Black operator complete.., p.10
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 10
The Colonel looked up, hope returning to his face. “A vacation, Mr. President?”
The lips twitched. “Yes, a vacation. They tell me Siberia is picturesque at this time of year. Provided you like snow and trees. You will have ten years to consider your failure. Goodbye, Colonel.”
“Mr. President, please, I can do this. All I need is…”
But he’d already lost interest and was looking down at his desk as they dragged the screaming officer from the office. A side door opened. Vladimir Ushakov stepped inside and stood before the desk. “Mr. President, it seems that fool has failed you. I warned him the plan was very risky, and he came close to revealing our intentions to the whole world.”
“I take it he acted on his own initiative? Were any others involved?”
“No, Sir.”
“Good. We will leave her alone for now. I don’t want any more stupid failed attempts.”
“You intend to let her live?”
His expression was enigmatic. “Yes.”
But Ushakov heard him murmur so it was almost inaudible, “For now.”
BLACK OPERATOR: THE KREMLIN ASSASSINS
By Eric Meyer
Copyright 2017 by Eric Meyer
Published by Swordworks Books
www.facebook.com/ericmeyerfiction
Prologue
He stared across the table at the girl they were trying to kill. The restaurant was perfect, and the cuisine exquisite. Maybe the waiters were a tad attentive, but Maria Tereshkova, no stranger to good living and fine dining, was enjoying herself. As if they hadn’t forced her to flee to the United States after putting her name on the ballot paper for the Russian Presidency. The last time they almost succeeded. They’d try again; it was a matter of time.
Cris Rhodes looked around the restaurant, searching for threats, found none and tried to relax. A connoisseur of frozen dinners and takeaway pizza, the French-style haute cuisine was alien to the former DEA operator. His parents hadn’t been rich, and he’d worked his ass off to get through college.
A career in DEA followed, and he became a member of an elite team. Stakeouts, lightning raids into enemy compounds with other black-clad operators; laden with weapons and equipment, sweating in body armor, the atmosphere crackling with tension as they waited for the bullets to fly, and a succession of hurried meals out of polystyrene cartons. The astringent relish they used to disguise the flavor of stale, reheated food. Spices, hot plastic, and the charged stink of pre-mission nerves. Who could forget the mind-numbing fear, pulse racing, and adrenaline surging, preparing the body for the violent surge of action. And a single thought.
Is this the day I stop the final bullet?
“Did you enjoy your meal?”
He regarded her across the table, slim, erect, and dynamic, with an inner core of sprung steel, a woman of the new Russia. Her attractive, dark-haired public face a thin veil for the tough determination that lay beneath. Classic high cheekbones and oval face, she could only hail from that mysterious region beyond the Steppes. And the bastards wanted to kill her. He had to stop them getting to her. He’d seen too many innocents cut down in a welter of blood. The reason he’d quit his job with DEA.
They’d met in the street, an accidental encounter. Later, when the assassin sent by the Russians slaughtered her bodyguard, he’d vowed to protect her. Eventually, he killed the man, after a long chase that left bodies strewn over the streets and environs of Chicago.
For a few seconds, he was back in Mexico. Non-combatants, ordinary folk running from the bullets of the narco traffickers, the cartel blasting them aside with assault rifle fire, like they were of no value. After so long, the nightmares still haunted him. He often woke in the night drenched in sweat, recalling the staccato bursts of gunfire, guttural orders in Mexican Spanish, and the screams of the wounded and dying.
His brain snapped back to the present. She was staring at him, her eyebrows raised.
Something about the meal.
“Uh, sure, yeah. It was…wonderful.”
She didn’t look convinced, took another sip of coffee, and smiled. “For a while, I thought you were somewhere else.”
She knew. They’d become close, what people would call an item. In the early hours when he awoke, shouting incomprehensibly, she’d be watching over him. Now she deserved his full attention. The restaurant was expensive, her treat, and he hadn’t wanted to ruin what should have been a happy evening. His birthday, he was thirty-four years of age, and she’d insisted on a night out. First, the Chicago Opera, a baffling production in Italian with subtitles on an electronic display. Afterward the restaurant, and a meal that was almost as baffling, French. People told him the food was wonderful. He wasn’t sure.
They left the restaurant and strolled toward their car across the street. A Range Rover, big V8 engine, tough and fast. So far there’d been no further attacks since the mysterious Russian gunman vanished into the dark depths of Lake Michigan. He was dead, still down there feeding the fishes. He looked around, all clear, and they continued walking. And stopped.
“Hold it.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Something wrong?”
“No.” A second later he amended his answer. This was Maria Tereshkova, the woman who had the Kremlin running scared, “Maybe. I thought I saw something.”
A man, walking away from the Range Rover; he looked too purposeful, pace too quick, like he was trying to get away from something bad.
“What did you see?”
“Wait.”
A hundred yards along the street the man dove into an alley. His head peeked out. Looked at Maria for longer than was reasonable, and dialed a number on his cellphone. Cris reacted.
“Down!”
