Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8)

by Mark Terry

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” He cranked it again, pedal to the floor.

  The rear window exploded in a million cubes of safety glass. Bullets pocked into the frame of the car. Something nipped at Derek’s ear. Something smashed into his head and he snapped forward. The windshield shattered. A hand to his skull, he pulled away blood.

  The engine caught, revved, and the tires bit at the pavement. With a screech they peeled into the street. Gunfire chattered behind them. In a moment, they were headed north.

  “They back there?” Derek asked.

  No answer.

  Turning, he saw Hammond slumped in his seat, blood oozing from the wound.

  “Hang on, buddy.”

  He drove like a mad man.

  13

  Head pounding, Derek skidded around corners, skirting around the Citadel mound, trying not to get sidetracked away from getting out of the city. The Fiat was a junker, blowing smoke, now nearly windowless, rattling and chugging, straining as he urged it on as fast as it could go.

  Seeing a tank, he skidded the car left, desperate to avoid the Syrian Army. He sideswiped a street sign, almost lost control of the car, saw a clearing, and gunned it.

  The car coughed, hesitated, caught and leapt forward.

  Twenty-five minutes later he was out of the city on an empty highway heading north. At the first chance he pulled the car to the side of the road and checked Hammond. Unconscious, he’d taken a bullet in the left shoulder, which had punched out the front, taking a chunk of flesh and bone with it. The wound bled heavily.

  Taking off his one of his shirts and scarf, he pressed them into the wounds, and bound them in place with his makeshift sling. Hammond didn’t make a sound. His pulse against Derek’s fingers was steady, but slow.

  Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw that his own head and neck were covered with blood. Turning, wincing, he fingered a groove in his skull. It bled like a sonofabitch, but didn’t think it was major, although he had a hell of a headache.

  Tearing at one of his shirtsleeves, he pressed the patch of cloth to his skull, put the Fiat back into drive and raced north.

  It was the middle of the night by the time Derek pulled the wheezing Fiat up to the front gate of Incirlik Air Base in Turkey, 210 miles from Aleppo. He had stopped twice to check on Hammond, who remained unconscious through the entire journey. Parts of the trip were lost in a haze; he wasn’t certain if he had been asleep or in a fog of pain and exhaustion. He only remembered thinking he had to keep moving forward.

  Derek remembered seeing a handful of commercial vehicles heading north and way too many refugees pushing bicycles or piled into slow-moving vehicles. Hundreds, easily. Crossing the border turned out to be fairly straightforward. He’d studied options before the mission and knew of a dozen routes that bypassed the official border crossings. That part he remembered, because for a time he was afraid that he had gotten lost and disoriented, that he might be accidentally heading south or east.

  The guards at the gate were more than a little suspicious. Derek stepped out of the car, hands up, and stumbled, sinking to the tarmac. Hands raised, he said, “Americans. I’m with the State Department. My partner is seriously wounded.”

  The Air Force guard said, “So are you, buddy.”

  The Air Force doctor had red hair and freckles. She said, “This shoulder is bad. You’ve had multiple surgeries already. On the knee, the other shoulder, and abdomen.”

  “That was a gunshot.”

  She looked down at him where he laid. “Maybe you should stop doing that.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Well, I’m going to have a surgeon come in and look at the shoulder. I think a head X-ray is due for the wound to the head. Gunshot, too?”

  “Just a graze.”

  “Oh shut up. Half an inch to the left and you wouldn’t be here at all.”

  “I try not to think about it.”

  She studied him. “You’re with State?”

  “You bet.”

  “And your friend? He’s in pretty bad shape. Worse than you.”

  “Is he going to make it?”

  “I think so. But he’s got a longer road ahead of him. Two wounds to the torso. Infection. He with State, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mmm-hmmm. After the surgeon sees you I’ll get you some pain meds unless he’s going to do surgery right away.”

