Gemini Series Boxset

by Ty Patterson

  Two guards ran in the direction of the main residence, drawn by the breach in the compound. Their heads turned, startled at the figure racing towards them. The sniper shot from the hip without faltering. A rapid double burst that cut them, followed by a double tap. Lethal rounds. No tranqs.

  Zeb’s team lobbed flashbangs into the residence and, when they entered the house, switched to lethal fire. Each one carried an HK416; Bear and Bwana had M320 grenade launchers fitted to theirs.

  Zeb and Bwana entered a large room, which looked like a store for art.

  ‘Look at that.’ Bwana took a moment to admire a wall hanging before blasting oncoming guards with a short burst.

  They checked the hallway. Clear.

  ‘We’re climbing,’ Chloe said in their earpieces. ‘Stairs from the back, going up.’

  Zeb and Bwana raced down the hallway. Bwana let fly a grenade as a door opened far ahead. Three guards collapsed, their rounds flying harmlessly over their heads.

  A turn. Footsteps pounding ahead of them.

  They split, dived to the floor in opposite directions, sliding on its polished surface. Four guards rushing at them, reacting an instant too late as they figured out which target to go after.

  In Zeb’s world, a fraction of a second’s delay was the difference between life and death. The heavies went down under their sustained fire. Zeb rose and looked at Bwana, who gave a thumbs-up.

  More twists and turns in the passage, alarms now sounding in the mansion, shouts in the distance.

  They reached a hall, some kind of reception room, at the far end of which was a grand staircase winding up.

  They climbed swiftly, Zeb at the front, Bwana at the rear, coming to a landing that stretched to the left and right.

  The sniper reached the side wall of the guesthouse. Paused for a few moments to fly a drone and check the building. Thermal imaging showed it was empty. The shooter activated a wave jammer that would interfere with the residence’s security system.

  Sounds of firefights in the distance as Zeb and his operatives engaged the mansion’s security personnel. It was the cover the shooter had wanted. The sniper put on suction gloves and swiftly climbed the building.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Right, Zeb pointed, on reaching the landing. That was where Nikolai’s study was.

  Sounds of an intense firefight.

  Ducked their heads around a corner. Bear and Chloe pinned behind an upturned wooden desk that they had dragged from somewhere.

  ‘Duck,’ Bwana whispered, sent two grenades rapidly and backed them up with sustained fire.

  The sounds of the explosions died down. Smoke and dust filled the passage. Someone cried in agony. Zeb held his hand up and started crawling.

  ‘Not a good idea,’ Bwana warned. ‘Let me soften them up with a few more.’

  Zeb didn’t stop. The passage ended in a T, with Nikolai’s study to the left. They had to know how many hostiles were in the intersecting hallway.

  The hallway became his universe as he moved swiftly, alert for any movement. He knew he would be a tempting target for any guard. However, he was counting on his friends to provide cover. It was a foolhardy move, one that he wouldn’t have executed in different circumstances. However, plans needed to change when the terrain and hostilities did.

  He brought out a telescopic camera when he reached the end. Swung it to the right. One guard crouching, another behind, both readying themselves for attack. Neither of them noticing the almost invisible cable’s tip.

  He twisted the camera, pointed it to the left. Bodies on the floor, no movement.

  The HK was too cumbersome to maneuver. He drew his Glock and fired to his right just as one of the guards leaped forward.

  A double tap took the first hostile down, and then his crew was surging forward, cutting down the second guard, but not before Zeb’s cheek burned from a passing round.

  That was close. He felt his face with his hand. His fingers came away red. He got to his feet and moved carefully to the study’s door.

  The sniper moved across the guesthouse’s roof. No security guard at the top, which wasn’t surprising. Everyone would have been summoned to deal with the operatives in the main house.

  The shooter skirted air-conditioning equipment and piping. Brought up a mental image of the building’s layout and the window in Nikolai’s study. Headed to that side of the guesthouse and slowed when the parapet neared.

  The roof presented a problem. The parapet wall meant the sniper couldn’t lie down prone and take a shot.

  The shooter shrugged. The shot would have to be taken kneeling. The sniper had planned for various shooting positions and had strapped on appropriate gear.

  Reaching behind, the assassin unfastened a bipod. Placed it over the parapet wall and adjusted it. Used a dimmed flashlight to inspect the surface of the roof. It was even. The sniper brought out more equipment and assembled a Barrett M107. Working in the darkness, hands moving surely, slapping the component parts into place to complete the deadliest sniper rifle. Attached a Leupold scope on top of the rifle, placed the weapon on the bipod, knelt and put an eye to the Leupold sight.

  Nikolai’s window jumped into sharp relief.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  The study’s door had a camera at the top. Chloe shot it out. No sounds from inside. Nikolai’s silhouette showed on their lenses, pacing, apparently unworried by the firefight raging in the mansion.

  He’s got men surrounding the house. The police are a call away. The man in the Kremlin is his ultimate insurance. Why should he be concerned? Zeb smiled grimly as he inspected the door.

  The door was metal, sturdy, and shone under the ceiling lights.

