The Hard Target, page 26
part #1 of Men of Delta Series
I can see the back of my brother, James. He’s deep in conversation with a group of people. He’s barely said hello to me. If I weren’t here, would it matter to my family? I doubt it very much.
Suddenly I want to be as far from here as possible. I need Richter to take me outside and get some fresh air.
I excuse myself to Cassandra then head for the restroom. But this place is huge, like the backstage of a concert, and I don’t have a clue where I am. A waitress tells me to keep walking straight until I come across the signs.
I walk past knots of people chatting and drinking. All of them are strangers to me, but I note several of them give me a second glance. I’m not a society girl, but I’ve been to enough charity and public events that my photos have been plastered over newspapers the next day. I also know the rumors about me being reclusive, isolated. Julia even found an online magazine that thinks I’m gay.
Whoop whoop, I said. Maybe now they’ll leave me alone.
The thought does make me smile. Maybe I should do an interview about coming out just as a joke. That would get my dad’s and brother’s attention. Hell, they’d have a media storm on their hands.
I’m still smiling as I walk around the bend and see the signs for the restrooms. The crowd has thinned out now, and it’s relatively empty.
As I approach the toilets, I see a man standing outside the men’s. He’s about my height and clean shaven, with dark, swarthy looks. I figure he’s waiting for someone to come out of the ladies’ room, so I ignore him.
But he’s looking straight at me, and there’s a lazy, shit-eating smile on his face.
For some reason, the smile chills my bones.
As his face comes into closer view, my feet suddenly feel like blocks of ice. My blood feels frozen. I can’t move. I know that face.
It’s Viktor.
What the fuck? How is he here?
An electric shock reminds me of McGlashan’s connection with Viktor. But would Viktor be so brazen as to appear here, like this?
My breathing is so labored it feels as if shards of glass are puncturing my lungs. I’m not sure if this is all a dream, because as Viktor comes toward me, my legs are still made of stone. Panic has rooted me to the ground.
Do something, Dora!
A strangled yelp comes out of my throat. I finally turn, getting some purchase out of my legs. Immediately I cannon into a body. It’s a man, and the wolfish grin on his face turns into a snarl as he grabs my hair and pulls my head back.
My scream is stifled as he clamps a hand over my face. I squirm as he holds me tight against his chest.
Viktor walks forward, the smile on his face bigger. But what gets my attention is the gun he’s pointing at me.
“Well, well,” he says in a thick accent. “Look what we have here. What a nice surprise.” He cocks his head to one side and looks me up and down. I want to vomit. He makes my skin crawl.
He motions with the gun, and the guy holding me drags me to the opposite wall, where Viktor opens a fire escape door. The gun is stuck to my back as I’m dragged down two flights of stairs. My ankles twist, and I scream in pain, but it’s muffled by the big hand on my face.
Within minutes, we’re outside. A black SUV is waiting for us, engine running. I recognize the Lincoln Escalade with bullet holes on the side. The man drags me toward the door, which opens without a sound. I’m dumped inside like a sack of potatoes, my ribs catching the side of the seat. Pain mushrooms in my chest, and I shout, holding my ribs.
There’s a crashing sound above our heads. A shower of glass fragments rains down from above, and a voice screams something incoherent. It sounds like a wounded beast, a deep and bellowing noise that echoes against the trees. I know that voice.
Richter.
Seconds later, a black shape crashes to the ground less than ten yards away. It’s Richter. He rolls and stands up, a gun in his hand, pointing at the car.
“Kill him,” Viktor yells.
Guns roar, and yellow-orange fire blazes toward Richter.
“No!” I scream, tears running down my cheeks.
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO
RICHTER
❦❦❦❦
I panicked when I couldn’t see Dora. I shoved men in expensive suits aside then upturned a tray full of Krystal champagne flutes, drenching a woman, and her scream brought me more unwanted attention. I stumbled and almost fell as I made my way across but managed to keep moving. When I pushed the last throng of people aside, two burly security guards were facing me.
