Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (36 page)

“I repeat, what’s the noise?”

The other sniper teams came on air and reported they could hear a noise, but they were not sure of its source. The spotter tried to shout, but his voice came out as a weak rasp. He tried to bite the shooter’s hand cupped in front of his mouth, but the hand was just beyond the reach of his teeth.

Another voice said, “This is Alpha One, we’ve lost visual on Alpha Two.”

“Alpha Two, problems?” said Beta One.

The shooter squeezed out what little life still remained in his partner. He shoved the spotter’s body away, took a few seconds to slow down his breathing, then turned on his headset. “Negative. Slipped and fell. We’re good.”

He peered over the wall and nodded at Alpha One across the street. They nodded back at him.

“All right, everyone in position,” Beta One said.

“Alpha Two, where’s your spotter?” someone asked.

The shooter cursed under his breath. “He’s . . . he’s cleaning his gear. The rain . . .”

He hoped no one would ask to see the spotter.

“Thirty seconds,” Beta One said.

The shooter readied his rifle. He leaned over the wall and pointed it at the building to his left. He swept its roof and paused for a split second at the sniper nest of Alpha Three. Then he dropped his aim an inch or so and scanned the top-floor windows of the FSB building.

“Ten seconds,” said the same voice.

It was enough time.

He realigned his aim with the side door and waited for his target.

“Alpha Two, what are you doing?”

The voice had to be from Alpha One, the closest to his position. The one he feared would uncover his mission’s true intentions. But not before he took his kill shot.

“Alpha Two, copy? What’s going on?”

He needed to concentrate, so he removed his headset. He began to count down the seconds. His hands became one with the rifle and his finger rested on the trigger guard. His breathing slowed down almost to a stop. His body was frozen in position as he waited for his target to come into his crosshairs.

The side exit door opened. A bodyguard stepped out, followed by another bodyguard. The third man to exit was the Minister.

The shooter acquired his target and pulled the trigger.

The bullet cut through the air and pierced the target’s chest underneath his heart. The Minister collapsed backwards, and blood gushed from his wound.

The shooter fell back and hid behind the roof’s wall even before his target hit the ground. A bullet hissed by his position and missed his head by a couple of inches. Another one banged against the wall and tore concrete slivers that pricked his neck. The other sniper teams had turned their guns on him.

He began the second stage of his mission: the exit. It was ten times harder than the first stage. He slithered over the rough, wet surface of the roof and dragged his rucksack behind him with his left hand. Bullets zipped past him.
Alpha One,
he thought. They were at the same height as his position.

A bullet struck an electrical box a foot away from him. Sparks flew over his body. Another round hit almost at the same place. More sparks.

He dodged the danger zone, kept his head down, and advanced with a low crawl. He gained about twenty feet in a few seconds and turned past a large compartment housing a ventilation unit.

The gunfire continued. Bullets thumped against the gray brick walls and lifted good-sized chunks. The shooter waited for a pause in the volley. The entrance to the nearest staircase was about ten feet away. He would be exposed for two or three seconds. Alpha One only needed a second to put a bullet in his head.

The pause came, and he launched forward, like a sprinter at the starter’s gunshot.

One second.

Nothing.

Two seconds.

He could make it.

Three seconds.

The entrance was a foot away.

Then the shot came.

The bullet cut through his left thigh. The shooter screamed. His leg caved in, and he plunged hard against the staircase wall. He struggled to get to his knees and dragged his body out of harm’s way. Two more bullets clanged against the wall, but he was safe.

For the moment.

* * *

The shooter stared at his bloodied leg. The sharp pain told him his leg was useless. He tried to put some weight on it and screamed in agony.

The mission was the only thing that flashed in his mind. The unfinished mission. His target was down, but his job was far from over. He still needed to reach the metro.

He put his shoulders against the wall and used his strong arms to climb to his right foot. He leaned over the metal rail and used it to carry some of his weight, as he took the first step down the stairs. He winced and dragged his dead foot behind him. He took another step, then the next, and clenched his teeth every time his left foot touched the concrete steps.

The shooter reached the next floor and paused to catch his breath. The gunshots had ceased, but he could hear police sirens blasting their deafening alarms. By now the building was surrounded. The Minister’s bodyguards and the rest of the security teams would tear apart each floor and hunt him like an animal. His initial exit plan had been to rappel out of a seventh-floor office window on the far end of the building after collecting a backpack full of explosives hidden in that office. That was no longer an option.

He pulled a submachine gun out of his rucksack. It had thirty bullets, plus another thirty in an extra magazine. It was decent firepower, but not enough to get him out of this mess.

If I go down, it will be on my own terms.

He glanced at the blood trail on the steps and twisted the doorknob. The door opened, and he hobbled his way inside the hall. This floor had offices, but the hall was empty, and most of the doors were closed.

He took about a dozen or so steps before someone noticed him. A red-headed woman screamed when she saw him. The shooter raised his finger to his mouth, but the woman kept screaming. He waved her off with his gun, but the damage was done. Heads popped out of office doors. A middle-aged man with an aura of prestige and power, displayed in his well-fitting black suit and fearless eyes, made his way through the hall.

“What’s going on?” he asked the shooter. “Who are you?”

“The one who calls the shots around here.” He raised his gun and leveled it at the man’s head.

The man’s aura of power was broken in pieces, but his eyes still showed no fear. He just blinked, as if he did not understand the shooter’s words.
This isn’t the first time a gun has been pointed at his head.

The shooter threw a quick glance around. The elevators were to the left. A ping announced someone’s arrival. The doors opened, and a young man stepped out of an elevator. He turned the other way and swung down the hall, oblivious to the situation, immersed in whatever sounds came from his wraparound headphones.

