Extraction Page 7

  “If she’s still alive, why the hell would she do that?” the president demanded. “I thought you said if she did so, she’d risk losing all faith and confidence of the Council’s remnants. Didn’t we have a report that she lost their new king? That pimply faced kid?”

  “If the Council was involved with the NKor attack—”

  “If?” the president blurted. “It’s a bit late in the game for if Roger…”

  Klaussman spoke up. “—and we believe they were in it up to their necks with the bioweapon attack last year,” the chief of staff said, “it changes everything. Remember, sir, we have partial access to their files, thanks to the recovery op at that castle in Scotland, where Reginald Tilcott was killed.”

  “Operation Firestorm,” the president said with a nod. “Right. Where that SEAL let the bastard get killed by the now-missing double agent.” He rubbed his face. “This is ridiculous. Roger, you’re telling me you’re worried about the actions of a single woman—that…that the United States military is concerned what one gravely injured assassin will do and how she might affect our military campaign against the North Koreans?”

  “It’s not as simple as that, sir,” Bennett said, color creeping up his neck. “Renolds was behind the bioweapon attack that to date has killed well north of a billion people around the globe, she murdered Barron and triggered the closest thing we’ve ever seen to another civil war—she’s probably the single most dangerous person on the planet at this point. And she’s missing, and we have no idea what she's up to. We only know what she’s capable of.”

  The president looked around the assembled Joint Chiefs. He needed more air. “What’s your recommendation then, Roger?” He looked down at the desk, already aware of what the answer must be.

  “We need to strike hard, and strike now—while we have the advantage—before she can inject herself or what’s left of the Council into the conflict, and possibly cock things up.

  “Leading us down the road to a world war,” Klaussman warned. “Sir, we need to be cautious with this. Let’s let the deep fake operation pan out…”

  “You think she’d rig a world war to distract us from hunting her down?” asked the president.

  “There’s no doubt about it, sir,” Klaussman said. He stepped forward. “She leaves a trail of bodies in her wake wherever she goes, yet she always—always—manages to come up smelling like roses. Every step we make has to be a careful one.”

  The president looked long and hard at his chief of staff. It almost sounded like the man actually admired the sick bitch…in a twisted sort of way. There was something in his eyes, there for only a heartbeat, like the look someone gets when they see their spouse across the room, a secret normally hidden from the world let out in a moment of passionate argument and exhaustion.

  “What are your orders, sir?” asked Bennett, pulling the president from his thoughts.

  President Harris stared at the light spot on the wall where a portrait of George Washington had watched his successors for more than half a century. He tried to imagine what the Father of America would have done. Would he have stood idly by while part of the country was conquered and taken from its rightful owners, its citizens killed and imprisoned with impunity?

  President Harris grunted. Hell no. He would have fought and led his men into battle himself, like at Trenton. He might not have won, but by God, he would have done something about it.

  The president stood a little straighter. “I want all our assets put on the highest alert. Be ready to strike when I give the word.”

  “Sir!” blurted Klaussman.

  The president pointed at his most trusted aide. “You’ve got one last chance to convince me to stay my hand, or I’m pulling the trigger. Get whoever you need on the phone—and do it now—or we will erase North Korea…before they take any more of our country.”

  11

  Escape Attempt

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  Kyrsten Marquadt gripped her seatbelt with white knuckles as she closed her eyes against the blurry world outside the car windows. She trusted the Diplomatic Security Service driver implicitly—but that didn't make it any easier to handle the gut-lurching maneuvers as he attempted to shake their attackers. Tires squealed, she slid sideways in her seat until her head hit the window, and for a second she felt the nauseating sensation of weightlessness as the armored sedan hopped a curb.

  Horns honked somewhere outside and Kyrsten saw headlights flash by before she closed her eyes tight. The driver cursed and slammed on the brakes to the sound of more tires squealing. The passenger in the front seat, a severe man named Maxwell Kind, head of the DSS detachment at Spaso House, barked orders into his radio.

  If Kyrsten couldn't taste the blood in her mouth, she might have been able to handle the ride from hell. One of the DSS agents had been shot in the fighting at the official residence, and the driver had been coated in his dying partner's blood. She didn't know what to think of leaving the man behind to face whoever had attacked Spaso House. Her life had become nothing but a screaming blur of lights, noise, and gunfire.

  Over the protest of squealing tires, honking horns, and the thudding of her own heart in her chest, Kyrsten heard a distant voice—her erstwhile husband, the ambassador, demanding answers from the very men trying to keep them alive.

  She clenched her teeth. Don't distract them for God’s sake!

  “Who the hell are these people?" her husband, Ambassador John Marquadt, demanded with his most imperious voice. "Don't they know this could be considered an act of war?"

  "I don't think these people give a fuck about rules," said Kind, as the driver spun the wheel once more. He laid on the horn, slammed the brakes again, and Kyrsten felt her body slide in the opposite direction, pulling up sharply against the safety belt.

  "Fuckin’ pedestrians,” the driver muttered. “Get the hell out of the way!"

  "Where's your backup?" demanded the ambassador.

