The Russian Defector
Page 1
Table of Contents
Front Page
Title Page
Dedication
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Epilogue
Bonus - Subway Surprise Short Story
Bonus - The Corrector Javin Pierce Chapter One
Bonus - The Corrector Javin Pierce Chapter Two
Bonus - The Corrector Javin Pierce Chapter Three
Bonus - The Corrector Javin Pierce Chapter Four
Bonus - The Corrector Javin Pierce Chapter Five
Bonus - The Corrector Javin Pierce Chapter Six
Acknowledgements
Copyright
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The Story
Is he a Russian defector or a double agent?
A bloodied Russian SRV operative crawls through the front doors of the Canadian embassy in Helsinki...
A Russian dissident is tapped for elimination...
An intercontinental ballistic missile disappears in Russia and surfaces in Ukraine...
What ties these events together? Can CIS spymaster Justin Hall trust the Russian defector and keep Europe from descending into an all-out war?
THE
RUSSIAN DEFECTOR
JUSTIN HALL SERIES
BOOK FIFTEEN
ETHAN JONES
Thanks be to God
and to all those behind the scenes who made this book happen.
Table of Contents
Front Page
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Epilogue
Bonus - Subway Surprise Short Story
Bonus - The Corrector Javin Pierce Chapter One
Bonus - The Corrector Javin Pierce Chapter Two
Bonus - The Corrector Javin Pierce Chapter Three
Bonus - The Corrector Javin Pierce Chapter Four
Bonus - The Corrector Javin Pierce Chapter Five
Bonus - The Corrector Javin Pierce Chapter Six
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Chapter One
Seven Blocks South of the Canadian Embassy
Helsinki, Finland
Never get in the trunk.
The first rule of survival as an SVR covert operative flashed through Sokolov’s mind. He heard and saw the gentle rap of a pistol’s barrel against the driver’s window of his Mercedes-Benz. He had dropped his eyes to his phone for hardly a moment, to check his email. Now he was staring at the muzzle of a gun inches away from his face.
What do I do?
The gray-suited gunman gave Sokolov a menacing look. He couldn’t hear the words, because his mind was on overdrive, planning escape scenarios. But he knew what the gunman was saying. Sokolov would have to come out, with his hands up, or the gunman would blow the SVR operative’s head off.
The threat gave him hope.
He looked to his right, feeling the adrenaline pumping through his body. A second gunman was standing near the front passenger door. He was dressed in a dark blue suit and was holding the pistol to his side, away from the eyes of curious passersby, but at such an angle that Sokolov could see it and understand its meaning.
He was surrounded, with nowhere to go.
No escape.
That’s what they’re thinking. They’re gravely mistaken…
He nodded at the gunman to his left and slowly placed his cellphone on the dashboard. Sokolov kept his hands in plain view of the gunman and reached for the button to lower the window’s glass.
“Get out. Out!” the gunman shouted.
“Yes, yes, give me a moment…”
The impatient gunman shoved his pistol inside the cabin, aiming it at Sokolov’s head.
He was expecting the move and was prepared for it.
He grabbed the gunman’s hand holding the pistol with his left hand and pushed it upward, as he slid down in his seat. The pistol went off, the bullet booming like a cannon shell. Sokolov’s ears erupted with a deafening peal, the sound of a thousand church bells reverberating through his head.
He locked his fingers around the gunman’s wrist and held his arm up. The gunman cursed and squeezed the trigger. Another bullet pierced the car’s roof, missing Sokolov’s head by mere inches. He flinched and ignored the pain shooting through his head because of his tortured eardrums. Sokolov held his grasp on the gunman’s arm and turned the pistol farther to the right, toward the second gunman.
A third round came out of the pistol. The bullet caught the second gunman in the chest, just as he had aimed his gun at Sokolov. The blue-suited gunman dropped against the silver Mercedes-Benz, without having a chance to fire a shot.
The operative twisted the wrist of the gunman and slammed his hand against the roof of the car. The gunman’s fingers were still wrapped around the weapon’s grip. He tried to grab Sokolov by the throat with his left hand, but Sokolov moved farther away inside the car. He fought to pry the pistol from the gunman’s hand, twisting and turning the wrist and the arm. The gunman groaned in pain and finally dropped the pistol.
Sokolov tried to grab it, but it fell underneath the driver’s seat. He groped for it for a long moment, but his fingers didn’t find it. He released the grip on the gunman’s arm and shoved open the door.
