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    Black Operator - Complete Box Set (Books 1-6)
    Black Operator - Complete Box Set (Books 1-6)
    Black Operator - Complete Box Set (Books 1-6)
    Ebook650 pages15 hours

    Black Operator - Complete Box Set (Books 1-6)

    By Eric Meyer

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    About this ebook

    The thrilling complete six-book set which details the efforts of the Kremlin to kill a political opponent of the President. Maria Tereshkova must flee for her life, and only a burned-out DEA agent, Cris Rhodes, stands in the way of the shadowy gunmen sent to kill her. A series of breathtaking chases packed with violent action.

    Includes:
    Black Operator: The Russian Assassin
    Black Operator: The Kremlin Assassins
    Black Operator: Red Square Assassins
    Black Operator: The Siberian Assassin
    Black Operator: The Moscow Assassins
    Black Operator: The Gulag Assassins

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSwordworks Books
    Release dateJan 10, 2018
    ISBN9781370409457
    Black Operator - Complete Box Set (Books 1-6)
    Author

    Eric Meyer

    An internationally recognized expert on the subjects of HTML, CSS, and Web standards, Eric has been working on the web since late 1993. He is the founder of Complex Spiral Consulting, a co-founder of the microformats movement, and co-founder (with Jeffrey Zeldman) of An Event Apart, the design conference series for people who make web sites. Beginning in early 1994, Eric was the campus Web coordinator for Case Western Reserve University, where he authored a widely acclaimed series of three HTML tutorials and was project lead for the online version of the Encyclopedia of Cleveland History combined with the Dictionary of Cleveland Biography, the first example of an encyclopedia of urban history being fully and freely published on the Web.

    Read more from Eric Meyer

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      Book preview

      Black Operator - Complete Box Set (Books 1-6) - Eric Meyer

      Prologue

      The bitter northeast wind blew hard and cruel across the ancient cobblestones of Red Square, Moscow, Russian Federation; the focus of absolute power since the days of the Czars, and overlooked by the forbidding face of the Kremlin. They said the square always felt cold, no matter what the season. Red Square, the public face of the dark and bitter years of the Soviet era, before everything changed.

      A new democracy dawned, and people looked for the end of their suffering under Communist rule. At first, the Russian Federation was the new hope for Eastern Europe and for much of the world. That hope died when the hard-faced men in the Kremlin took back the reins of power in their iron grasp. Yet more than half the population refused to accept the new reality, declaring they would not be bullied into silence. These were the women of the new Russian dictatorship, and they’d taken enough.

      She climbed onto the rostrum, and the shouted chants increased in volume.

      Ma-Ri-A. Ma-Ri-A!

      Slim, erect, and determined, she waited for the tumult to die down. This was a woman of the new era, tough and proud, an inner core of sprung steel, thinly veiled by the attractive, dark-haired public face. Her classic high cheekbones and oval face could only belong to a modern Russian woman. She surveyed the many thousands of people who’d come to listen to her words. Most were women, but many men were also in the crowd. Waiting to hear their lives were about to change for the better.

      She held up her hands for silence. Slowly, the chants died down, broken by the faint, distant wailing of sirens as the Moscow Militia answered emergency calls, or stopped vehicles to shake down the drivers. Or maybe on the way to Red Square. They would come, sooner or later. They always did.

      After a pause, she spoke into a microphone, and her voice echoed off the gray stones of the Kremlin wall.

      Women and men of Russia, I address my words to all of you. All who value freedom and equality. To those who suffer the beatings and brutality, whether delivered by partners or those policemen paid to protect us. Those who despise corruption at all levels of our society, from the bottom to the very top. To those who believe the darkest days of the Czars and the Soviet Empire are already upon us. The madness must stop. We must take back the nation in a bold, new revolution to strip the abusers and bullies of their powers!

      The shouts began again. Revolution! Revolution! Ma-Ri-A! Ma-Ri-A!

      She held up her hands, and silence fell again. You may have heard those in government who say I am not a Russian citizen, and therefore have no right to interfere in politics.

      She smiled and held up a passport that everyone recognized as Russian. Here is the proof, and if you want more, there is this. She held up another document, and those nearest to her could it was a birth certificate. Also Russian. I was born less than ten kilometers from Red Square, and I will post these documents on my website, in case anyone has been misinformed.

      At this point, she smiled. Especially those government officials who are determined to ignore the truth.

      They laughed then, and the noise was a susurration, rolling and swirling in the air. They chanted, Ma-Ri-A. Ma-Ri-A.

      She began speaking again. I have decided to stand for President of the Russian Republic. Cheers and shouts of acclaim greeted her announcement. The man who presently occupies that post is determined to stop me, and he will use every means, both legal and illegal to prevent my standing for election. They tell me speaking publicly in this place is illegal, and I should have first obtained a police permit. She paused, In my own country!