  Kyrsten grimaced. Not once had he asked if she was okay. Not once had he reached out to her, to reassure her—or even anchor himself—in the reality that they had both escaped what had to have been a military assault on the residence.

  She glanced at her clean-shaven husband, still dressed in the tuxedo he wore after they’d come home from yet another State Department function—late, and reeking of perfume that wasn't hers…

  "I'm more concerned with the status of my agent," growled Kind, the head of the embassy’s security detail.

  “Aren’t the Marines supposed to be protecting me?"

  Kyrsten shot him a look full of daggers. You mean us?

  "Hang on—left turn!" called out the driver, as he spun the wheel, making the car shudder as it crossed traffic.

  Kyrsten closed her eyes again and felt her body slam against the door. She wondered how many times the door would hold before breaking open.

  I'm too young to die, I'm too young to die…

  "Marines guard the embassy, sir—DSS handles your personal security while not on embassy grounds."

  "How is the ambassador's official residence not considered embassy grounds?" demanded John.

  Kind put a finger to his ear and ignored the ambassador's churlish outburst. He listened for a moment, steadying himself with his free hand against the dashboard as the driver hopped another curve and pissed off a new batch of Moscow motorists, and one very loud bus.

  "Roger that, we're en route,” Kind reported.

  Kyrsten watched Kind turn in his seat and look out the rear window. "Confirmed—two tangos, one car, one SUV. Negative visual ID—it's too dark." He sat back in his seat and faced forward. Kyrsten couldn't tell what he was doing for a moment as he listened to his radio, but she heard the telltale sounds of someone fiddling with a firearm. A second later he raised the muzzle of what looked like a small machine gun.

  "Roger that,” he said into his lapel mike. “Just get your asses here as fast as possible! We’re coming in hot."

  Kyrsten opened her mouth
to ask what ‘coming in hot’ meant when something metallic slapped the window behind her head with a loud ping. She shrieked and ducked, instinctively taking cover.

  “Base One, be advised we are taking fire! Repeat, Razorback is taking fire!" Kind turned and ignored John’s incredulous outburst about someone actually shooting at the United States Ambassador.

  "Sir, with all due respect, I need you to shut the fuck up and listen to me right now! Both of you: keep your damn heads down between your knees and clasp your hands over the back of your skulls. There's a good chance things will get worse from here on in. We've got about ten minutes before we can make it to the safe house—

  “What about that backup?” demanded John.

  “We have reinforcements on the way, but until then, we’re on our own. Now get your head down, sir”

  "You want me to cower like some common—" began John.

  Kyrsten reached out and grabbed his hand, which he jerked away. "Honey, please!" she cried.

  "I am the ambassador—the representative of the United States of America! I will not hide from thugs who think they can—"

  Two more bullets hit the rear window, creating a spider web of broken safety glass.

  Over her own screaming and John’s ranting, Kyrsten heard the driver announce that he'd seen a muzzle flash from the car chasing them.

  "They got an AK!" he reported.

  Kind jumped back on the radio. “Be advised, Razoback is taking fire—hostile vehicle is using an AK-47—we won't be able to hold out long against that."

  To put emphasis on his words, several more bullets slammed into the rear window and it shattered into a million pieces of safety glass.

  Screaming as the bits of supposedly bulletproof glass rained down on her, Kyrsten intertwined her hands behind the back of her head, immediately sensing she'd been cut. Her hands would've been shaking had her fingers not been interlocked. She felt a warm wetness trickle down the side of her neck.

  "Oh my God! They're trying to kill us!” screamed John, his face between his knees, on level with Kyrsten's.

  "Going loud!" Kind hollered.

  Kyrsten didn't have time to ponder what that meant before the interior of the car seemed to explode with noise and light. She heard the roar of Kind’s weapon, and her world illuminated behind closed eyes with the strobe light of its muzzle flash. Hot casings dropped on her, burning her exposed shoulder, which caused her to scream again.

  "Shut up and let them do their job!" John hollered. His voice sounded like it came from the end of the tunnel.

  Kyrsten couldn’t hold it in any longer. “You brought this on us! Your arrogance, your posturing, and your goddamn parties!”

  “Those parties were state functions!” he retorted.

  “You put the target on our backs! You tricked me—you told me this was going to be a life of glamour—people are trying to kill us, and you’re blaming me?”

  "This isn't the time for a fucking marital dispute!" Kind interjected, before firing another burst from his weapon.

  Kyrsten stomped her feet in impotent rage as the hot casings rained down on her again. "I want a fucking divorce!" she shrieked.

  “Fine!" John hollered back. "If we get out of this—"

  “Right turn!" the driver called out.

  Kyrsten braced herself for the car to swerve to the right. The ambassador slammed against his door grunted. Over the sound of gunfire behind them, screams from the street, and honking horns, Kyrsten thought she heard the undulating wails of police sirens in the distance.

  When is this nightmare ever going to end? I should never have married you; I should never have come to Russia! They told me I was crazy to give up my position with the board for this…

  Kyrsten's eyes opened wide when she felt the car lift off the ground. She didn't even have time to breathe before Kind screamed, the car clipped something in midair, and instead of bits of glass and bullet casings raining down on her, they fell from the floor up to her face. Her stomach flip-flopped as the world rotated around her.