It hit the gunman har
d on the side and bought Sokolov a couple of seconds. He jumped out of the car and punched the gunman in the face. The man leaned against the hood of the Mercedes-Benz for balance. Sokolov kicked him in the side, and the gunman returned a swift hook. It caught Sokolov across his face and split open his lip. He spat out blood and blocked the gunman’s next blow with his left forearm.
The gunman—about ten years younger than Sokolov, who was pushing forty—lurched forward, with his arms in front of his face, like a boxer. Sokolov knew he had no chance of beating him in a fair fight.
“Come on, come on,” Sokolov lured the gunman closer.
When he was within arm’s reach, Sokolov fell to his knees. The gunman’s fist found only open air, while Sokolov threw a low blow to the gunman’s crotch. He screamed in pain and collapsed to the asphalt.
The operative drew in a sigh of relief and cast a sweeping gaze around him. A number of pedestrians were observing the scene. He didn’t know how much they had seen or how long they had been there. Enough.
He looked behind and down Ratakatu Street. The neighborhood was quiet, without any suspicious cars. Just a couple of sedans and a van driving in the other direction. Maybe they’re working alone , he thought, but he doubted it. He knew how the SVR, Russia’s foreign intelligence agency, operated. If this is SVR. It has to be the SVR.
Sokolov sidestepped the groaning gunman and got into his Mercedes-Benz.
He started the car and shifted into gear, ignoring the questioning looks of the angst-filled spectators. He drove down Ratakatu Street for a couple of blocks and passed the Soho Nightclub and the Jules Verne French School, a four-story, white-façade building with brick masonry arched windows. He kept glancing over his shoulder, knowing there had to be surveillance. Even if there was no second team, by now the gunmen would have called for backup.
Sokolov turned to the right at the next corner and sped up Annankatu Street. He thought about his next moves. He had planned his defection, but he thought he had more time. He hadn’t expected to be discovered so early in his plans. He couldn’t drive toward his destination. Not yet. Not until he was certain he wasn’t being followed. And if he were, he’d have to lose the surveillance. Otherwise, he was just delaying his inevitable, gruesome end.
He sighed and adjusted his rearview mirror. A black, windowless van turned around the same corner that Sokolov had taken. A white coupe did the same about three seconds later. Both were vehicles he had never seen the SVR use. Maybe they’re resorting to something different, considering the situation… He shrugged, then a deep frown twisted his face. The GPS transmitter… He had planned to remove it the day he was going to switch sides. He shook his head. Too late for that now…
His eyes went back to the rearview mirror. Both vehicles were there and catching up to him. Sokolov unbuttoned his gray-striped suit and pulled out the HK45 tactical pistol from his shoulder holster. He cocked it and laid it on the front passenger seat. His plan hadn’t changed, but the gun would come in handy to slow down the surveillance.
Once he was fully convinced they were surveillance.
He slowed down and turned right on Uudenmaankatu Street. He could have gone straight, and then he could have made a left turn on Lönnrotinkatu Street. At this point, the direction in which he traveled didn’t matter much. As long as he stayed ahead of the pursuers for another minute or so…
The van turned onto Uudenmaankatu, but the coupe didn’t. Sokolov stretched his neck and moved further to the right, trying to see what had happened to the coupe, but the van blocked his view. So he kept driving for another block, then made a swift left turn.
It was a bad move.
This was a back alley, and a large delivery truck was parked up ahead, perhaps fifty yards away. Sokolov slammed his fist on the horn, which blared its ear-bleeding shrill. But he knew it was in vain. Even if the driver was inside the cabin and started the truck right away, Sokolov doubted he’d be able to evade the black van.
Unless it’s not following me.
He shrugged off the thought with a grin. You know that’s not true. So get ready.
He glanced at the sideview mirror, just as the van entered the alley.
Sokolov grabbed his gun, jumped out of the Mercedes-Benz, and sprinted toward the delivery truck. He looked over his shoulder. The van’s driver and the front passenger had stepped out. The driver was already pointing a pistol at Sokolov.
He stopped and fired his gun from the side. He hadn’t aimed it correctly, so, of course, it didn’t hit either the driver or the passenger. But it bought him precious seconds.
The driver fell back for cover behind the van’s door as the operative’s bullet pierced the metal, but missed the driver. He looked through the glass, then exchanged a knowing look with the front passenger, who had also retreated behind the safety of his door. “We need him alive,” the driver said.
“Even if he’s trying to kill us?”
“I don’t make the rules. Stay alive.”
The driver peeked through the glass. The SVR operative was running along the narrow alleyway toward the delivery truck. The driver aimed his pistol at the operative’s legs and fired a couple of rounds.
