Black operator complete.., p.45
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 45
He closed the car window and turned up the heater to ward off the sudden cold, for the temperature had dropped five degrees. Or it felt that way. She looked across then and saw it, a place of the mentally sick, and also a place of demons.
She put her hand on his arm to reassure him, or perhaps to reassure her.
“Cris, lighten up. It’s over.”
“Sure. It’s over.”
Is it?
BLACK OPERATOR: THE GULAG ASSASSINS
By Eric Meyer
Copyright 2017 by Eric Meyer
Published by Swordworks Books
www.facebook.com/ericmeyerfiction
Prologue
He'd once been a blazing star in the Kremlin hierarchy. Vladimir Ushakov had wielded enormous power, and men rushed to do his bidding, on pain of death. He was a smooth, good-looking man who stayed fit by working out in the Kremlin gym. Well-barbered, sharp-suited with expensive, tailor made shoes, he was the epitome of a man both wealthy and powerful. Except it was about to come to an end. He worked for one man, the President of the Russian Republic, and that man wasn’t happy with his performance. As a result, his days in post were numbered.
With an eye to the future, Ushakov had begun talking to the oligarchs about an alternative position, one where he could use the leverage of his Kremlin contacts. He'd already had a few nibbles, although two were from well-known Mafiya barons. He hadn't said yes, and he hadn't said no. But he hated the idea of thinking he failed. He'd miss the power. He'd miss it all. The dizzy feeling of knowing he ranked amongst the most influential and powerful men in the world. It was like a drug, and he’d do anything, kill anyone, to stay in post. Anything.
* * *
Her mind was filled with horror as they pursued her. There were too many of them, and they meant to kill her. Bullets whistled past her head, and the sharp stones littering the ground cut into her bare feet. She didn’t know why she wasn’t wearing shoes. She was leaving a trail of blood, easy for them to follow. She stepped behind a tree and checked to see if they were still coming. A bolt of lightning flashed, and bright light lit up the pursuit. She counted ten, too many to evade. Unarmed, she couldn’t fight them. Her single option was to keep running. She ran.
The rain had been light, but a long gust of wind brought a heavier downpour that thundered down in torrents. She was soaked, and unsure if the icy feeling gripping her body was the wet cold or terror. She ran, and after a few hundred yards, stopped again to look. They were there, and even closer. Her feet hurt, and blood from her injured feet mingled with the rain, forming a trickle that soaked into the earth. Every part of her was in agony. Her mind was on fire, unable to comprehend how she’d got to this place, or even where she was. In the pit of her stomach, she felt the black emptiness of imminent death. A hand reached out to take her down into the dark depths, and with a sob of fear, she tried to shake it off.
The storm intensified, and it was almost impossible to see through the opaque curtains of rain. The lightning didn't return, and she couldn't see the hunters, but occasionally a bullet whined past her, so she knew they were still there. She increased her speed, ignoring the agony of her injuries. Pushing away the near-death awareness, and when she looked ahead, she saw nothing. Nothing save emptiness. She stopped, just in time. Inches away lay the edge of a cliff.
It could be a slope, a sheer drop to a bed of rock, or a river. She was a strong swimmer, and if she dove into a river, she’d have a chance to escape. Except she had no way of knowing if it was a river down there. Or an alligator infested swamp. A volley of automatic fire churned up the ground around her bleeding feet, and she had to decide. Stay where she was and die. Or jump, and maybe die. She jumped. The scream was loud, an eerie echo, and she knew it was her voice. The drop was endless, thousands of feet, and still she kept falling, into nothingness.
A hand was shaking her shoulder. Had someone joined her in her death plunge? Someone was talking to her, a familiar voice.
"It's okay, Maria. It's okay. It was just a nightmare."
She opened her eyes and stared up at him. Cris Rhodes, her bodyguard and lover. He was tall, a whisker over six feet. A sinewy muscled body concealing a surprising strength, which he’d often demonstrated over the past two years. Despite his denials, he was also handsome, with dark hair, piercing eyes, and a shock of hair long overdue for a trim. The fear receded as it all came flooding back to her.
