Devil's Fortress, page 9
In answer, the other man tapped at another file, opening a single digital photo. Shot inside the abandoned shed Raven Syndicate troops had raided only hours before, it showed a collection of rusting cans stacked along one wall. His finger indicated the image. “They are identical.”
Voronin grimaced. “That van,” he realized. “It was carrying the enemy agents we’ve been hunting.”
Kondakov nodded. “Judging by the cargo capacity of the vehicle and the amount of food trash recovered from the shed, this is a small, very highly trained team. I estimate its strength as being in the range of no more than four to six individuals.”
“So few?” Voronin growled. “How is that possible considering the losses they inflicted on our security forces?”
“Surprise, speed of action, and the use of superior fire power at every point of contact,” the other man said bluntly. “These people are very good at what they do. Which makes them extremely dangerous.”
Tight-lipped, Voronin sat back. “What else do we know?”
“We pulled the names and ID numbers of the van driver and his assistant off the police officer’s body cam footage and ran them through a host of official databases,” Kondakov said. “They don’t match up with any known citizen or resident alien.”
“Meaning their ID cards were forged.”
Kondakov nodded.
Voronin frowned. “And the van? Its license plate, I mean. Was that a fake too?”
“No,” the other man said. “The number is genuine. It was even registered to a UAZ panel van of a similar model year and make.”
“But not the same one?”
“No. Available records show the vehicle associated with this plate number was junked several years ago.” Kondakov spread his hands. “And once again, I’m forced to admire the tradecraft of our opponents. They constructed a solid defense against any cursory inspection or traffic stop. A police officer running the number of that plate through his computer wouldn’t turn up anything suspicious.”
“I don’t want these bastards admired,” Voronin snapped, unable to hide his irritation any longer. “I want them dead!”
Hurriedly, Kondakov bobbed his head in agreement. “A quick review of traffic camera footage from the area shows that van was last seen on roads that lead to the safe house we discovered. But that’s where we’ve run into a dead end. There’s no sign of the vehicle anywhere in the district now.”
“Which means these enemy agents are on the move again,” Voronin said, working hard to regain control over his temper.
Kondakov nodded.
“Knowing this, can you track them using the traffic camera network?”
Kondakov shrugged. “That would be . . . difficult,” he admitted. “Attempting to do so would mean combing through every frame of footage shot in the Moscow region. At a minimum, I estimate that represents well over a hundred thousand hours’ worth of video.”
Voronin frowned. “The proverbial needle in the haystack, then?”
“Worse, I’m afraid,” Kondakov told him. “Millions of vehicles traverse the local roads and highways daily. And of those, tens of thousands are UAZ vans of the same make and model year.”
“I grow weary of being told what cannot be done, Vasily,” Voronin warned. “Particularly since the people who tried to kill me may already be making a run for one of our borders.”
Kondakov nodded again. “That is their most likely move,” he agreed. “And it gives us a chance, if only a small one, of intercepting them.” He replaced the images on the wall screen with a large digital map of Russia, centered on Moscow. A swipe across his synced tablet drew a large red line through the highways leading west and southwest toward the Baltic states, Poland, Belarus, and Ukraine. “I consider these the least likely escape routes. Our frontiers there are relatively heavily guarded and the target of significant surveillance. Any attempt to cross them illegally, whether by vehicle or on foot, would be unnecessarily risky.”
“True,” Voronin acknowledged.
Another sweep of Kondakov’s fingers drew a similar line across the roads and highways leading south toward Georgia and Azerbaijan. “The same thing applies here. Tensions are high in this area and, consequently, so is our security.”
Voronin pointed southeast at the routes connecting Russia with Kazakhstan. “And those?”
“Across the steppes?” Kondakov shook his head. “While it’s possible, I judge that to be a low probability. The terrain there is so open that any covert attempt to cross the border might easily be spotted by ground or air patrols. Again, if it were me, I would assess the risks of making such a move to be too high.”
