Black operator complete.., p.4
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 4
He stomped along the street, knowing he was in the final stages of what was proving to be a much simpler task than his boss had assumed. Broadcasting her whereabouts on the TV news channel was a lucky break, and in his business, you took what circumstances offered. He was so mission-focused he failed to notice the mother pushing a stroller with a baby strapped inside along the sidewalk. The first indication was when his boot collided with a wheel, and he saw the woman. He couldn’t stop, he was energized, and he gave the stroller a hard shove that tipped it over.
He walked on, ignoring the outraged shouts of the mother picking up the stroller and examining her child for injury. “You motherfucker, what do you think you’re doing? Are you crazy? Why don’t you look where you’re going?”
No time to look. I know where I’m going.
Nothing could stop him, nothing. He rounded a corner, oblivious to the shouts behind him, and the hotel was a couple of hundred yards along the street. He quickened his pace. More focused, more energized, almost there. His gaze was fixed on the hotel, and he almost missed the elderly man walking a cute, French bulldog. The canine sensed something not right and paused. The gunman almost tripped over him, looked down, and used his boot to kick him from his path. The dog yelped and whined in pain.
Hurry, stay focused, kill!
A passerby blocked his way, his expression angry. “Hey, feller, what did you do to that dog? You crazy or something?”
Yes.
He put out an arm hard as an iron bar and pushed him away with a hard, cruel shove. He locked his gaze on the shingle that said ‘Newport Plaza Hotel’ and kept walking. Behind him, the man he’d pushed lay on the sidewalk, wiping the blood of his forehead where he’d banged it on the curbstone. The adrenaline pulsed through him, like a surge of high-voltage electricity. The headache had receded, and he felt renewed, a missile about to launch at its target, unstoppable. Nothing can stop him. He put a hand under his coat and touched the butt of the pistol. The Wildey .475, the powerful handgun would take her down with a single bullet, provided the shot was accurate. He was deadly accurate. The handgun would make a great deal of noise when he fired, and people would scatter, so he could escape without difficulty. He reached the door. She was as good as dead.
“Excuse me, Sir, may I help you?”
The elderly doorman was resplendent in his gaudy uniform, and he stood in his way. He tried to sidestep, but the man shot out an arm. He struggled to get past, furious at the obstruction, but despite his age the man was as big and heavy as he was, and he wouldn’t move.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but I have to know your business in the hotel. Are you meeting a guest?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask her name?”
“Yes.”
“And that would be…”
His headache screamed at him again, and he had to keep moving. He dragged out the Wildey from under his coat, pointed it at the obstruction, and pulled the trigger. The doorman took the bullet in the chest. The Magnum round tore into his heart, killing him instantly. He stepped over the body and rushed into the hotel lobby.
A waitress carrying a tray assumed he was lost, stopped, and smiled. “Can I help you, Sir?”
“Yes.”
She was in the way, and he shot her dead. The boom of the big handgun changed everything, and the lobby became a screaming mob of panicked, stampeding people.
* * *
“It’s just through here,” she said to him, walking through the back of the lobby. He wasn’t listening. The shot outside was unmistakable, and not an exhaust backfire. Someone had fired a heavy caliber handgun. Automatically, he glanced in the direction it came from, the front entrance, in time to see a man charge through the doors. He held a big pistol in his right hand, and his eyes were everywhere, searching for something. A target. A waitress stopped and asked him a question. The big handgun boomed again and tossed her to the floor in bloody ruin.
The huge, scar-faced man was walking toward them, gun up, and he’d had seen those empty, dead eyes many times before. He was on a kill mission, and his cold gaze had locked onto Maria Tereshkova.
Everything she’d said about her being a target in Russia, the reason she needed a bodyguard, rushed through his mind, and he was already moving. He threw her to the floor, and thankfully the thick carpet cushioned her fall.
“Stay down. He’s come here for you.”
