Black operator complete.., p.2
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 2
Makeyev raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “I know of no such man.”
“But I do.” Another man spoke. He wore plain clothes, khaki slacks, and an expensive, tailored brown leather jacket. Nonetheless, his erect bearing, hard, cold face, and air of command meant he couldn’t be anything other than a soldier.
Ushakov regarded him with interest. “Perhaps you would tell us what you have in mind, Sergei Morozov.”
Colonel Sergei Morozov of Russian Army Intelligence, or GRU, began to speak. “I know of one man, just as you describe, a killing machine. But he is expensive.”
Morozov knew they’d go for it, they had to, and he was already working out his profit. He was this man’s fixer, and indeed, had been instrumental in recruiting him as a freelance assassin but obedient to GRU orders, Morozov’s orders. The reason he was expensive was because a sizable part of the fee would go into the Colonel’s pocket. Commission well earned, he always reasoned.
“Is he the best?” Ushakov watched Morozov’s eyes. Alert for the slightest hesitation. There was none.
“The very best, yes. He is as you say, a killing machine, totally committed to his work, and all but unstoppable.”
“What is his name?” This time Makeyev asked the question, as if he’d been sidelined from the discussion and wanted to become involved.
“He has no name,” the Colonel grunted. “Not anymore. He was badly injured and disfigured during a military action in Chechnya. His injuries resulted in substantial memory loss, together with much of his sensory and emotional abilities. After his release from hospital, he drifted into the world of petty crime and violence to survive. I discovered him after he returned to his hometown of Goronezh.”
“Goronezh?” Makeyev raised his eyebrows. “Chechnya? He is a Muslim?”
“He was. Now he is nothing, other than what I tell him. He was grateful someone took an interest in him, and after I’d established he was the right man, I offered him the chance of permanent employment. I persuaded him that killing was a more lucrative way of earning a living than robbing local storeowners, with better rewards.”
“By rewards, you mean money?”
“Not just money. The injuries to his brain continue to trouble him a great deal. Certain drugs help reduce the pain and anguish, but they are almost unobtainable because of their high cost. He also has a predilection for young prostitutes, says screwing them gives him some relief from his suffering, albeit for a short time. After that, it slowly gets worse again. It could be there is a cure, but why would we bother? His pain serves as a goad, and forces him to return to us for more rewards, which guarantees his loyalty.”
“Rewards like more drugs and child prostitutes.”
“Indeed.”
“He sounds like a monster.”
Colonel Morozov shrugged. “He would best be described as a formidable machine, nothing more. We have used him on occasion to remove an inconvenient rival, and he has never failed us. I can issue him a Polish passport, and the name inside will be supplied by GRU. He understands Polish perfectly by the way, after two years he spent in that country during his military service. In theory, he could speak the language fluently, although he is a man of few words. If he were to be arrested, which is unlikely, no trail would lead to the Russian government.”
Ushakov regarded Makeyev, and their eyes met. What was there to discuss?
“Set it up. Money is no object, so you can set your killing machine in motion immediately. And make sure he does not fail.”
A cold smile. “He never fails.”
“He’d better not. If the President discovers what you’re doing, Colonel, he’ll string you up by the balls.”
“Don’t you mean string us all up by the balls?” Morozov replied smoothly. “We’re all in this together. But don’t worry, he won’t fail, and no one will ever know who he is or where he comes from.”
Another look passed between Ushakov and Makeyev. Both men were Kremlin insiders, therefore experts at working the system to avoid blame falling on them. “Of course you’re right, we’re all in this together,” Ushakov murmured, his voice like spun silk. “Tell me, Colonel, if they did capture and interrogate him, how much could he tell them?”
Morozov smiled and shook his head. “He doesn’t even know his own name. You could tell him he’s Chinese and he’d believe you.” He spluttered with laughter.