“Then you believe these terrorists are headed north?”
Kondakov nodded. “I do. Our border with Finland runs for more than thirteen hundred kilometers, most of it through woods and uninhabited land. Plus, it’s relatively lightly guarded at the moment. Except along the southernmost portion, most of our Cold War–era perimeter fences, tripwires, and other defenses have been dismantled.”
Voronin considered that. The course of action suggested by the other man made sense from their mysterious enemy’s perspective. “So you want me to ask for new police roadblocks on the highways heading north, into Russian Karelia and the Murmansk area?”
“Unfortunately, there’s no time for that,” Kondakov said, shaking his head. “It will take hours for any request to work its way down through the bureaucracy of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. And even more time to organize special units of trained police officers. By then, this possible trail will be far too cold.”
Voronin frowned. “Then you want to use our own people for this effort?”
“We have two helicopters on standby,” Kondakov reminded him. “With just enough range and payload capacity to deploy four-man security teams into positions for a possible intercept on the two most likely routes. And the farther outside Moscow we send them, the better the odds that one of the UAZ vans they stop and inspect will belong to our targets.”
“Four-man teams?” Voronin queried sharply. “You keep praising the competence of these enemy agents. What makes you confident that a mere handful of your security troops can deal with them?”
“Surprise works both ways,” Kondakov pointed out. “After all, no one, no matter how highly trained, can remain alert forever. And the more distance they put between themselves and Moscow, the more these people should let their guard down.”
Voronin made his decision. “Very well. Organize it. Get your intercept teams moving as quickly as possible.” He frowned. “But we need a backstop in case you’ve guessed wrong.”
Kondakov nodded. “We should ask President Zhdanov to order a special heightened state of alert for all border districts adjoining hostile countries,” he said slowly. “Our Border Service units should be on the lookout for any unauthorized vehicles, particularly UAZ-made vans, which attempt to enter their controlled zones.”
Voronin considered the proposal. The FSB commanded Russia’s 170,000 Border Guard troops. Taking into consideration the sheer length of the nation’s frontiers, that seemed like a pathetically small number. On the other hand, its U.S. counterpart, Customs and Border Protection, had fewer than 22,000 armed agents. And Russia’s government, at least, attempted to regulate all movement near its borders. He nodded to himself. If those who’d tried to kill him were really on the run, desperately trying to escape from Russia without being caught, it made sense to throw as many obstacles as he could into their path. He picked up the secure phone on his desk and punched in a two-digit number. Politically weakened though he was, he still had a direct line to the Kremlin.
It rang just once before being answered. “Executive Office of the President,” said a quiet, businesslike voice on the other end.
“This is Pavel Voronin,” he declared. “I need to speak to President Zhdanov personally. The matter is urgent and involves grave issues of state security.”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
on the a-119 highway,
northwest of vologda, russia
some hours later
Nick Flynn fought down a powerful urge to yawn. Stiffly, he forced himself to sit up straighter in the passenger seat of the ancient UAZ 3741 van. He knew he was so tired that, once he started yawning, he’d have a hard time stopping. After more than thirty-six hours on the run with only short periods of rest in cramped, uncomfortable safe houses, fatigue toxins were accumulating fast in his body.
He glanced at Tadeusz Kossak behind the wheel. The other man looked as drained as he felt. No surprise, he thought. Sleep had been a luxury for all of them ever since this mission kicked off—both precious and in extremely short supply.
Flynn narrowed his eyes against the headlight glare as a large tractor-trailer truck roared past on the opposite side of the highway, heading south toward Vologda. Moments later, a white SUV coming up behind them flashed its high beams in warning and then pulled around and quickly passed them, red taillights dwindling rapidly as it faded into the distance and darkness. Apart from them, the road was empty.
Off to the east, the sky was beginning to lighten, gradually turning a pale gray above the forest of pine, birch, and spruce trees that lined the highway. It would be dawn in less than an hour.