She put her head up and shuddered at the monster charging through panicked people, desperate to escape. Her bodyguard Yuri ran toward the assassin, and he had his gun up, about to shoot to defend his principal. Too late, the man with the scarred face was already pulling the trigger. She screamed his name once, her voice a wail of terror and anguish, and for a third time the big pistol boomed.
The magnum bullet slammed into his throat, his gun fell from his fingers, and the bullet tore out the back of his neck. As he was falling, blood fountained over the thick carpet and splattered guests rushing to escape. Then the big man was refocusing on Maria, still coming at her.
They were unarmed and defenseless, and they had a single option if she was to survive.
“Get up. We’re leaving. Hurry!”
“But, my bodyguard, he’s a friend. He’s…”
“He’s dead. Come with me, before he puts a bullet in you, too.”
“But…”
“Run!”
He dragged her away, and a waiter carrying a tray emerged from the back, which had to be the kitchen. He jerked her in that direction, and two more bullets boomed out behind them. One tore a fist-sized hole in the wall, the other slammed into the waiter, standing frozen with indecision. He dragged her on, and they raced into the kitchen, darting between serving counters and stoves piled with steaming pots ready for the lunchtime orders. White uniformed chefs and helpers gaped at them as they ran past.
He had to warn them and shouted, “Gunman, get down! Hit the deck!”
Then the swing doors crashed open, and another shot clanged against a cauldron of soup. The steaming liquid splashed over the floor. At the rear, a door marked ‘exit’ was their way out, and they arrowed toward it. He didn’t look back, just stayed fixated on the door and getting her out. To get away from the monstrous, scar-faced killing machine.
He shouldered the exit, and it flew open so fast they tumbled to the ground outside as three more shots whined overhead. He jerked her to the side of the alleyway they’d entered, pulling six-foot-high garbage cans behind them, to obstruct the view. For the first time he risked a look. The killer had slipped and was sliding along the floor in a puddle of soup. He still clutched the big gun, and Cris dragged her along the alleyway until they emerged into the street.
She was shaking with shock after seeing Yuri go down and babbled nonsense. “I have to go back to him. He may be alive. He needs help…”
‘He’s dead,” he cut her off ruthlessly. “If we don’t get away from here fast, we’ll join him. Where’s your car?”
“Car? I, er, I don’t know. In the parking garage, I guess. I’m not sure where it is.”
Her words stumbled out, and he had to drag her along to keep her moving.
“No use, we need a car, something fast.” He looked around just as five yards away, a white Audi braked to a halt, and the driver’s door opened. “That’ll do it.”
They came up with the driver, who was about to use his remote to activate the locks. Cris tapped him on the shoulder. “I need your car.”
He frowned. “Sorry, I....”
He hit him, and as he fell took the key fob out of his unresisting hand.
She looked down in horror at the body lying on the paving stones, but then he dragged her into the car. Ran around to the driver’s door, leapt in, and started the engine. He got the manual shift into gear when the assassin appeared at the end of the alley, looking up and down the street for them. Cris floored the gas pedal, and the German-built supercar screamed up the street, leaving rubber from the tires scorched into the tarmac. He was rounding the first bend when the killer understood they were in the car, and then he was accelerating away.
He was hitting almost a hundred miles and hour when he abruptly slowed to avoid any attention from the cops. They’d made it. They were clear, for now. He glanced at her. “Why are you a target?”
“What?” She shook her head to clear it. “You want the long or the short version?”
“Make it the short version for now.”
“Because I’m Russian, and I’m a woman.”
“That’s it?”
She shrugged. “There is something else. I told you I intend to stand against the President in the coming elections.”
“That annoyed him enough to want you dead?”
“Yes. Have we lost that man?”
“I think so.”
“Where are we going?”
All he could think of was his hotel, the Chicago Court. There was no reason for anyone to make the connection with him, so she should be safe there. “My place.”
Tereshkova was deathly pale with shock, but she managed a small joke. “Is this a date?”