The answer was the one they wanted. They smiled at each other contentedly, finished their coffee, and shook hands on the arrangement they’d just made to murder an innocent woman. Using a man from a small town named Goronezh. A man stripped of the last vestiges of his human identity, of humanity, and everything that separated man from beast. A man become beast.
Chapter One
Cris Rhodes couldn’t sleep, which was nothing new. Since the DEA operation that ended his career, the nightmares had haunted the long, nighttime hours. Like now, when he relived the massacre for the hundredth time. His job was DEA liaison to the FBI Hostage Rescue Team. The HRT was trained to extract American citizens from adverse situations; in the case of the DEA often meant their own men, after their cover was blown. He’d been with the unit for almost a year, and was accepted as one of them, after he took an active part in several missions that ended well. Until the last one, a raid into the jungles of Colombia. They went in hard and fast in a military helicopter, a UH-60, and rappelled into the compound.
The surviving Colombians slipped away to an adjacent village and went on a maddened rampage. Gunning down men, women, and children, all innocent civilians, leaving the blood-soaked ground littered with the dead and dying.
Like the HRT troopers, he had no choice but to fight fire with fire. The Americans went after them and fought with a bitter fury. Cris Rhodes surrendered his soul and his humanity to the killing, until the madness burnt itself out, and he stopped.
When the shooting ended, the butcher’s bill totaled over forty dead, many of them children. Many more had suffered terrible wounds, and most of the narco soldiers had escaped. It all seemed pointless, knowing the flow of white powder would continue across the border unabated. Consumed by his anger, he’d tackled his DEA boss, arguing for a change of tactics. Knowing he was wasting his time, but he had to try. Almost a score of dead children couldn’t be ignored.
“We’re wasting our time. Not stopping them, and when we go in as many civilians die as narcos. We need a change of tactics. This can’t happen again, not ever. They were children, for Christ’s sake!”
He was unmoved. “Shit happens. We can’t sit on our fannies and do nothing with a tidal wave of drugs coming into the country.”
“Even if it means the deaths of innocent children?”
A shrug. “Like I said, shit happens. That’s the price we have to pay.”
His voice rose as his anger grew. “That’s the price those kids paid, not us.”
The senior DEA agent looked angry. “We didn’t shoot those people, they did. We swallow the casualties and move on.”
“Or move out.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m finished with these cockamamie raids that achieve nothing and get innocent people killed. Find someone else to handle it, I’m out.”
They protested and tried hard to get him to stay. Cris Rhodes was good at what he did and handled himself as well as the best of the troopers from the HRT. He repeatedly told them no, and in the end they accepted he wouldn’t change his mind. A DEA physician concluded he was suffering from PTSD and recommended he see a department shrink. The Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was probably true. Except he didn’t like being labeled an invalid, so he told himself he was just tired, tired of the killing, tired of DEA, and tired of life. Since then, he’d been at a loose end and spent some of his spare time traveling. He’d never visited Chicago before, so he decided to stay for several days and see the sights. He bought an airline ticket to O’Hare and booked into a cheap hotel. Not quite a fleapit, but almost.
Insomnia was a killer. Well, maybe not a killer like the hard-faced men he’d fought in the bitter war on drugs, but bad enough. An hour spent trying to sleep made no difference, and he decided on a walk. The city streets were almost empty, with just the occasional vehicle, most of them cabs speeding past. He strolled along Michigan Avenue, past the car dealerships and apartment blocks, heading for Chinatown. Collar pulled up against the cold north wind that flew off Lake Michigan.
It happened fast. One moment the street was clear, and the next, a limo drove past and swerved too late to avoid a cab speeding across its path. The limo collided with the taxi, and both vehicles stopped. The cab driver, an Arab, leapt out and began shouting and cursing at the limo driver. The rear door of the limo opened, and a woman stepped out. She wore a long, sheath-like evening dress cut low, with a draped Pashmina over her shoulders. Cris watched with interest and couldn’t help but admire her unmistakably foreign elegance, as well as her courage in confronting the cab driver. She approached him with a delicate smile, trying to reason with him.