She was in the comfortable bedroom of their apartment in Cathedral Towers, Washington DC, a gated community in an upscale area. Cris had insisted on the security of a gated community if she wanted to pick up the threads of a normal life. The rent cost a packet, but money wasn't a problem. Not to Maria Tereshkova, doyen of a long line of wealthy Russians. Despite her wealth, she’d astonished her friends by announcing her decision to stand for election to the Russian Presidency. Her platform was an anti-corruption ticket. Ever since, she’d been hiding, always on the run.
They'd begun to make a life in the spacious four-bedroom apartment, and even visited the basement gym each morning. The reason was not just leisure.
“If they come again, we’ll need to run. The fitter you are, the faster you run.”
Cris Rhodes took it seriously. He was a former DEA agent who'd met her by accident and become her de facto bodyguard. Later, he became her lover. Despite the claustrophobia of spending so much time in the apartment, his training warned him to be patient. Maria Tereshkova hated the confinement, but she was still scared.
“I thought I was going to die."
He looked down at her, wondering what she saw in him. He was a burned out former DEA agent. She was a wealthy Russian, more than just a wealthy Russian. She was a very pretty, wealthy Russian. Slim, pixie-faced, with a curvy body men would take a second look at, and a third. Until they asked her a personal question, and the dark eyes would flash with indignation. She’d shake her dark hair as she speared the questioner with a glare. She was feisty, classy, and she was his girl.
He gave her a hug and covered the wince. The last time they went after her, he stopped a bullet, and it went in deep. The medics told him it had to come out, but the recuperation would be long, so he’d kept postponing it. He had better things to do. Like keeping her alive.
“You’re not going to die, not while I'm around."
She flashed him a brief smile, climbed out of bed, and walked into the kitchen. He’d earlier switched on the coffee machine, and the smell of the fresh brew was like a magnet. They sat at the table, feeling the strong dose of caffeine jerk them awake, only the dark circles under her eyes a reminder of her nightmare.
Further inside the apartment a door opened, and Yuri Romanov emerged, the short, pale, skinny Russian computer hacker who stayed with them. He spent most days and most nights in his bedroom, browsing and hacking the Internet. They weren’t sure what he was up to during those long, lonely hours. Except in some strange way, he was making money. Literally. Something to do with virtual currency, Bitcoins. Mining and trading them. The language of his arcane online activities was a mystery.
"Did you manage to get any sleep?"
Yuri raised his eyebrows and grimaced. "I don't have time to sleep. I'm already on my way to my first million, and with any luck, I'll be able to rent an apartment like this one before too long.” He flashed a quick smile, "Don’t think I'm not grateful for you allowing me stay here. It’s just that I’d like my independence. To know I’ve achieved something."
Maria frowned. "Yuri, browsing the Internet, doing whatever it is you do, doesn't seem like a good way to make a living."
He snorted. "What about your life? You call that good?" He immediately apologized, "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. I know you're trying to improve conditions in Russia and fight the corruption."
"Forget it." She touched his arm to reassure him, "You’re on edge, Yuri. You don’t get enough sleep."
Cris looked at Maria, and she was more than on edge. The Kremlin had been chasing her for almost two years, trying to kill her for having the effrontery to oppose the sitting President. So far, Cris had managed to fight off the attacks, and he’d left a trail of bodies in his wake. But all it took was one lucky bullet, and it would all be over.
He glanced at Yuri. "Have you picked up any signs of Kremlin activity related to Maria?"
He shook his head. “I sweep the Kremlin computer systems daily, and check for the name Maria Tereshkova. There’s been nothing for several months, and my guess is they’ve stopped."
“You really think so?”
“I’m certain. There’s nothing to suggest they’re still interested in you.”