I wish it were. I wish that madman wasn’t hunting her, trying to kill her, and I could take this extraordinary woman on a real date. That’d be something.
“It’s a date to keep you alive, while we work things out.”
Her voice was somber. “Yes, I understand. Thank you for helping me.”
“We’re not clear yet. That guy was serious, and I doubt he’ll stop. Not until he gets you in his sights and pulls the trigger.”
She didn’t reply. There was no need to. He’d stated no more than the obvious.
* * *
The gunman charged along the alleyway, furious his target had eluded him, and desperate to finish the job he’d come here to do. He was so close; he could almost reach out and touch her! Another half-second and he’d have had a shot. Yet the stupid fools had got in his way and cost him that precious half-second. He rounded the corner, in time to see a white Audi R8 speeding away, and through the side window, he had a glimpse of the man helping her to get away. He needed transport, something fast enough to pursue. But his brain calculated the angles, and he had another idea. The Chicago downtown traffic was heavy, so he’d need something to push through the lines of stalled vehicles. Speed was less important than weight and power in the race to catch up with the white sports car.
As if the gods had heard him, a truck pulled up across the street, a heavy eight-wheel dumpster overloaded with sand and gravel piled high. He bounded through the traffic. Horns tooted, one car skidded to a halt, and he bumped his leg against the fender. The driver leapt out, screaming curses at him, and he pumped a bullet into his chest almost without thinking and ran on. The dumpster driver had stopped to look at a destination tag on a clipboard. The gunman leapt onto the step, wrenched open the door, and dragged him out, tossing him on the road. The engine was still running, and he sat behind the wheel. He engaged the gears, rammed his foot on the gas pedal, and the heavy truck jerked into motion. Spilling a half ton of gravel on the unfortunate Chevy Silverado pick-up that had stopped a few feet behind to avoid running over the body of the truck driver, lying in the road.
The gunman saw none of it; he had other concerns. He forced himself to be calm over not killing his target. It was just a matter of time. He’d never failed yet, and he wouldn’t fail now. He kept the gas pedal pressed to the floor and gave chase, rounding the corner with a shower of gravel scattering over more vehicles. The drivers sitting in their cars stalled in traffic saw the behemoth bearing down on them.
As if by magic, a lane opened ahead of the truck, and the gunman could increase speed. Until an irate driver refused to move and kept his Honda compact blocking the lane. The truck didn’t slow and smashed into the stationary car, sending it skidding off at an angle. It crashed into a long line of cars waiting at the side of the lane. The driver of a Porsche 911 jumped out of his car, stared at the damage, and gasped as the entire passenger side of his sports car turned to scrap metal. With a howl of rage, he drew a pistol from under his coat and fired a half-dozen shots at the departing truck. He screamed in rage and frustration as they ricocheted uselessly off the steel body.
The gunman was calm, crouched over the wheel as he created havoc with the downtown traffic. He recalled a time when he made a kill in a Black Sea resort, and came under serious gunfire from all sides. The target was another meddler, a government critic who’d criticized Kremlin insiders; men who objected to him labeling them as corrupt. They’d been no more effective then than the Porsche driver.
He threaded the heavily laden truck through the traffic, nudging the occasional tardy driver from his reckless, careering path. Up ahead, they got the message, and the way cleared. He caught the odd glimpse of the fleeing sports car, but the gap was widening. Eventually, he lost sight of it altogether, and he eased the truck into a vacant slot next to a hydrant. He exited the cab and started walking back to the apartment.
He’d lost her for now, but he wasn’t worried. He’d pick up her trail later. Such a high-profile target could stay in hiding for just so long. His head throbbed with pain, and it would get worse, until he made the kill. He always felt better, and then the rewards. His mind roved over the pleasant possibilities of the drugs they’d feed him, and afterward, the girls. For several minutes, just the thought of what he craved eased the pain, and the endorphins stirred by his imagination swirled though his system. When he reached the dingy apartment, the warmth had already receded. He opened the door with his key, and when Alexander Kalinin greeted him, he almost put a bullet in him.
