Extraction

by Marcus Richardson

  “Worry not…” replied Beslan.

  In the drone’s video feed, the lookout jerked and a spray of orange and yellow appeared on the roofing tiles.

  “Nicely done,” Cooper said.

  “Spasiba,” Beslan replied again.

  “Can you take out the corner light on the far side of the building?”

  “Re-tasking.” After a slight pause, Beslan returned. “On your mark.”

  Cooper holstered his pistols and pulled the stubby Colt M4 from his back and loaded the under mount grenade launcher. He pulled back the charging bolt on the receiver and crept toward the cone of light that illuminated the path to the closest door. If they were smart, they’d have him on IR cameras already, if not, any decent night vision gear would spot him if he moved any closer.

  “Do it.”

  Cooper heard a pop, from the other side of the house, followed by the sound of glass hitting stone. A muffled shout echoed from inside the building, sounding like it came from the other side of the door he watched.

  “The door is open,” Beslan replied. “They want to take a look.”

  Cooper grunted. “Don’t engage, but pick a target.”

  “Waiting on you.”

  Cooper counted to thirty. That would give the defenders plenty of time to gather on the other side of the house, or at least be distracted by the commotion. He imagined whoever was manning their comms station would check in with the roving patrols right about now.

  A shout erupted from inside the house and flashlights pierced the night in the far distance.

  Cooper nodded to himself. Now you’re figuring out the patrol is missing, too.

  “That other patrol is running back. They will see the bodies.”

  Cooper set his mouth in a grim line and adjusted his grip on the rifle. “Okay. I’m breaching. Weapons free.”

  “Finally,” Beslan breathed.

  Before the transmission finished registering in Cooper’s mind, gunfire exploded on the far side of the house. Cooper lurched forward and kicked the door just above the handle. The decorative frame shattered, and the door crashed in, stopping only when it hit the guard on the other side.

  The man yelped in surprise and stumbled back as Cooper barreled through the now wide-open door. Outside, gunfire crackled and Beslan laughed.

  “Two down!”

  Cooper dropped the man in front of him with a double tap to the head and moved swiftly past the body, clearing the short hallway leading from the door he’d just breached. A shout behind him caused Cooper to drop to his good knee and spin in place. Wood splintered where his head had been a second before. He managed to get a shot off before a round clipped his shoulder, throwing off his aim.

  Ignoring the flare of pain, Cooper clenched his jaw and squeezed the trigger again, taking his target down in a spray of arterial blood. He put one more in the writhing man in the doorway to make sure he didn’t get up, then backed against the wall to examine his shoulder.

  “Dammit, I’m hit,” he grunted, looking at his hand covered in blood.

  “That didn’t take long. Bad?” asked Beslan over gunfire. He’d removed the suppressor from his Dragunov and the noise was considerable now. Judging from the screaming and return fire, Cooper’s Chechen friend certainly had their attention.

  “No,” Cooper replied, pushing off the wall, and crouch-walking down the corridor. Through the window at the end of the hall, he saw a muzzle flash light up the night in the distance. A split second later, a meaty thwack reached his ears, followed by another fusillade from the defenders, and plenty of yelling in Russian.

  “That makes three!” Beslan hooted.

  Cooper took two steps to the left of the hallway and peered around the corner to the right. He pulled his head back after a quick peek. “You got a group of four hostiles in the doorway, taking cover, two to a side,” he subvocalized, moving the muscles in his mouth but not speaking the words.

  “Copy.”

  Cooper watched his HUD as Beslan moved the drone into a position to catch the heat signatures of the defenders, then systematically shot through the walls, taking them down one by one.

  “Ground floor looks clear,” Beslan reported. “You’re on your own for a minute. I need to deal with the remaining patrol. I am on eight, by the way.”

  “This isn’t a fucking competition,” Cooper growled.

