Outlaw, page 45
*
Andre shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and peered through the thick window of the armoured Audi limousine. He watched the traffic flash past across the multiple lanes of the Varshavskoye Highway as they sped southwards. Rain had come in with the nightfall over Moscow, turning the road into a ribbon of shining black. Red and white lights blurred in both directions, the other vehicles on the road rendered into indistinct, colourless shapes.
He was convinced they were being followed. The hacker’s default mindset was high-functioning paranoia. The trait benefited him in his chosen profession, first with the renegade cyber-mercenaries known as Ghost5, and more recently in his service to the Combine and Pytor Glovkonin.
The Russian sat across from Andre in the back of the limo, idly toying with the illuminated pane of a digital tablet. With the hard granite-cut planes of his face lit by the cold blue glow of the device, Glovkonin resembled something inhuman.
‘They say that dogs can smell a man’s fear,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Perhaps it is the wolf in my blood, but, Andre, you reek of it.’
The Frenchman made a pinched face. ‘I’m concerned, yes. We should have left hours ago. In situations like these, every moment counts.’
Glovkonin raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you believe I have something to be afraid of?’ He pitched it like a question, but it was really a warning.
Andre hedged his answer. ‘Moscow is full of opportunists. And considering that our current situation is . . . in flux . . . I would say discretion is advisable.’
‘No one in the Duma or the FSB would dare to move against me. Not now. It is not in their interests. And no one else has the courage.’
‘It’s still a risk!’
‘Transitions of power are always destructive acts,’ the Russian replied. ‘But not for those who ascend.’ He looked up. ‘You should be content. You’ve done well. You chose the right side.’
‘Yes.’ Andre swallowed hard.
When Glovkonin’s moves against the other members of the Combine’s ruling cabal had become apparent, he had acted out of self-preservation more than any belief in the Russian’s goals. Survival was and always would be his prime motivator.
He wanted to be far away from Moscow, safe in the compound at the foot of the Urals that G-Kor’s owner had built as his private sanctuary. Little short of a full military strike could threaten them there, but here on a crowded motorway, they were vulnerable. Even behind the Audi’s centimetres of armour plate and bullet-resistant glass, Andre could not settle.
‘Oh, how tragic.’ Glovkonin said the words with a quirk of the lip as he read something on his tablet. ‘See.’
He turned the device around so Andre could read it. A page from the Russia Today news site had an article about the death of Swiss financier Rutger Bremmens, whose body had been dug out of an alpine snowdrift that morning by local authorities.
‘Heart attack.’ Andre picked out a few key phrases from the text. ‘Accusations of financial malfeasance . . . Police suspect suicide.’
‘Indeed. When the connections between Bremmens and that fool Cassidy come to light, they will suspect him of much more.’ Glovkonin drew back the tablet and settled against his chair, allowing a sigh to escape. ‘It is disappointing that the Wall Street gambit was cut short before it had a chance to do some serious damage. If I could have had a few more days, we might have pushed the Americans to the brink of ruin. But there will be other opportunities.’
Andre had seen the numbers from the shorted stocks and gamed currency gains that resulted from the temporary blackout of the US financial grid. He had personally ensured that the billions of dollars harvested by the illegal operation went to G-Kor’s coffers, not to those of the Combine. Had everything gone to plan, that number would have been in the trillions. The figures were hard to grasp. Beyond a certain point the digits became incomprehensible, and the ruined lives connected to them became nothing more than a statistic.
‘You’re richer than you have ever been,’ noted the hacker.
‘Money does not matter,’ replied the Russian, glancing out of the window. The limo crossed the MKAD ring road that marked the outer perimeter of Moscow and continued south, in the direction of Podolsk. Glovkonin studied the teeming traffic as it began to thin out around them. ‘Ordinary minds put too much stock in it. But money is only a tool. Power is the only true commodity.’
‘Now you have it in abundance,’ offered Andre.
Glovkonin gave a dismissive grunt. ‘It is not a destination. Power is not a goal, not a mountain that can be climbed. It is a marathon that never ends. Power builds upon power, and if one ceases to accrue it, one begins to fail.’
