Black operator complete.., p.19
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 19
“If anything bad comes along, I’ll kill it.”
“Yes.”
The rifle was on safe, and he wasn’t worried. Maria came back ten minutes later, frowned at the rifle, but made no comment about it. “They’re sending in a helicopter. It’ll be here soon. It’s coming in from Canada. They were the nearest.”
“Thank you.”
She stared into his eyes. “No, thank you. Cris, I’m sorry about all of this. Truly sorry.”
“No sweat.”
She grinned. “I don’t think so. I meant it when I said it had to end. I’ve decided to approach the Kremlin and talk to them. I must keep my son safe. Have to keep you safe. Who else would take care of me like you do?”
He tried to smile and failed. “What’s the next move?”
“I’m going…”
He didn’t comprehend the rest of it and lay on the snow. Although it was full daylight, everything was starting to dim. He heard her talking to him, stuff about his promise never to leave her, and he didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Even when she murmured those last few words before the helicopter arrived, and he was unconscious for the ride to the ER room.
He came to in a sterile, white painted hospital room. She was looking down at him, still wearing the garish ski coat. Alexander was with her, and he looked fine. She had a questioning look in her eyes, and he struggled to make out what she wanted. He recalled something about the next move, and she’d replied, “I’m going back.”
The rest of the sentence was like a funeral bell tolling the death knell.
“I’m going back to Russia.”
BLACK OPERATOR: RED SQUARE ASSASSINS
By Eric Meyer
Copyright 2017 by Eric Meyer
Published by Swordworks Books
www.facebook.com/ericmeyerfiction
Prologue
The lush, green view across Central Park relaxed him, like always. After so long on the run, dodging and hiding from the men who would kill the girl he’d grown to love, Manhattan had become home. Provided you ignored the bustling yellow cabs and delivery trucks rushing past, just feet from the sidewalk. Noxious gases pouring from ten thousand exhausts, filling the air with choking fumes. He stared into the distance, his gaze taking in the vast expanse of Central Park, the green lung of Manhattan. Gazed across the calm waters of the Jacqueline Onassis Kennedy Reservoir. And beyond the lake he glimpsed the building that stood for the evil they were running from. The Russian Consulate General, the New York headquarters of those men who wanted her dead. If they could find her.
She was Maria Tereshkova, icon of political opposition in Russia, and she was running. Fleeing the murderous efforts of the President, a cold, ruthless leader who stamped on the slightest opposition to his despotic rule. A man who would go to any lengths to terminate Maria’s presidential ambitions. Permanently. Cris Rhodes scanned the area nervously as they entered the park, looking for threats, and relaxed just a bit. He saw no threats, no suspicious vehicles, or men with telltale bulges under their coats that told of hidden weapons. She was safe.
In this place of conspicuous wealth, she should be safe as anywhere in the Continental United States. She could also afford it. Back in Russia, Maria was rich. If a wealthy person needed to hide in the United States what better place than amongst the tens of thousands of other rich people? New York City, Manhattan, where her cash paid for a spacious 11th floor apartment on Central Park West. Paid for anonymity, and she was one tree in the thick forest of the wealthy, one amongst many. The best guarantee of security. They’d been here for seven months, and initial signs were good. No indication the Russians had picked up her trail, and she’d begun to relax. He’d begun to relax, although he never went anywhere without the Glock 17 tucked under the left side of his coat. As well as the mini Uzi under the right side. Just in case. Both loaded and ready.
They entered the park, and amidst the walkers, joggers, and couples making out on the grass, he felt more at ease. Everything was normal, as it should be. A light breeze ruffled the last of the fall leaves on the trees. An unusually warm spell had swept away the December chill. She was holding the hand of her six-year-old son Alex, who was beginning to lose the nightmares. Nightmares that started when they kidnapped him, and they continued for many months after they’d got him back. Now he was becoming a normal, happy boy. Even went to a small and exclusive private school in Manhattan, and expressed a desire never to leave New York. He was happy, Maria was happy, and they were safe. He’d done his job, protected them. Kept them alive.
