The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) (22 page)

Chapter 30

“Pull the car over here,” said Vladimir Petrov. “We’ll walk the last fifty meters. I want to get a look at the surrounding buildings before we go in. Tell the others to keep their distance until we’ve been inside for five minutes, then move to their assigned positions.”

One of his bodyguards, or
byki
s, dialed a number on his phone and spoke in Ukrainian, then hung up and looked at Petrov. “They will be ready for the signal, boss.”

The big brigadier let himself out of the limousine. Stepping onto the curb, he adjusted his camel hair overcoat as his two most trusted men got out to flank him. The three men strode along the sidewalk, scanning the surrounding buildings for any sign of surveillance or movement.

“Albescu must be very confident or very careless, boss,” said the
byki
on his left. “I see nothing.”

“Third floor window, two townhouses up on the left,” Petrov said. “Have someone ready to take him out after we go inside.”

The
byki
kept his head facing forward as Petrov had taught him, but caught slight movement from the sniper’s rifle muzzle in the window Petrov had described. He spoke softly: “I’m sorry, boss. I should have seen it.”

“You’re a good soldier, Sasha, but when you seek a sniper, you must think like one. Slow your eyes and change your focus. You don’t seek a man, you seek the extension of the man. Two centimeters diameter of hardened steel in the corner of a darkened window is not easy to spot if you’re looking for the wrong thing.”

“It won’t happen again, boss.”

“I know it won’t, Sasha. I know it won’t.”

The
byki
spoke into his Bluetooth headset, as the three continued toward Gyorgi Albescu’s impressive four-story townhouse. Two large, rough-looking thugs sat on a wall to one side of the gated entrance. Each of their jackets bulged at one side. Petrov guessed they concealed Uzi Pros, the Albescu crew’s weapon of choice. As a man of precision, Petrov held little respect for such messy, indiscriminate bullet-sprayers. Two more thugs guarded the entrance itself, and two more stood inside the gate. Petrov and his men took mental notes of all details.

As they approached the heavy steel gate, one of Albescu’s guards motioned for Petrov and his
byki
s to raise their arms. He gave each a light frisk before speaking into a walkie-talkie. A loud clunk emanated from the lock mechanism, and the gate swung inward. Petrov led his men through and up the front stairs. The heavy oak door opened inward, and they were met by two more guards. These men were well-dressed and cordial, but their eyes displayed hard-earned experience. While Petrov had been unimpressed by the exterior guards, he knew these two could present problems, if it came to that.

One of the interior guards led Petrov and his men into the main entrance hall, where a beautiful young woman wearing a household staff uniform took their coats and scarves. Petrov smiled in amusement at Gyorgi Albescu’s blatant attempts to copy Sergey Ugolev’s ordered and sophisticated household. The younger man obviously admired Petrov’s
pakhan
, and hoped to emulate Ugolev’s success in more ways than one.

With their coats removed, one of the interior guards searched each visitor more thoroughly. The other guard checked the champagne carry-bag then opened the crystal flute gift box, reverently lifting the red velvet lining to check beneath. Then he closed the lid and handed both gifts back to Petrov’s
byki
. Petrov silently accepted the security measures. Albescu had every right to be vigilant. He was the new mover and shaker in Kiev, and his risk level ran high.

The guards then led Petrov and his men into the grand reception room. Its polished wooden floors reflected two identical curved staircases leading to the next level. The stairs framed a huge painting of an ancient battle scene. Petrov wasn’t familiar with the work, but suspected it had been created by one of the old Russian masters. At the top of the stairs, the leading guard stopped to knock on an ornately carved oak door. The door swung inward, revealing two of Albescu’s
byki
s, and an office equal in opulence to Sergey Ugolev’s own.

The young Romanian crime-lord looked up from his desk, his jet-black eyes sparkling with rat-like intelligence. His sharply featured face creased into a supercilious smile as Petrov entered the room.

“Welcome, Vladimir Petrov,” Albescu said in English, walking briskly toward his guest. “Welcome to my humble home. I hope your trip was not too cold.”

Petrov smiled back. The younger man’s false modesty irritated the experienced brigadier, but he wasn’t here to insult the man. “You’ve made yourself very comfortable, Gyorgi Albescu.”