I don’t want this.
Despite the work I do for a living and how I’ve been trained, I’m not here to make trouble. But if Dora is in trouble, well, I’ll show them a fight they’ll remember till their last day. If there’s a man standing in my way, I’ll reorganize his face. Rip him a new one. Guess no one told these big buffoons that, because one of them rushes me.
I sway out of the way, bend my elbow, and slam it down on his neck. There’s a cracking sound, and he collapses with a grunt.
The other guy shouts at me and swings with his fists. I fall to the ground, roll, and come up behind him.
The speed of my movements takes him by surprise. Before he can turn, I grab his head and smack it down on my rising knee. Even before he hits the ground, I’m off, running toward the rear of the stage.
People now scatter away from me, screaming. I can hear footsteps behind me and voices telling me to stop. The crowd thins, and the corridor bends around to the right. To my left, through the windows, I can see the ground. There’s a courtyard, and I see a black Lincoln Escalade screech to a stop. A man appears, dragging a woman by the hair.
Dora.
No!
I’m one floor up. There’s a few parked cars below the windows. If I fall on them, I won’t break a leg. The whole situation is clear in milliseconds. No time to think. Only to process and act.
I take out the Colt and fire twice at the window. The pane wobbles as cracks spread on it. I kick it hard twice, and some of the glass falls out. I go ten paces back then run and jump, crashing through the broken glass, arms crossed in front of me.
I’m out, flying in the night air, then I’m falling, smashing onto the roof of a car, its bodywork buckling under my weight, the windscreen splintering into a spiderweb. As I roll to the ground and raise my weapon, all I can hear is the sound of gunfire. I have to take cover behind the car. The Escalade revs its engine and shoots out of the courtyard. I stand up and run, rage and frustration boiling inside me. I crouch and fire at the tires of the car, but it turns a corner and bounces on a ramp, then speeds up on the road. Shouts sound from behind me, but I’m running at full tilt, legs pumping hard. I get to the road and see the Escalade stop at a red light. I run again while speaking to Cal over the microphone embedded in my ear.
“Brandon’s coming around the corner,” Cal shouts in my right ear. “ETA two minutes.”
“Damn. Tell him to release the drone!” I shout, panting, sweating as I’m running.
I can’t see the Escalade any longer. The light turned green, and it sped down a side road. I run across, ignoring the honking from cars, gun drawn. Damn! I’ve lost the car, but I did see the license plate. It’s a Virginia plate, and I give it to Cal. There’s nothing more I can do as I stand and seethe impatiently, waiting for Brandon to arrive.
*****
DORA
My heart twisted when the bullets flew at Richter, but he did take cover quickly. I kept looking back to see him shooting at the car then running after it. For a big man, he’s surprisingly quick, and there’s something powerfully masculine, animalistic, as he pumps those muscular legs up and down. I will him to run faster, but the light changes, the Lincoln swings away, and I lose Richter.
The men mutter something in a language I don’t understand. Viktor is sitting in the front. There’s two men on either side of me.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady. There’s no reply, so I raise my voice. “Viktor? I know about you and McGlashan.” I don’t care if he knows. I’m fearing the worst, and any leverage I have over him now is good.
He leans over and looks at me for a while without saying anything. Then he faces the road again and says something to the driver. The SUV picks up speed. We enter a maze of back roads, and the car lurches as it turns tight corners.
Soon I see the slick of light on water and moored boats. We’re at a harbor of some kind. The car screeches to a stop, and the men jump out. I’m dragged out at gun point. Cranes rise way over my head, and stacks of shipping containers are arranged like giant leg boxes all around us. Straight ahead is a large boat with a plank extended from the lower deck. Other boats bob gently in the water.
“Move,” a voice commands me.
I have no choice. My ankle is killing me, but I’m forced to go up the plank. Viktor is waiting for me on deck. Without a word, he turns and goes inside a cabin. I’m forced to enter. The room has a desk and two chairs, with bunk beds in two corners. A single yellow bulb gleams overhead. I’m shoved down on a chair, and my hands are tied behind me. Viktor is sitting opposite me behind the table.