  Kyrsten Marquadt, wife of the United States Ambassador to Russia, braced herself for death.

  12

  Diversionary Tactics

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  Cooper sat in a late-night cafe and sipped his tea, watching the apartment building down the street. He picked up a packet of sugar off the tea service caddy and flicked it between his fingers. The Air Force uppers he’d taken at the hotel would still give him an hour or two of energy, but he needed to remain calm. Focusing on a ritual activity like prepping tea kept him centered.

  According to the bratva thug he’d interrogated at the Ambassador’s Residence, this is where the local mafia leadership held court. The poor kid pissed himself halfway through the questioning—waterboarding with olive oil would make anyone do that he supposed, but it was all he had on hand. Still, the wannabe thug strung enough stuttered syllables together for Cooper to understand the gist things.

  The mafia clan, or bratva, he belonged to was very structured, almost like terrorist cells. Each group was run by a leader called the “brigadier,” who reported to contacts known only to the upper leadership. Low level street toughs, like Cooper’s informant, could only divulge one name: their cell leader. In the event they were snatched by the local police, the trail would go cold before the cops started investigating. That rarely happened, though, he’d informed Cooper, because the bratva paid off enough cops to make life easy for everyone.

  Except their victims.

  Cooper leaned back in the cafe’s wrought-iron chair and let the AR glasses track and tag the armed men slipping in and out of the apartment complex in plain sight. They didn’t even try to hide what they were up to. That was interesting. He leaned forward, about to stand and make his way to the apartment building, when his pocket vibrated.

  It’s midnight. Who the fuck is calling me?

  A flashing light appeared in the right lens of his glasses and indicated his phone was receiving an incoming call. An insistent message prompt blinked stubbornly across the tiny HUD.

 

  Cooper sighed. He leaned back in his chair, wincing as the bare metal seat pinched his bruised shoulder blade. He’d need a helluva long soak in a hot tub after back-to-back missions to Scotland and Moscow. Sighing, he pulled out his phone and answered it.

  “Condor.”

  “Oh, ah, that was fast, you picked up on the first ring,” Brent Atkins, former SEAL and current CEO of Oakrock Securities blurted.

  Cooper frowned. Atkins never blurted.

  “What’s the sitch?” his erstwhile boss asked, regaining his usual succinctness.

  “Everything’s just peachy,” Cooper said in a normal voice. If something was up, he didn’t want to give away that he was suspicious. “Other than almost getting busted at the airport. Something you needed?” Cooper asked, keeping an eye on two men walking down the street toward him. They talked, using expressive gestures to make their points, and one shoved the other, laughing. The AR glasses marked neither as a threat, but Cooper watched them just the same.

  He shifted his weight in the iron seat, preparing for action. Something wasn’t right.

  “Yeah, about that, we’re not sure what the hell happened there, but I’ve got my best people looking into it.”

  I’m sure you do—so why are you telling me? “Good.” Cooper didn’t like the way the guy on the left purposely never looked his way. “Listen, if there’s nothing else, I’m about to run down a lead—”

  “You’re not at your hotel? What are you doing?”

  I’m wearing your AR glasses…you know damn well I’m not at the hotel. Why are you making small talk?

  Warning bells went off in the back of Cooper’s mind. Brent wasn’t acting right—the mission brief claimed President Harris had pulled some serious strings to get Oakrock to take this mission. Cooper expected a certain amount of anxiety from his boss—this was Oakrock�
��s biggest job yet—but Atkins was a former operator. Nervous energy was a trait that had been bled out of him years ago at BUD/S. The same way it had been for Cooper himself. No, something wasn’t copacetic.

  Cooper muttered a noncommittal response to Brent’s repeated question, then dropped a spoon on the ground at his feet. Muttering about his own clumsiness for the sake of the nearest customers, he reached down to retrieve it and glanced behind him. The AR glasses immediately captured a threat approaching unseen from down the alley and identified a hidden knife.

  Now that a threat had been tagged, an aerial map appeared on his HUD, with a blinking red dot representing the man with the knife, working closer and closer, as the two men who tried their best to distract him approached from the front.

  “Listen,” he said cutting off Brent’s theory on how the FSB had been tipped off at the customs terminal. “As much as I’d love to find out who fucked me, I need to get going,” Cooper said, wrapping his hand around the tea service caddy on the table. “There’s going to be time for payback later.”

  The red marker was only ten yards away. He heard a waitress ask the man if he needed a menu and the dot stopped. The two men in front of him closed to five yards, the one on the left telling a ribald joke.

  Almost there…

  “Ah, I don’t mean to interrupt your op…” Brent was saying.

  Right. What the fuck are you doing, then? Cooper couldn’t believe it was a setup from Brent’s end, but the pieces fit and he didn’t like the picture they formed. He’d had his suspicions something wasn’t right with Oakrock when things had gone south in LA, but this was taking things to a whole other level.

  A dangerous level. The bratva were out for blood—it was like they wanted to start World War III. Kidnapping the US Ambassador to Russia was a good way to push the tenuous relationship between the plague-ravaged superpowers over the cliff.