The Dark Passage: A Sam Raven Thriller, page 19
“Second pass!” Hasanaj ordered. His voice remained steady despite the chaos. The helicopters swung around, skimming low over the treetops once more. Raven spotted movement—guards regrouping near the villa’s east wing and carrying a shoulder-fired missile launcher. “Stinger, three o’clock low!” he yelled. The chopper’s gunner pivoted, unleashing a burst. Flame flashed from the muzzle, and the gunner was on target. The burst turned the launcher crew into red mist.
The third chopper let loose another rocket salvo, this one targeting the villa’s generator housing. The blast sent a shockwave through the property; the lights everywhere, house and grounds, flickered and died, plunging the compound into darkness save for the fires.
Hasanaj leaned closer to Raven. “Thermal scans show hostiles still in the main building. Heat signature in the basement is likely Elena. But Raven?”
“What?” Raven snapped.
“She’s not moving.”
Raven nodded. He said nothing. Not moving but registering a heat signature didn’t mean dead. But if The Wolf had harmed her in such a way as to incapacitate her permanently, he’d tear the Serbian bastard apart one piece at a time.
The choppers climbed for altitude, evading small-arms fire pinging off their hulls. A surface-to-air missile streaked from the villa’s west side, the contrail a glowing snake. Raven shouted a warning, but the flight crew was already reacting. The pilot juked left, deploying flares from the rear of the chopper. The flares burst like miniature suns, and the missile veered off, exploding into the forest.
“We gotta land,” the pilot said over the coms, “before they shoot another!”
“Copy,” Raven said.
“Prep for drop!” Hasanaj called out. The commandos—eight per chopper, their faces blackened, eyes granite hard—checked weapons and their rappelling gear. Hasanaj pulled down his NVGs.
“Primary target is Elena,” Raven said.
If she’s still alive…
But Raven wasn’t going to consider the possibility until he saw her with his own eyes.
The choppers descended. When the lead helicopter reached twenty feet above ground, Raven clipped his fast-rope to the hook above the door and kicked out into the night. He slid down, boots hitting grass littered with debris, and jammed the HK416 to his shoulder to sweep for targets. He spotted a lone trooper sprinting for cover, yelling to concealed comrades. Raven’s single shot dropped the man.
Hasanaj landed beside him, and the choppers then disgorged the rest of the commandos. They rode down their zip lines like so many spiders, fanning out in practiced formation. The choppers kept enemy heads down with crisscrossing streams of tracer fire from the door gunners of each.
The second chopper took ground fire, its door gunner returning the favor with a withering burst, silencing the threat. The hail of bullets tore into the low wall the cartel gunners hid behind, chunks of plaster mingling with the bloody bodies.
“Perimeter teams, secure the east and west,” Hasanaj ordered. “Raven! With me. Main entrance!”
Explosions still echoed from the villa’s edges, where the choppers’ final rockets salvos had cratered the driveways, but the commandos moved with lethal focus, their weapons crackling as they cleared stragglers.
Raven and Hasanaj sprinted to the villa’s rear entrance, shattered glass crunching under their boots as they reached the patio, chunks of debris creating obstacles to avoid. Both kept their HK416s at the ready. A cartel trooper burst from the clutter and shadows to the right of the patio doors. The guard never got a chance to fire his weapon. Raven tagged him chest-high with a 3-round burst of 5.56mm tumblers. The trooper fell back, sending a wild burst from his SMG into the sky.
Hasanaj lobbed a grenade through the half-blown-off patio doors. The blast shook one of the doors off the hinges and it landed with a sharp crash on the concrete patio. The smuggler moved up against the wall beside the door. Raven entered first and cut right; Hasanaj followed, cutting left. The room was a mess of rubble and bleeding bodies and groans of the wounded. Chandeliers hung dark. But they heard movement. Shuffling footsteps. Despite the scattered shooting still taking place outside, Raven’s senses picked up the close-quarter threats. The room led to a narrow hallway opening on a wider area of the house, and Raven and Hasanaj paused. They took cover behind crumbled chunks. They were walking into pitch black. Hasanaj used his NVGs to scan ahead but then lifted the goggles from his eyes and shook his head at Raven.