“I think we may be heading into trouble,” Kossak said suddenly, peering intently through the van’s windshield. He took his foot off the accelerator, allowing the UAZ to slow a little. His left hand drifted from the steering wheel down to the butt of the 9mm MP-443 Grach pistol stuffed between the edge of his seat and the door.
Flynn followed his gaze. There, about a mile up the road, he could see lights moving on the verge and what might be a lightweight orange barricade blocking the right-hand lane. He squinted, trying to make out more details in the poor light. “Some kind of an accident scene? Or maybe a sobriety checkpoint?”
The Pole shook his head. “There aren’t any vehicles in sight,” he said tightly. “And whoever is manning that barricade just waved the SUV that passed us right on by, even though it was clearly speeding.”
Flynn felt cold. Kossak’s night vision was phenomenal, one of the traits that made him such a superb long-distance marksman. If he couldn’t see any police cars or trucks parked near that checkpoint, they simply were not there. Since the nearest town was miles away, the strong possibility was that the people ahead of them had been flown into position by helicopter. And ordinary Russian traffic cops didn’t have access to helicopters.
Suddenly wide awake, thoughts raced through his mind in rapid succession. They’d switched the van’s license plates and painted over the corporate logo on its sides, but the model and make made it comparatively easy to spot—assuming their enemies had some inkling of what type of vehicle they were using and where they might be headed. Score that as a likely big fat “yes” on both counts, Flynn realized, eyeing the shadowy figures moving into position near the orange barricade. Blowing through the checkpoint or making a sudden U-turn away from it weren’t realistic options. The UAZ was mechanically reliable, but it wasn’t exactly high-powered or nimble. As soon as the bad guys were sure that they had a valid target and radioed it in, it would be impossible for his team to shake any search and pursuit, especially since the road network in this part of Russia was sparse.
Which left only one real option, Flynn knew. One that was all too likely to get them killed. “If this really is aimed at us, we’ll have to punch out from the inside,” he murmured to Kossak. He reached down into the carrying case between his feet, extracted his compact PP-2000 submachine gun, and slid it into the narrow gap between his seat and the passenger side door. The Pole nodded. He loosened his Grach pistol in its holster, making sure he could draw it in a hurry if necessary.
Flynn craned his head back around toward the open panel into the UAZ’s cargo area. “We’re coming into a probable red zone,” he warned loudly, using the Four slang for an enemy position. “If things turn hot, bail out fast and go hard.”
“Got it,” Laura Van Horn replied. “ETA?”
Flynn looked through the windshield again. They were now within a quarter mile of the checkpoint. A figure had stepped out onto the highway and, using a hand-held flashlight, signaled for them to pull over. “Maybe thirty seconds,” he said.
“Well, hell,” Van Horn said conversationally. “Good thing none of us could sleep back here in this fricking sardine can.” The sound of weapons being chambered accompanied her words.
Kossak braked to a gentle stop near the orange barricade. He rolled his window down as the flashlight-wielder approached. “What’s up, officer?” he asked politely, narrowing his eyes against the beam hitting him right in the face.
“None of your business,” a harsh voice growled. “What are you people doing on the road so damn early?”
The Pole shrugged. “Got an emergency plumbing job at one of the hotels in Lipin Bor,” he said casually, naming a lakeside town some miles ahead up the highway. “The manager there is shitting himself that his guests won’t have hot water when they wake up.”
“They don’t have any plumbers of their own in Lipin Bor?” the man holding the flashlight snapped in disbelief.
Kossak shrugged his shoulders again. “The manager’s my cousin,” he said. “He likes to keep his business in the family.”
Squinting himself against the glare, Flynn saw two more men edging around toward the back of the van and a third positioned off to the front. They all wore night-gray camouflage uniforms, body armor, and carried assault rifles. That tears it, he realized coldly. These were definitely Raven Syndicate goons, not regular Russian traffic police. He turned toward Kossak and raised his voice a little so that Van Horn and the others in the back of the van could hear his warning that they were being flanked. “Hey, Yuri, I got another text. Now Piotr says the two toilets at the rear of the building are clogged, too. And he’s starting to freak out about when we’re going to get there.”