At times, the Russian would hold forth like this, and Andre had learned to let him speak. Glovkonin enjoyed lecturing others.
‘So what comes next?’ the hacker prompted. ‘Combine 2.0? Or something else?’
‘I have been mulling a change in career,’ admitted the oligarch. ‘The political arena beckons. The current president has been allowed to hold on to power for far too long. Russia is overdue a change in leadership.’
Andre’s eyes widened. ‘He won’t step down. Everyone who has tried to unseat him has failed. Not to mention the ones who are dead or in the gulag.’
‘Everyone who has tried did not have the resources of the Combine behind them.’ Then Glovkonin waved away the notion. ‘A conversation for another time. Tonight, I have other matters to attend to.’ A feral smile grew on his lips. ‘A rare indulgence, if I am honest. One I have been looking forward to for some time.’
Andre felt the limousine changing lanes and looked out of the window again. They passed by a long strip of roadworks ringed with yellow warning lamps and finally a sign flashed past, indicating an upcoming turn-off towards their destination: Ostafyevo International Airport, just a few kilometres distant.
*
A former military airfield that had been converted for civilian use, the complex currently operated under the control of one of the corporate giants that lived in a symbiotic relationship with the Kremlin. Glovkonin often used Ostafyevo to slip in and out of Moscow unobserved, but tonight he was here for a different reason.
The limousine rolled to a stop on the apron as an Antonov cargo plane taxied in off the runway. The An‑72’s distinctive over-wing jet engines keened through the sound of the hissing rain, and it halted a hundred metres distant, pinned under the misty white glow from nearby spotlights. The aircraft had flown in directly from an airstrip in northern Turkey, bypassing the usual challenges from air traffic control, thanks to G-Kor’s influence.
Glovkonin’s ever-present bodyguard Gregor exited the front of the Audi and came to the passenger door, unfolding a large umbrella. His comrade Misha remained in the driver’s seat, keeping the limo’s motor running.
The Russian climbed out, pausing to straighten his jacket, and Andre followed, pulling his coat closed and turning up his collar. Glovkonin’s sideways look made it clear there wasn’t room under the umbrella for the hacker.
The Antonov’s boarding hatch dropped open and three men disembarked, staying in the lee of the jet’s wing. One of them took up a position that allowed him to scan the airfield – a thin figure with a baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes, whose motions betrayed nervousness,. The second was a large man, easily as muscular as the heavyset Gregor. Both of them wore the signature outfit of the private military contractor ALEPH: black tactical trousers and combat jacket, with red rank flashes on their arms and the sigil of a vulture on their shoulder patches. They each carried PP-2000 sub-machine guns on two-point harnesses.
The third man was marched forward by the second. He was tall, his skin as dark as teak, and he moved with a pronounced limp. In the blaze of the spotlights, the state of the clothes he wore was clearly visible. Once, his attire had been an expensive Savile Row suit, but now it was ripped and torn, a tattered version of its former elegance.
The dark-skinned man looked up, shivering in the wet, presenting a scarred face with one ruined eye as the Russian approached.
‘Ah, Solomon,’ said Glovkonin. ‘You have been a singular pursuit.’ When the African didn’t respond, he stepped closer. Gregor moved with him, holding up the umbrella to keep off the downpour. ‘Nothing to say? We are finally face to face, and you have no words?’
Nearby, Andre moved to find some cover from the rain and his attention shifted to the man in the cap. The ALEPH mercenary turned his back on the hacker, but the action rang a wrong note with Andre. Something about the man was familiar to him, but he couldn’t place it.
‘Very well,’ said Glovkonin, frowning. ‘One does wish for some crowning, cathartic moment of triumph after a victory, but I will settle for this. An ending, in the darkness and the pouring rain. In the grip of the cold.’ He turned to Gregor. ‘Draw your gun.’
Gregor produced an Udav semi-automatic and displayed it, pulling back the slide to show a bullet already in the chamber. Glovkonin nodded his approval.
‘I have won,’ said the Russian. ‘Go to your death knowing that, Solomon. Everything you have done to oppose me ultimately counted for nothing.’
‘Are you sure?’ Solomon said softly, his voice barely louder than the sound of the rain.