He stopped just in time and removed his hand from the butt of the gun he’d tucked into his waistband. Kalinin forced a smile.
“Hey, you’re back. You had a good day? How about something to eat?”
What he craved the man couldn’t give him. He pushed past without even his customary single word and entered his room, where he sat on the bed, cradling his head in his hands.
It must be soon. I must find her, kill her, and find the relief they promised me.
Chapter Two
She looked around the room he’d rented at the Chicago Court and made no comment. She didn’t need to. The Newport Plaza Hotel was five-star luxury. The Chicago Court was a notch up from a flophouse. But it was cheap.
She sat on the single bed and looked up at him, as he checked the window to make certain the killer wasn’t lurking outside.
“Is there any sign of him?”
He turned and shook his head. “Nothing, we lost him. At least, I think we lost him, but we need to be watchful. Like I said, he won’t give up. Not that guy.”
“It sounds like you’ve encountered something like him before. Where was that?”
He paused for a second and sighed. “DEA.”
“DEA? What is DEA?”
“Drug Enforcement Administration. The agency tasked with coordinating and pursuing U.S. drug investigations both domestic and abroad.”
“You were what, some kind of Special Agent?”
“My assignment was liaison with the FBI’s HRT, the Hostage Rescue Team. That’s the counter-terrorism and hostage rescue unit of the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Their job was to rescue kidnapped U.S. citizens, and on occasion they worked with us to free a DEA agent captured by the narcos, the drug traffickers.”
She frowned. “That sounds like dangerous work. Jumping out of helicopters onto roofs, and charging into buildings with bullets flying.”
“Sometimes it happened like that, yes. Not always.”
“So why did you leave?”
He didn’t like to think of his last operation, but she stared at him with such intensity he felt bound to answer. Besides, in an odd way, the attack on her life had thrown them together. As if a bond of survival existed between them.
“We were in Colombia.” He spoke mechanically, his voice dropping in intensity, like he was reciting a script he’d read through before. His shrink would have recognized it instantly. “My bosses had persuaded the HRT to bust into the compound of a big-time narco, situated on the outskirts of a small village about twenty klicks from Bogota. Me and some of the guys told them it was too close to the local civilians. We told them they should work out a different plan to grab this guy, Luis Gutierrez. They didn’t take any notice, and they burst in, all guns blazing to make the snatch. Like you see in the movies, except this wasn’t a movie.”
His eyes closed as he thought back to that time. The tension, riding in the lead UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter. The doors were slid back, the wind whistling through, yet he could smell the tension. Sweat poured down inside his clothes, and the heavy ballistic vest chafed his skin where his shirt rode up inside his black HRT suit. They were familiar to him, the HRT operators, some of them had become friends, and because of that friendship, he sensed their concern. Hitting a bigshot narco next to a crowded village meant a big danger of collateral casualties. They were tough, gung ho fighters, but most were also family men, with wives and children back home. And they worried about the plight of innocents.
They’d rappelled into Luis’ front yard, and the point man took down the entrance door with a heavy ram. They charged in, and at the first sign of opposition, started shooting. The air was thick with bullets flying both ways, and the chatter of the automatic weapons mingled with the shouts and cries of the combatants. It was going well, until a bunch of narcos led by Luis charged out a side door and broke past their cordon. They sprinted away from the compound and into the village. They took up positions in the houses, and began pouring fire back at the HRT. Who had no choice but to respond, before they were destroyed piecemeal.
They worked their way toward the hostiles and entered the village to take them out one by one. Cris managed to locate the big prize, Luis Gutierrez himself, and took two bullets on his armored vest before he put a short burst into his head, ending his career for good. The death of the ‘Jefe’ put an end to the resistance, and the few surviving narcos fled.
