Black operator complete.., p.18
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 18
He grimaced. "I told you I won’t do anything stupid. I want this to end just as much as you do."
He started walking along tiny track probably used by local game, and those who hunted them. After the first half mile, Cris realized he’d made a mistake. Although they wore coats, they had none of the extreme cold weather gear they'd had when they first came to Vermont, and all three of them were shivering with cold. He flexed the fingers of his gun hand, to make sure his trigger finger would remain supple, and advised them to do the same. They marched on, and before they reached the destination, they were shivering so badly he wondered if they'd be able to do any accurate shooting. They came to a large shack, not as grand as the one Jeff had loaned them before, but still a substantial building of stone and timber. He pointed to it.
"We need to get warm before we can go on, otherwise we won't stand a chance. We’ll break in and see if we can find a stove to help us get warmed through before we go on. With any luck, we'll find cold weather clothing we can borrow."
It was no time for delicacy, and he smashed the window with the butt of his assault rifle, opened it, and climbed inside. He opened the front door and let the other two in, and they started looking around for a stove. Searching in the darkness, as they were close to the Russians’ cabin, and if they showed a light, they’d put them on alert. In the end, he found and oil-fired stove, and he fired it up. A few minutes to warm up, and then they were clustered around, hugging their frozen bodies and attempting to restore circulation. March went off first and rummaged in the closets. He came back with an armful of clothing and tossed it on the floor.
"We should be able to use some of this. We can't go on as we were. Who knows how long it will take to finish this, and we could freeze to death out there."
The gear he'd found was all bright colors, sky-blue, orange, fluorescent pink. Designed to stand out in the snow, but they had no choice. Maria pulled on thermal padded pants and a thick jacket with a fur hood. He found the least vivid coat, and decided not to bother with the pants. Jeff found a thinner jacket with lighter padding. There was no doubt he didn't expect to be spending much time in. He didn't care. His need was to reach the men he wanted to wreak revenge on, kill them, and then kill himself; the redemption for his sins.
They set out again. The time was 04.00, with just a couple of hours left to make their approach. March led them to the cabin, and he was surprised. He'd expected something less luxurious, but this was almost ramshackle. Like a hunter’s temporary shelter, and the windows had solid wooden shutters fixed over them. A wisp of smoke coiled up from the chimney. A hundred yards away they’d parked their vehicle, a battered Grand Cherokee, sitting right next to the track that was the only access to the remote place.
"The border with Canada is over there," March pointed, "No more than about three hundred yards. That's why they're here, in case they need to sneak across."
He nodded an acknowledgement, circled the crude building, until they came to a door at the rear. He crept silently forward, put a hand on the door handle, and turned it. Nothing, the door was locked. He went back to where Maria and Jeff were waiting, about fifty yards away behind a snowdrift. "It's locked, and all that’s left is the front door which will also be locked. We need to wait until they wake up and come outside. Then we them take them out.”
"We should go back to that shack and keep ourselves warm," March murmured, "It's freezing here, and it could be several hours before they make their move."
Maria refused. "Do you realize what you're saying? My son is inside that place with two killers. If we don't stay and keep watch, they could get away, and we’ll never find him.
She means not find him alive. It’s true. If they drive away, we’d be unable to stop them, and the boy could disappear forever. And they’d still come after her.
“I’m going for a stroll, see how it looks at the front. Keep an eye on things, and don’t make a sound.”
They looked surprised but made no comment, as he walked away through the snow. Taking a roundabout route to reach the front, and he kept on walking to their SUV. The Grand Cherokee was half buried in snow, but not enough to stop the powerful V8 engine and big off-road tires powering it out of this place.
They’ll probably put a bullet in the kid and dump his body in the snow as they cross over into Canada; gone for good until Sverdlov comes back for Maria at some future date, and the bullet that’ll come out of nowhere. It’s not going to happen. I won’t let it.