“I am so sorry for the damage, but there was no way my driver could avoid your vehicle. I’m sure we can settle this amicably.”
The Arab turned an enraged face toward her. “Are you fucking serious, lady? You know what you just did? This’ll cost me several days’ earnings, and all you can say is you’re sorry?” His eyes hardened as they raked her up and down, taking in the slim, taut body. The evening dress did little to disguise it. “Look at you, woman! Almost undressed, you look like a whore. I expect you’re going to meet a client in some fancy hotel, is that it? You should be ashamed. Lady, you’re gonna pay big for the trouble you caused me.”
The front door of the limo opened, and the driver emerged. He was a big man, well muscled, his suit coat stretched tight across his chest. He walked quickly toward the woman and the cab driver. Cris was interested to see how he’d deal with it. He didn’t look the type to use reason when fists and boots would be more eloquent. Then his foot skidded on a patch of oil, and he fell with an audible ‘crack’ as his head hit the curb. He lay on the ground, breathing heavily. Not badly injured but leaving his principal on her own, faced with a wrathful Arab.
The cab driver’s stance changed, now the woman was alone. His expression hardened as his anger skyrocketed. “You should cover your hair as well. You disgust me with your lack of morals. Women like you should be locked up and whipped!”
Spittle ran freely from his mouth as he worked himself into a frenzy. Unable to control himself, he raised his fist to strike her. Cris had taken enough. He ran on, taking light steps on rubber-soled shoes so he was almost silent, and he pushed in front of the man. His hands were rigid, like short daggers, and he delivered a series of strikes that pushed the cab driver back. He struck him twice more, and he fell to the ground. Cris knelt and checked his vital signs, as the woman spoke.
“Will he live?”
He looked up at her and confirmed his first impression. She was a looker, no question. An external fragility, but a closer glance perceived the inner strength. The way she stood with the poise of a ballerina, and the eyes keen and intelligent, probing and analytical, at odds with the dress that made her look sexy.
The man who winds up with this girl will count himself lucky. Her voice has a trace of an accent. I’d guess Eastern European. Wherever she comes from, it’s sexy as hell.
“He’ll live.”
Her lips parted in a relieved smile as she regarded the man who’d come to her rescue, like a Russian fairy tale, and she liked what she saw. About medium height, lean, with clear blue eyes, dirty blonde hair, a man who moved with the fluid grace of a panther.
I wonder what kind of work he does, soldier, athlete, workout freak, or all of those things?
She was a good judge of people, and one look at the stretched, taut expression, lips set in grim lines, told her he’d suffered some great sorrow.
An interesting man, and worth getting to know better. Besides, I owe him.
“Thank you, I thought he was about to attack me.”
“He was, but he’ll think twice next time.”
“I’m sure he will. My driver slipped and banged his head. I need to get him into the limo. Would you help me? I can take him to the ER room and get him checked out.”
For some reason, he was surprised. “You can drive that thing?”
She returned his look. “I can do a lot of things, Mr…”
“Rhodes, Cris Rhodes. No ‘h’.”
“Excuse me.”
“My name, Cris. There’s no ‘h’.” He grinned. “Just joking.”
He wasn’t joking. He wanted to stay talking to her for as long as he could. He picked up the driver under the armpits and gently placed him on the back seat, where he lay, moving slightly, fighting his way back to consciousness. Rhodes stood back while she inspected his head wound, and then she turned, as if assessing him. Sizing him up, in some way. They stared at each other for long seconds, and he found the experience more than interesting.
Her lips formed a smile. “Please, allow me to buy you lunch tomorrow. I know my diary is clear. I’m staying at the Newport Plaza hotel. Shall we say 1pm?”
He couldn’t believe it. A beautiful Russian woman had picked him up, a whole new experience. “Sure, I’ll be there.”
She climbed into the driving seat of the limo, her eyes still fixed on him, when a cruiser came down the street at speed, blue light flashing. The vehicle skidded to a stop, and a cop leapt out clawing for his weapon. He shouted, “Freeze, Mister. Don’t move or I fire!”
