Extraction Read online

  "How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen it happen,” Charlie said with a shrug.

  “Where?” Kyrsten asked. “How could…you possibly see that happen?”

  He cleared his throat. “Cooper and I used to work together.”

  “You’ve said that…where? In the army or something?”

  Charlie scoffed. “Uh, no.”

  “Not in the army…but somewhere…like it, then?” she asked, finding it increasingly difficult to hold on to each thought.

  Charlie just smiled.

  She sighed. “Fine…keep your secrets. Where am I?"

  “Ramstein Air Force Base. We’re in Germany. You were picked up when local authorities were tipped off to a helicopter crash and picked you up in Belarus. That was yesterday morning. Once it was determined you were US citizens and the Russians were after you, the locals were only too happy to call the Air Force."

  "Germany?" she turned her head to look at Cooper again. On the far side of his bed, a duplicate bank of monitors and equipment chirped and buzzed away, keeping close tabs on his vital signs. His heart rate was steady and slow.

  "Is he going to make it?" she whispered.

  Charlie exhaled loudly. "He's the toughest son of a bitch I've ever met—pardon my language. If there's anyone on this planet that can survive going through what you guys went through…it's Cooper Braaten. But…"

  "But?" She asked.

  "I'll be honest ma'am…I'm worried. I'm real worried—and I don't like that feeling. This man saved my family…after…" He closed his mouth and swallowed. "After the attack…"

  Kyrsten blinked as Charlie told her about the events after the North Korean attack of the previous year. "Oh, my God…that's where I recognized him…he's the one…but that means you—President Denton?" she asked, her brow creasing with the effort to remember the dead president’s name.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am," Charlie said with a wink. "As to what happened after that…he went in by himself…deep in the Occupied Zone, you know? He got my…" Charlie swallowed again. "Cooper rescued my wife and son…" he said, clearing his throat.

  "That's why I'm here. They took him away a few hours ago to do a procedure on his head and release some pressure…” he said, looking at the bandages wrapped around Cooper’s forehead.

  “After he was already here for a while?” asked Kyrsten. Maybe it was the drugs coursing through her system, but that didn’t seem right. “If it was that bad…wouldn’t they take him when we first arrived?”

  Charlie shrugged. “That’s what I thought, but the docs all agreed.”

  “What doctors?”

  “They haven’t come back yet. It’s just been that nurse out there. It’s fine, Kyrsten. I'm going to stay right here until he wakes up."

  Kyrsten lay there watching Cooper's chest rise and fall, the slow steady beat of the heart rate monitor lulling her back into the safe embrace of painless sleep.

  One corner of her mouth curled up as her eyes traced the scruff on Cooper's cheeks and the profile of his forehead and nose. Now that she got a good look at him, she realized he was quite handsome—despite his head being wrapped up like a mummy. He’d risked his life for Charlie’s family, then turned around and risked his life again to rescue John and herself.

  And when John died…you came back for me. You came back.…

  Kyrsten frowned, struggling to free her good arm from the sheets. Charlie saw her difficulty and helped pull back the corner of one tightly tucked in sheet. She nodded her thanks, then watched her arm slip across the space between their beds like a snake weaving through a clear pool of water.

  Kyrsten sighed as her hand touched the warm flesh of Cooper's shoulder. She slid her hand down the length of his arm until she found his own hand, partially wrapped in bandages. Two fingers extruded from the gauze swaddling, and she gripped those with her own, sighing with that simple gesture and closing her eyes.

  You risked your life for me…why couldn't John be more like you? Kyrsten fell asleep to the sound of Cooper's heartbeat echoed in the monitoring equipment.

  38

  The Messenger

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  The Magic Bullet Nightclub

  Jayne paused on the sidewalk as MacTavish stepped around and opened the door to the swanky restaurant. She glanced up and down the largely deserted streets of a very cold, rainy Moscow. Jayne smirked. The only people out at this time of the day would be the ones who could afford the ridiculously inflated prices.