She was too slow. He pushed her to the concrete and lay on top of her. A split second later, the blast erupted from their vehicle. Smoke and flames poured out, and a powerful shockwave gripped them, throwing them into the air. They landed hard, and she gasped and choked, trying to suck in air. Thick, roiling smoke hung over the wreckage, and he gave it a full minute in case more fuel ignited. When he was satisfied the threat was over, he helped her to her feet. The man had disappeared. No surprise.
Her eyes were wide with shock, but fighting to stay calm. “You saved my life, again. Will these people never give up?”
“No. They’ll keep trying if they believe you have a chance of unseating the President. He won’t allow that to happen. Not now, not in the future, not ever.”
“Which means I’ll always be in danger.”
He glanced at her, surprised.
Didn’t she known what she was up against before she began her crusade to unseat one of the most dangerous men in the world? Something has changed. What? I’ll worry about that later.
He nodded. “Yes, you will. But we had a warning, which gives us time to prepare. It’ll take them some time before they can try again.”
“You’re sure they’ll try again?”
Again, he wondered what had changed. “They’ll come.”
* * *
One week after the car bomb, he moved them to another apartment. Lincoln Park, with a spectacular view over Lake Michigan. He’d rented the fifth-floor condo using an ID card in a different name. One he’d kept since his undercover work with DEA. There was no way the enemy could know where they were, and he was confident he’d shaken them off, for a short time.
He’d chosen the apartment because the windows weren’t overlooked. In front of them was just the lake. No high-rise buildings offering a hiding for a would-be assassin, a marksman with a rifle. Not one hundred percent safe, but as near as he could make it. They could take a breath and recover from the shock of the assassination attempt.
“Cris, I’m out here.”
He’d just returned from a shopping expedition. He wouldn’t allow her outside, and he’d brought back a set of new clothes. A different profile to help keep them anonymous. She was a snappy dresser, so he’d chosen more conventional clothes for when they went out. A couple of chain store dresses, jeans, a baggy anorak, and dark glasses. Even a dull patterned silk headscarf. He dumped the bags in the hallway and entered the living room. She wasn’t there.
“Where did you say you were?”
“Here, on the balcony. Come on out. It’s a lovely day, the sun is shining, and I’m enjoying the fresh air.”
Jesus Christ!
He raced through the open balcony door, and she was sitting on a lounger, looking out over the lake. In the distance, scores of small boats plied back and forth, fishermen, leisure boaters, and a ferry heading into harbor laden with passengers. An innocent enough scene, but innocent scenes could hide something more dangerous.
“Get inside. It’s not safe out here.”
She waved a hand to dismiss his comment. “That’s ridiculous. We’re not overlooked, and I don’t intend to spend the final part of my stay in the U.S. living like a troglodyte.”
“Final days? You’re going back to Russia?”
Her gaze was determined. “I believe the car bomb was their final throw of the dice. They can’t keep up these stupid attempts to kill me forever. I have to leave Chicago.”
He frowned. Leaving Chicago was important to her. Like something had come up.
There’s nothing more important than staying alive. Is there?
* * *
The boat was one of many floating on the smooth waters of Lake Michigan. A Chris-Craft Commander 42, luxurious and fast, yet not too ostentatious. The anchor was out, and a man was sitting in the cockpit with a fishing rod. He didn’t have any bait on the line. And no one noticed when he moved to the open porthole in the front of the vessel. Nor did they notice the black, cylindrical object that poked out. It could have been part of the boat’s equipment, a fishing rod, maybe. It wasn’t a fishing rod.
Anatoly Kalinin took his time. Trained many years before, when the Red Army was a force to be reckoned with, he was a first-class sniper. The weapon was the best Russia could produce, a semi-auto Dragunov 7.62mm. The precision military grade bullet in the chamber would tear a soft target apart. Particularly the irritating woman the Kremlin wanted consigned to history. He’d finish the job and go home, back to his dacha outside St Petersburg. A just reward for a long and successful career taking out the enemies of his nation. The enemies of his President. Wasn’t that the same thing?
He breathed evenly, lying on a mattress on the berth in the front cabin, and applied his eye to the telescopic sight. She was talking to a man, who the intelligence packet identified as Cris Rhodes. No action needed. He aligned the cross hairs on the center of the woman’s head. A pity to ruin such a pretty face, for the bullet would turn it into bloody mush. He took up first pressure, relaxed, breathed, and began to take up final pressure on the trigger.
* * *
He was staring across Lake Michigan, searching for threats. A slight wind rippled the surface of the water, and the sun bounced its rays off thousands of tiny wavelets. And bounced off something else, the flare of a lens. A scope.
“Jesus Christ, get down. There’s a sniper.”
He shoved her to the floor, and it all happened at once, the faint rap on the door.
“Maid service.”
The shot, hardly audible, and Cris registered the shooter must be using a suppressor. The splintering of woodwork as the bullet tore through the thick door. A female screamed, and he was already dragging Maria back into the room, pursued by four more shots. Then nothing.
“Get in the bathroom, now. I’ll check the maid.”
“But what…”
“Get in there, and crawl. Don’t give them a target.”
