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  Extraction

  Book VI of the Wildfire Saga

  Marcus Richardson

  Copyright © 2018 by Marcus Richardson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  Extraction

  1. New Old Alliances

  2. Mother Russia

  3. The Ghost

  4. The Eve of Battle

  5. Overwatch

  6. A New Venture

  7. Deep Fake

  8. House Call

  9. Oilboarding

  10. Point of No Return

  11. Escape Attempt

  12. Diversionary Tactics

  13. To Kill a Monster

  14. The Experiment

  15. Good News

  16. Hostage

  17. Huntress

  18. Starushka

  19. Bait

  20. Every Option

  21. Metamorphosis

  22. Wetwork

  23. Home Invasion

  24. Distraction

  25. Spy Games

  26. A House of Cards

  27. It Begins

  28. Cut and Run

  29. Incoming

  30. Pyongyang

  31. Escape Velocity

  32. Rebirth

  33. Cowboy

  34. Patient Hunter

  35. Recovery

  36. A Willing Volunteer

  37. Debriefing

  38. The Messenger

  39. Good Beer, Bad Company

  40. Lisa

  What’s Next?

  Author Contact

  About the Author

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  THE WILDFIRE SAGA

  The Source

  False Prey

  Book I: Apache Dawn

  Book II: The Shift

  Book III: Firestorm

  Book IV: Oathkeeper

  Book V: The Regent

  Book VI: Extraction

  OTHER SERIES

  The Future History of America

  Solar Storm

  Elixr Plague: A Zombie Apocalypse Serial

  For my complete catalog, please visit: marcusrichardsonauthor.com

  Extraction

  Book VI of the Wildfire Saga

  For Sara.

  1

  New Old Alliances

  Moscow, Russian Federation.

  The Magic Bullet Nightclub

  Igor Voroshilov poured two Vodkas and slid one across the table. The man he was here to meet, an up-and-coming mobster, snatched his with a practiced ease—didn’t spill a drop—and raised it in silent salute.

  Voroshilov tossed his back, noting with approval the self-proclaimed pakhan did the same without flinching at the burn. Mikhailovich was a troublemaker, a loud-mouthed, flamboyant man who wanted attention. He was famous for drawing the wrong kind of attention and using money and guns to get out of trouble. The other legitimate mafia leaders despised him and his ilk, the so-called newcomers. They didn’t respect the old ways, the code of honor, the rule of law among thieves that the original vorya established after escaping Stalin’s gulags.

  Voroshilov snorted, thinking of the parallels with the Council. With the old king dead and buried, a new crop of lords and surviving aristocrats wanted to turn the Council into…what? A playground for the young and rich while the new king was in his minority and relatively weak?

  Voroshilov had joined the Council decades ago as a young idealist, drank deep of the ritual and tradition going back to the middle ages, and soon realized like the kings and czars of the past, the Council’s days were numbered. As technology and global economics shrank the world, the Council was in danger of becoming as obsolete as the monarchy it was created to protect.

  But what to do? Hold tight to the sinking ship of tradition, or jump to lifeboats manned by punks like Mikhailovich, who had no sense of tradition, no ties to the past. Everything to them was about instant gratification, and to hell with anyone or anything that stood in their way. He sighed. Such was the state of the world.

  I am too young to be part of the old guard. Ah, Fate. She’s a bitch. It is time to make my own destiny.

  Clearing his throat, Voroshilov took a moment to admire the waitress Mikhailovich had selected for their private meeting. She had dark, curly hair, large blue eyes and a slender, innocent face. If nothing else, Mikhailovich had excellent taste in girls.

  And restaurants, Voroshilov grudgingly admitted. The private dining room in Mikhailovich’s club/restaurant, The Magic Bullet, had the appearance of an 18th century British dining club. Mahogany paneled walls, carved decor on the molding…gilt handles for the doors and gas lamps to set the ambiance. It was classy and oozed prestige.

  One day, I should invest in a place like this. It lends an air of legitimacy to everything Mikhailovich touches. How could the owner of such a place be under scrutiny for anything? Only the most wealthy and powerful are even invited to dine here…

  Voroshilov caught Mikhailovich watching him, eyes like a fox: intelligent, sly, with a hint of danger. He cleared his throat and put his glass down. “Yevgeny Mikhailovich, let us talk plainly.”

  The clean shaven, heavily tattooed mob boss, nodded. As head of one of the newest of the crime syndicates operating in Moscow, Mikhailovich was also the most eager to gain a reputation among the older, more established houses. He spread his callused, scarred hands wide, the hint of tattoos peeking out from under cuffs of his shirt.

  “What is it you ask of me?” he asked, his eyes following the young waitress.

  Voroshilov frowned. “You know who I am? Who I work for?”

  The mob leader nodded and swiveled his grey eyes to Vorohsilov’s, as if wary of a trap. It had been many decades since any member of the bratva—Russia’s mafia clans—had tried to take on the Council. The past results were unpleasant enough on both sides that the old vorya knew what to expect if they crossed the Council.