She smiled at him and took his hand. With the other, she held onto Alex. "Cris, you still look tense. I can see your eyes looking everywhere, searching for men with guns hiding behind trees. There aren’t any here. We’re safe, I know it. Take it easy."
"Sure."
She smiled at his agreement and looked down at Alex. “Are you having a good day, honey?”
“Da.” He stopped and grinned, “Yes, Mother. Is good.”
His English had come on well since they’d been in the States, although he still found it hard. She smiled at Cris. “My Alex is almost a native New Yorker.”
Almost, but not quite.
“That’s right.”
He still couldn’t feel relaxed, not deep down. Couldn't break the habit of the past year, when they’d fought and run from a host of enemies. He’d killed several of them to keep her alive. Then again, the park was beautiful, the day was fine, and he made a conscious effort to smile.
"You're right. Maybe they've finally given up. We should enjoy the day.”
"Yes, we should. Let's find somewhere we can buy some coffee and drink it outside. It’s not that cold. Alex, how about you? Soda, ice cream?"
"Hamburger, mother. With fries and soda."
She chuckled. "It’s true, my son. You've almost become an American. It’s nearly Christmas, the school semester has finished, so why shouldn't you have what you enjoy? Isn’t that right, Cris?”
He wasn't listening. His eyes followed the leaves waving in the gentle breeze, trying to let the motion calm him. At first it worked, until he switched his gaze to a particularly dense thicket. Succulent green leaves swayed from side to side in the wind. His eyes focused hard on one part of the bush, on something out of place. The leaves had moved the wrong way. The breeze blew from the south, yet those leaves moved to the west. Just in the one place, a tiny patch of foliage. Something was moving through the bush, coming toward them. Something or someone, and then he saw it.
A small, black cylinder jutted out in their direction; there were no small, black cylinders in nature. The object was wider than a gun barrel, and his mind computed data and identified the shape a split second later. He was looking at a suppressor. After all this time, they’d found her.
"Get down!"
He put one arm around Maria, the other around Alex, and threw them to the ground in a sudden, violent gesture. First, he made sure they were safe, and then he was running when the first bullet spat past him. It hissed harmlessly over the heads of Maria and Alex. The slug disappeared into a crowd three hundred yards away. He heard a cry, but there was no time to investigate. No time for anything but to run, to find and neutralize the threat. He reached under his coat with his left hand and brought out the mini Uzi. The target was well hidden, the possibility of an aimed shot virtually non-existent, and so he pointed the barrel in the direction of the black cylinder and squeezed the trigger. Unloaded a full magazine into the bush, and the gun barrel disappeared.
He kept running and almost reached the place when the barrel appeared again, and three more shots spat past him. He reloaded the Uzi on the run and pulled out the Glock 17 with his right hand. Reached the bushes and rushed in with both guns ready to fire, one in each hand. Saw the shooter, and he was running. Cris could see him now, crashing through the foliage. A man in a nondescript blue tracksuit, heading for the reservoir. Soon, he'd be out in the open, and he’d be a target. The man moved fast, shoving people aside as he pushed through the crowds. A well built, muscular man with the physique of a soldier.
The shooter disappeared into another thicket of bushes and re-emerged the other side. Dived behind the broad trunk of a century-old tree and fired again. Four shots, and Cris had to shelter from the lead that flew past him. More shots cracked out, and he flattened on the ground to wait for the fusillade to end. One bullet ricocheted off a branch and slashed through his pants, tearing a thick strip of flesh from his thigh muscle. He felt the sticky dampness of blood trickling down his leg. No time to stop, the man was running again. He catapulted to his feet and continued after him. The shooter turned, fired two more shots that whistled past him, and then he heard the click as the weapon ran out of ammunition.