  Moscow had been hit hard by the flu and saw the almost 65% of its population killed off over the ensuing six months. Many of those who’d survived had left the inner-city sprawl. Everyone always thought the countryside was safer whether it was Russia or America.

  For those that remained, everything became more scarce, more expensive. Working class people had to work to eat—the rich could afford to take time in the early afternoon to have business meetings over an expensive lunch. The corrupt could do it whenever they pleased. And the criminals did—all the time.

  MacTavish cleared his throat as he held the restaurant door open. She looked up at the neon sign blinking overhead, proclaiming the place to be one of Russia's hottest night time attractions.

  It had certainly attracted the bratva.

  Jayne stepped in next to MacTavish and paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark. The deep thrum of an overloaded bass playing house music echoed throughout the building. She felt her rib cage vibrate, and it sent a pleasant signal through her belly to her hips.

  Oh, you boys know exactly what you're doing here, don't you?

  Jayne gripped the sensation with her iron will and shoved it into a deep, dark part of her mind, slamming the door. She was going to be all business for this meeting.

  She stepped through the restaurant, ignoring the confused waitstaff as they jumped up from their preparations and tried to stop her. Her stiletto heels clicked-clacked across the marble floor as she walked up to the bar and arched an eyebrow to get the bartender’s attention.

  "We’re closed," he said, by way of apology, with a small, false smile.

  "Not for me you’re not," she said in her flawless Russian. "Where is he?"

  The bartender blinked, looking from her to the hulking form of Roland McTavish, erstwhile driver, standing just behind her shoulder. "Where is who?" the barkeep asked.

  Jayne sighed.

  On that signal, McTavish pulled a massive fifty-caliber Desert Eagle from under his coat and leveled it at the bartender's forehead.

  "Your boss,” Jayne said, letting a touch of impatience tinge her voice. “Do you honestly think I walked in here and brought this slab of meat with me to have dinner?"

  "Oh…oh!" The bartender said, his shaking hands above his head as he stared cross-eyed at the open maw of McTavish's handgun, mere inches from his nose.

  Evidently too scared to reply any further, the bartender pointed with a shaky finger down the length of the bar, toward a door recessed into the wall labeled with a clear no entry sign.

  "Thank you so much," Jayne purred with a wide, embracing smile. As McTavish lowered the weapon and made it vanish inside his coat again, Jayne turned back to the bartender who pressed himself back against the shelves of alcohol, causing several bottles to clink and rattle.

  "Oh, you can warn him if you'd like, but it won't make any difference."

  She stalked off toward the end of the bar, MacTavish’s heavy, thudding footfalls in sharp contrast to the high-pitched click of her own heels. The waiters, mostly sitting at tables folding napkins, stared at them with open mouths.

  One waitress smirked at the bartender and followed Jayne and MacTavish with a marked interest in her eyes. Jayne paused.

  “Rollie, dear, would you be so kind as to talk to that young woman? I have a feeling she might have what it takes to join our team."

  MacTavish grunted, but lumbered over to the table and stared down at the two young men sitting
across from the girl. They fell over themselves to get out of the way and stumble off into a back room at the far end of the restaurant.

  McTavish eased his hulk down onto the seat and placed his two large hands on the table before him. "My employer would like to discuss your current employment," he began.

  The girl blinked, looking at him, then back at Jayne. Her dark, curly hair was tied in a loose ponytail at the base of her skull. She had wide, round eyes and an innocent face, but Jayne had recognized that look she'd had when she saw how the bartender had cowered in fear.

  This girl is somebody who wants a little payback. That could be a useful asset.

  Jayne nodded at the girl and offered another smile. "It's okay dear, no one is going to hurt you—quite the contrary in fact. I'm prepared to offer you a lot of money and get you out of this…" Jayne turned and looked around, pulling her lips down in disgust. “Place," she said, drawing out the word.

  The bartender stiffened at the insult to his establishment, but one withering look from Jayne and he melted against the shelves of alcohol again. "Though I'm sure it has nothing to do with you fine people." She gestured at the door at the far end of the bar and arched an eyebrow.