He finished the task he’d set himself and crept back behind the shack. The temperature had dropped even more, and they burrowed into the snow for cover and shelter. They were lucky. Despite the snow and bitter cold, the night was clear, and the absence of thick clouds in the sky suggested more snowfalls were unlikely. He occupied himself with checking and rechecking the M4A1 he’d borrowed from March. Maria had the AR-15, and she looked dubious. "I'm not used to these things, Cris."
"I’ll check it out for you, then it’s easy. Point the barrel at the man you’re trying to kill, and pull the trigger. It's a semi-auto, so you won't fire all your bullets in a single burst."
She took the rifle back from him. March said nothing, just stared into nothingness. The wait was endless, and she was starting to suffer the effects of the severe cold, shivering so bad her teeth chattered. He pulled her to him and held her in his arms. The shivering eased, and she gave him a grateful look. "Don't let me go, Cris.”
He wasn't exactly sure if she meant now or in the future.
"I won’t. No matter what happens."
She seemed to relax as he gave her the assurance she needed. Daylight came, and there was still no movement from inside the shack, until the rustle of bolts carried distinctly across the fifty yards from the house shack, and the door opened. A man stepped outside, and he recognized Stepashin, Sverdlov’s muscle. He walked toward them, and for one moment Cris thought he was coming to check out something. But halfway there, he began going through routine calisthenics to loosen him up for the coming day. Probably the guy was a keep fit fanatic, which was no surprise. In his business, fitness would be paramount, the need to break into explosive action in a split second's notice.
He cautioned himself to be aware of the men he was dealing with. The slightest warning, an untoward noise, an intake of breath, even breathing out, and leaving a telltale cloud of vapor from their mouths would be enough to alert these men. They were like beasts of prey, no, they were beasts prey, fully attuned to the environment, always on high alert and ready to kill. Staying hunkered down in the snow, he aimed at the Russian, but didn't put his finger anywhere near the trigger. Not yet, they had to wait. The man went back inside the cabin, and soon the smell of cooking came toward them.
He and Maria hadn’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours, and he could feel his belly starting to rumble. And still they waited. Until at last both men came out with the boy between them. They started across the clearing at a tangent, walking toward the border, each holding one of Alexander’s arms in case he tried to make a break for it.
"They're going to check out the escape route," March whispered, "They must be planning something."
They watched the men walk as far as they could see, and then they turned back, obviously satisfied.
"What are they doing?" Maria murmured in his ear.
"I don't know."
The Russians went back inside the shack, but left the door open. A moment later, Alexander appeared in the doorway. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Mother, they know you are out there. They said you must drop the weapons and surrender. Come in with your hands up, and they will spare my life. They’ll spare all your lives.”
A hand snaked out from the door and dragged him back inside.
"Fuck," Cris breathed, "How did they know?"
Maria shrugged and stared at March, who looked astonished. "I've no idea. I swear I don't know."
Rhodes thought hard.
There’s no way they could have tracked us, have known where we were. Unless…
“March, the phones in the DEA warehouse. Where did you source them?”
“Source them? I, er…” His face fell, “Vasily Tereshkova offered to get them for me, said he had a contact.”
“Vasily. They’d have loaded them with spyware. They’ve been tracking us. They were waiting for us.” He frowned, “I’m prepared to bet they let us freeze our butts off out here so we’d be readier to give in to their demands.”
“What do we do? I must keep Alexander safe. I have to give myself to them.”
She started to walk forward, but he grabbed her and held her back. “We’ve been over that, and it solves nothing. They’ll kill you, and then they’ll kill him.”
“I can talk to them,” Jeff said, his eyes bright and feverish, “I negotiate million-dollar deals before breakfast. I can make them listen.”
He tucked the Colt 1911 into his waistband, climbed to his feet, and walked forward. It was too late to stop him. Halfway to the shack, he shouted for Sverdlov to come out and talk. The frightened figure of Alexander appeared again, and the Major came out behind him, his gun screwed into his neck.
“Stop there, March. It’s not you we want.”
He kept walking, his hands in view, palms up. “We need to make a deal. There has to be an alternative.”