He melted into the shadows, leaving them to wonder where he’d gone. One moment he was there, the next he wasn’t. The cop stared at her. “How the hell did he do that?”
She smiled. “Magic, I guess.”
Like a Russian fairy tale.
* * *
The man with the badly scarred face stepped off the flight from Amsterdam Schiphol to O’Hare International. He arrived at immigration, carrying the bag he’d stowed in the overhead locker. If anyone found it strange he’d traveled the Atlantic with a single, small bag, they didn’t ask him the reason. The man whose passport identified him as Oskar Bielski was not the kind of man most people wanted to query. They’d more likely give him a wide berth. Not because of the scars, so much, although they were chilling. The eyes were the giveaway, the gateway to the soul. Empty and cold, an expression frozen into black nothingness that suggested Mr. Bielski would not encourage questions.
The immigration agent also regarded his scarred visage, but with a great deal more interest. However, his visa and photo matched the system, and nothing suggested he was on a watch list.
“You here on business or pleasure, Mr. Bielski.”
He got a one-word reply, blurred by the twisted and damaged lips. “Yes.”
The agent regarded the queue, and it stretched into infinity. He shrugged. “Enjoy your stay, Sir.” He gave him back the passport, but he didn’t immediately invite the next person to approach. For several seconds, he watched the departing passenger, and a thought crossed his mind.
He was scary. I wouldn’t like to start a fight with that character. Not unless I was carrying an M60, and even then I’d open fire from long range. Jesus, what a monster!
Smiling at his idiotic thought, he gestured to the next in line.
Still, he’s probably harmless. Might have been in an accident and is in town to visit one of the city’s plastic surgeons. He sure needs one.
* * *
The scar-faced man emerged from the cab and walked along the street, heading for the address they’d given him before he left. He failed to notice people moving aside when they saw him. Not because their reaction was familiar, but because he didn’t notice any kind of reaction from any person, good or bad. They were just…people. Some he had instructions to kill, so he killed them. With no instructions to kill, he allowed them to live. His life was simple, and when he did as they ordered, he got the rewards, and enjoyed the glorious but all too short periods of relief from his anguish.
Which is why he didn’t notice the four Hispanics, waiting for a potential victim fifty yards ahead. They’d timed their ambush well, and as he reached them, they blocked him from going further and smiled to each other. The guy was an obvious invalid, and he’d be easy meat. The biggest of them, whose name was Jesus Sanchez, and appeared to be the natural leader of the pack, made the challenge.
"Hey, Scarface, you look lost, like you need some help. We’ll show you the way. But it’ll cost you plenty, so why don’t you make it easy for yourself and hand over your wallet."
The man known as Oscar Bielski remained still and expressionless. He noted the bulges inside the coats of at least two of them, and he was content. They had guns. He couldn’t travel with personal weapons, and he needed to acquire them in the city, without leaving a paper trail. He never left a paper trail. But here was a golden opportunity to take what he wanted. He never considered that they had weapons and he didn’t, so they could shoot him. Why would he? Whenever he went up against another man or men, no matter the weapon, or no weapon, he always beat them. It was a fact, no more and no less.
They moved suddenly. The big man stepped toward him, and two others went either side, hands reaching to grab his arms. The fourth thug stood back, scanning the streets, watching for cops. Bielski didn’t even bother to dodge. He put up his arms to stop them holding him, ignoring the hard punch the bigger man hit him with on the chin. He didn’t flinch, and Jesus gasped in astonishment as the big man took his fist in one huge hand and squeezed. The other hand bunched into a fist and slammed into the attack on his left. The man on his right rained several blows at him, which he ignored. He squeezed hard, and the bones of the hand cracked aloud as the Hispanic squealed in pain. He sank to his knees, and Bielski hammered a punch into his face that almost took his head off. He skidded to the sidewalk to lie alongside the man he’d hit first.