  He nodded vigorously, stuttering too much for her to understand, but she got the message. That's the door.

  Jayne opened it and walked through like she owned the place. Her mouth twitched. In a few moments, actually, she would.

  The private section of the restaurant was even darker than the main dining area. A few glasses clinked in the distance, but she couldn't tell if it was merely employees preparing for the night’s business or the ultra-rich patrons who frequented the establishment, seeking the very best of discretion. She paused for a moment, letting her eyes adjust even further, took a deep breath, and enjoyed the aroma of a savory stroganoff. Her stomach rumbled. It'd been a long flight, and she hadn't bothered to take any refreshment. Perhaps on the way out she'd have the kitchen serve up a plate.

  A large man with several piercings on his ears and nose appeared out of the shadows, rolling up his sleeves and drying his hands with a white towel. "Hey, lady, we’re closed. You can come back—" he said, stretching his chest to appear even more menacing than he looked. Clearly a bouncer.

  Clearly no threat at all.

  Jayne didn't bother to smile or even look in his direction. She continued walking forward and when the man had the balls to step in front of her, she poked two fingers directly into his solar plexus, followed by a quick jab to the windpipe. He stepped back coughing, and dropped to his knees. She looked down at him and using one finger, raised his chin up. His eyes were red and watery, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on dry land.

  "Get in front of me again,” she whispered sweetly, “and it'll be the last thing you ever do." She let her fingernail caress the side of his cheek as she pulled her hand away, but he nodded and fell to the floor, gasping.

  Hushed murmurs reached her ears from the darkness to her right. Somebody was back there eating, and they were surprised to see her. Or at least they were surprised to see the bouncer drop so quickly. She took another look at him and sighed.

  You just can’t get good help these days…

  Jayne walked the length of the restaurant and came to a heavy door at the back, garnished with a gold-plated handle. She turned in one slow movement and took in the rest of the private dining area. From this vantage point she could see there was only one table occupied, back toward the door where she'd entered. Two men sat huddled together, whispering to each other. She assumed as soon as she entered the final door, they’d disappear out the front. Then she saw MacTavish fill the exit. They shrank back into the shadows again. Good—they weren't going anywhere. She'd like to talk to them.

  MacTavish gave her a short nod. The girl’s with us.

  Even better! Now that she'd gone legit as Lisa Melton, Jayne had a sinking suspicion that what she was about to do would be one of the last times she'd ever be allowed to get messy. She'd really miss working operations herself. There was nothing like doing the job yourself—getting one’s hands a little dirty never hurt anyone. She sighed again.

  Such is life, I suppose. We grow up and have to abandon the ways of our youth.

  With a smile on her face, Jayne pushed open the last door and stepped into the Mikhailovich’s inner sanctum.

  Igor Voroshilov looked up from his table, pasta hanging from his mouth and greasy butter running down his chin. He frowned. “Get out.” When she made no move to go, he narrowed his eyes, chewing his food like a dog. “I said…” he began, then paused, recognition flickering in his eyes but not fully igniting.

  “Now is that any way to treat an old friend?” she asked, stepping closer to the stained glass light globe that hung from the ceiling.

  His eyes bulged at the sight of her, and golden utensils dropped from his hands, clattering to the gold-rimmed plate. The man in front of him turned and looked Jayne up and down with an appraising eye. He smiled the smile of someone supremely confident they weren’t in trouble.

  “Jayne?” Voroshilov whispered.

  “Jayne…Renolds?” The stranger made a polite move to leave the table. “I want no part of…whatever this is...I was just leaving.”

  Jayne held out a hand to stop him and smiled. "No no. Stay—I insist. Enjoy your meal. Besides, I could use a witness."

  He glanced at Voroshilov, then nodded, and slowly returned to his seat. “For what?" the man said in a deep, somber voice. His eyes were full of intelligence and cunning. She didn't know who he was, but she was fascinated already. By the look in his eye, the feeling was mutual.