  Voroshilov tapped a finger on his shot glass. The younger, more ambitious young bucks, like the boss—pakhan—sitting before him, might still like to test the old limits from time to time. Voroshilov wanted to make sure that didn’t happen this time. Years ago, the Council and the bratva had been allies…now?

  Mikhailovich sneered. “I know you and your friends are not what you once were. Times are hard for—”

  Voroshilov felt a rush of heat in his cheeks. He raised a hand and silenced the impudent crime lord. “We have weathered such persecution from governments before,” he said, spewing the well practiced lie without a hint of deception. “This will be no different—make no mistake, those who oppose us will pay, whether they are governments or brotherhoods.”

  Mikhailovich raised an eyebrow. A scar bisected it, so it looked like two small eyebrows. His deep-set eyes took in everything and held Igor in a predator-like gaze. His mouth curled up. “No doubt. Will you release an anthrax plague to kill us all this time, or maybe the real plague?”

  He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I joke, relax. No one doubts the power the Council wields.” He poured another round, keeping his eyes on the drinks. “Tell me, Igor Voroshilov, how is your tsar?”

  Voroshilov clenched his jaw, taking a moment to calm his temper. “Alas, the king is dead…and his heir…” He shrugged. “He is young.”

  Mikhailovich clucked his tongue and shook his head. “A pity. Your people fall on hard times, indeed.” He took the refilled shot glass and slugged it back. “But then again, you did tr
y to kill us all.”

  “That was an...oversight…of the old king regime. I assure you that kind of negligence won’t happen again.” Voroshilov smiled. “We are not so bad off, actually. Call it new leadership if you like.”

  Mikhailovich’s split eyebrow raised again. “Oh?”

  Yes, we have a new regent—I think you know her—Jayne Renolds.” Voroshilov smiled as the color drain from Mikhailovich’s face.

  The younger man blinked. “Tigritsa?” he breathed. “She is…” Mikhailovich cleared his throat. “She is running things? Personally?”

  Voroshilov grinned as he poured another shot for them both. “Da. Tigritsa—the Tigress herself.”

  After the empty glasses slapped on the table once more, Voroshilov got down to business. “Now that I have your attention…I have a business proposition for you.”

  Mikhailovich coughed and adjusted his suit. “Proposition? For me?”

  Is there an echo in here? Surely you can’t be that stupid? Vorohsilov smiled. “Tigritsa ran into…certain complications of late—you may have heard about the recent unpleasantness in Edinburgh?”

  Mikhailovich frowned. “Something about zombies, nyet?” He shook his head. “Nonsense.”

  “Just so,” Voroshilov replied, keeping a straight face. “It was not planned the way it—” he raised a hand to stop the question on Mikhailovich’s lips, “you don’t need to know what the plan was to begin with—I don’t even know. Suffice to say, someone made a mess of Tigritsa’s plans, Yevgeny Mikhailovich, and she intends to repay the favor, with interest.”

  Mikhailovich snorted. “I bet. Why come to me? Why not go to the bigger, older houses? Surely the vorya would be happy to help…”

  Voroshilov approved of the eager look in Mikhailovich’s eyes. The man was business smart, that was good. Earning Jayne’s trust would be beneficial to the continuation of his heretofore meteoric rise in the bratva world. The man wanted to take his place among the most powerful vorya, the upper echelon mafia leaders, and would be a willing accomplice for whatever Jayne needed.

  Because you are expendable. Because the vorya do not like you, fool. You make things difficult for everyone but yourself. You are a liability.

  Out loud, Voroshilov said: “You are aware of the current political difficulties the Americans are causing…?”

  Mikhailovich nodded but remained silent. At least the man knew when to listen to his betters.

  Voroshilov examined his shot glass. “They have recalled their ambassador. We have created enough static politically that they have been forced to request help in extracting him and his family.”

  Mikhailovich waited, hands resting on the table.

  “To avoid a diplomatic situation escalating into a…kinetic situation, you see.” Voroshilov waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “The politicians like to think they are inching toward a world war, but we employ enough of them from both sides to know that won’t happen. Not without our blessing.” He looked down his nose at Mikhailovich.

  “Regardless, the Americans have reached out to a mercenary—one of their former special forces soldiers—to bring the ambassador home without international incident. Tigritsa wants you and your brigadiers to handle this man they are sending.” Voroshilov reached down beside his leg, into his briefcase, and pulled out a folder. He glanced around the restaurant, then slid it across the table.

  Mikhailovich flipped through the dossier and whistled. “He has impressive credentials.”

  “Not too much for you, I hope?” asked Voroshilov.

  Mikhailovich grunted. “What kind of payment?” he asked, without looking up. “A target of this kind…I will need equipment…” He glanced at Voroshilov. “Weapons are not so cheap now as they once were, no?”