Petrov kept the conversation formal as a mild display of his distaste for having to conduct this meeting at Albescu’s base, rather than at the home of Ugolev. But as the more senior
pakhan
was not yet back from America, protocol dictated that the Romanian was within his rights to host the ceremony.

“I must say I’m a little disappointed Sergey Ugolev couldn’t be here in person,” Albescu was saying, “but you know I’ve always liked and respected you, Vladimir. I know the timing of this ceremony is important to the other
pakhan
s, so I accept your proxy.”

“It is my honor,” Petrov continued playing his role. “Shall we begin?”

As Albescu motioned politely to his desk, Petrov turned to Sasha. His
byki
handed him the flute box and champagne, while Petrov and his men noted the exact positions of each of Albescu’s guards. The door had been closed, leaving only Petrov, Albescu, and their four
byki
s in the room. Petrov turned back, placing the flute box on Albescu’s desk, then pulled the champagne from its insulated bag, and tore the butcher’s paper from the bottle.

“Ah, there it is,” Albescu said. “And the year?”

“The 1990 vintage is the best in decades.”

Albescu leaned in to admire the bottle. Petrov smiled and removed the foil seal, then the wire cork cage. He carefully coaxed the cork from its home, releasing precisely the right sound. The ceremony must be carried out perfectly, lest the recipient be insulted. A loud pop of the cork would indicate disrespect, and could easily trigger a war. Tilting the bottle in the wrong direction could indicate a mild snub, and harsh words might be exchanged. Petrov had watched Ugolev perform the ceremony many times, but he never thought he would be required to stage one under such circumstances. He placed the bottle gently on the desk then opened the flute box.

Albescu gasped in admiration. Ugolev’s custom-made flutes were legendary among the crime families of the region. Each
pakhan
who’d received a pair proudly displayed them in his office. Albescu was about to be made one of the elite, and his excitement showed. Petrov removed the innermost flute, and a special polishing cloth from the box. He inserted the microfiber material into the glass, carefully wiping and polishing. The process achieved two goals. Firstly, it demonstrated respect for the alliance, and more importantly, the wiping would ensure there was no risk of poisoning the would-be recipient.

Petrov held the flute up to the light for a final inspection before handing it reverently to Albescu. The young rival
pakhan
received the glass in the appropriate manner then watched patiently as Petrov repeated the process with the other flute. Petrov then began pouring the precious liquid into the younger man’s glass.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” Albescu said, admiring his full flute.

Petrov filled his own flute then extended it to clink with Albescu’s. “You’ve earned it, my friend,” Petrov said before downing the entire glass. “And you deserve what you get.”

With that, Petrov held the stem of his glass steady as he pressed hard against the bowl with his powerful thumb. The heavy lead crystal snapped at its thinnest point. The bowl fell toward the floor, leaving the stem, sharpened from Petrov’s die grinder, pointing toward the ceiling. Petrov deftly spun the remains of the flute, palming the flat base, then swinging his hand in a short, sharp looping motion. The jagged tip of the stem traveled rapidly through Albescu’s ear canal, piercing the drum, and jutting through the man’s brain stem. The projectile’s momentum halted abruptly as the base of the glass fell flush against his ear.

Petrov watched Albescu’s lifeless body drop to the floor. But there was something strange in the way he fell. His downward motion was somehow hindered. Albescu’s arm hung loosely from Petrov’s abdomen for a second before following its owner to the floor. Petrov could now see the source of the hindrance.

As he stared down at a deer antler knife-handle protruding from his belly, Petrov thought,
Little bastard had bigger balls than I thought.
Despite his injury, Petrov was already in motion, reaching into Albescu’s top desk drawer. His
byki
s, meanwhile, had already broken the necks of both of Albescu’s bodyguards. The two
byki
s now looked at their boss in horror as he turned from the drawer with Albescu’s .45 in hand, revealing the protruding knife handle. Judging by the size of the handle, the blade must be long enough to have skewered their boss’ liver.

“Get their weapons and do your jobs,” Petrov said. “There’s no time to waste.”

Years of training told Petrov to leave the knife where it was. He knew the wound was likely to be fatal, but as long as the blade remained in place, he could still complete the mission. His
byki
s obeyed unquestioningly. They stood either side of the door as Albescu’s outer guards burst into the room. Firing the .45’s they’d taken from Albescu’s guards, they took down both men with one shot each. The loud reports of the .45’s signaled the rest of the Ugolev crew outside.