“I told you to stop.” Sverdlov snarled. The other operator, Stepashin, appeared behind him clutching an assault rifle. “Sergeant, if he takes another step, kill him.”
He took another step. The Russian grinned, aimed at March, and pulled the trigger. Three shots cracked out, loud in the still, cold air, and Jeff March tumbled into the snow, a red stain spreading out beneath him. He lay still, and both Russians remained in the open. Sverdlov sheltered behind the boy, and Stepashin was in the open, confident the range was too far for them to risk a shot for fear of hitting the boy. Big mistake. Jeff March wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t far away. While they stared across the open space, the two Russians on one side, Rhodes and Tereshkova on the other, he snaked a hand under his coat, pulled out the big Colt, aimed, and fired.
The big noncom pitched to the ground. The bullet, more by luck than careful aiming, had hit him in the mouth. Fired from an upward trajectory, it continued through his skull and into his brain. Sverdlov shot a startled look at him and darted back inside the shack. But for a moment, Rhodes had seen something in his eyes. Fear. He’d come to the United States with four men, and now one remained alive. Him. The door slammed shut, and he started to run. Knowing what would happen next, he ran around to the front, but Sverdlov was already out of the door, holding the boy in his arms, and running for the SUV.
Rhodes followed at a slower pace and stopped twenty yards away. The Russian opened the door, and backed into the driving seat, holding the boy up as a shield. With a final triumphant glance, he slammed the door shut and turned the key to start the engine. The starter motor whirred for half a minute and nothing happened. He tried again, and nothing. He flung the driver’s door back open and stared out at Rhodes.
“Stay back, or the boy dies.”
He held up both hands empty. The M4 was slung on his back, and the Glock tucked into a pocket of the brightly colored coat. Sverdlov stepped out of the Jeep, holding the boy. He started running along the track, following the path he would have taken in the SUV. Running and stumbling with the added burden of the child, and at times he was wading through deep snowdrifts. Every time he glanced back Rhodes was there, keeping pace, not getting any closer. Relentless, a man he couldn’t lose. Hands still empty of a weapon, but making it clear he could catch him anytime.
The Russian made it almost a mile when he gave in to the inevitable, tossed the boy to the ground, and started to jog away. He went after him, and Alexander looked up as he ran past, his big, blue eyes filled with despair. He shot him a reassuring smile.
“Your mother is close behind. Hang in there, kid. It’s nearly over.”
He didn’t wait for an acknowledgment, but picked up speed, and went after the fleeing Russian. Sverdlov stopped fifty yards in front and opened fire with his handgun. Bullets peppered the snow, and he dove behind a tree, waiting for him to stop shooting. He peeked out. He was running again, and Rhodes increased speed, plowing through the snow, his gaze fixed on the man he had to kill. The Russian suddenly swerved off the track and disappeared into the thick woods.
He turned and fired again, but this time he was panting, his chest heaving as he sucked in, desperate to escape. A man who’d become accustomed to killing innocents, and he could smell his own survival slipping away. A relentless, unending pursuit, and Cris was reminded of that last DEA operation in Mexico, but that time it had been the bad guys killing the innocents. This time, he was trying to save life. The life of Maria and Alexander Tereshkova, and the price of saving those lives was to kill the man slogging through the snow in front of him. He moved fast, determined to make this the last time. There must be a better resolution than this, than death. The predator and the prey, the law of the jungle, and he almost missed him.
Sverdlov had left clear footmarks, and he followed them like they were signposts. He rounded a particularly large old cedar tree, and the tracks led away. He kept running, but the noise behind him stopped him; a footstep, the click of a magazine as the shooter reloaded, and the shot whistled past him. He dove for the ground, a reflex action, but he knew he was dead.
“You shouldn’t have come, should have left it to the professionals. We could have killed her. Saved us all the trouble, and my men would have gone home.”
“Your men were a bunch of psychotic killers, Sverdlov. They deserved to die for trying to kill her. You deserve to die.”