All right, then, Raven decided, grenades it is.
He plucked a high-explosive frag grenade from his combat vest. Hasanaj did likewise. They tossed at the same time.
38
The grenade blasts shook the walls, dust drifted down, and chandeliers fell with a crash. “Go!” Raven said. He and Hasanaj moved into the dark, the only illumination coming from the lights mounted on the ends of the carbines.
Raven’s HK416 carbine swept the shadows as he scanned for threats. Hasanaj moved beside him, weapon at the ready, his night-vision goggles casting a faint green glow.
“Basement’s our target,” Hasanaj whispered.
“You don’t need to remind me,” Raven said.
He followed the beam of light from his weapon. The villa’s opulence—gilded frames, velvet drapes—felt like a grotesque mask over the bloodshed it housed.
A burst of gunfire erupted from the left corridor, and two cartel troopers appeared, their AKs blazing. Raven dove behind a marble pillar, bullets chipping stone above his head. Hasanaj dropped to a knee, firing two precise shots, catching the troopers in the chest and throat. They crumpled, blood pooling beneath a shattered vase.
“Move!” Raven barked.
They advanced, stepping over bodies, the air heavy with the coppery scent of death.
The corridor opened into a grand atrium, its glass dome cracked from a stray rocket. Moonlight filtered through, illuminating Anton Vercuni and his wife, Melika, positioned behind an overturned oak table. Anton clutched a Beretta 92, his custom Damascus steel knife glinting at his hip. Melika wielded a compact MP5, her eyes cold and calculating. Four cartel enforcers flanked them, one of them the big man Raven recognized, their weapons trained on the corridor’s mouth. Raven and Hasanaj dropped low, using a bullet-riddled sofa as cover.
Melika fired a burst from her MP5, the rounds shredding the sofa’s upholstery. Raven rolled left, returning fire with his HK416, catching one enforcer in the shoulder. The man screamed, dropping his weapon, but the others unleashed a barrage, forcing Raven and Hasanaj to scatter. Hasanaj crawled forward, using a fallen statue for cover, and lobbed a flashbang. The detonation filled the atrium with blinding light and a deafening crack, disorienting the cartel fighters.
Hasanaj seized the moment, rising and firing. His HK416 barked, dropping Dede Bizi and the trooper next to him with headshots. The big man’s thud on the ground seemed louder than any earlier explosion. Melika pivoted, her MP5 tracking the smuggler, but Hasanaj was faster. He snapped off a single round, the bullet punching through her throat. She staggered, blood spraying from either end of her throat, and collapsed, her weapon clattering to the floor. Anton roared, his Beretta blazing as he emptied the magazine at the smuggler. Bullets tore through the sofa, one grazing Hasanaj’s arm, a hot sting he ignored. The Beretta’s slide locked back, empty, and Anton cursed, tossing it aside. He drew his custom knife, its serrated edge catching the moonlight, and charged.
Raven met him head-on and shouted for the smuggler to find Elena. Anton was fast, his knife slashing toward Raven’s ribs, but Raven sidestepped, deflecting the knife with the stock of the HK416. The cartel operative snarled, driving a knee into Raven’s gut. Pain flared, but Raven held firm, slamming his elbow into Anton’s jaw. The knife clattered to the floor, and Anton slammed into Raven’s midsection. Raven lost his grip on the HK and it dangled alongside him. They shuffled back. Raven didn’t want to end up on the floor. The two men grappled, fists and knees flying in a brutal dance. Anton’s strength was surprising, fueled by rage, but Raven was a machine of controlled violence. He hooked Anton’s leg, sending him crashing to the floor, and straddled him. A punch to the face kept Anton dizzy while Raven snatched his own Ka-Bar knife from the sheath on his leg and drove it into Anton’s heart. Vercuni gasped, eyes wide, then went still.
The atrium fell silent. Even the fighting outside sounded like it had subsided. Raven rose, wiped the knife on Anton Vercuni’s suit, and put the Ka-Bar away. Retrieving his HK416, he found Hasanaj nearby, having stayed behind to cover the American instead of leaving him alone.
“Basement,” Raven said. “Let’s move.”