  The surgeon decided to operate on his shoulder in about an hour. While Derek waited an IV dripped into his arm and a humorless man in a dark suit with credentials identifying him as being with the State Department asked him questions.

  “What is the exact location of this apartment you were in?”

  Derek showed him on a map.

  “And the doctor’s office? His brother’s café?”

  The questions went on and on, all addressed with heavy skepticism. The man had dark hair worn short and parted on the left, a fleshy face and razor burn where he shaved at his neck. Anger kept popping up in Derek like a lizard climbing out of its hole.

  “So you didn’t accomplish your mission.”

  Derek stared at the man for a long moment. He finally said, “Get out.”

  “Dr. Stillwater—”

  “Out!”

  “I’m not finished with my questions.”

  Derek rolled sideways off the bed onto his feet. The IV line tugged at his arm. He wasn’t in great shape, but he was in good enough shape to kick this asshole’s teeth in. The guy scrambled to his feet, sudden fear on his round face. “I’ll put this in my report!”

  “You do that. And when you talk to Bob Mandalevo, tell him he can stick his report up his ass, too.”

  The nurse knocked at the door at that moment, stepped in and eyed the two men. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” Derek snapped.

  “We’ll talk later,” the State Department flunky promised.

  “No,” Derek said. “We won’t. I’ll talk to the Secretary, but I won’t talk to you. But give him my message. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

  Expressionless, the official turned and walked out. The nurse said, “Not a friend of yours?”

  “No. Drug me up. I need a nap.”

  “Will do.”

  Derek slept for a couple days. As surgery went, it was relatively minor. The surgeon expressed concern about possible nerve damage to the shoulder. “Only time will tell. There was a lot of damage and it didn’t help matters that you didn’t get proper treatment for several days.”

  Glowering at him, Derek said, “That’s just fucking great.”

  The surgeon was a tall, solidly built African-American. He wore green surgical scrubs and looked like he ate children for breakfast, even though he’d been nothing but calm and professional with Derek. He studied Derek for a moment, and gestured to the chair next to the bed. “Mind if I sit down?”

  If Derek could shrug, he would have, but his shoulder was bound and bandaged and even small movements caused pain to shoot through shoulder. His head still hurt from the skull fracture, and occasionally, even though he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, his vision would double for a while before going back to normal. This double vision was usually accompanied by an intense wave of nausea and vertigo.

  “Fine.”

  The doc sat. “Name’s Steve Everline. I’m pretty sure I introduced myself earlier, but maybe not.”

  Derek just stared at him.

  Dr. Everline scratched at his jaw with one hand. “I don’t know what happened to you and Hammond over there in Syria. And I understand it’s classified. But I’m getting reports that you’re being difficult and uncooperative.”

  “What’s your point?”

  The surgeon sighed. “The point is I suspect something happened to you more than getting shot a couple times, which is bad enough. Or you saw some bad shit. What I’m saying, Dr. Stillwater, is if you need to talk to someone, we’ve got counselors and psychologists on staff.”

  “You through?”

  �
��I am.” He stood up and held out a hand. Slowly, Derek took it. “I’ll be back to check on you later today. Meanwhile, get some rest.”

  A day later he was released from medical care and given temporary quarters. He found Hammond in the hospital, wired up, patched up, and awake.

  “Hey,” Hammond said.

  Sitting at the bedside, Derek said, “How do you feel?”

  “Like morphine is one of my favorite things.”

  “When do they say you’ll get out of here?”

  Hammond flicked a hand in lieu of a shrug. “They had to re-do the dead doc’s work, cut out a chunk of intestine. I’m on heavy-duty antibiotics. Collapsed lung, broken ribs, torn up scapula … Hey, it was a party. It’ll be a while. You heading stateside?”

  “I’ve got reports to write, then I’m going to Russia for a while.”

  “To see your kid.”

  Derek nodded. “You going to be fully functional?”

  “You going somewhere with that?”