A loud chuckle; “Ah, but it is you who will die, Mr. Rhodes. You have interfered once too often, and it is time to sweep you aside like yesterday’s garbage. Throw down the gun. Now. And the rifle, get rid of it.”
He tossed the Glock a few yards away, and the M4A1 followed. “We can talk, Sverdlov. You don’t need to kill her.”
“Ah, but I do, Mr. Rhodes. Those are my orders, and I am a soldier. I always follow my orders. As for the girl, she is unlucky. If my vehicle had started, I would have got away and come back to kill her later. She would have enjoyed a few more hours or even days of life. As it is, I am stuck here for the time being, so I will kill her as soon as I’ve finished with you.”
“Yeah, a pity the Jeep wouldn’t start.” He had a thin wire tucked into his sleeve, and he pulled it out, “I guess not having the wire from the starter motor to the ignition system didn’t help.”
His eyes bulged with anger. “You bastard! Kneel, it is time for you to die.”
He was shaking with anger that he’d been had. Cris had been waiting for it, and he pretended to kneel, eased himself to his knees, hands at his side. He still had the spare Glock March had given him tucked into his pocket. Sverdlov stood over him, whistling an unknown tune, some Russian folk song, but his fury was such he missed every other note. “Goodbye, Mr. Rhodes.”
The barrel shook in his rage, but he was still near enough to deliver a fatal shot, if Rhodes let him. He didn’t let him. The shot cracked out, but he was already moving in a single, fast, fluid motion. He dragged out the Glock with his right hand as he moved right, twisting through ninety degrees to cover his actions. The Russian’s bullet slammed into his side, and the agony was instant, probably the kidney or some other vital organ, but hopefully not enough to kill him. He kept turning until he’d turned full circle. Sverdlov was still smiling up to a moment before the first bullet from the Glock slammed into his chest. The force rocked him back against an adjacent tree, and he mouthed a string of curses in Russian.
He brought up the pistol again, and Cris aimed and fired repeatedly until the magazine was empty. He tried to get up, but the effort was too much. Holding his wounded side to staunch the flow of blood, he half crawled, half slid to the fallen Russian. The eyes were still open, and his face had stretched into the rictus of agony. He whispered something, and he had to get lower, putting his head close to his mouth to hear what he’d said.
The movement alerted him. The man should have been dead, but he was trying to bring up his gun beneath Rhodes’ body, to get in a killing shot before he breathed his last. He knew he’d lost and wanted to go out with glory, Russian style. Cris reached down and knocked the gun aside. The shot exploded, sending the bullet harmlessly into the trees. This time he heard the words.
“Yob tvoy mat.” Fuck your mother, the classic Russian insult.
A sharp retort came to him, but he didn’t say it. The man was almost dead. Instead, he waited him out, and in less than a minute, the final gasp of air escaped his lips.
She found him a few minutes later and cradled his head in her lap. Alexander was standing at her side. In his eyes was something of the firm resolve she showed in times of crisis. The fear had left him, and he was Maria Tereshkova’s son.
“Cris, you’re hurt bad. Does it hurt?”
“Only when I laugh.”
He dissolved into a fit of coughing, and the bolts of agony shot through him. Her brow creased in concern. “I’m calling for help. I should be able to get a signal this close to the border. Stay still, otherwise you’ll lose a lot of blood. Alexander, stay with Mr. Rhodes while I go to make the call.”
The boy’s eyes opened wide; at first with fear, and then with pride that he’d been chosen for an important task. “Mother, there are bears in these woods.”
“That’s true.”
“What if a bear comes and tries to eat Mr. Rhodes?”
She smiled and ruffled his hair. “Ask him, he’ll tell you.”
She jogged away to make the call. He was aware of Alexander still watching him, waiting for a reply. “Kid, is this a bad bear you’re talking about?”
“Oh, yes, one that would kill you.”
“Then the answer is easy. You get a gun and shoot it.”
He nodded and picked up the M4A1. “A gun like this one?”
“Yes. You keep hold of it. You’re on guard duty. Okay?”