Hasanaj led the way this time. They navigated a maze of corridors, the villa’s grandeur giving way to utilitarian concrete as they descended a stairwell. A lone guard appeared at the bottom of the stairs, raising his weapon, but Hasanaj’s quick shot dropped him before he could fire. The basement door loomed, heavy steel, partially ajar. Raven signaled for quiet, his pulse steady but urgent. Elena was close.
They kicked open the door. It slammed against the opposite wall. The pair entered, weapons raised and froze. General Dragoslav Nikolic—The Wolf—stood in the center of the basement, a CZ-75 pistol pressed against Elena’s temple. She was naked, freed from the chair, her wrists red from restraints. Nikolic held her in front of him as a shield, one arm locked around her throat, her body tense but defiant. The single bulb overhead swung, casting jagged shadows across the concrete.
“Let her go, Nikolic,” Raven said, his HK416 steady, laser dot dancing on the general’s shoulder—the only clear shot. “It’s over. Your villa’s burning and your men are dead.”
Nikolic’s hair gleamed under the bulb, his eyes like a predator’s, unyielding. “The American,” he growled, tightening his grip on Elena. “You’ve got guts, coming here. You’ll watch her die. I’ll end her like I ended her family.”
Elena’s eyes met Raven’s, a flicker of trust amid her fear. She spoke. Her voice was hoarse but defiant. “He’s alone, Raven. No one’s coming to help him.”
Nikolic pressed the pistol harder against her temple, his lips curling. “Shut up, little girl.”
Raven’s mind raced for a solution. Any shot risked Elena but waiting gave Nikolic control. The standoff stretched, seconds bleeding into eternity, the basement’s chill seeping into their bones.
Elena acted first. With a sudden twist, she drove her elbow into Nikolic’s ribs, loosening his grip. She ducked, exposing his chest, and Raven didn’t hesitate. His HK416 barked, a single round punching through Nikolic’s forehead. The general’s head snapped back, blood spraying, and he collapsed, the CZ-75 clattering to the floor. The basement fell silent, the bulb still swinging, casting wild shadows over the carnage.
Raven rushed to Elena, slinging his rifle and pulling a tactical jacket from his pack to cover her. “You okay?”
She nodded, shivering but resolute. “Took you long enough,” she said, a weak smile breaking through her exhaustion. Hasanaj joined them, handing her a spare pistol from his belt. “We need to get out of here,” he said, checking his watch.
Raven supported Elena as they climbed the stairs. The villa was a warzone, flames licking the upper floors, smoke choking the corridors. They emerged into the night, the helicopters waiting on the scarred lawn, rotors spinning. Raven helped Elena aboard, Hasanaj covering their rear as the squads piled in. The choppers lifted off, the villa shrinking below, a pyre against the Serbian mountains. Elena gripped Raven’s hand; her eyes were fixed on the horizon.
The Wolf was dead, but the war wasn’t over. The war never ended. It was only the conclusion of the current fight. But for now, they could rest.
39
Elena’s eyes opened. Dim light filtered through the curtains casting soft shadows across the unfamiliar room. For a fleeting moment, she thought it was a dream. A nightmare spun from the darkest corners of her mind. The gunfire, the blood, Nikolic’s sneer as he loomed over her, the searing pain of his fist against her body. Her heart lurched, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing the images to dissolve into the ether of sleep. But the dull ache throbbing in her side, the tight pull of bandages wrapped around her arm, and the sharp sting of a cut on her cheek told a different story. This was no dream. It was real, and she survived.
She lay still, her breath shallow, as if moving too quickly might unravel the fragile thread holding her together. The bed was soft, the sheets clean and crisp, a stark contrast to the gritty chaos of the cartel’s compound. Her fingers brushed the edge of a bandage on her ribs, the adhesive tugging at her skin. Raven had gotten her out. Raven, with his steely eyes and unrelenting precision, had stormed through the hail of bullets to pull her from the jaws of death. She owed him her life. Him and Hasanaj. She couldn’t forget Kemal. But the weight of that debt sat heavy in her chest, mingling with the guilt gnawing at her from inside.
