closer to him than his own brother.
“Okay, guess I’m signing on to make ten million dollars for a simple kidnap and delivery.” The Russian had offered double, but Crocker figured the bastard hadn’t expected Crocker to live to collect it all. “How we gonna work this?”
Joe would have a plan, or he would never have approached Crocker in the first place. Joe was as wily and slippery as they came.
“Well, here’s my plan…”
Crocker listened and smiled as Joe detailed how he thought the op should go. “Sounds good to me. I’ll quit the asshole in DIA and as my last act as his operative, advise him he crossed a Russian mafiya boss. Then I’ll find Demidas’s woman. I agree the lead on her uncles will be our best bet. Once me and my team have her, we’ll meet you in the Keys so we can finalize the end game.”
“Sounds good,” Joe said. “While you’re doing that, I’ll get my team’s hacker tracking Demidas’s bank accounts in South America. We want to make sure to tap those right after we take the Russian out. No use wasting all those resources on his crazy-ass mafiya associates. We could live like kings on that kind of money.”
“Exactly,” Crocker said, a smile on his face.
“So, who is the traitor? I know you…you wouldn’t take the job without a face-to-face,” Joe said.
Not that he didn’t trust Joe, he did, but Crocker never played all his cards at once. “Watch the news later. There’ll be a big-ass announcement from the FBI and Homeland, if they can get their shit together enough to cooperate. I plan on outing the bastard right after I quit his ass.”
Joe sniggered. “Can’t wait. I hate traitors.”
“Me too, buddy, me too. But his fucking money was too good.” And the job would’ve made me the go-to mercenary in the world. “Call me when Demidas accepts the deal. I’ll give you the account the deposit should be wired to.”
“Gotcha, Sam. Should be back to you ASAP…the asshole is jonesing to get his woman back,” Joe said. “I’ll get any extra intel they have on the librarian’s uncles.”
“Great…and Joe?”
“Yeah?”
“Watch your six.” It would suck if Joe got his ass shot before they could carry out their double-cross of the crafty Russian.
“Always, my friend, always. Out.”
Crocker ended the call on his end. Then he accessed the Internet and the mailbox account MacLean had set up and typed his “I quit” memo along with the tidbit about Elana Fabrizzio being Demidas’s lady love. He saved the draft and grinned while imagining MacLean’s shock over the news he’d made an enemy of Sergei Demidas.
Next, Crocker sacrificed a throwaway phone to call the Homeland Security tip line.
After working his way through the infernal voice mail box and after the effing beep, he said, “Yeah, that Mall shooting and the deputies that got shot in Virginia? Both deals were ordered by Captain Sydney MacLean. He works for General Higgins in DIA. MacLean is a traitor.” Crocker powered off and ground the phone beneath his heel. “Run fast and hard, MacLean.”
“Bert!” he yelled as he left the room.
“Yo!” His team’s geek looked up from his iPad at the kitchen counter.
“We’re moving out. Start hacking U.S. Customs and all airline flights coming from Europe over the last twenty-four hours. Look for three Russians—Alek, Oleg, and Dima Chernov. They’ll be flying into the D.C. area. Keep an eye out for any flights they book within the States.”
Stevens nodded. “This have something to do with Petriv and the librarian?”
“Yeah, they’re her uncles. Interpol agents. We follow them, we find her.”
Stevens grinned. “I’m on it.”
Crocker slapped Stevens on the back and noted Jones had come up as they’d talked. “I just outed our former boss, Syd-fucking-asshole-MacLean, to Homeland.”
Jones mumbled, “Bet that frosts the FBI’s ass.” Crocker and Stevens laughed.
Crocker scanned the two men. Neither of them were idiots like Dillman, thank God. “Remember Joe Peters?”
Both men nodded and smiled.
“Joe’s gotten us a new gig. Instead of killing the librarian, we’re retrieving her and taking her to a man who wants her. We’ll be paid ten million dollars. Shares are the same as the old job. I’ll transfer a down payment to your accounts as soon as the money’s in mine.”
His men murmured and he heard relief in their voices. Neither had really wanted to kill a woman or deal with SSI, but they would’ve done it. A job was a job.
Stevens asked, “Who’s our new employer?”
“Sergei Demidas.” Crocker watched each man’s face. He found recognition and distaste. “If you want out now, take your share of the old job’s down payment and leave. No hard feelings.”
Crocker’s lips twisted into a sly smile. “But if you want to help Joe’s team and me take the Russian down, then you’ll share in the monies we’ll liberate from the bastard’s South American accounts.”
After several seconds of silence, Stevens said, “I’m in.”
Jones nodded. “Me, too.”
Crocker nodded. “Then let’s move out. We’ll drive west until Stevens does his thing and gets us specific directions. Petriv and the lady have almost a day on us.”
Chapter 16
Sunday, December 4th, 5:30 P.M. (EST), Somewhere in Southern Pennsylvania
“Vanko?” Elana murmured.
He turned his head. His lips turned up in a weary smile. “What is it, dushka?”
His gray-green eyes were dull and the lines on his face seemed deeper, more pronounced. He had to be running on fumes. Their stay at a Hampton Inn near the Ronald Reagan National Airport had been brief, only until the early afternoon when they’d hit the road in another Hummer a rental agency had delivered.
Because of super-pri
mo drugs and exhaustion, she’d managed to rest during the short stay, but Vanko hadn’t slept at all. Through her drowsy state, she’d been peripherally aware of him sitting next to her on the bed. His warmth and closeness had soothed her; his protectiveness had made her feel safe and cared for. As he guarded her, he’d used her laptop and made calls on the burner phones. His low voice had been ever-present, like a lulling white noise in the background of her semi-conscious state.
Since their departure from the airport hotel, Vanko had driven in blowing snow, almost blizzard conditions, through the Allegheny Mountains. He’d driven as fast as he could, but several times had to pull off the road and wait out the blinding wall of snow. When he was able to continue, the winds jabbed at the Hummer like a prizefighter hoping for a knockout. What normally would have been a four-and-a-half hour drive from D.C. to this part of Pennsylvania had turned into almost a six-plus hours’ drive.
During the worst of the storm, she’d tensed a few times, but Vanko’s demeanor never changed. He was as steady as a rock as he manhandled the heavy vehicle and fought back against Mother Nature. Only the taut muscles in his neck, hands, and forearms showed her what an effort he made to keep them safe by putting as much distance between them and D.C. as he could.
“Dushka, what is it?”
His neutral facial expression changed as he looked at her. If she had to describe his mood, she’d call it affectionate. His voice was pitched low and gentle. And the endearment he used sounded real—from the heart—and not in the way most men casually peppered endearments in their conversation. Her heart raced each time he used one.
“You’re frowning.” He let go of the wheel to sweep a thumb over her cheek. “Are you in pain?”
“I’m stiff…and a little uncomfortable.”
At a late lunch stop, he’d made her take more pain meds from the miraculous, and seemingly bottomless, field medical kit. As a result, her pain was more of a dull throb—okay, she’d admit it, but only to herself—and an occasional sharp pain when she turned the wrong way.
Weather the Storm (Security Specialists International #3) Page 16