  “Are you going to be able to go back into operations?”

  “Only time will tell, but yeah, I think so.”

  “Want to?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “Hell yeah.”

  They sat there in companionable silence. Derek thought maybe Hammond dozed off, but he said, “On the drive back, I was out of it most of the time. But I did come to for a while. The car was on the side of the road and you were gone.”

  Derek remembered. He’d pulled off to take a piss. He’d also wanted to check the stars and see if he could get his bearings. Walking a dozen feet from the car, he’d emptied his bladder, grown dizzy, and collapsed to the ground. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but when he came to he staggered to his feet and walked off, confused in the dark, losing the car and the road.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Bad moment there.”

  “The nurse told me you were in pretty bad shape. Concussion, skull fracture, shot up shoulder. But you made it all the way here. Saved my life.”

  “In the job description.”

  Hammond nodded and held out his fist. Derek bumped it with his own.

  “For the record, Stillwater. I’d work with you again in a heartbeat. You’re pretty tough. For an old guy.”

  Writing reports took a couple days. Once he turned them in, he planned to leave, but the State Department guy wanted to go over it with him.

  “No,” Derek said. “I’m not.”

  “You’re an employee of the State Department. It’s protocol.”

  Derek spun on him, stepping into his space. “No,” he growled. “I’m not. I’m officially with Homeland Security. I don’t answer to you, asshole. File the reports and go away.”

  That evening he was called to the secure communications room.

  In a private room with a flat-screen monitor hanging on the wall, Secretary of State Robert Mandalevo waited for a video chat. Mandalevo was in his sixties and reminded Derek of a skeleton. About six-feet-three, Mandalevo was so thin he looked like he was ending a hunger strike. He was bald and his complexion was dark, his skin rough. Some of his critics called him Skeletor.

  “How are you, Derek?”

  “Fine.”

  Mandalevo sighed and leaned forward so his elbows rested on the desk, which Derek thought might be in his office in Foggy Bottom. “You need to cooperate with Brandon.”

  “Do I?”

  “He’s just doing his job. I read your report. It’s thorough, but I feel like maybe some things were left out, Derek. Like when you say you were taken to a room and interrogated at length. Let’s talk about that.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  The Secretary sighed. “Derek. Listen to me for a minute. I think of you as my friend.”

  Derek stared. They had been thrown together a couple years earlier at a G8 Summit. Then later he had needed a favor and ended up doing some work for Mandalevo in return. He didn’t know if he would have classified Bob Mandalevo as a friend. Maybe. For a brief time he’d dated one of Mandalevo’s daughters, though nothing had come of it.

  With a laugh, Mandalevo said, “Okay, that caught you off guard. But I do, Derek. I know we don’t socialize, but I have nothing but the greatest respect for you, what you do and your opinions. You’re a straight shooter and I value that you don’t kowtow to the position. Jim Johnston told me the same thing.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Derek, I want to make sure you’re okay. Physically, mentally and emotionally.”

  “I’m fine.”

  The Secretary stared at him. He glanced off-camera and held up a sheaf of reports. “I read the preliminary reports by John Hammond. He indicates you were dragged off and waterboarded multiple times. That you were later tortured with electric shock. He also reports that your escape attempt killed several people, including a twelve-year-old boy. You didn’t mention this in your report, Derek.”

  Derek said nothing.

  After a long silence, Mandalevo said, “I understand you’re heading to Russia.”

  “Yes. No favors this time.”

  “No. Spend some time with your son. Relax. When you get back to the U.S., make an appointment. We need to talk.”

  “Sure.”

  “Goodbye, Derek. And thank you for your mission.”

  The connection cut out and Derek sat for a long time in the communication room before hunting up the Blue Angel bar. Six hours later he staggered back to his quarters and passed out.