What had she been thinking, going after Nikolic alone? The plan had been reckless, a suicide mission born of rage and desperation. Emotion had overruled good sense, a tidal wave of vengeance for the lives Nikolic had destroyed—her mother, her father, her siblings—and every soul crushed under his empire of drugs. She’d wanted to be the one to end him, to feel the satisfaction of watching the light fade from his eyes. Instead, she’d nearly gotten herself killed, forcing Raven to clean up her mess.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at the ceiling, the plaster cracked in a way that reminded her of her own fractured resolve. Raven probably wouldn’t want to see her again. Not after she’d gone rogue. She could picture his face, the hard set of his jaw, the way his silence spoke louder than any reprimand. He was a professional, a man who thrived on control, and she’d been a wildfire, burning through carefully discussed plans. It doesn’t matter, she told herself, though the thought stung more than she cared to admit. The mission was over. Nikolic was dead, his empire teetering on the edge of collapse. But still a threat.
Elena shifted slightly, wincing as a sharp pain lanced through her. She thought of Ana Gray, the woman who’d pulled her into this shadow world of spies and secrets. Ana’s private network was a lifeline, a chance to fight the kind of evil governments ignored or enabled. Nikolic’s death would leave a power vacuum, a gaping wound in the cartel’s structure others would scramble to fill; they couldn’t let it happen. Ana would need her—bandaged, battered, but unbroken—to help dismantle what remained of Nikolic’s network. There were lieutenants still out there, ambitious and ruthless, ready to carve up the empire for themselves. Elena’s work wasn’t done. It might never be done.
She considered getting up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, and forcing herself to move. But her body protested, every muscle heavy with exhaustion, every bone aching with the memory of the fight. For once, she listened to it. She deserved this moment, this small rebellion against the relentless pace of her life. She reached for the blanket, pulling it up to her chin, then over her head, cocooning herself in its warmth. The world could wait a little longer.
In the quiet darkness beneath the covers, she let her mind settle. The crawling sensation—the “bugs”—were gone. No phantom skittering across her skin, no imagined whispers in her ears. Their absence was a victory, hard-won and fragile, but hers. She clung to it, letting it anchor her as her breathing slowed. Rest, she thought. Just for now. The fight would be there when she woke, but this moment was hers to claim.
“How is she?”
Raven stood outside the safehouse once again, phone to his ear, listening to Ana Gray’s voice. His expression had softened since their return to the safehouse. They were exhausted, drained, in need of sleep, and while Raven had stolen a few hours to let his body recharge, his mind wouldn’t rest until he settled the last stray details.
“She’ll be okay,” he told her. His explanation of the fight took a few minutes, and he left out how she slipped out of the house to finish the fight herself. He understood why she did it and regretted he hadn’t been there to convince her not to. It was something Ana didn’t need to know. He’d hold it from her the way she held things from him.
“What now?” Ana asked.
Raven chuckled. “I told you I was tired.”
“The cartel isn’t finished.”
“You’ll think of something. I’m out of it. For now. If it gets hot again, you know how to reach me. In the meantime, you have other assets. Use them.”
“Okay.”
“Ana?”
“Yes?”
“Hasanaj is a good man.”
“I understand.”
“Talk to you soon.”
Raven ended the call and turned to start for the house but stopped. Kemal Hasanaj stood on the porch, holding a cup of coffee, watching him.
“I appreciate the compliment,” he said.
“It’s well deserved,” Raven said. He joined the smuggler. “We couldn’t have done this without you.”
“She thinks I want the spoils, doesn’t she?”
“She did.”
Hasanaj laughed. “I don’t need it. My organization is fine as it is. I have my tailoring business. I have all I need, Raven. And I like being one of Ana’s secret weapons.”
“You should tell her.”
“Maybe I will. Maybe—”
“You won’t?”
“I also like the idea of nobody being quite convinced of what side I’m on.”
“It’s overrated,” Raven said. “Trust me.”
Hasanaj sipped his coffee. “When do you want to get her out of bed?”
Raven shook his head. “Let her sleep. We have one more stop to make before I leave, but it can wait a bit.”
“I have more coffee inside.”
“Any tea?”
“There’s tea, too.”
“I’ll make some tea, and we can talk shop all we want.”