  “But…you—you’re dead!" Voroshilov sputtered, aggressively wiping his face with the silk napkin torn from his shirt. He jumped to his feet, knocking his gilded chair over in the process.

  The door slid open behind him and a waiter stepped in, another silk towel draped over his hand and a tray of food steaming in the air. He saw the expression on Jayne's face, turned, and went right back in the kitchen, sliding the door shut. She smiled even wider when she heard the soft click of a lock. Turning her eyes back on Voroshilov’s now pale face, she frowned.

  “Dead, am I?" Jayne asked, glanced down at Voroshilov’s amused dinner partner. "Would you say I look dead?”

  The man smiled, then cleared his throat, dabbing delicately at his lips with his own silk napkin. "I would say you look stunningly beautiful, but not dead. Not dead by a long shot.”

  Jayne fluttered her eyelashes and nodded demurely. "You flatter me, sir." She looked at Voroshilov and pointed at the stranger. "I like him. He can live. You…” she said, pointing at Voroshilov, “…not so much.”

  "What?" Voroshilov gasped, trying to take a step back and finding nowhere to run.

  The stranger coughed, and covered his mouth, eyes round and watering, watching Jayne’s every move.

  She stepped forward, pouting, and let her fingernails trail across the polished wooden table. “You made a very big mess of things for me, Igor, darling. When word got out that I was dead, you didn't help me. I wonder…why is that?”

  "But…but…they had evidence! They said…"

  Jayne clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Igor Voroshilov…you believed the United States government? And you call yourself a Russian?”

  The man at the table snorted, clapped his napkin over his mouth, then raised a hand to apologize for his intrusion.

  Jayne winked at him and turned back to Voroshilov. “You made it seem like I really was dead…” she accused, one blood red fingernail aimed at his heart. She took a step closer to the table. “You helped spread their lies…”

  “No I didn’t!” he pleaded

  Another step. “You confirmed it to the others."

  "No…no-no I never—" he blubbered.

  One more step, her heels clicking off the floor. “You never bothered to raise a finger to help me, that’s what you never did. You never reached out to me, you never returned any of my calls, tha
t’s what you never did…” She paused, pouting again. “And then…to top it off,” she said, looking around the private dining room. She raised her hands to either side, palm up. "When things looked their darkest, you made a move on our dear friend, Yevgeny.”

  The man at the table turned and looked sharply at Voroshilov. "Is this true? You turned on Yevgeny Mikhailovich?” he demanded, his voice almost a growl. “You said he sold you this place.”

  “He is dead!” He pointed at Jayne. “She set him up!"

  “We had our differences, Igor Voroshilov, you know this. But he was bratva. We were going to handle him!” he said, thumping his chest. “Not like…” His eyes widened. “It was you who paid Sasha Petroval to join him, wasn’t it?”

  “I—I thought you, the others, you wanted—”

  The stranger threw his napkin down in disgust. “This is why you will never be vorya, you nekulturny swine. You have no honor!” He stood from the table and picked up a golden steak knife. “I should gut you myself.”

  "You know what, dear,” Jayne purred, with a smile, “let me take care of this for you.”

  “She’s here to kill me! You don’t understand, she’ll take over everything—” blurted Voroshilov, attempting to adjust his tie. His graying hair askew in his forehead, he combed it down with his fingers.

  Jayne smiled as she removed the jewelry from her wrists and dropped each bauble one at a time into her clutch purse. Setting the purse on the table in front of the stranger, she reached out a hand. The stranger looked at her, then back at Voroshilov, then placed the handle in her hand. He nodded and stepped back.

  “No!” Voroshilov yelled. “You can’t let her kill me!”

  Jayne nodded her thanks to the stranger, then looked at Voroshilov and smiled, inclining her head. “Why Igor, dear, I’m not here just to kill you…” she said, twirling the knife. The blade flashed in the soft ambient light.

  “W-what?” he gasped, eyes darting back and forth as she drew near.

  Jayne’s eyes narrowed and her voice hardened. “I’ve come to send a fucking message."