Ghosts of War (32 page)

T
he weasel-eyed man set the passport on the dresser and picked up Mikhail's cell phone. He nodded to the obese one and they left the room. Mikhail knew why. They were going to analyze it first, then build a list of questions off what they found.

Mikhail spent the next ten minutes looking for something he could exploit, searching the bed frame for a rusted bolt or gap, examining each link of the handcuff, and testing whether he could remove his hand. His efforts ended with him ripping his skin enough to draw blood, but the bones of his hands prevented further movement.

He was considering shattering them with the frame of the bed, turning his hand to jelly, when the door opened again. This time, the fat man held a roll of duct tape, and Weasel-Eyes was carrying a satchel. He said, “Interesting mix of information on that cell phone, but nothing on Simon's location.”

He opened the satchel, and Mikhail saw several syringes, full of liquid. The man nodded to his partner, and the fat man stripped out several lengths of duct tape, draping them onto the dresser. Mikhail outwardly showed fear, but felt some hope.

Please let me out of the handcuffs.

The weasel placed a wooden chair in the center of the room, withdrew a Makarov pistol, and centered it on Mikhail. Fatman released Mikhail from the handcuffs and sat him in the chair, saying, “The procedures we're going to do don't work well with you chained.” He smiled and said, “The metal could become a threat to your life, and we can't have that. Hold your wrists out.”

Mikhail did so, absolutely not resisting. He put his hands together as if he were praying, palms facing each other, fingers extended out.

The man strapped the duct tape around Mikhail's wrists. Mikhail remained still to ensure that none of the folds tucked under, leaving the wrapping pure, and he succeeded. Now he had an out.

Duct tape was an effective restraint that had been used on many, many terrorist victims. In Israel, they'd once found an operative wrapped in duct tape and shot in the back of the head. The Mossad had set out to defeat the restraint. To give a man some ability to escape. After some research, they'd found a way. When wrapped around the arms at the wrist, with the hands together, it could be broken as easily as the captor tearing the strip of tape to perform the wrap. The key was that there could be no folds, no underwraps or contortions in the binding. If someone wrapped the arms leaving the edges clean, as if they were simply wrapping the tape back onto the roll, it could be torn using leverage.

Mikhail had been forced to practice the escape over and over, hating it at the time, but now silently thanking his instructors.

The satchel man showed Mikhail the syringes and said, “I would like to use these right from the beginning, but unfortunately, it has a tendency to fry your brain. Once I have the information, I have no capability to go back. I'll get what you know, but I have to ask the right questions, and I'm not even sure what they are at this point, which leaves me in a quandary. I
must
have Simon. Failure here will bring me the same fate I'm bringing you.”

Mikhail started to say something, and the man held out his hand. “No. Don't bother. I have done this many times. You can tell me all you know freely, but I can't trust it. You know that. I have to be sure.”

—

I gave orders on the fly, which would seem to be risky, but really wasn't that much of an issue, because this wasn't a complex operation.
Our primary problem was the guard on the first floor. We needed to eliminate him before he could alert the others in the apartment. If we did that, we could initiate the assault with Retro's sniper shot, overwhelm them with violence of action, and capture Mikhail alive. Although that was truly a side note.

If he chose to fight, he'd be dead. Simple as that.

I said, “Aaron, Knuckles and I will assault. Jennifer drives for exfil. Shoshana provides rear security. I'll go in singleton, taking out the man on the landing. Once he's down, we'll flow to the third floor.” I looked at Shoshana. “You come in with them, and remain behind on the landing.”

She said, “I should go in first.”

I started to snap at her but she interrupted me, saying, “You won't get within five feet of that landing before the guard calls you in. Even if you kill him, the damage will be done. I can reach him without that. I'm no threat. He'll think I belong there.”

What she said made perfect sense, on the surface. I said, “You sure?”

She knew what I was asking. She said, “Yes, Nephilim. I'm sure. I
know
who I am. I'm no different than you.”

I didn't like the sound of that. I asked, “And? What's that mean?”

“And you take a life only for the good. I have no problem killing here.”

Whew
. “Okay, but you're not coming up with us. I need someone on the landing, and I'm not swapping out Aaron for you again.”

“You're just scared of me.”

I nodded and said, “Yeah, yeah I am.”

That brought a smile. I turned back to the group and said, “The apartment is the farthest to the west. Once Shoshana's got her man down, we'll move up the stairs and stack on it. I'll call Retro, and when we hear the shot, we'll breach. Knuckles, you got the Bam-Bam. Hostile force ROE. You see anyone besides Mikhail, take them out.”

Knuckles said, “And Mikhail?”

“You see him and he presents a threat, kill him too.”

As I finished my sentence, Jennifer pulled into the small parking lot adjacent to Club 70, threading her way to the back. The club entrance on Walicow Street was crowded with young men and women either waiting to enter, or just hanging out, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. She parked in the corner where the club building met a wall and I said, “Stand by here. Listen close on the radio. When I call, you come running. Drive right into the courtyard and stage nose-out for exfil.”

Knuckles said, “There's Veep.”

I glanced toward the club entrance and saw Nicholas Seacrest threading through the cars, a lit cigarette between his lips. I said, “Break out his pack.”