A large conference room was to the right. The shooter made his decision. “This way,” he gestured to the fearless man. “Get inside. You and you,” he called at the other people. “All of you. Move it!”

The man in the suit did not budge. He stared at the shooter’s face. Rage and hate came out loud and clear in the set of his clenched jaw.

“Are you deaf? Move it!” the shooter shouted.

He punctuated his order with a gunshot. The bullet smashed a glass door. Two women shrieked.

The man in the suit turned around. “In the conference room. No panic. Everything will be fine,” he said to the others.

No, it won’t,
the shooter thought. The security teams that had stormed the building would attempt to negotiate the hostages’ release. They would promise to let him go, but it would not happen. He had just shot the Minister of Defense. They would never let him walk free. He was going to die today, in this building, but not before he sent as many people as he could to meet their Maker.

He called to an old woman who stood as if frozen in her office doorway. She staggered toward the conference room with moans and cries. He stole a quick glance behind his back and dragged his leg. A large bloodstain had formed on the gray carpet.

“Hurry up, move it,” he said and herded the last of his hostages inside the room.

He shuffled behind them, just as the elevator dinged. The loud thuds of heavy boots told him who had just arrived to his party.

“Get down, down, all of y—”

He did not see the kick that sent an agonizing bolt of pain through his leg. He heard the loud shouts of the man in the suit, who had attacked him. The shooter held on to the doorknob to keep from falling to the floor.

The man in the suit struck him in the back of his head with a clenched fist. The hard blow almost blinded him. He turned his submachine gun in the direction of the blow and let off a quick burst. The large windows’ glass exploded as bullets ripped through in a zigzag pattern.

Strong wind gusts and heavy rain from outside and high-pitched screams from inside swept through the room. He was not sure if he had hit the man in the suit, so the shooter looked around the room for him. But he had disappeared.
Perhaps he’s behind a table or the large wooden stand at the corner.

His eyes were watery from the pain, but he raised his gun. He took two steps along the burst-out windows. He pushed a young woman crouched behind a chair out of the way and almost tripped over the leg of an old man next to her.

The shooter aimed his gun at the stand and shouted, “Now you’ll die, you piece of—”

A bullet slammed into his left arm before he could pull the trigger. He turned his head. A man in a military uniform had an assault rifle pointed at him from across the hall. The bullet had drilled a perfect hole in the glass panel that separated the conference room from the hall.

“Drop it, drop your gun!” shouted the man in uniform.

The shooter grinned. He glanced at the hostages, then at his submachine gun.

He raised his weapon and shouted, “
Allahu akbar.
”

The man in uniform was faster on his trigger. He squeezed off a round, then another, advancing to the shooter.

The bullets tore through the shooter’s body.

Their impact knocked the shooter backwards. He grasped for breath and leaned toward the window for support. His body found only air because his own bullets had already shattered the glass. He fell out of a seventh-floor window. He screamed as his body twisted and he plunged down headfirst. A large red “M”—the sign of the metro station entrance outside the building—came up fast. The shooter splattered over the sign and impaled himself on the metal post. His eyes blinked as he drew in his last breath. The metro station entrance was the last thing he saw before his eyes closed forever.

Chapter One

Northern Grozny, Chechnya

November 22, 7:30 p.m. local time

The courier drove a battered, box-shaped Volvo slowly through the pothole-ridden alleys. The car drew no second glances from occasional bystanders braving the evening’s icy winds. The courier liked it that way. He did not want anyone remembering a car going through their neighborhood. The men he was meeting tonight demanded the utmost secrecy. They had stayed alive for this long despite the warrants, the rewards, and the hunt for them. The masterminds of the Islamic Devotion Movement—one of the strongest groups in Chechnya fighting to create an Islamic state in the region—were always alert. They surrounded themselves with people to whom they taught the importance of such secrecy.

Two months ago, one of the IDM’s couriers had been careless, letting the name of a guest in a certain safe house escape his tongue.
Spetsnaz,
the Russian Special Forces, had gotten wind of the name and the location. They had launched an attack resulting in the death of several IDM senior members. The next day, the IDM had beheaded the betraying courier and had broadcasted the horrific video over jihadist and extremist Islamic websites, a grim warning to everyone against dropping their guard.

The Volvo driver was determined not to lose his head. He had followed all instructions, had stopped nowhere and had double-checked for tails and suspicious activities along the way. He was on time and he was bringing good news about their operations. Well, mostly good news.

He took another turn. His eyes went to the rearview mirror, but no cars appeared behind him. He scanned both sides of the road. A thin snow blanket covered most of the small yards around the two-story houses. Some of the windows were lit, but no one stood outside.

The safe house was a block away. It was small and painted gray and without any distinctive features. It was identical to the ones next to it, homes of loyal IDM members. The lights were off, but many eyes observed the road in front of those two houses. High-level leaders came to this neighborhood on a regular basis, and the two houses served as the first line of defense in case of an attack.

The courier drove past the safe house and parked in the back alley, around the corner. He stepped outside into the freezing cold. A gust of bitter wind threatened to snatch away his fur cap. He cursed the winter, secured the cap on his head, and tightened his parka’s collar. He made his way to the back door of the safe house, watching his steps for ice patches.

The door opened before he reached it.

“
Salam Alaykum,
” the courier greeted two young men who waited for him just inside the doorway.

The common Arab greeting meant “peace be upon you.”

“
Alaykum Salam,
” one of the young men replied.

His words meant “And peace unto you.”

He moved his AK rifle hanging from his shoulder out of the way. They hugged closely as if they had not seen each other in years. But it had only been three days since the courier had been sent to Moscow for his mission.

The first young man stood guard by the door and peered at the road through a small window. The courier shared a hug with the second young man, and they both walked down the narrow, dimly lit hallway.