All out war, p.14
All Out War, page 14
“Yes, sir,” Steele said. “Thank you, doc.”
“You got it,” Thompson said, hanging up.
Steele shoved the phone into his pocket and stepped into the store. He already had his hands full with the suits, but Demo would be hungry.
He felt terrible about missing his mom’s surgery. To make matters worse, Demo was also on his conscience. Steele knew that even though Lansky had signed off on the op, it wasn’t a typical Alpha mission.
It was personal, and he’d dragged Demo into it.
He walked through the store, grabbing the needed items rapidly. He threw some coffee, two bottles of water, and some Cocoa Krispies cereal into the basket. Steele was so preoccupied that he almost forgot the milk but managed to grab a can of condensed on his way to the register.
At the register the girl asked, “Yawanna bag for four pence?”
“Excuse me?”
“A bag,” the girl said, pointing at the plastic sack. She held up four fingers. “It’s four pence for the bag.”
“I have to buy a bag for the groceries I just paid for?”
She nodded.
Steele was too tired to ask why, and since he knew there was no way he could carry the loose groceries and the garment bag for the suits, he handed her the coins.
He was halfway down the block when the bag split. Cupping his hand, he managed to save most of the contents, but the condensed milk hit the sidewalk and rolled off the curb.
“Of course . . . ,” Steele said, frustrated.
Draping the suits over the hood of an Aston Martin, he tied the flimsy plastic handles into a square knot and flipped the bag, carefully shifting the load until they set in their new positions. He never saw the Ducati pull onto the street.
Annoyed, Steele quickly bent down to retrieve the rogue can of milk, which had rolled behind the tire of a Peugeot.
Suddenly he heard the rear windshield explode over his head.
Chapter 26
Thwaaaaaaaap.
Steele dove behind the Peugeot and yanked the Hi Power from his waistband. He crawled toward the engine block, heart hammering in his chest at the realization that someone had just tried to kill him in broad daylight.
The Metropolitan Police didn’t hide the fact that they had installed cameras on every block. They operated on the theory that if criminals knew they were being recorded, they might think twice about breaking the law.
Whoever had taken a shot at him didn’t give a shit. Because instead of running away, the shooter flicked the selector switch to full auto and opened up on Steele’s hiding place.
Thwaaaaaapppppp thwaaaaaaaaappppp.
The Peugeot swayed under the onslaught. The car rocked on its hinges, the bullets blasting star-shaped holes through the aluminum skin as the shooter raked the car from stem to stern.
Steele’s plan was to hit him on the reload, but he never got the chance.
Before the first shooter ran through his magazine, a second opened up. The bullets cut across the hood, punching through the metal with the sound of rocks on a tin roof.
Steele judged that he had been under fire for less than thirty seconds. But in a gunfight, time was subjective. He was experienced enough not to lose his cool or give in to the irresistible urge to run. Instead he took stock of his surroundings; tried to learn as much as he could about his attackers without actually seeing them.
Despite missing the kill shot, they were obviously professionals. The first shooter had laid down a base of fire, forcing Steele to ground. Once his partner entered the fight, he was able to reload and then they attacked together. One fired while the other advanced. They were trying to keep his head down so one of them could flank him. There was only one problem. They hadn’t killed him with the first shot.
And that was a mistake Steele promised was going to cost them.
He waited for a lull in the fire and leaned forward, ripped open the plastic grocery bag, and got the box of cereal. Steele placed the box between his knees and then hit the sideview mirror with the barrel of his pistol. He gingerly grabbed the largest section of broken mirror and held it up so that he could view the street from different angles.
The shooters were dressed in black motorcycle gear with matching helmets. The one closest to Steele was shorter than the other, with long blond hair that hung from the back of the helmet.
The girl from the airport. Has she been tracking me the whole time?
There was no time to answer the question. Not when he was pinned down, had no idea where the second shooter had gone, and needed to get the hell out of the kill zone.
He needed a distraction and wished he had a flashbang.
His eyes drifted to the box of cereal. The brightly colored box reminded him of the close-quarter shooting class at the Salt Pit and the cadre who asked if any of them had ever heard of the OODA loop.
“No one? Well, get out a pen and some paper, because it might save your life.” The cadre went on to explain that the OODA loop was conceived by Major John “40-Second” Boyd, an air force fighter pilot. The letters stood for Observe, Orient, Decide, and Act, and they defined how a pilot should process stimulus in a dogfight.
“This is how we make decisions. Every one of us. And anytime the brain observes additional stimulus, the chain starts all over.”
Steele grabbed the box of cereal.
It would have to do.
He arced it hard over his left shoulder, hoping the sudden flash of color would catch the shooters’ eyes. Make them think their target was making a break for it.
Staying low, he hobbled toward the trunk, hoping to get a shot off before the woman reloaded. The rounds impacting the front of the car shifted off target, and Steele knew the shooter had seen the box and opened up. He slipped around the back of the Peugeot and saw the woman reloading.
Steele was lining up the shot when the woman jammed the magazine into the submachine gun and turned toward him.
She figured out your little trick.