  Voroshilov nodded. “Agreed. We have a standard compensation package, with a bonus for you, of course,” he said, sliding over an envelope. “You understand that if you pull this off—”

  “Ah-ah,” Mikhailovich clucked, holding his finger up to interrupt Voroshilov. “When. When I pull this off.”

  Voroshilov inclined his head in response. “When you pull this off, you could very well find the FSB looking the other way for a long time regarding your protection racket…and the drug shipments coming in from Siberia.”

  Mikhailovich smiled like a shark and reached for the money. “You know about that, eh?”

  Voroshilov kept his hand on the package. “So does the FSB. And who do you think controls them?” He grinned. “In addition, she will be grateful for your assistance.”

  Mikhailovich liked his lips, his hand hovering over the envelope of untraceable cash. “Grateful?”

  I have you now. Voroshilov released the money and nodded as he leaned back to pour another shot. “Da.”

  Mikhailovich closed the folder and hefted the envelope, testing its weight in his hand. He accepted the refilled vodka. “Consider it done.”

  “Khorosho,” Voroshilov replied. Good, you didn’t count the money. You’re showing promise, Yevgeny Mikhailovich. I hope you survive long enough to prove useful.

  “What do you have on the ambassador?” Mikhailovich asked.

  Voroshilov swallowed his vodka, then handed over another folder. “John Marquadt, age 59, his wife Kyrsten, age 35.”

  Mikhailovich flipped through documents and photos copied from FSB records. “How does a pig like this get a woman like her to marry him?” He shook his head. “She would be a tsarina among my girls, even if she is a little old.” He whistled appraisingly. “I have clients who would pay a small fortune for a night with a woman such as this. Such a waste.” He closed the folder and looked up at Voroshilov. “Children?”

  “Nyet. She is a trophy wife.”

  Mikhailovich nodded. “Even better. Where are they right now?”

  Voroshilov pulled out a satellite phone. “On the move, attempting to outrun the some friends of mine. I have their car tagged with a GPS locator. It’s keyed into this phone.” He slid it across the table into Mikhailovich’s hand and gave the mob boss a few moments to examine it before speaking again.

  “When you’re ready, Yevgeny Mikhailovich, call me on that—and only that—it’s untraceable and has my number programmed. I will have the FSB pull back and let you take over. I recommend you capture the ambassador and his wife and take them to a safe house—but it’s your call.”

  Mikhailovich seemed to consider this. He nodded. “And the American mercenary?”

  “He is en route. I will update you when he lands. The fool is coming straight to Moscow.”

  “Such arrogance. This is my town,” he said, jabbing a finger into the tabletop. “When he arrives, we will give him a proper welcome, nyet?”

  Voroshilov frowned. “See that you do—but be careful. The Council underestimated him once—we won’t do it again. I don’t recommend you underestimate him, either. This bastard has proven to be...costly…to us.”

  “I heard about Reginald Tillcott. Always admired his work.”

  Voroshilov studied Mikhailovich for a moment. “You have someone in mind?”

  Mikhailovich smiled, the skin of his face pulled into a death’s head. “Da. Ex-spetsnaz. Big as a mountain. He owes me. Wants to be one of my brigadiers.” He hefted the money-filled envelope. “With this, I can buy his services—keep the vorya from using him…”

  “I would have a backup plan,” Voroshilov warned.

  Mikhailovich scratched his jaw, looking at the dossier on the table. “This could make him.”

  Voroshilov nodded. “This could make both of you.” He poured another shot for each, then raised his in salute. Mikhailovich did likewise. “I look forward to watching your progress on this, Yevgeny Mikhailovich. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  The ambitious pakhan grinned again, downed his shot and slammed the glass on the table. He circled his hand above his head to get the waitress’s attention—who’d remained at a discrete distance while they talked. “Don’t worry, Igor Voroshilov,�
�� Mikhailovich said, smirking as the girl walked over, “this American is as good as dead.”

  Voroshilov traced his fingertips over the empty shot glass as he leaned back and regarded the mafia boss. So will you, when this is all over.

  2

  Mother Russia

  Moscow, Russian Federation.

  Sheremtyevo International Airport

  Cooper Braaten, Lieutenant, U.S. Navy (retired), kept his place in the customs line and tried to look casual, like a local returning from a long business trip. Terminal C was crowded, as the number of people who’d fled Moscow during the bio-weapon attack had been high and the government was doing its best to bring people home.

  His tongue ran over the prosthetic piece in his mouth designed to make his upper lip stand forward a bit, changing his profile in the event someone ran spot scans with an automated facial recognition protocol. To further escape the notice of an electronic eye, he’d had cheek bone enhancers glued to his face and blended into his skin by an expert special effects wizard during his layover in Helsinki. He decided he wasn’t a fan though…the glue used to adhere the prosthetics to his gums made his mouth itch. But the makeup covered his half-healed cuts and bruises from Edinburgh rather well.