“In that case we’re safe," Maria said abruptly. Her face relaxed into a broad smile.
Cris watched her carefully, and almost in front of his eyes, the tension went out of her.
The living nightmare of the past two years is over. Or so she thinks. I’m not sure. Where Russia is concerned, and especially the Kremlin, I trust them like I’d trust a hungry tiger.
Before he could warn her, she said, “We can take a vacation. I'd like to go to Europe, to Paris. And when we come back, we can go for Alexander. I miss him so much, Cris."
His reply was immediate. "It’s too dangerous. We need to wait, and give it more time."
"Cris, I can arrange a bodyguard, even though I don’t need one anymore." She regarded him with a pleading expression. In that moment, the twin emotions of love and empathy. She’d been a frightened woman for too long, and she deserved a break. Even though the apartment was luxurious, she rarely went out, and when she did, he was always watching for the next attempt on her life.
I don’t like it. I don’t like it one little bit. But what the hell, it’s been so long.
“Okay, we’ll do it. With two bodyguards.”
“Oh, Cris, it’ll be wonderful. I promise you.”
“Yeah.” His mind was racing ahead, considering the risk factors, “What’re you planning on doing in Paris?"
Her face was bright with enthusiasm. “We can look at the museums, the art galleries, take in some shows. The Moulin Rouge, that's famous. Then there’re the restaurants and the pavement bistros, I want to see them all. Cris, it’ll be wonderful."
Yuri gestured to his room, stacked with state of the art computer gear. "I’ll take extra care to monitor the traffic on the Russian security systems, and call you the moment I see anything strange. It’s time you both had a vacation.”
Despite his misgivings, he didn’t argue. “As long as you monitor their communications.”
"Don't forget, I’m the best hacker in Russia." He paused for a second, "At least, I am now. There used to be one who was better. The fool tried to hack into the Russian President's personal email account. They caught him, and he’s probably dead. Anyway, if there’s anything going on in Moscow, I’ll know about it. Relax and enjoy your vacation.”
* * *
The landing gear thumped down beneath the vast Boeing 787 Dreamliner, and the massive aircraft touched down on the tarmac. They’d arrived at Paris, Charles de Gaulle Airport, on the outskirts of the city. Maria looked tired, and more than a bit tense.
"That was a long flight. I’ve never seen Paris before. I hope it’s worth it.”
There was a reason for her mood. All the way she’d worried about what they’d face when they arrived. Wondered if they’d really given up trying to kill her.
“It was a long flight,” he agreed, “but it would have seemed a lot longer in coach.”
“Perhaps.”
Not that she’d know much about traveling anything other than First Class. Or even slumming it in Business Class. First Class travel in a Dreamliner definitely shortened the distance.
“It’ll be worth it, believe me. The City of Light, people say Paris is the most beautiful city in the world.”
Her face lit up, and it was as if the years had fallen from her. "You’re right. It’ll be fantastic, Cris. Something we’ll never forget.”
A half-hour later, they entered the arrivals lounge. All that remained was to negotiate the final hurdle, French immigration. The uniformed official, the fonctionnaire, was taking his time, and the queue long. They were next in line when all hell broke loose. Cris shoved her hard to the floor as he recalled her prophetic words.
A trip to remember, she said. Something we’d never forget. I remember the old saying, be careful what you wish for.
This was an attack with a difference, not the usual attempted hijack. They came in from outside the airport, well-dressed young men in their late teens and early twenties, and all of Middle Eastern appearance. They carried backpacks, like so many the world over. Except their backpacks concealed AKS assault rifles, the folding stock paratroop versions of the iconic Kalashnikov. They put down their packs, ripped out the guns, and straightened the stocks. A moment later, one screamed the pig-grunt of the Islamic mass murderer, ‘Allahu Akbar!’ They squeezed the triggers, and the packed arrivals hall became a blood-soaked battleground.