  Gunfire crackled and snapped outside, the noise eerie in the now silent house. Cooper scanned the targets by the door and finished off the only one still moving with a mercy shot to the head. A piece of plaster dropped from the wall, bringing a small gilt-framed religious icon with it.

  “Are you moving yet?” asked Beslan.

  “Roger that, I’m Oscar Mike to the second floor.”

  “Careful, there are more up there. Watch the drone, I’ve got it seeking thermal on auto now.”

  “Copy that.” Cooper advanced through the house, ignoring the paintings and Fabergé Eggs displayed on ornate shelves—in almost every room. Someone had taken a lot of care to decorate the mansion with style. The IR light attached to his weapon swept over Chippendale furniture and carved wood paneling, plush carpets and velvet curtains hanging from huge windows.

  Fucking rich people…

  Knowing that the mansion was a holdover from the Soviet era, Cooper felt little, if any sympathy for the current owner over the loss of the artwork and furniture destroyed in the gunfight so far. The entire place had likely been built on the backs of peasants—their blood, sweat, and tears stolen by some Soviet boss who’d towed the party line.

  He swept through the kitchen and cleared it quickly, noting it looked like a bachelor pad compared to the rest of the house. Whoever lived here—or used it—ate a lot of takeout food and drank a lot of beer and vodka. A muted soccer match flickered from the flat-screen TV on the counter. Several chairs had been left on the floor as if knocked over in someone’s haste to get up.

  He glanced at the HUD on his right lens and noticed a group of thermal hits from deep in the house. The little drone only caught the flash of heat as it passed a window upstairs, but it was enough for the onboard AI in his glasses to offer a guesstimate on where the stairs might be—and the trap the remaining defenders had waiting for him.

  Cooper grinned. I love these glasses.

  He took a step toward the kitchen exit, then paused. He needed another way upstairs, without walking into the ambush they’d prepared. His eyes spotted an external door to his right. The curtain had been torn from the window and left covering only half the small portal. He imagined a guard had been there when the initial fighting started, and in his haste to get to the other side of the house, the curtain had been torn.

  “Be advised, I’m exiting the house.”

  “What?” Beslan asked after another gunshot. His rifle sounded like a cannon over the radio. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Cooper replied, hand reaching for the doorknob. “I’m just going to find another way upstairs.”

  23

  Home Invasion

  West of Smolensk, Russian Federation

  Mikhailovich Estate

  Mikhailovich sat at the table and watched camera feeds on the screens arrayed before him. He leaned back, frowning, as the American and his Chechen associate made short work of his perimeter defenses.

  He crossed his arms and exhaled, controlling his anger. As much as he hated to admit it, the fucking Chechen had serious skills. The second three-man team patrolling the estate had lasted longer than the first, but one man, armed with a long rifle and a drone—that wasn’t even armed, for fuck’s sake—should not have been able to do what the rebellious traitor had accomplished in mere minutes.

  Those men the Chechen had killed were supposed to be some of his best. It was shameful really. Either the Chechen was living up to the legends that swirled around him, or the men Mikhailovich hired had lied to him.

  His frown deepened when the camera feed for the estate grounds near the Chechen’s last known
location went dead. Those guards must have lied about their own skills. No Chechen barbarian was that good.

  Movement on the screen to his left brought Mikhailovich’s attention back downstairs. Muffled by the heavy wooden construction of the house, and decades of post-Soviet modernization, the gunfight raged just below him, a reminder that perhaps, someone in the house was that good.

  So far, nothing his combined crews had done proved successful in stopping the American from prowling through the dacha at will. He’d cut down several men in the hallways—men who’d be missed in the coming chaos—and acted as a spotter for the Chechen to pick off the four guards at the east entrance.

  Disgraceful.

  Mikhailovich switched cameras and looked over the cluster of his best men, his household guard, gathered at the top of the stairway, half in view, the others hidden around corners and in whatever spots they could find out of the direct line of sight of anyone coming up the stairs. He smiled. If the American thought he could just waltz upstairs unimpeded, he was in for a rude surprise.