‘Your people are dead,’ Glovkonin answered. He had seen the post-operation message from the hit team that captured the African in Istanbul, noting the killings of Solomon’s comrades. ‘Those remaining are scattered and powerless. They won’t survive.’
Dane, the woman Keyes and the others were a spent force. They might have disrupted the Wall Street attack, but that was the best they could manage. They were not a real threat. In the end, despite all they had done, Pytor Glovkonin had what he wanted.
‘You are mistaken,’ said Solomon. ‘You think you have broken us. But instead, you have ensured that we have nothing to lose.’
He bowed his head forward, as if he were about to pray.
Glovkonin frowned. Something about the motion seemed off.
Sheltering beneath the wing, Andre half-listened to the conversation, bracing himself for the gunshot that would bring this bit of theatre to an end. The ALEPH mercenary with the cap actively avoided his gaze, turning away whenever he tried to get a good look at him.
‘Show me your face,’ demanded the hacker.
‘Go away,’ said the mercenary.
His voice was gruff, but the tone was forced. Andre detected a familiar, nasal register beneath the words, and his eyes widened with surprise.
I know this man.
‘Delancort . . .?’
‘Ah, Tabernak.’ The man in the cap swore, his native Québecois accent emerging.
Andre made to call out a warning, but the chance was stolen from him.
A low whistling hum droned past the hacker, causing him to flinch, and in the same instant as the sound of a rifle shot reached him, a web of cracks appeared on the limo’s windscreen, splintering the bulletproof glass directly in front of the driver.
Misha reacted with a jolt, jamming the Audi into gear, but a second shot came a split second after the first. The next bullet hit the same spot as the first and penetrated. Bright crimson spattered against the inside of the glass, and the limo lurched forward and stopped.
Andre’s sense of self-preservation kicked in, and he spun away. The heavy stock of a sub-machine gun struck him in the belly before he could run, and he crumpled to the tarmac. Incongruous in his military attire, Henri Delancort stood over him, brandishing the SMG.
‘Stay down, salaud!’
Near the cargo plane, Gregor reacted as he was trained to, bodily shoving Glovkonin behind him, as the other false ALEPH merc brought up his gun. The bodyguard opened fire with his pistol, shooting at Solomon and the second man.
Benjamin Harun mirrored Gregor’s last act by putting himself in front of Solomon as two shots from the Udav pistol slammed into his chest. The infernal heat from the bullets knocked him back into Solomon, and together they collapsed against the fuselage of the Antonov.
Gregor kept firing, switching targets towards Delancort. He bellowed at his principal to get back to the car, his full focus on making sure that Glovkonin escaped alive.
Delancort was no soldier, and he did not stand his ground, diving to the wet tarmac. Gregor’s shots sparked around him, and a stray shot from the wild fire clipped Andre, tearing out a divot of blood and bone as the round entered the hacker’s skull.
But Gregor’s act of loyalty was in vain. Before he could end Delancort’s life, the next bullet screaming in from the darkness creased his throat and opened his neck to the air in a steaming arc of crimson.
*
In her sniper post set up on the edge of the airstrip, Lucy’s view of the Antonov gave her a clear line of sight. The heavy calibre round fired from the bolt-action KSVK anti-materiel rifle was powerful enough to kill the bodyguard with one shot, almost decapitating him in the process. But saving Delancort’s life had given the Russian the moment he needed to get into cover behind the limousine.
‘Shit!’ she cursed, as she saw movement behind the blood-spattered windshield. Glovkonin hauled the corpse of the other bodyguard out and scrambled into the driver’s seat, crouching low where she couldn’t see him.
Switching targets, Lucy aimed for the Audi’s engine compartment, hoping that the last armour-piercing 12.7mm rounds in the magazine might strike something vital. But it was a forlorn hope. The limo was better protected than most military assault vehicles.
Glovkonin floored the accelerator and the limo vaulted forward, whipping around the Antonov in a skidding arc, aiming back towards the airport’s exit road and the highway beyond.
Lucy pressed the radio headset clipped to her ear and called out a warning.
‘Marc! Glovkonin’s coming to you!’