The backdrop was shit—truly. Because a glass-fronted apartment building was the absolute worst thing to have behind someone in your sights. If he missed, there was a good chance the round would go sailing into someone’s living room. Might hit a man or woman watching the morning news. But if he didn’t take the shot, he was going to die.
The woman saw him and raised her submachine gun.
Steele fired.
The Browning bucked in his hand, and the front sight recoiled skyward. Steele kept his focus on the target and saw the bullet punch a hole through the plastic visor. She dropped headfirst into the street, like a marionette with cut strings.
Steele ducked back around the car, a plan forming in his head. Stay close to the dead one.
He tore the tac-wallet out of his pocket, aware of the sirens in the distance. Steele needed to get the hell out of there, but he also had to know who the hell was trying to kill him. He tore the wallet open and yanked the tracking tab from its pocket on his way to the front of the car.
“Irena!” the second shooter yelled.
Steele transferred the tab to his left hand, staying low. The shooter raked the car with bullets while rushing to his friend’s side.
The sirens were getting closer. He was going to get only one shot.
The shooter stepped closer and closer. Steele waited until the last second and then chopped the Browning across the man’s wrist. The MP5 clattered to the ground.
He hit his attacker in the gut, doubling him over, and chopped the pistol down on the top of the helmet. Steele knew it wouldn’t hurt him, but he hoped to stun him long enough to do what he needed to do.
Steele shoved the Hi Power into his waistband and grabbed the lip of the helmet. He pulled, exposing the back of the man’s neck, and slapped his left hand down on the exposed skin.
The gel cap shattered in his hand, and Steele felt his skin warm as the polymer-based biosensor reacted to open air. He wiped his hand up the man’s skin, smearing the opaque transfer material on the man’s neck. The binder would adhere in thirty seconds, but to make sure the man didn’t wipe it off, Steele slammed him headfirst into the car.
The shooter crumpled to his knees, and Steele scrambled around the car. He crisply swept his suit bag off the Aston Martin hood before heading for an alley.
Chapter 27
The room was dim, the only lights coming from the monitors in the corner when Meg walked into the Keyhole simulation room. She’d spent most of last night thinking about Eric, hoping he was okay, wondering when he would call. Meg knew what she was getting into when they first started dating and thought she could handle it.
She was wrong.
Meg had given up trying to sleep at 0400 and come into the office. She slipped the virtual reality goggles over her head.
“Play scene one one four,” she said aloud.
The Keyhole simulator kicked in, transporting her to the re-creation of Eric’s crash site.
Meg found herself standing in the street, hand up, blocking the glare of the headlights shining in her face. She moved to the right out of the beam and saw the GTO lying upside down on the asphalt like a steel turtle.
The back tires were still spinning, and the sweet scent of vaporized antifreeze hung thick in the air. Meg stepped closer, thinking she had seen movement inside the car. A shape moved in front of the headlights, casting the shadow of a leg on the ground, then moved away.
Meg squinted, leaning forward in the darkness. There. Someone was moving inside the car. She saw a hand reaching for something on the ground just outside the window. What is that? She stepped closer. It’s a gun.
A finger tipped the butt of the pistol, spinning it, and then a tall thin man appeared out of the darkness. The man walked up to the car and set his boot on the hand reaching for the gun.
“Shiiit,” yelled the voice in the car.
The man on the street squatted on his haunches and turned his head to the left. Meg crept closer. Look at me, she begged silently. Let me see your face.
A momentary darkness fell over the scene, as if a cloud had passed in front of the sun. When it lifted the man’s arm was outstretched, the pistol in his hand pointed inside the car.
“Mertva.”
Then a gunshot.
“Pause,” she said wearily.
“Keyhole virtual simulation paused,” an electronic voice replied.
Meg removed the virtual reality goggles and stepped away from the Keyhole station. She lowered herself into the chair and rubbed her temple. She had run through the virtual simulator so many times and tried every angle, every trick, she could think of, but still she couldn’t identify the man who had attacked Steele.
A beep pulled her to the black monitor that was running a vocal search.
“Don’t tell me,” she said, “you couldn’t find anything.”
Meg brought the monitor to life with a touch of the keyboard. Holy shit.
SEARCH 1 COMPLETE: One Result Found.
SOURCE: KEYHOLE VOICE ANALYZER.
Search Code: All.
Subject Identified: Orlov, Yuri.
Military Service: 2001–2006 Assigned to Spetsnaz Special Battalion Zapad. Foreign Service: Chechnya, Lebanon, Georgia.
Transferred 2007 to Foreign Intelligence Service: Directorate S—Zaslon.
Training: Illegal Intelligence, Deep Cover Asset, Assassination, Language.
Meg knew that the Foreign Intelligence Service, or FSB, was the Russians’ version of the CIA and the Directorate S was in charge of Illegal Intelligence. Zaslon was the closest unit they had to the Program, men trained for deep-cover operation in foreign countries. A guy like Yuri Orlov had the skill set to pull off a hit on Steele and whatever else he set his mind to.
Search 2 Complete: No Match.
Who the hell are you? Meg wondered.