The man assigned to Albescu’s lone sniper across the street opened the door behind the unwitting shooter, spraying him with bullets from his Heckler & Koch submachine gun. In the street, a stretch limo screeched to a halt outside the entrance to Albescu’s townhouse. Through open windows, three shooters fired highly accurate single shots from their Steyr AUG A1’s, taking out the four gate guards. The shooters then sprang from the car, set a small explosive charge on the gate lock, and flowed up the stairs with military precision. Albescu’s less disciplined men were no match for Petrov’s soldiers’ advanced military training.

They broke through the front door, picking off swarming Albescu soldiers in the grand entrance hall like targets at a shooting gallery. The panicked Romanians sprayed uncontrolled fire from their Uzis; one indiscriminate round catching the beautiful coat-check woman in the thigh as she dived for safety. Petrov and his
byki
s fired from the level above Albescu’s forces, trapping them in the middle of the room like fish in a barrel. The whole skirmish was over in less than thirty seconds.

As his outside men double-tapped survivors, Petrov made his way down the stairs, leaning on his flanking bodyguards for balance. His blood loss wasn’t obvious from the outside, but Petrov knew his abdomen was rapidly filling. He turned to Sasha. “Get the men out of here, and call Ugolev’s personal physician. Tell him to meet us back at the mansion.” 

Chapter 31

FBI Deputy Director Whyley stormed down the hall toward Director Jamison’s satellite office at Federal Plaza in New York City.

“He’s on a call, Mr. Deputy Director,” Jamison’s secretary said as Whyley barged past her desk without a word. “If you’ll just wait a moment, sir,”

But he was already through Jamison’s door. Exasperated, the secretary followed him in. She began to apologize to her boss, but he held up his hand, returning the phone to its cradle. “It’s fine, Mrs. Archer. Please close the door.”

“They put a hit out on my sister!” Whyley’s face pulsed red. “She’s the Assistant Inspector General for the Office of the Secretary of Defense, for God’s sake. Who the hell do these assholes think they are?”

“Slow down, Iain – take a breath. What assholes are you talking about? And why on earth would they want to hurt Althea?”

“Those freaks at DARPA! I asked her to look into one of their mid-level guys, and now she’s in the hospital with a gunshot wound. Thank God our father taught her to shoot, or it might be her in the morgue instead of their hitman.”

“What’s her condition?”

“They say she’s stable. I’m just about to leave for Arlington.”

“That’s a relief. What do we know about the shooter?”

“The guy’s a ghost. No fingerprints and no ID. He nearly killed Althea’s mechanic as well. Poor bastard’s going to lose half a lung. Someone’s going to pay – you can bet on that!”

“Sit down, Iain.”

“I can’t – I’m too wound up.”

“That’s my point. Just sit down for a moment. Let’s talk this through before you go and do something you might regret.”

Whyley balled his fists in front of his face, growling loudly. The act seemed to momentarily relieve some of his anger. He looked at his boss. “I’m sorry, sir, but this is my sister we’re talking about.”

“I understand. But accusing a Department of Defense official of conspiracy to commit murder? That kind of allegation will have serious repercussions. Let’s take a minute to think this through. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

Whyley slumped into a chair, cupping his face in his hands. “I can’t think clearly.”

Jamison nudged Whyley’s shoulder with a Scotch glass. Whyley took the glass, holding it as the Director poured him three fingers of single malt. The Deputy Director dumped the expensive liquid into his mouth, swallowing hard against the burn.

“Another?” Jamison asked.

“Just a small one. I need my wits about me.”

Whyley downed another shot, and sat back in the chair. He wasn’t a big drinker, and the shock of eighty-proof alcohol hitting his belly took the edge off his angst. Jamison half-sat on the desk in front of his deputy. “You should probably start at the beginning,” he said calmly. “Why was Althea looking into this DARPA officer?”

Whyley gave his boss the same explanation he’d used to convince his sister. Jamison listened, rubbing his chin as he processed the information. Whyley finished his story then looked Jamison in the eye. “So less than twenty-four hours after I asked Althea to dig into this McAdam guy, she gets attacked as she’s leaving her office. No way that’s a coincidence.”