  14

  Sheikh Nazif knelt on a rug facing Mecca and prayed. He prayed for vengeance. He prayed for the life of a man who called himself Bill Black. Standing, he chanted, “Sam’I Allahu liman hamidah, Rabbana wa lakal hamd.” God hears those who call upon him. Our Lord, praise be to you.

  He raised his hands. “Allahu Akbar.”

  Back to his prayer mat, he chanted, “Subhana Rabbiyal A’ala” three times. Glory be to my Lord, the Most High.

  But his mind was on the two Americans. And on his son, Abdul.

  Prayers finished, he looked over at Ebo, who was finished his prayers. “You have the photographs?”

  Ebo nodded.

  “Is the website ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Start it up.”

  Edo nodded. “Allahu Akbar.”

  Nazif smiled. “Allahu Akbar.”

  15

  Moscow, Russia

  Derek was met at the Shereyetmevo Airport by Konstantin Nikitinov. Konstantin was average height, broad-shouldered, with a black beard and thinning hair. He reminded Derek of a bear. They embraced and Konstantin squinted at him. “How is the shoulder?”

  “Better every day.”

  “What happened this time?”

  “Syria happened.”

  “Come. Let’s go. You can tell me in the car. What the hell were you doing in that godforsaken place, Derek?”

  “You know damn well what I was doing there.”

  Konstantin’s car was a black BMW, new since the last time he had visited. “The short version,” Derek said, “is I and another guy were dropped into Syria to look for very specific WMD and got caught between the FSA and the SAA. And things went to hell. How are things with you?”

  Konstantin sighed. Konstantin Nikitinov had been a legend in the FSB, the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, or Federal Security Service, what had once been the KGB. Many in the intelligence world found very little difference between the FSB and the KGB. Konstantin’s particular area was counterterrorism, making he and Derek counterparts. They had been thrown together a year earlier, started out as antagonists and ended as friends. In addition, Konstantin was the adopted father of Derek’s son, Lev. Eight months earlier Konstantin and Irina Khournikova, Lev’s mother, had married. “It’s complicated.”

  Laughing, Derek said, “It always is.”

  “Politics, politics, politics. Irina has gone back to school. She’s heavily into computer security now.”

  “A booming business with a lot o
f options.”

  “That’s what she says. What are your plans?”

  “I’ll be here a few days. It’s just a visit. I want to see Lev. How’s he doing?”

  “Since you saw him last? Growing like crazy. His English is good, his Russian is better. He keeps us busy.” Konstantin hesitated. “He might be getting a brother or sister.”

  Derek grinned. “Might be?”

  “It’s early, but yes.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “You’re okay with this?”

  “Of course.”

  And he was, that was the thing of it. He and Irina had spent two weeks together cruising the Caribbean on his boat after a particularly horrible international incident they had both been involved in. She was with the FSB, he had been with Homeland Security. She had gotten pregnant and not told him. Derek had found out when Irina disappeared during an investigation into a Russian terror group and was presumed dead. Luckily, he and Konstantin had broken the group and recovered Irina. He had no particular claim on Irina and was happy that things were working out the way they were.

  Konstantin and Irina and Lev lived in a lovely neighborhood called Frunzenskaya on the banks of the Moscow River. Gorky Park was nearby on the opposite bank. It was a four-story building, elegant, eighty or ninety years old but in excellent condition. “How is Raisa?” Derek asked as they climbed the stairs to the third floor. Raisa Belov was sort of Raisa’s grandmother, although Derek had never quite gone to the effort to figure out what her actual title would be, relationship-wise. She was Irina’s sister’s husband’s mother. Irina’s sister and brother-in-law had been murdered by the terrorist organization that Derek and Konstantin had brought down. Murdered in this very apartment.

  Derek had been surprised when Irina and Konstantin decided to stay in the apartment, but agreed that it was a beautiful neighborhood in which to raise Lev. Raisa, who had been living with her son and daughter-in-law at the time, babysitting Lev, had been there when they were murdered. Perhaps not surprisingly, she had declined to live there.