They missed, kicking up dirt from the potholed alley.
Sokolov slowed down and swung on his heels. He squeezed off a short burst. His rounds stitched a ribbon across the van’s windshield, but he didn’t hit the driver standing by the door. Sokolov cursed and re-aimed his pistol. He had to stop to steady his hand. He held the weapon with both hands, turning his body fully toward the target. He fired once, and his bullet bit into the van’s door about two inches away from the driver’s head. Metal slivers shot up toward the driver’s face, but he slid behind the door.
Sokolov turned his pistol toward the passenger, but a bullet stabbed his left arm just above the elbow. A cry escaped his lips, then he cursed the shooter. Sokolov fired another time at the passenger, but he disappeared behind the van’s door.
Sokolov glanced at his arm. Blood was gushing from the deep wound. He bit his lip as the excruciating pain shot through the upper part of his body. He turned and raced toward the delivery truck.
He reached it before the shooters fired again. A couple of bullets ricocheted off the truck’s metal sides. He ducked and doubled his speed. His left arm was hanging limp against his body.
As he came to the truck’s cab, he thought about climbing in and using it as his getaway vehicle. But the truck was too unwieldy in Helsinki’s narrow streets. Besides, it would be impossible for him to drive and fire with only one good arm.
He cursed again and ran in front of the truck. He had cover now from the volley of bullets. But it wasn’t going to last long.
Sokolov zipped toward the intersection up ahead, recalibrating his plans. He needed to disappear, but if he couldn’t drive… I’ll need to hijack a car and have them take me to—
The white coupe screeching to a halt at the right side of the intersection cut off his thoughts. It had also cut off his escape route.
Sokolov shrugged. If it has to be this way, I’ll go down fighting…
He ran toward the coupe as he squeezed off round after round. His aim was shaky, but his bullets still struck the vehicle, shattering the driver’s side window. Neither the driver nor the passenger sitting in the front returned fire. Instead, the driver pulled away from the intersection.
Sokolov stopped firing and turned his head. No shooters behind him. He nodded to himself and dashed toward the intersection. When he reached it, he aimed his gun at the coupe, which was about thirty yards away. Its driver and passenger didn’t have weapons pointed at him, so Sokolov wasted no time firing at them. He turned to the left and bolted down the street.
He began to cross it as soon as he saw a small gap in traffic. A neon green Smart car came to an abrupt halt a couple of feet away. Sokolov stopped and stepped to the side, his hands touching the small car. He raised his weapon and pointed it at the terrified driver.
Before the driver
had a chance to react, the SVR operative threw open the door and scrambled in. “Go, go, go.” He waved the pistol in the driver’s face.
The young man was still frozen in place, so Sokolov reached over the steering wheel and blasted the horn. The sharp sound brought the driver back to his senses. He gave Sokolov a stunned look, then hit the gas.
“Straight, keep going straight, then turn left.”
“Where?”
“I’ll tell you when we get there…”
The driver gave Sokolov an almost imperceptible nod. The car picked up speed and shot along the mostly empty street. Sokolov shifted in his seat. Neither the van nor the coupe was following him. He held his pistol high, next to his face, then he pointed it at the back, expecting someone to appear at any moment.
No one did.
Still, Sokolov couldn’t shake the strange feeling washing all over his body. He knew the chase wasn’t over. The SVR wouldn’t let him get away so easily.
When the Smart car had covered about three blocks, a silver SUV appeared from one of the narrow alleyways. It fishtailed as it came onto the next street. That wasn’t someone late for work this early fall morning, and Sokolov knew that.
He shouted at the driver, “Turn right, right. Up ahead. Behind that Jeep.”
As he finished his words, one of the parked black taxis began to drive onto the road. The young man driving the Smart car was fast in his reflexes. He stepped on the brakes and avoided rear-ending the taxi.
Sokolov spun in his seat and aimed his pistol at the nearing SUV. He could make out the driver’s face. She was a blonde woman wearing sunglasses. The front passenger seemed to be a bearded man. Sokolov thought about emptying the magazine at the pursuers, but he wanted to be absolutely certain he was being followed. There was still a slight chance that the woman had nothing to do with him, and he was not about to kill an innocent civilian.
The Smart car driver came to the turn, but he misjudged the speed and the turning radius. He drove fast into oncoming traffic, going straight for a head-on collision with a white truck barreling down the lane.
“Turn, turn,” Sokolov shouted and yanked at the wheel.