“Richter knows where you are. He’s going to find you,” I say.
The grin on his face vanishes. He gets up and walks over to me slowly. Without warning, his hand lashes out, slapping me across the face. The blow is brutal, hard, and I taste blood on my lips. He backhands me, flinging my face the other way. Pain rocks my eyes, making the lights swim. Nausea curdles in my stomach, and along with metallic blood, I taste saline tears.
Viktor lowers his clean-shaven face to mine. “Now, let’s have some ground rules. I talk, you answer. Got that?”
“Fuck you,” I whisper.
He hits me again, the bastard, rocking my head to the left. I cringe, trying to make myself smaller in the chair, waiting for another blow. Instead, he pulls on my hair so hard it makes me cry out in agony.
“What did you say?”
I look at him, but his face is hazy. The light has a weird glow, giving him a fucked-up halo.
“I said you’re an asshole.”
He slaps me once again. I feel a cold touch on my cheek. It feels sharp and bites into my skin. The blade of a knife flashes in the light.
“Want me to cut you up, bitch?” he says quietly, as if he’s speaking to a child. The knife presses harder.
“No,” I whimper, tears spilling down my cheeks, mixing with snot and blood from my nose.
“Where’s Jozdani?” Viktor barks.
“I don’t know,” I whimper.
He slaps me again, and a red-orange fireball of pain explodes across my face. He grabs my hair and makes me face him.
“That’s the wrong answer, bitch,” he drawls in his thick accent. “You can save yourself a lot of pain if you tell me now.” He looks up at his men and grins. “These guys are like animals. Want me to set them loose on you?”
I bite back the fear and nausea threatening to engulf me.
“The CIA know you are here,” I say. “They’re going to find you.” It’s bullshit, but I need to play for time.
“Is that so?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Yes. McGlashan can’t protect you anymore. It’s all coming out in tomorrow’s news. If you don’t let me go and tell me where Joanne’s son is, all of this will be tomorrow’s headlines.”
He frowns and stares at me. “How do you know about…” He stops just in time, not giving any more away.
I take courage from the look of confusion in his eyes.
“Oh yeah. I know all about it. And if you don’t let me go, then my friends will release the news to the media. You and McGlashan are finished.”
He pulls on my hair so hard the entire chair bends to the left. “Really, bitch? And what if I told you that your friends will die if that happens?”
“The news will still get published. Then McGlashan ends up in jail. And you have no protection.” Pain is shooting down my scalp, setting my head on fire. But I’m not going to show this asshole any weakness.
“Enough of this!” He swears in Russian then reverts to English. “You want me to kill Joanne’s son?”
Without waiting for an answer, he straightens. The pressure on my head ceases abruptly. I lean back, chest heaving, eyes streaming. I try to pull on my hands, but that only seems to make the knots tighter.
Viktor marches to a side door, opens it, and barks out a command in Russian.
A thin young man stumbles out, hands tied behind his back. His white T-shirt is stained with dark blood. Holding him by the neck is a taller man, his face impassive. The man gives the young guy a shove, and he sprawls on the floor, close to my feet. Viktor bends on one knee and lifts his head by the hair.
“This is Andre, Joanne’s son,” Viktor says. He puts the knife against Andre’s neck. Then he turns to look at me, an evil gleam shining in his eyes. He looks like a giant reptile, a predator about to grab its prey.
“He doesn’t know where his father is. But you do, and this boy’s life is now in your hands.”
Viktor presses the knife harder against his throat, and Andre whimpers. A drop of blood trickles down his neck.
“Please don’t,” I whisper.
CHAPTER FIFTY THREE
RICHTER
❦❦❦❦
Cal’s voice comes to life from the speakers as I savagely turn the Yukon’s steering wheel. Brandon and I swapped places as soon as he arrived. The tires skid then rectify as the car sails around a corner, jumping the traffic lights. Send me a police car. There’s no mortal force that can now stand between me and Viktor. Revenge has lit a fire in my veins, and the flames are consuming me.