He had maybe a second at best before the guy reloaded, and he kept running, legs pumping, lungs sucking in air. He kept timed the reload, and threw himself flat as three more bullets tore past him. Then the man was moving again. He raced in pursuit, guns held ready, and reached the place he’d last seen the shooter. He’d gone. Fifty yards away, a crowd of people parted, and he was there; still running, skirting the southern edge of the reservoir, and Cris continued the pursuit.
At first he thought the man was about to jump into the water and attempt to swim away, but he swerved aside at the last moment. He’d been running toward a group of people. They looked like schoolchildren, on a trip to the Big Apple. Kids with bright colored backpacks, and teachers shepherding them along, like anxious sheepdogs watching the flock, keeping a wary eye out for wolves. Then he vanished into the startled mass of children and their minders. Screams of anger and angry shouts as he pushed children out of his way, and then he was out the other side. Cris pushed through the angry throng, and the man was racing along the bridle path that paralleled the 85th Street Traverse. He forked left before the end, onto East Drive, and if there’d been any doubt before, it ended when he took that turn. He was heading for 5th Avenue, and five blocks away, the Russian Consulate General.
He couldn’t catch him in time, and he waited for the chance to get in a shot. This was no place for random fusillades of bullets, so he put away the mini Uzi, and held the Glock in two hands for when the chance came. Too many civilians milled around, and he’d need to choose his moment well. And then the shooter sensed him in pursuit, turned, and fired again. Two more shots, Cris ignored them, and kept running. He heard another scream from behind. The wail of sirens was getting nearer, and if he didn’t take him soon, the guy would reach the Consulate. Once inside he’d claim diplomatic immunity, or something crappy. As soon as the cops left, he’d be back for Maria. Either he took him now, or it would all happen again.
The chance came when he ran past the solid, concrete wall of an office building. For a few seconds, he didn’t have the protection of innocent passers-by, and Cris took the shot. The Glock carried seventeen rounds, and he couldn’t recall how many he’d fired. But he knew there were more than twelve in the magazine, and he squeezed off six bullets after the fleeing Russian. Five missed the target, but one was a hit. Nothing serious, just a flesh wound that tore skin from his side, but he was bleeding now. One hand went down, favoring the wound, and he slowed just one tiny bit.
Cris picked up speed, sucking oxygen into his starved lungs, and now he was gaining. But not quickly enough. The gunman sensed he was getting nearer, turned and fired again. Another two shots spat toward him and missed. One smashed the windshield of a passing Yellow cab. The driver steered into the curb and leapt out, diving for cover in a nearby doorway. Clearly he was a man who’d witnessed a firefight before, and he knew the first rule of survival. To get out fast and take cover. He ran on past the abandoned cab, and the shooter fired again. One shot, missed, and then he ran out of ammo again. s
He snatched out another fresh magazine and hastened to eject the empty and insert the new. But the effect of the wound made a difference. He was finding the business of running, shooting, and changing magazines, with a wound that was bleeding badly, painful and difficult. The wailing of a police siren came nearer, and the cruiser was up ahead, between him and the Consulate. Cris kept running, the gun pressed flat against his side, not needing to attract the interest of law enforcement. But when he searched for the shooter again, he’d disappeared. He ran on hard, desperate not to let him escape and make another attempt to kill her. After another two hundred yards, he stopped. The quarry had gone to ground, but where?
Something made him turn, and he was there, right behind him. He’d double-backed, using a crowd of tourists as cover, and now he was running in the opposite direction. Cris knew what had happened. The guy didn’t want the cops to see him anywhere near the Consulate, and so he was backtracking. He reached a sign for the 5th Avenue Subway Station, and ran down the steps. Cris followed and watched him vault over a turnstile. There was a shout from a ticket collector, and a chorus of protests when Cris matched the jump. Fuck ‘em. He was over the rail and running down a long flight of stairs.
Pursued him through the passenger tunnels and guessed his direction. He’d take the northbound subway, to come out just past the Consulate. Then he’d stroll back from the other side, innocent of any shooting. Of course, he’d have abandoned his gun in a drain.
No you don’t. Not today, buster.