Whoever the man was there was no record of him in any voice file. He was a ghost whose voice hadn’t been picked up anywhere that she could think to look.
She waved her hand at the screen in frustration and Keyhole picked up the movement. “Rewinding.”
“I don’t want you to rewind it, I want you to help me find this asshole.” She groaned.
Dammit.
One more run, she thought, putting the goggles back on. The VR interface was still moving in reverse, the bullet going back inside the gun, sucking the muzzle blast back into the barrel.
“Wait, what was that?” Meg said aloud. “Reverse frame.”
There.
“Freeze.” Meg made a circular motion with her hand, and a digital lasso formed around the rectangle of flesh covered in what she had thought was oil. “Zoom in.”
The computer enlarged the image, but it was still too fuzzy to see.
“Can we clean that up?” she asked.
“Stand by,” the voice replied.
The image blinked, and an hourglass appeared while the computer worked on boosting the pixels. A moment later it was clear enough for Meg to see that the black stains on the hand and wrist weren’t oil; they were tattoos.
“Mark frame and analyze image.” Meg felt the buzz of excitement.
“Analyzing.”
“Image analyzing complete.”
On the screen were four tattoos, each one enlarged in its own box. Three of them were ring tattoos—a crown on the index finger, a skull on the middle, a dark square on the ring finger. On the back of the hand was a tiger with a dolphin in its mouth and the number 6.
Meg focused on the clearest image, the tattoo of the tiger on the back of the hand. It was well done but not professionally so, and the ink had already started to fade around the edges.
“Where do you get a bad tattoo? The army?”
She opened a browser and typed IMAGE SEARCH: “MILITARY TATTOO with TIGER DOLPHIN and NUMBER 6,” adding the quotes so the search engine would know to focus on those exact words.
0 results.
Meg deleted MILITARY, dragged the rest of the images into the search bar, and tried again.
This time the search took longer, and Meg found herself rubbing her hands together in anticipation.
12 matches found.
She highlighted the tiger and the dolphin and reran the search. The first thing to pop up was an article on criminal elements in the Russian prison system with a gallery of tattoos. Under the heading Penal Colony Nº 6, Meg found a tattoo similar to the one she was looking for.
She hadn’t thought to consider prisons in her search parameters and ran the tattoo image and the facial scan through the Russian Prison Nexus.
Meg wasn’t expecting much, but the first result was a frame from a security camera showing an emaciated and obviously sick man being led to a helicopter by a man dressed in black.
The system locked on to the hands and blew up the image.
It was the same tattoo.
The second image was a prison photo taken after a fight that he was involved in.
1 Match.
Zakayev, Aleksandr.
Inmate: Penal Colony Nº 6.
“I got him,” she said, printing out both pictures. She grabbed her cell phone and badge, snatched the photos off the printer, and ran out the door.
Meg found Lansky on his way to the Oval Office. She grabbed the chief of staff by the crook of the arm and pulled him into one of the offices lining the hall.
“I need the room,” she told the pair of interns at the desk.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Meg shut the door and turned to Lansky.
“I found him,” she said.
“Found who?”
“The man who attacked Eric.” Meg paused to take a breath. “There were two men who attacked Steele, both Russian speakers. We got a voice lock, and ran it through the NSA’s analyzer.”
“You ran it through the system and what?”
“The first guy is Yuri Orlov. Former Spetsnaz, bit of a shit heel. I couldn’t find anything on the second suspect until I ran his tattoos.”
She handed him the printouts, Zakayev’s photo on top.
“I ran his tats through the computer and got a hit from the Russian Penitentiary Service. His name is Aleksandr Zakayev. He is a Chechen, arrested in Syria and sent to Black Dolphin for killing some Russian soldiers.”
Lansky’s eyes narrowed as he studied the first photo.
“Don’t know him, but Black Dolphin is a tough place. Most people who go in never . . . ,” Lansky said, shuffling to the second photo. “Shit.”
“What is it?” Meg asked.
“This guy leading him to the helo. I know him,” he said, heading to the door.
“Where are you going?” Meg asked.
“We are going to brief the president.”
“The president?” Meg followed Lansky into the hall. “Hold on, I need—”
“Meet me at the Oval,” Lansky said.
Meg was flustered and stood in the hall, not sure what to do.
“Hey,” Lansky said, grabbing her attention from the end of the hall.
“Yeah?” she asked.
“Whatever you need to do, you might want to hurry. Making the president of the United States wait isn’t the best introduction.”
Oh God, Meg thought, ducking into the bathroom and checking her reflection in the mirror.
Meg wasn’t in the habit of wearing a lot of makeup. In fact, all she carried in her purse was a compact, lip gloss, and an old tube of mascara.
Why didn’t I bring my purse?
All she could do was fix her hair, and when she was done, Meg was turning to leave when she heard someone vomiting in one of the stalls.
“Are you okay?” Meg asked, pulling a fresh paper towel and wetting it with water from the sink.
“I think so,” came a shaky reply, followed by the flush of the toilet. The door swung open and Meg found herself standing face-to-face with Lisa Rockford, the First Lady of the United States.