  The phone resting on the table next to him buzzed. He snatched it before it could fall to the floor like one of his drunken clients after a night playing in the sex-rings. Mikhailovich glanced at the number as he brought it to his face. His reinforcements—finally.

  “Where are you?”

  “Just passed the outer gate,” a rough voice responded. “We’ll be there in 30 seconds.”

  “Excellent. The American is attacking—he has help. The Chechen is out there in the trees somewhere. Shoot anything that moves.”

  “The Chechen? I’ll kill him with pleasure.” The link went dead.

  Mikhailovich leaned back in his chair and tapped the phone to his lips, letting his mind spin out the possibilities. Always the planner, he couldn’t help but listen to the voice in the back of his mind. What if the American make it upstairs?

  He looked away from the monitors and glanced at the upload status as his video camera synced its files to the internet. Any minute now, the video of Sasha beating the ambassador and his wife would be broadcast all over the world—and sent directly to the American as a little gift.

  Mikhailovich smirked as his eyes drifted to the screen dedicated to watching the captured diplomat. Ambassador Marquadt sat motionless, his chin on his chest, unconscious after Sasha’s latest round of tender ministrations. His wife, on the other hand, was very much alive. She looked around, lovely chest heaving, screaming for help that would never come.

  They were locked in a soundproof interrogation room, thoughtfully supplied by the KGB decades ago. The American would be lucky indeed to survive long enough to search a house as big as Mikhailovich’s dacha. It used to belong to a politburo big wig whose head grew a little too big under the previous administration. The dacha was merely one of many the foolish politician owned—used to own.

  Mikhailovich frowned. And now the American was shooting it all to shit. Live, on camera.

  Cocky nekulturny bastard. You shall meet your fate soon enough…still…

  The American started toward the stairs, then stopped, staring up at the ceiling with those wonderful glasses he wore. He leaned in, staring at the image on the screen. Mikhailovich coveted those glasses like nothing else.

  The former SEAL kept his rifle aimed toward the stairs, then slipped back into the servant’s kitchen. Mikhailovich watched as the intruder looked around, then moved toward the exit.

  He’s not taking the bait…there’s no way he saw my men…

  He stood and snapped his fingers. Sasha moved away from the wall near the only door to the room and cocked an eyebrow, hand already reaching into his coat for the pistol he always kept at his side.

  “He’s going outside,” Mikhailovich said, pointing at the screen. “He’s spotted the trap at the top of the stairs somehow.”

  Petroval nodded. “That fucking drone. I told you—”

  Mikhailovich waved away the admonition. “Bah. One of my party wagons will be here any second, and the video is about to go live,” Mikhailovich said, glancing again at the camera’s progress. “Things are about to get interesting for our guest.”

  24

  Distraction

  West of Smolensk, Russian Federation

  Mikhailovich Estate

  Cooper hugged the exterior wall of the mansion and crept in the shadows. Beslan had warned him a vehicle was approaching—fast—then went silent. He couldn’t expect help from across the green space and had to assume Beslan had been compromised by the second patrol.

  Incoming reinforcements. His partner out of the fight. Clock ticking. Cooper felt a surge of fatigue assault his body. He’d barely had eight hours of downtime since leaving that nightmare of Edinburgh. His patience snuffed out in a wave of pain from the dozens of bruises and cuts that riddled his body. His hands trembled a little—the Dexedrine was wearing off.

  No time for that shit now. Embrace the suck and move on.

  Stepping out of the bushes and onto the gravel drive, Cooper froze as a big white van barreled around the corner of the house. He pulled two of his four grenades off his chest rig and ripped the pins. The van skidded to a stop directly in front of him as the side door slid open with a squeal. He tossed one pineapple right through the opening and the other under the rear axle, then turned and ducked out of sight around the corner of the house.

  Several voices screamed and were cut off as the explosions buffeted the house. Gravel, bits of metal, and flesh sailed past Cooper’s position. Tiny fragments of glass, like crystalline sleet, rained down as smoke billowed from the wrecked vehicle.

