A Soldier's Revenge: A Will Cochrane Novel (29 page)

“Spit it out!”

“The fire department is putting out the flames. They say paperwork needs to be completed.”

Dealing with this was the last thing Zhukov needed. “What caused the fire?”

“The fire chief doesn’t know. He thinks it must have been an electrical fault. Because no one was hurt, he says he won’t spend time investigating the accident. That’s an insurance company matter. But he’s concerned that it blew up so close to our fuel supply. That means extra paperwork, apparently. The staff is very shaken up.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Zhukov checked his watch. “Okay. I’ll be there in an hour. Maybe less if traffic’s okay. And tell my employees that if they don’t get back to work, heads are going to roll.”

I
watched LongTrade through Tap’s camera, which had a high-powered zoom lens.

All was chaos around the warehouse. Workers were outside, some of them gesticulating wildly at each other. Fire crews were moving back and forth with hoses. A fireman with a different-colored helmet from the rest, the chief, was holding a clipboard and talking to a woman. Maybe she was the receptionist I’d spoken to. Black smoke was visible over the top of the warehouse. And employees from other business units were standing outside, watching everything that was happening.

If anyone asked me what I was doing, I’d avoid the question by asking if they knew about the fuel explosion over there. I’d say I was taking photos for my kids. But compared to the bustle around the warehouse, it was dead quiet on this side of the avenue.

I’d checked the six non-fire-crew vehicles that had come and gone during the forty-five minutes after the explosion. None of their drivers behaved like they owned LongTrade and were taking charge. If my plan to bring Zhukov to his place of work failed, there was nothing left for me to do other than go to the police. I’d hand them the teddy bear and tell them I thought the voice in the recording belonged to Viktor Zhukov. I hated that option. Before the police got to Zhukov, Tom would likely be killed.

Another vehicle slowed on New York Avenue and made the turn into the driveway that led to LongTrade. I couldn’t see the driver. I kept my camera trained on the car. It stopped outside the front of the warehouse. A man got out, his back to me. He spoke to the woman and the fire chief, then walked quickly to the back of the building. Five minutes later he returned, his face toward me.

I zoomed my camera.

I was looking at the face of the man I’d seen in the back of the police car leaving the Granges’.

Motherfucker.

I memorized his license plate number. My heart was beating fast, and for the first time I could remember, I had a feeling that something had gone right for me.

The man I was watching had to be Zhukov. He had an air of command. I could tell by the way employees were reacting to his presence. He was writing on the fire chief’s clipboard, his mouth moving fast. The woman next to him looked scared. Perhaps Zhukov was chastising her. The Russian handed the clipboard back to the fireman. Nearby, a group of employees were loitering. Zhukov walked over to them and swung his arms while shouting. I bet he was telling them to get back to their jobs.

His face livid, he got in his car and drove out of the complex.

I followed him.

Mobile surveillance is tradecraft I’d honed in hostile cities around the world. And I had plenty of experience adapting the technique for rural areas. As I followed Zhukov through D.C., I kept three cars between him and me. But as we got to the outskirts of the city, I dropped back. My eyes were darting between Zhukov’s car and the map application in Tap’s phone. Even though I knew D.C. well, I didn’t know every inch. I was using the phone to check out parallel routes to the road we were on. This was in case Zhukov suddenly changed direction and I lost sight of him.

Thirty minutes later, we were heading north in the suburbs. I dropped farther back so that it would be impossible for Zhukov to recognize the make of my vehicle, let alone read its license plate. Traffic was considerably thinner as we drove along route 124 through rolling countryside. Thankfully, there were still enough cars to prevent me from standing out.

Z
hukov phoned Edward Carley. “Sorry I missed your call. I had a stupid matter to take care of at work.”

Carley’s tone was cold. “I told you that you are
not
to be attending to any of your business affairs today. Only focus on the package. What time are you dealing with it?”

“I’m nearly back at the house. My guys are doing all final preparations.” Including cleaning the place to eradicate any traces of their presence there. “It will take about another two hours. Then we’ll deal with the package.”

“Don’t give me specifics, but do you have an idea where you’ll dump it?”

“In the early hours, I’m thinking fairly central in the city.”

“Excellent. Once that’s done, the project is finished and you will have earned your pay.” Carley ended the call.

I
slowed down as I saw that Zhukov was signaling a right turn.

I checked the map on my phone, which didn’t show another road where he was turning. I used two fingers to zoom in on the spot. All I could see on the map was a thin white line where Zhukov was driving. It must have been a private road, and it ended after five miles. There were no other roads in or out. I stopped my vehicle on the side of the main road, hazard lights on as if I’d suffered a mechanical breakdown. It was a huge risk, but there was no way I could chance following Zhukov along such an exposed private drive. I had to hope my map was correct and that Zhukov’s destination was at the end of the road.

I waited ten minutes, started the car and entered the private road.

A slight rise half a mile ahead meant I couldn’t see any farther along the road. Zhukov’s car was nowhere to be seen. I drove along the track, empty fields either side of me. I was preoccupied with the possibility that the Russian was heading to his home and that Tom Koenig was being kept elsewhere.

At the top of the rise a sign was posted next to the road.

BADEN LODGE. AVAILABLE FOR SHORT-TERM RENT. INQUIRIES TO MASON & CO. REALTORS.

Z
hukov wasn’t heading to his home. He was going to a place that he’d secured for a week or two.

I drove over the rise and now could see for miles down the road. There was nothing on it save the speck of a speeding car. I stopped and used the camera to zoom in on the image. Yes, it was Zhukov. This was as far as I dared go. There were no trees or other features that would help me hide my car. That left me no choice. I drove off the road onto the field to my right. My car juddered as its suspension tried to compensate for the uneven ground and its tires slipped over mud. I stopped the car in a hollow, sure it couldn’t be spotted from the lane.