  ‘Water-filled,’ Bear pronounced, after studying it. Impact-resistant. The liquid inside would absorb the force of any shock and made it impervious to many kinds of breaches.

  ‘Stand back,’ Bwana told them.

  They got behind him.

  The problem with doors was that they required hinges, even if they were hidden.

  Bear joined Bwana, and the two shaped and placed explosives at the four corners of the door and down the sides. Eight charges of custom-made explosive that could breach a panic room. Broker and the twins had collaborated with the NSA to develop a new explosive for dealing with thick concrete walls.

  Months of research and trials later, the end result was what Bear and Bwana were working with. A charge that was several times more powerful than C4. An explosive that could direct its force in a concentrated area and that could burn through building materials. Ideal for safe rooms. Perfect for Nikolai’s study.

  The operatives went to the far end of the hallway and placed several explosive packages at the entrance of the passage. Infrared sensors planted just below knee height on the sidewalls.

  The mansion’s heavies would come rushing once the panic room was breached. They would cut through the IR waves, which would complete the circuit, trigger the charges and take them out.

  A simple but extremely effective means to cover their backs once they were inside the study.

  Bwana signaled when they were ready. The operatives looked away when he and Bear triggered the charges at the study door.

  The explosion shook the building. The mansion trembled and something crashed in its cavernous interior. Shouting and cries of alarm reached them.

  They didn’t stop to investigate.

  Zeb darted through the dust and smoke swirling at the breached door, his HK held ready, the rest of the operatives following him.

  Scan left. No hostiles. Check right. No threat.

  The study would be a conference room in most hotels. It was large, wood-paneled, original art lined its walls. Ornate lighting hanging from the ceiling. A set of security screens in one corner showing images from the mansion. A glass cabin at one end that had a desk, several screens on it, a chair that was vacant.

  And Nikolai Khem hunched over his desk, holding his hands to his ears, his eyes widenin
g at their entrance. He lunged for a drawer, fumbling as he brought out a handgun. He dropped it immediately, howling in agony when Zeb shot him in the shoulder.

  Bear and Chloe stood by the shattered door, keeping a watch on their rear, while Bwana and Zeb advanced. The Russian was dressed as if he was going to an evening reception. Razor-sharp creases on his trousers, striped shirt, cufflinks gleaming in the light. Dark hair immaculately parted. Well turned out, except for the red splotch on his shoulder and the grimace on his face.

  His dark eyes were narrowing as he sized up his visitors, calculating, thinking furiously.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked sternly, in English.

  Zeb didn’t reply. Neither did Bwana.

  ‘You are Zeb Carter?’ Nikolai focused on him.

  Zeb didn’t make a sound.

  ‘You won’t leave this country alive. I have a powerful supporter —’

  ‘Stop,’ Zeb told him.

  Nikolai stopped. He took a few steps back, putting the large desk between him and the oncoming operatives. To his right was a window that looked out.

  Zeb and Bwana were thirty feet away; the study was that large.

  ‘You have a games developer?’ Zeb jerked his head at the glass cubicle.

  ‘Vasily,’ the Russian answered readily, his eyes unfathomable. He didn’t look scared. ‘I killed him. He was of no more use.’

  ‘It was your idea?’

  ‘Da,’ Nikolai sat in his leather-backed chair carefully. It looked like the visitors wanted to talk. ‘I made one mistake.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘My plan was to have no American targets.’

  ‘Targets?’

  ‘Da. Killings in America. That would complicate my business. But Kloops, he wanted to kill in your country.’

  Zeb fingered his Glock, wondering why the Russian was confessing so readily.

  His powerful backer. Nikolai still thinks his protector will come to his rescue.

  ‘Why Angie Konstantin?’

  Nikolai shrugged. ‘Random selection. Vasily put in a lot of names. The computer selected hers.’

  ‘What do you think will happen now?’ Bwana asked, fascinated.

  The Russian laughed. ‘You cut my phones off. You killed my guards. You think you are in charge. You are wrong. By now my sponsor knows something. He will send Russian police. Soldiers.’ He looked at an expensive watch on his wrist. ‘Any minute now.’

  ‘He’s lying. Nothing’s happening,’ Broker spoke in their earpieces. He had been following their progress through the bodycams on their suits. ‘Highway’s still jammed. Cops have surrounded the semi. Rog and I are heading to the mansion. We’re monitoring chatter. Lots of talk about terrorist blasts in several parts of the city. Andropov’s buried reports of our attack. You gotta step it up, however. Chopper’s incoming in ten.’

  ‘You made another mistake,’ Zeb told Nikolai.

  ‘No, I only made one —’

  ‘Beth and Meghan,’ Zeb raised his Glock, his face stony, his eyes steel. ‘You put them on your target list. You sent Razor after them.’

  Nikolai stared at him in disbelief and then fear dawned. He had always assumed he was untouchable in his mansion in Russia. Reality was setting in but it was too late.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. His lips worked. He broke.

  ‘Wait,’ he babbled, ‘I have money. I can pay you. How much —’

  His head exploded.