She nodded and belly crawled into the bathroom, with no windows overlooking the lake. Satisfied, he went to the bullet-riddled door and opened it. The body lay outside, and the bullet had penetrated her heart. Her white apron had turned red with blood, and more had pooled on the carpet. She would have died instantly. He edged back inside the room, staying out of sight of the lake, and worked his way to the bathroom where Maria lay on the floor.
“The maid is dead.”
Her eyes briefly closed. “She was just doing her job. Should we call the…”
“We’re leaving. The shooter knows he missed. He was no rookie.”
“We should call the police, and…”
“And nothing. We’re getting out of here before they try another nasty surprise.”
“I’ll pack my things.”
“One bag, a holdall. We’re traveling light and fast.”
She didn’t argue, and minutes later they were walking down the stairs to the first floor. The replacement Range Rover was outside in the street, and after a quick check for bombs, he hustled her inside. Started the engine, and drove out of the city.
She looked puzzled. “We’re leaving?”
“We need to find somewhere to stay, somewhere safe and remote. A place with no connection to me or you, off the grid.”
“You have somewhere in mind?”
“Yes.”
“This place, they won’t find us there?”
“Sooner or later they’ll always find us, no matter where we go.”
“So why go there?”
“Because with any luck, I’ll see them coming. Which means I can shoot first, and kill them before they get a chance to kill you.”
* * *
Smoke curled upward, tracing lazy trails to foul the atmosphere of the small room in a forgotten corner of the Kremlin, home to one of the most powerful men in the world. Many would also describe him as the most ruthless man in the world. They were sitting on overstuffed couches with an ornate, low table between them. On the table, an ashtray overflowing with butts, two opened vodka bottles, glasses, and a plate of tiny cakes. Chocolate-covered Ptichye Molokos, Bird’s Milk cakes, a Russian delicacy. None had been eaten.
Kremlin fixer Vladimir Ushakov sipped his drink and looked at the other man in the room. Boris Makeyev, Russian Deputy Minister of Defense, and a man he regarded as inept, had failed. Again. The head of the vast Russian military machine had been entrusted with a single task, to kill one woman. And he’d failed.
“My boss is not pleased, Deputy Minister. He wants results.”
Makeyev brushed ash off the lapels of his suit. “I did everything possible. They assured me the men we sent were the best. It was just bad luck.”
“He doesn’t agree.” Ushakov couldn’t hide a smile at the other man’s discomfort, and the cheap suit. A senior man wearing such a garment would have horrified his tailor. Then again, his tailor was in London’s Savile Row, and unlikely to ever see the likes of Makeyev, “He believes you are not taking this seriously, and has begun to wonder if he has chosen the right man for...”
Makeyev interrupted. “I have done everything possible to carry out his wishes. No one could do more.”
“The right man for the post of Deputy Defense Minister,” he continued smoothly, “However, he is a reasonable man, and he is prepared to give you another chance.”
“To kill her?”
“To keep your post.”
Makeyev kept his face empty of expression.
The President a ‘reasonable man?’ They’d called Stalin a ‘reasonable man’ once.
“I have already selected another man to fly to the U.S. tomorrow.”
“Cancel it. One man will not be enough. You will use a four-man team. Specialists.”
“Specialists?”
“Correct. Our own intelligence operatives, Spetsnaz trained, men who are experts at this kind of wet work. A unit that operates under the direct orders of the Kremlin.”
“I thought they were just a rumor.”
“They are no rumor. Their existence is a closely guarded secret, but I can assure you they are real.”
Makeyev smiled inwardly. He was off the hook. “As you are taking over the operation, my work is finished. I wish you well.”
He got up to leave and stopped. Ushakov’s voice cut through the smoke like the crack of a whip. “Nothing has changed. The operation is still yours.”
“But, you said…”
“That the Kremlin team would be assigned to the task. You will continue in operational control.” A thin smile, “Do not fail, Deputy Minister. These men may look elsewhere for their next target.”
He felt a flush of anger. “You dare to threaten me?”
Ushakov was unflustered. “Absolutely not.” His thin smile reappeared, “I merely carry a message from the President. One you could be well advised to heed. Do you have any questions? No? Then this meeting is over.”
He climbed to his feet in a smooth motion and left the room. Makeyev stayed seated, thinking hard.
I will do everything possible to make it a success, but what if the much-vaunted Kremlin killers fail? They must not fail. The woman must die.
Chapter One
The Yamaha Sidewinder raced across the snow, fast and powerful. Captain Vladimir Krylov marveled at how America could have such sophisticated machines. Back home in Deputatsky, Siberia, they had to make do with crude, less reliable designs. He owned a Russkaya. Noisy, heavy on gas, and a bitch to start in winter, which was when a man needed it most. Japanese Yamahas started first time, even when they’d been left exposed to the elements for days on end. The gas mileage was good, and they ran smoothly and quietly. Which was just as well, or the man may have heard him coming. Sound traveled in peculiar ways in these parts, although his quarry may have seen him when he inadvertently crested the rise. He stopped the machine and stepped into the snow. Walked the few yards back to the ridge and dropped flat. Took out his non-reflective binoculars and began to survey the area below him.
Yes, there, a snowmobile, and a single rider. Have I found them? The target was said to be with a man, assumed to be her bodyguard. Is this him?