“We got a visual from the drone feed.” Cal’s voice is on the car speaker. “He headed down south on I-295. There’s an old harbor near Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling. It’s not used anymore, but it’s capable of mooring multiple ships.”
“Is he at the harbor?” I shout over the roar of the engine.
“Yes. The drone’s picking up three boats, all with lights on. I’m guessing this is how they make a getaway.”
Brandon is sitting next to me, listening in silence. Behind us, Ken and Oliver are driving up with two teams.
“We can’t let them set sail. What’s my ETA?” I say.
“Ten minutes.”
I swear and press on the gas. It’s almost at full power anyway. The engine whines and the hood shakes as the Yukon rushes forward.
Every second I can’t see her feels like an eternity. Every image that flashes through my mind is of her being dragged away by Viktor’s men.
I don’t know how I don’t end up crashing the Yukon, but somehow, we manage to get to the old derelict harbor two miles south from the AFB Bolling.
We park a safe distance away, then we wait for the two teams behind us. When they arrive, my men and I fan out. I’m holding an AR-15 assault rifle with my night-vision goggles on. The microphone in my ear chirps.
“Two guards behind the stack of shipping containers. Three more on the deck of the ship.”
I rush forward as the guards drop under fire from my team. The guards from the deck start shooting, but so do I. They collapse, and I’m the first member of my team on the deck. Guns are chattering, but my eyes are frantically searching for doors. I take the first cabin door and fling it open. There’s a light on inside, with a table in one corner and two chairs in the middle. The chair is empty, but I can see a coil of rope on it. The rope looks like it was used to tie someone up.
There’s a shout from the deck. I scramble outside to find Brandon pointing his gun out at the water.
An RIB is bobbing on the small waves, and indistinct shapes are moving on it. As I look down, I hear a scream.
“Richter!”
It’s a voice I know well. Dora.
I act on pure impulse. I vault over the railing of the deck, plant my feet on the edge, and jump down into the RIB. The men on the boat hadn’t expected that move. I crash land on three bodies, all of whom go splashing into the water. Brandon’s rifle is chattering from above, and I know those men won’t bother me again.
As I get to my feet, a shape rises in front of me. It’s Viktor. He kicks me in the chest, and I fall back down. I can barely see his face, but there’s no mistaking the gun he’s pointing at me.
Before he can fire, someone kicks him from behind, and he stumbles forward. I roll to the side then kick his legs out. He falls down beside me, and I slam my fist against his cheek, making his head snap back. Then I jump to grab the gun arm. We tussle, but I’m bigger than Viktor, and there’s only going to be one winner in this fight.
I manage to wrestle the gun from his control and throw it into the river. I whip out my own Colt from the ankle holster and point it at him. The gun is cocked and loaded, ready to fire. Viktor is at my mercy. But I put the weapon away. Blood is thrumming against my ears, a red river of rage drowning out every other thought.
A bullet is too good for Viktor. I reach down, grab him by the collar, and heave him up. His face meets my forehead with vicious force, and it snaps back. I knee him in the belly, and he doubles over with a scream. Both of us lose balance, but I grab his throat with both hands and squeeze. He makes a choking sound, and his legs shake. I increase pressure, watching the veins pop on his forehead.
“Remember killing my father, Viktor?”
He tries to say something. He’s choking, flailing, his hands slapping mine. But I have a death hold on him, and I’m not letting go. His tongue begins to protrude as his face goes dark, engorged with blood.
“I want you to think of my father’s face just as you take your last breath,” I whisper between clenched teeth.
“Richter. Richter!”
It’s Dora calling me. Not just calling; her hands are on my shoulders, clutching them from behind. She comes forward and puts her face between mine and Viktor’s.
“Look at me,” she says, her voice soft. “He’s not worth it. Remember you wanted justice for your father? You get justice by handing him over to the cops. He talks about McGlashan.”