‘Copy that,’ said the Brit. ‘He won’t get far.’
TWENTY-THREE
The strategy was an ambush. A straight takedown to neutralise Glovkonin’s bodyguards and isolate the man himself – but battle plans, as the old soldier’s saying went, never survive first contact with the enemy.
What had been the second part of the trap to slam shut on the Russian was now the only thing preventing his escape. Inside the security hut at the end of the access road, Kara worked frantically at a control panel. Out in the driving rain, Marc and Malte took up hasty positions either side of the vehicle barrier that bisected the road. The heavy metal ramp remained in its lowered position as the limo’s headlights washed over them.
The black stretch Audi hurtled towards them at a fast clip, the heavy engine roaring.
‘Hurry it up!’ shouted Marc, but Kara didn’t look up, responding with a raised middle finger as she worked as fast as she could.
‘Tyres?’ Malte called out the question, raising the assault rifle in his hands to aim at the oncoming vehicle. He and Marc had identical AK‑12s, supplied thanks to an anonymous CIA source in-country, but it was doubtful that even a salvo of fully automatic fire would be enough to stop Glovkonin’s armoured beast.
‘Run-flats,’ said Marc, with a shake of the head. ‘Aim for the driver and hope for the best.’
‘Driver,’ repeated the Finn. ‘Firing!’
Malte’s AK brayed, emitting a tongue of flame from the muzzle as he lit off bullets in three-round bursts.
Marc did the same, and the rifle bucked against him. It was hard to stop his shots climbing off the target, and each hit sparked away from the bonnet and grille of the limo as it drew closer.
So much for quick and quiet, he told himself. They’ll hear this in the Kremlin.
The blazing glow from the headlights came up in a tide of white as Glovkonin hit them with full beams, but even as it dazzled him, Marc kept firing into the oncoming machine.
He heard Kara give a shrill cry of delight and behind him the security ramp rose, thudding into position with a crunch of hydraulics. The metal barrier was too high for the low-riding, heavyweight limo. If Glovkonin struck it at speed, the vehicle would be wrecked.
The Russian wasn’t willing to concede yet. Spotting the blockade, Glovkonin wrenched the blood-slicked steering wheel to the left and the limo slipped into a wide fish-tail skid, turning to go off-road.
Marc threw himself out of the way, but the rear quarter of the long car came around like a wrecking ball and clipped Malte where he stood, the impact sending the Finn flying through the air. Marc’s gut twisted as he saw Malte bounce off the outside of the security hut and crumple.
Picking himself up, Marc sprinted after the limo’s crimson tail lights over churned-up grass and earth, firing into the vehicle until his magazine emptied. The limo bulldozed through a chain-link fence and across a car park, knocking aside an aging Lada and a trio of parked motorcycles. Even with bullet-riddled panels, broken windows and torn-up tyres, the thing still stormed on, getting further away with every passing moment.
We’re going to lose him.
Rubicon’s last roll of the dice would be wasted. The gamble they had set in motion months ago on a dusty African airstrip would fail, and Glovkonin would slip away. He would never surface again. They would never have this opportunity to be so close. It had to be now, tonight.
We have to finish this!
There were helicopters on the other side of the runway, but Marc had no way of knowing which were fuelled, and if he went for one of them, he risked losing sight of Glovkonin altogether. Replacing the AK’s spent magazine with a fresh one, he ran towards the car park, shouting out to Kara as he moved.
‘Check on Malte!’
‘On it!’ The woman sprinted out to meet him and urgently pressed something into his hand. ‘Take this!’
‘What . . .?’
The object was a metal saucer the size of a compact disc.
‘Just get after him, I’ll explain on the way!’
Marc didn’t waste any more time with questions, dashing across to the unlucky motorcycles that the limo had shunted out of its way. One of them was a wreck, the front wheel badly buckled where the heavy car had ridden over it, but a well-used Suzuki scrambler was still in working order – and more importantly, Marc could hot-wire it in less than twenty seconds. With a tinny roar, the bike’s motor caught and Marc gave it the revs. It got away from him with an initial surge of speed over the wet ground, but then he leaned into it and found his balance.