From my backpack, I took out the MK23 pistol with sound suppressor. It had eight bullets. Not knowing if that would be enough, I put in my jacket the two dead detectives’ SIG Sauer P229 pistols and four spare magazines. Everything else, I left in the car.

Moving on foot, I crossed the field at speed, my MK23 in my hands.

Thirty minutes later, I threw myself to the ground and observed the solitary clapboard farmhouse at the end of the road. In front of it was Zhukov’s car, along with seven others. Beyond the house were more open fields. The house looked to be over a hundred years old, and was sizable but dilapidated. Presumably that was why its owner rented it out—to raise some cash for repairs. I doubted it got much business. It was too remote, the countryside too bland.

But it was a perfect place to imprison a kidnapped child.

All of its curtains were closed. My idea had been to watch the house for an hour, then move in. I’d have to go in blind.

It started to rain. The light faded as black clouds took over the sky.

If I called for a SWAT team and hostage negotiators, the first thing they’d have to do was establish whether there was a felony. And even if Zhukov and his colleagues refused to leave the house, that didn’t prove anything other than lack of cooperation. So negotiations would begin. They’d take hours, maybe days. And within that time frame Zhukov could execute Tom. The one thing SWAT would not do if they turned up now was seize the element of surprise and storm the place.

I had no desire to negotiate with the occupants of the house. Pure speed and aggression were what mattered.

It’s the only way to deal with desperate situations like this. And it’s what I’d been trained to do as a soldier and a spy.

But there was the possibility that some of the occupants of the house were innocent. Zhukov could be here for another reason entirely. Maybe his associates were legitimate business colleagues gathered for a work retreat.

I’d soon find out.

I tried the front door handle. Locked.

I shot a silenced bullet into the lock and kicked the door open.

A woman was in the hallway.

Her eyes and mouth went wide as she saw me. She quickly withdrew a pistol from her waistband. I shot her in the head and stepped over her dead body.

Oblivious to what was happening, a man sauntered out of a room. A duster and spray polish were in his hands, a gun fixed under his belt. He dropped the cleaning products a split second before my bullet entered his brain. I opened the door to my left. Inside was a living room containing two men in paper coveralls and medical face masks. They were on their hands and knees scrubbing the wooden floor. Their heads quickly swiveled toward me. I shot one of them, rushed to the other, and put my gun under the man’s chin.

“Where’s the boy?” I hissed while ripping off the man’s mask.

“Fuck!”

“I’m not here for you. Just the boy.”

The man looked terrified as he responded, “Basement. He’s in the basement.” His face smacked the floor after I pulled the trigger.

I checked the other rooms on the ground floor, all empty. At the end of the corridor were stairs leading up and down. I had to clear upstairs first, in case there were more hostiles there who’d try to stop me from leaving with Tom. The stairs had a right angle halfway up. As I took each step with my pistol at eye level, a man turned the bend in the stairs. He tumbled down past me with my bullet in his eye.

“You okay?” called out a man from somewhere upstairs.

I reached the top of the stairs.

A man was walking along the upper corridor, a quizzical look on his face. Seeing me, he spun around and managed to cry out one syllable before I killed him.

I ran in the direction the man had turned. I was near the end of the corridor when a big male poked his head out of a bedroom. I fired, but the man instantly disappeared back into the room. I was out of silenced rounds. I dashed into the room just as the man was pulling a handgun from a bag. I jabbed my knee into the man’s back and smashed the butt of my handgun onto his upper hand, causing him to drop his weapon. But the man was still on his feet. He dropped low, turned, and stepped forward while delivering two punches. One powerful blow connected with my chest, forcing me back. The man had skills in unarmed combat. So did I. I ducked as another blow came my way, shifted my shoulders, punched him in the gut, kicked his ankle, and sent another punch into his face. The man’s eyes closed and he fell sideways to the floor like a tree that had been felled. He was either knocked out or dead.

To be sure of the latter, I gripped the man’s chin and the back of his skull and twisted his head like a corkscrew. I dropped his head after hearing his neck snap.

T
hough the basement was relatively soundproof from the rest of the large house, Zhukov could hear the sound of his team doing heavy lifting over Tom’s sobbing. They were preparing to leave the house this evening and were clearing all traces of their time here. The technical equipment in the basement had been removed, destroyed, and its broken parts dropped in the center of a lake two hundred miles away. Two of his team were cleansing the house of DNA, room by room, though they’d all worn rubber gloves and covers over their shoes throughout their stay here. They were placing all their personal belongings in the trunks of their cars. And there’d be no paper trail to Zhukov from the booking process to secure the rental. He’d used cash and a false ID.

He looked at Tom. The black hood was over his head and his hands were tied behind his back. He was sitting on a wooden chair underneath the solitary bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The child was still wearing the red pajamas he’d been in when Zhukov had snatched him.

“Crying won’t help you.” Zhukov smiled. “In a few hours, it’ll all be over.”

He looked at his watch. It was time to check how his team was progressing.

He walked up the stairs to the ground level. He froze. One of his men was facedown on the other set of stairs. He heard two loud bangs and felt unbelievable agony in both kneecaps.

“I
’m assuming you must be Viktor Zhukov.” I strode up to him, my gun pointing at his head. With my other hand I rummaged through his pockets. “After what my bullets did to your knees, you’re going to need a lot of reconstructive surgery. Even then, it’ll be a miracle if you walk again.”