"Stay down," he shouted as she struggled to look around. They were partly hidden behind the desk of the startled immigration officer. The man was too slow. He turned toward the attackers, mouth open in astonishment, and died. A long burst of 7.62mm bullets tore him part, and the weight and power of the volley flung his body to the floor. Cris covered Maria to protect her, and the body of the fonctionnaire formed a further barrier between the attackers and the woman he guarded. The woman he loved.
They remained on the floor while torrents of gunfire chewed up passengers, staff, and equipment by random selection. The airport cops were fast to respond, and they opened fire with their P90 submachine guns. The stubby 5.7mm FNs roared, spewing bullets from their fifty-round magazines. A full-scale firefight developed, and Cris stayed huddled over Maria’s body. Five minutes after it had erupted, the shooting stopped when the last terrorist went down under a hail of police bullets. Cops barked orders in French and English, and he helped her up. When he was satisfied the threat was truly over, he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into motion. At first, she resisted, stunned by the ferocity of the attack.
“No, we should…”
"We need to get out," he murmured, trying to calm her, "We’ll start walking toward the exit. Not too fast, we’re just passengers frightened by the gunfire, trying to get away.”
She nodded her understanding, and they strolled toward the exit. A cop shouted at them in French. Cris nodded and smiled, but kept walking. They made it to the exit and reached the baggage hall. When he'd retrieved their cases, they continued outside to the cab rank. People were milling around, still in shock after the sudden attack. He went to the head of the line of taxis, opened the door, and pushed her inside. People in the queue were shouting in indignation, and the cab driver snarled, “You have to wait your turn. You can’t do this.”
"We just did it, pal. Get the wheels turning, and I’ll tell you the destination when we’re on the way."
“But there are others who…”
“You want me to drag you out and drive myself?”
The man gave a Gallic shrug, started the engine, and drove away.
He looked at Maria. "You still haven't told me where we are staying."
A face was ashen. "Cris, that attack, it can't have been for me?"
She was trembling in shock, and he held her tight to him. "No, it wasn't for you. It was another Islamic terrorist attack. Not the first time they've hit Paris, and I guess it won't be the last."
“I made a mistake bringing you to Paris."
That remains to be seen.
“No, it was just coincidence. Nothing more than that.”
Was it a harbinger of bad things to come? Maybe. A definite maybe.
They were leaving the airport, and the driver turned his head around. “Which destination? Where are you going?"
He looked at her. "Maria, where are we staying?"
She managed a wan smile, although it took considerable effort. "I wanted it to be a surprise. We’re staying at the George V. People say it's one of the finest hotels in Paris."
"Expensive?"
She shook her head. "You don't want to know. Anyway, who cares about money?”
Those of us who don’t have a family fortune to spend, like ninety-nine percent of the grunts in this world.
The Paris traffic was gridlocked, as usual. In addition, police had thrown up a cordon to manage the fallout from the terrorist attack. It took almost two hours to complete the journey to the hotel, but when they got there, it was worth every minute. The George V was beautiful, stylish, and incredibly expensive. The uniformed doorman ushered them through the main doors into a reception area that resembled a ballroom. A bellboy showed them to their suite, and it looked like they'd built it for royalty.
The way the rich live! All milk and honey, provided people aren’t trying to kill you.
He checked out the minibar and found shots of cognac for each of them. They slumped on the sofa, and she put her head on his shoulder.
"Cris, I hope isn't going to happen again. For a moment back there, I thought…"
He nodded. "Yeah, I know. What about the bodyguards you said you’d hire?"
"It's all arranged. They’re both former French Foreign Legion. Very tough, and they know how to handle themselves."
They’d better, because if they don’t do their job, she could die.
They didn't leave the suite that evening. Instead, she ordered a meal to be brought up to their room. It came with the most expensive bottle of champagne the hotel had on offer, which meant the price was astronomical. The bottle was also very large, and lasted them the whole evening and into the early hours. They slept late, and in the morning, a loud knocking on the door awoke them.