  Zeb froze, stunned. He hadn’t fired. None of them had.

  ‘DOWN!’ he roared.

  He dived to the floor, rolling to the wall, away from windows, away from the shattered entrance.

  Looked about swiftly when he came to a stop. His friends had taken similar cover. Guns cocked, ready for hostilities.

  No heavies entered the study. No one rappelled through the windows. No shots came their way.

  Chloe caught Zeb’s eye and pointed at something over his shoulder.

  He turned carefully and looked at the shattered window, and then at Nikolai’s body.

  ‘Sniper,’ he mouthed. ‘Outside.’

  His friends nodded.

  He prepared for an explosive burst of speed, out of the study and to the hallway. To test the sniper, check out whether the shooter was hostile or not.

  ‘Relax,’ a voice came over their earpieces. Amused, smiling.

  Another moment of shock, his head rearing up, meeting the startled eyes of his friends. They knew that voice well. The speaker was no threat to them.

  ‘I suspected you were planning something like this. But that shot wasn’t yours to take. I’m sure you understand. Beth is my sister.’

  * * *

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  ‘I have a particular talent.’ The speaker was young, in his mid-twenties. He was dark-haired, brown-eyed and stood ramrod straight.

  He was casually dressed—shirt tucked into a pair of jeans, belt around his waist—as he stood in the room in front of five seated men in suits. All of them had a presence.

  The speaker guessed they were men who decided on war; how it was fought and where. He knew he was looking at military men. That had been made clear before the interview. Now, on observing them, he guessed they were three- or four-star generals, or their equivalents from the Navy or Air Force.

  No names had been exchanged when he entered the room, in an anonymous-looking building in DC.

  He had looked it up. It was occupied by various private companies and also rented out rooms by the hour.

  ‘What talent is that?’ said a balding man, as he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  It had been a long day and they seemed to be nowhere near making a decision. That’s what it felt like to the speaker.

  ‘Finding people, sir.’

  Several suits snorted.

  ‘The military has enough of such soldiers, son,’ a silver-haired man spoke. ‘We don’t need another one.’

  ‘And killing them, sir. Killing those who are threats to us.’

  That stopped them.

  Those who were good in the killing arts weren’t uncommon in the military, either. Or on the outside, in the private-sector world.

  But the way the young man had spoken struck them.

  He was utterly confident, without being arrogant. He was calm, his voice so soft they almost had to strain to hear him.

  It was rare for men of their seniority to come together and interview candidates. Most men or women would have felt intimidated by them, even without knowing who they were, what rank they held.

  Yet, the man facing them seemed unaffected.

  He stood, arms crossed behind his back, legs spread apart slightly and looked them in the eye.

  No hesitation. No fidgeting.

  Many of the previous candidates had been arrogant. One had boasted about the kills he had made. The panel had shown him out quickly.

  A squat, suited man picked up the speaker’s folder and rifled through it. Somalia. Iraq. Lebanon. Israel. Greece. London. Belfast. Several redacted portions, to which they had access.

  The current candidate had been to several of the hot spots of the world.

  He had led units. He had worked independently. He had been in hostile country, undercover for months.

  He spoke several languages fluently.

  A superior had jotted a comment. Has an ear for languages. In just a few weeks, in a new country, can speak well enough to get by.

  He was a master sniper. He had won several unarmed-combat trophies. Those who knew him, respected him.

  The man lingered on the last country the candidate had been to while in the military.

  Afghanistan.

  He whispered to his peers. The file was passed around.

  ‘We didn’t know
we had Superman in our ranks,’ Silver Hair said sarcastically.

  The candidate’s reaction astounded them.

  He unbuttoned his shirt, all the while looking at them.

  ‘What? What are you doing?’ the suit roared.

  The candidate didn’t stop.

  He removed his shirt. Removed his vest.

  And then pointed to a badly healed wound just below his heart.

  ‘I don’t think Superman has such a scar.’

  ‘You think this is a joke?’ Silver Hair rose. ‘Do you know who we are? Just because you aren’t in the military, you think you can get away with such behavior? You are walking that close to the edge, young man.’

  The speaker finished dressing and stood smartly, waiting for the outburst to finish.

  ‘Yes, sir. And I apologize for offending you. I meant no disrespect. Way I figure, you have been sitting there all day, listening to other candidates like me. You are trying to decide who’s the best person for the job. You made a comment. I do not know if you were serious. I could have said something. Lots of words, but I thought you probably have had enough of words, and hence my action.’

  He paused a beat. ‘I will understand if I am not selected. For whatever you have in mind.’

  The suits did the bent-heads-whispering-furiously thing again.

  ‘You are not afraid?’ the balding man asked him.

  ‘Yes, sir. I am.’

  ‘I don’t mean that stunt you pulled off,’ the man waved. ‘I mean in the field.’

  ‘I am often afraid, sir.’

  ‘And yet you came here.’

  ‘I was told it would be a good idea to offer my services to my country,’ the candidate said, smiling sardonically.

  ‘You know you won’t get paid?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Driven by noble intentions, no doubt,’ Silver Hair said sarcastically.