“You know my opinion on coincidences, Iain. But everything you’ve told me is circumstantial. There’s no way we can take this higher without some solid evidence. Let me make some calls. I know people who can get things done without raising red flags.”

“Like who?”

“Leave that to me. Creative cat-skinning is something these guys do for a living.”

“You mean the CIA? But they can’t operate on U.S. soil.”

“Don’t be naïve. The Cold War’s been over for a long time, but the CIA’s budget and manpower have grown exponentially since then. You really think all they do is wander around Third World countries looking under rocks for ragtag terrorists? Besides, as you know, our intelligence community hasn’t been a one-horse race for a very long time.”

“The NSA then?”

“It’s not important. Just leave it with me, Iain. Go to Arlington and be with your sister.”

Director Jamison picked up his phone. “Mrs. Archer, please arrange for a helicopter on the rooftop helipad immediately,” he paused. “Virginia Hospital in Arlington – one passenger. That’s right, arrange the necessary clearances. Thank you.”

*****

“What the hell went wrong?” McAdam shouted down the encrypted line, at Colonel Watson.

“Unforeseen circumstances,” Watson replied. “You can’t expect perfect execution with an hour’s notice. You gave us no time for proper reconnaissance and planning. If you want to shout at someone, I suggest you take it up with the nearest mirror.”

“You’re far too calm for my liking. This is a disaster!”

“For you, perhaps. But it’s not my problem.”

“Of course it’s your problem, who do you think this is going to come back on?”

“I know exactly who it’ll come back on – you,” Watson said. “You don’t seriously think I would leave a trail back to me, do you? I’m a full bird Colonel in the United States Army. As far as anyone other than you and I are concerned, there’s no connection between us whatsoever.”

“What are you talking about? The Hallucineers Project is under your roof.”

“Indeed it is. But as you say, it’s ‘my roof.’ I’ve allowed you to conduct your clandestine project here because we share the same ideologies. But I don’t report to you, and I won’t be taken down by the ill-advised actions of a jumped-up public servant. I’ve taken all necessary precautions. There’s nothing to link me or this U.S. Army facility to your project. If anyone comes looking, they won’t find a trace.”

“You’ve planned this all along, you bastard.”

“In my experience, a good exit strategy is far more important than the mission itself.”

“You won’t get away with this, Watson. If I go down, you’re coming with me. I’ve got records.”

“Have you? Really? Maybe you’d better check on that. Like I said – not a trace. I warned you such extreme action would have consequences, but you wouldn’t listen. You made your bed, McAdam, now you’ll have to lie in it. Have a nice day.”

*****

“They’ve made a mistake,” Director Jamison said on an untraceable cell phone. “Now we know who they’ve got operating in DARPA.”

“Correction – now we know one of their operators,” CIA Director Ballantyne said. “We don’t know if he’s acting alone, and they would already have insulated themselves from this officer. What did you say his name is – McAdam?”

“That’s right, Ian McAdam. The name’s come up in chatter before, but we couldn’t nail anything down until now.”

“Okay, I’ll get our best techs onto it. If there’s any trace to the cohort, we’ll find it. But I think we’ll be pushing shit uphill. Koskov and his cronies are too smart to leave a trail back to them.”

“Be careful. We still don’t know their timeline. If they know we’re onto them, they could move up their operation, and we won’t have time to get ahead of it.”

“I’m well aware, Dennis,” Director Ballantyne said. “Even more worrying is the fact that we still don’t know the full extent of their plans, or the identities of the other members of the cohort. No one is above suspicion at this point, so we maintain fully closed channels.”

“I agree. Is there nothing from your man in Ugolev’s group?”

“I’ve had no contact with him for twenty-four hours. Intel says there’s something brewing amongst the crime families, so he’s probably had to deal with that. I’m sure he’ll get back to me as soon as he’s sure he can maintain his cover. I’ll let you know.”

“I’d appreciate that. In the meantime, how do you propose to handle McAdam?”

“The same way we handle any situation of this nature. As soon as I can get a clean line of communication, I’ll inform the asset of his next mission.”

“Are you sure it’s wise to wait. What if McAdam goes underground?”

“Relax, Dennis. I know you don’t know him like I do, but trust me when I tell you there’s no hiding from the Surgeon.”