“Great,” Kossak sighed. He looked at the man pinning him in the flashlight beam. “Hey, is this going to take much longer, officer?”
“Not really,” the other man said grimly. “Now get out of the van! Both of you!”
Well, so much for subtlety, Flynn thought. “You heard him, Yuri,” he said, forcing a nervous edge into his voice. “We need to get out.”
“Sure, sure,” Kossak replied. “No problem, officer.” He leaned over to grab the door handle with his right hand, seemingly unintentionally lowering his head toward the more solid cover of the dashboard, and simultaneously drawing the 9mm Grach with his left hand. His finger curled around the trigger and squeezed repeatedly, firing several quick semi-armor-piercing shots right through the driver’s side door at the Syndicate trooper holding the flashlight on him.
Hit at least twice at point-blank range, the Russian stumbled backward.
Flynn exploded into action himself, grabbing his submachine gun and slamming the passenger’s side door wide open as he threw himself out sideways. His right shoulder and hip slammed into the ground as he swung the muzzle of the MP-2000 toward the gunman positioned at the front of the van.
Flashes stabbed the night as that Russian fired a wild burst directly into the vehicle. Slammed by 7.62mm rounds, the UAZ’s windshield shattered, and pieces of torn metal flew away from its broad, blunt nose.
whaamm. A flash-bang grenade went off somewhere behind the vehicle—tearing apart the darkness with dozens of strobing pulses of dazzling light. Weapons stuttered, accompanied by yells and agonized screams.
Flynn ignored the chaos unfolding all around him. His field of vision narrowed to the Raven Syndicate trooper he’d identified as his primary target. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as his nervous system and brain kicked into overdrive. From his position on the ground, he could see the other man’s assault rifle swinging away from the bullet-riddled front of the UAZ to aim at him. But then his own submachine gun’s front sights settled into position first, and he opened fire on full auto—burning through half a magazine in less than a second. The Russian jerked backward, hammered off his feet by multiple hits that ripped through his legs, chest, and head.
An eerie silence descended across the scene, broken only by high-pitched whining and pinging noises from the UAZ’s wrecked engine. Through his gunfire- and explosion-numbed ears, Flynn heard Van Horn call, “We’re clear back here! All hostiles are down and dead.” He scanned the ground ahead of them. Nothing moved. Slowly, he raised up off his side. “Clear to the right front, too,” Flynn reported. “Tad?”
“Gówno. Shit,” Kossak answered through clenched teeth from somewhere on the other side of the van. “I’ve been hit.”
They found the Pole lying half-in and half-out of the bullet-riddled van. Multiple splotches of blood were spreading across his back and both legs of his jeans. Bits of metal gleamed in the center of each small wound. While none of the 7.62mm rounds fired into the front of the van had struck him, they’d blown a hail of sharp-edged splinters across the cab and into Kossak.
While Hynes applied field dressings to the Pole’s wounds and Cooke and Vucovich dragged the four dead Raven Syndicate troops out of sight into the nearby woods, Van Horn pulled Flynn aside for a quiet consultation. “None of those injuries are going to be fatal, but one thing’s for sure, Tad’s not going to be walking on his own—at least not very far—until all those splinters are dug out and his torn-up muscles have time to heal,” she said.
Flynn nodded. “We’ll have to carry him to the rendezvous point,” he agreed. Fortunately, one of their gear bags included a foldable portable stretcher.
“Which brings us to our next big problem,” Van Horn pointed out, jerking her head toward the shot-up UAZ van. “It doesn’t look like any of us are going very far, and we’re still what? Something like five hundred miles from where we need to be?”
“Thereabouts,” Flynn said with a nod.