  Cooper reemerged from around the corner, his rifle up and ready. He coughed in the smoke, his eyes following the van as it rolled about six feet down a gentle slope and stopped only when what remained of the front bumper came to a rest against the mansion.

  That’ll do.

  He took a closer look, and noticed the van’s roof had been peeled up in the explosion, like someone had put a firecracker in a tin can. A seat lay in the bushes he’d been hiding in when the reinforcements arrived, setting the evergreen plants on fire. His boots crunched on smoking debris as he checked his sectors and confirmed he was once again alone. A glance at the HUD in his AR glasses confirmed the drone wasn’t picking up any heat signatures other than himself—and the van’s flaming wreckage.

  “Okay, I’m back, miss me?” asked Beslan over there secure comlink.

  “The fuck did you get off to?” Cooper grunted, spinning around behind him to make sure no one was attempting to flank his position.

  “Securing our ride. You want to get out of here alive, yes?”

  Cooper rolled his eyes. “You back on property?”

  “Yeah—position three. You are being in my sights.”

  A shiver ran down Cooper’s spine, like someone had just walked across his grave. “Well, keep my head out of the crosshairs, will you? Jesus.”

  “Targets on the second floor…a lot of them,” Beslan warned. “Check those windows.”

  “I’m about to go through one,” Cooper replied. “Can you provide cover?”

  “How are you—oh, the van was you? You Americans…always so subtle,” Beslan said.

  “Got a better idea?” Cooper asked. “I found their little ambush at the top of the stairs.”

  “There’s an exterior set of stairs on the other side of the house. Take you right up, easy peasy.”

  Of course there’s stairs. Fuck me. Cooper shook his head. “Skip it—I’m committed. Besides, they’ll be expecting that.”

  “They’ll be expecting a lot more after you took out that van.” Beslan hooted. “I am that sorry I missed the show.”

  Cooper opened his mouth to reply, but his phone vibrated against his chest, the caller ID flashing before his eyes: <>

  Goddamnit. Now what?

  “Accept,” Cooper growled, stepping next to the van and trying not to cough.

  “Condor, what’s the s
itch? Looks like world war three down there!”

  “Glad to see you’re keeping tabs on me, mom.” Cooper let his rifle dangle from its combat sling and pulled himself up onto what remained of the van’s roof, using the busted out windows as foot and handholds. He cursed as the metal burned his hands through his gloves. Balancing himself on the creaking roof, he judged the distance to the house.

  “I gather you haven’t acquired the package yet.” It wasn’t a question.

  Cooper cursed under his breath and lunged for the overhanging eaves, soaring over the flames still burning away at the front of the van. His hands found purchase and for a moment, his entire body hung suspended in the air over the fiery wreckage. Inch by inch, Cooper hauled his aching frame up the railing connected to a small, decorative balcony on the second story.

  “Working on it…” he grunted. If this fucking balcony doesn’t give way…

  “I don’t normally interrupt an op like this—”

  No shit? Gee, that’s thoughtful of you. Cooper grimaced as his hand finally reached the upper railing and he was able to get a foot wedged into the bottom.

  “—but there’s something you need to see. You’re going to have to up your game.” The line went dead.

  Cooper was convinced more than ever that something was rotten in Oakrock. That was twice—during this op alone—Brent had interrupted him at what could have been a pivotal moment. Only the fact that he’d just eviscerated Mikhailovich’s reinforcements kept him from being distracted—

  The curtain on the other side of the window moved, revealing a Slavic man wearing an evil grin. He pointed a large handgun at Cooper’s face.

  “Fuuuuuuuuck…” Cooper breathed.

  A hole appeared in the glass, and a matching one—in red—appeared on the man’s forehead. As Cooper hung there on the balcony railing, the man inside fell over backward, the sound muffled through the glass.

  “You’re welcome,” Beslan said in Cooper’s ear.