Cris reached the platform, and a train was entering the station. Passengers surged forward to board, but the gunman wasn’t amongst them. He pushed through the jostling crowds. A few people shouted abuse at the rough treatment, but he kept on running. Cris saw him, at the end of the platform, about to board the last car. He raced toward him, and the Russian saw him at the last moment. After a brief moment of indecision, he stepped back and hid behind a pillar. A second later he popped out to fire a shot. Screams came from the crowd behind him, and they began to stampede for the exit, desperate to get away from the shooter.
He ducked behind a column, and darted forward to the next. And the next, and he’d almost reached the gunman when the announcer blared they were closing the doors. The Russian was a blur of movement, racing toward the last car of the train, and Cris fired. Six more shots flew from the Glock, and this time he hit he guy in the leg. He slowed, and the doors closed. He was too late, and he limped toward the subway tunnel, as if to hide in the darkness after the train had left the station. The motors roared, and the train moved away. Cris catapulted forward and collided with the gunman. The Russian snarled something he didn’t get and spun away to reach the edge of the platform. He swayed and almost toppled, arms waving frantically. The wheels of the train were almost on him, the mouth of the motorman opened in shock, and a moment later the squeal of the emergency brake echoed across the platform. They were too late, he teetered and fell. Cris may have imagined the wet, squishing sound as the wheels rolled over flesh, but he didn’t think he’d imagined anything.
Minutes later, the transit police grabbed him and dragged him up to street level. Three police cruisers were parked across the sidewalk. A bunch of cops surrounded him, took hold of his arms, and snapped on handcuffs. Maria had arrived, eyes wide with fear and astonishment, and she approached a sergeant who looked to be in charge.
“Where are you taking him?”
“The Ninth Precinct, Ma’am. Are you his wife?”
“No.”
“Then you can ask any questions at the desk. Stand back. He’s under arrest.”
“He’s wounded. Can’t you see, he’s bleeding?”
“We’ll take care of that.”
Cris gave her a slight shake of the head, to tell her he was okay. But he wasn’t okay. They’d returned, the killers.
“Cris, I’ll get you a lawyer.”
“You take care of yourself, Maria. You and Alex, that’s what matters. Get away from here. You’re a target again.”
He could see her expression, as if she was undecided about something. And then her expression cleared. “We have to talk.”
They were dragging him away, but he stopped. “We will, when I’ve sorted this little problem.”
“No, not about that. I must talk with him. Make a deal, and stop this nonsense.”
“Him?”
“The President.”
He stared at her as they pushed him toward the cruiser. “Don’t do that. If they find out where you are, they’ll…”
“No, I’m getting it all out in the open. Cris, I must go back.”
“Back?”
“To Russia.”
* * *
“Enough.”
Vladimir Ushakov murmured the single word, and Deputy Defense Minister Boris Makeyev went silent. Ushakov was the Kremlin ‘fixer,’ a man who represented ultimate power inside Russia. When he spoke, people understood his words were those of his boss, the President of the Russian Republic.
They were sitting inside the Café Bosco, just off Red Square. A convenient meeting place, close to the seat of power. The staff understood enough to know they should give these men space for their discussions. Not attempt to listen to private conversations. Their business was serving good, fresh coffee. The business of their VIP clientele was something else. Not something they cared to know about. In Moscow, knowledge was power. But too much knowledge could also be a death sentence.
Ushakov sipped his coffee and considered the man in front of him. General Makeyev had worried the man at the top for some time. He’d come to a decision. He was a failure. His gave an instruction for his fixer to deal with him, and promptly forgot about the matter. Ushakov regarded the older man who was his responsibility, the suit disheveled and ill fitting. A contrast to his own tailor-made Gucci two-piece. Makeyev’s jowls were heavy with shadow where he’d missed a shave, eyes watery and red from too much vodka. Okay, not a crime inside Russia. Unless you allowed it to interfere with an assignment handed you by the President.
“He instructed you to make sure this person disappeared off the face of the earth. No trace. Vanished, gone for good. Could he have been clearer?”