Knuckles slid a duffel bag forward, saying, “All in there.”

I pulled open the side door of the van and said, “Your dad know you smoke?”

Veep smiled and said, “Just bummed it from a guy who asked me a question. Blending in.”

I said, “You speak Polish?”

“Uhh . . . no. That's why I bummed the cigarette.”

“Some blending.” He looked embarrassed, then realized I was just ribbing him. I slid the bag forward and said, “You got the Punisher in here for Retro and a 300 for you. How long will it take you to get back?”

“No longer than four minutes. We found a stairwell that leads right to the roof. The only climbing is into a window on the back side of the building.”

“Then get going. You call set, and it's showtime.”

I
gnoring the command to remain silent, trying to buy time, Mikhail said, “I have no idea where Simon is. We do business occasionally. He asked me to make this purchase, and I agreed.”

Weasel-Eyes turned to the side of the dresser and picked up the briefcase. He flipped open the latches, then turned it around, facing Mikhail. “Yes, I'm sure that's true. You agreed to buy a deadly amount of radioactive waste just because he asked you to, and you have no idea what it's for or how to get it to him.”

Mikhail said, “I was supposed to pass it to another man, tomorrow. He'll know where Simon's located.”

The man held up a finger, saying, “Unfortunately, I don't believe you. We'll have to start with the old methods. And they can be brutal.”

He sat the briefcase down and pulled out a long, thin filleting knife. The fat man placed a digital recorder on the dresser, turning it on. The weasel with the knife said, “I ordinarily ask a couple of questions first, to establish a baseline, but after seeing your passport, I'm fairly sure that would be worthless.”

He cut the buttons off Mikhail's shirt, popping them slowly, one after another. He was halfway down when a muted crack split the air.

—

We waited for what seemed like an eternity, me looking out the window every five seconds to see if anyone was paying attention to us. They were not. Finally, Retro came on. “I'm set. Target acquired. Only one in the scope right now.”

“And the guy on the landing?”

“Still there.”

I looked at Shoshana and she nodded. I said, “We're rolling.”

Aaron slid open the door. Knuckles grabbed our own duffel bag and stepped out. Shoshana and I followed. We reached the crowd and Shoshana slid her hand into mine. Just another couple of folks headed to the disco.

We passed through the crowd without incident, then crossed the street, getting back into the darkness, all the lamps either shattered or burned out. Two blocks down and we were at the entrance to the courtyard, the van from the two unknowns blocking the view of anyone watching from the street.

Knuckles bent down and began handing out our weapons. Shoshana took a suppressed Glock 27, and the rest of us got short-barreled, integrally suppressed assault rifles. Built by Primary Weapon Systems on the AR platform and chambered in subsonic .300 Blackout, they were an overmatch for whatever firepower the men upstairs had. In combat, there was no such thing as a “fair” fight.

I called Retro. “We're at our last covered position. Target still inside the landing?”

“Roger.”

I said, “You got thermals on him?”

“Veep does. I'm on the scope.”

“Veep, Shoshana's about to commit. Give me a rundown.”

“Roger that.”

I looked at Shoshana and said, “Showtime.”

She chambered a round, and the dark angel fluttered awake. Aaron grabbed her arm and said, “No crazy shit. Just put him down.”

She smiled, looking feral, and said, “Okay. For you.”

She disappeared around the corner and he said, “She'll do as she's told.” But he didn't look convinced.

Veep came on. “Got her. No movement from the target.”

I waited, convinced I was going to hear some primal scream as Shoshana killed him with her teeth. Instead, Veep said, “Target down. I say again, target down.”

We rounded the corner at a trot, running right up to the landing and entering the foyer. Shoshana was over the body, searching him. She looked up, a childlike innocence on her face, wanting approval. Truth be told—with her standing over the steaming carcass of a man she'd just killed—it was more terrifying than seeing the dark angel.

I whispered, “Good work. Stand by right here. Nobody comes in behind us.”

She nodded, and we went up the stairs two at a time. We hit the third floor, got our bearings, then began tracking west. We reached the apartment door, me on one side, Aaron and Knuckles on the other, Knuckles holding a small battering ram we called a Bam Bam. I clicked my radio twice.

Veep said, “I copy I have control. Standby. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.”

On the utterance of
one
, a sound like a bullwhip cracking split the air, and Knuckles swung the battering ram with both hands, shattering the door inward. He flattened against the wall, and we flowed into the room. I saw an older man wearing a fedora standing over the body of someone in a small kitchen, shouting hysterically. I shot him in the face.

I cleared my sector and heard Aaron's weapon cycle, hitting a man attempting to hide behind a ratty chair, his head flying back and a small pocket pistol clattering to the floor. Knuckles stacked on a door and I ran up behind him, Aaron keeping his weapon focused on the kitchen.

Knuckles kicked in the door, and we found a bathroom, too small to hide anyone. For the first time, I heard gunfire that wasn't suppressed. Someone else was shooting.

Aaron returned fire, then slammed back into the entryway, seeking cover behind the brick and saying, “Back room. Off the kitchen.”

We slid down our wall, seeing the rounds slap into the top of the stove. I said, “Hi-low.” I took a knee, and then Knuckles squeezed my shoulder. We both turned the corner, firing controlled pairs into the doorway.”