      She waited, and they laughed at the absurdity. She doubted they’d laugh if they knew the truth. That she was a short step from arrest, a severe beating, and long imprisonment for some trumped up charge. She’d go the way of so many of the President’s opponents, and at worst, would disappear forever. The isolated, frozen wastes of Siberia were still a long, long way from Moscow.

      Her chief bodyguard, Yuri Golovin, tapped her on the shoulder in a discreet gesture, and she turned her head a fraction.

      We don’t have much time, Maria. The cops are starting to assemble on the far side of the Square. Another few minutes, and you know what’ll happen. A baton charge, and if they’re in a bad mood, they could even open fire on the crowd. They’ll do anything to stop you.

      She stared at him in dismay. You think they’ll start shooting?

      They’re scared, and frightened people do stupid things. We must get you away from here.

      Her face was rigid. Impossible. I must finish saying what I’ve come to say. These people have come here to listen, and I won’t let them down.

      He frowned. Five minutes, no more. Any more and I’ll carry you away.

      I’ll be quick, Yuri.

      She continued addressing the crowd, and now her message was more hurried. She talked of the abuses she’d suffered in her campaign for justice and equality. Of harassment, and endless official corruption trying to force her to stop. She didn’t stop, for Maria Tereshkova had much to say, and her strident voice carried to the furthest corners of the square. She was almost shouting, consumed by passion for her cause, her ideas to sweep away the dark cloud hovering over present-day Russia.

      As the minutes ticked by, her bodyguards grew increasingly nervous. Searching for signs of a growing threat to the woman they guarded, and waiting for the inevitable attack. She glanced aside as Yuri took a firm hold of her arm.

      They’re moving into the square. Maria, we must leave. Now!

      I’m nearly finished, she murmured. Just another few minutes.

      He was dragging her away. We’re out of time, he snapped, looking at the other bodyguards hovering anxiously around her. Get her out of here!

      They moved in, and Maria felt her body grabbed by one man, her arms and legs by two others, and they were bundling her away. They jogged the platform steps, but they didn’t head for the armored BMW Seven series she’d used after several previous assassination attempts. Instead, they entered the crowd.

      People panicked after her hurried departure, milling around in confusion. Tereshkova felt the knocks and bumps as they carried her through tightknit knots of people, and then she heard it begin. What they’d all feared, the blast of whistles, shouted orders, and screams of terrified people. The Moscow Militia had arrived, attacking the crowd, forcing their way in, trying to reach her.

      The bodyguards kept pushing through the almost impenetrable mass of people. They’d had no choice, using the car would have given the Militia a chance to ambush her with a simple roadblock. So they used the tens of thousands of supporters as a smokescreen and a barrier between her and the Militia.

      The screams became louder, and a single shot cracked out. Then another, and a noise like exploding firecrackers erupted in the square. Assault rifles firing on full auto, and the shouts of panic became screams of the wounded and dying. The Militia was fighting hard to reach her, and when they failed to part the crowd, they used extreme force. Gunfire, and innocents were dying.

      She wanted it to stop, wanted to try reasoning with the Militia. Even if it meant her arrest, with all the consequent cruelties the State could muster. She shouted and pleaded with Yuri to slow down, to allow her to intervene. He was deaf to her entreaties, squeezing and pushing their way through the terrified stampede. They stumbled upon the first bodies. Two people, a man and a woman, their bodies riddled with bloody bullet wounds.

      Yuri and his men ignored them. They had a single mission, to guard their principal. The woman many regarded as the last great hope for the Russian Federation. Who had frightened the men holding the reins of power inside Russia, and the man who issued orders to his Militia and Army bullyboys that often resulted in the deaths of his opponents.

      The dizzying journey became a blur of colors and noise, a potent cacophony that made her feel she was almost going mad. She heard Yuri’s voice telling them to slow down, and they descended a long flight of stone steps. The echoing noise was familiar. She was in a Moscow Metro station, descending deeper and deeper underground. She searched for a station name to know where they’d taken her.

      This is Okhotny Ryad Metro Station, Yuri said, reading her mind. Two stops and we’ll be close enough to reach the safe house without risking the open streets. When the heat dies down, we’ll make secure arrangements for your journey to the United States.

      That’s five days from now, she flared. You can’t keep me in a tiny apartment for all that time. I have business to attend to, people waiting to meet with me. Yuri, they’re relying on me. I can’t let them down.

      They emerged onto the platform, and in an uncharacteristic gesture, he took hold of both her arms and held them tight. Maria, you don’t get it. Those bastards have had enough, and today they’ve decided to stop you. Permanently. Someone authorized them to open fire, and grab you at all costs. They came close. If we’d tried for the car, they’d have taken you. These people are not amateurs, and they’re not all Militia.

      Then who?

      He shrugged. I don’t know for sure, but I’ll give you a few names to play around with. FSB, internal security, maybe even SVR, foreign intelligence, they like to stick their noses into internal business. Even GRU, military intelligence, Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye. It could be anyone. You know how the Czar operates. He clicks his fingers, and the people around him jump, whether it’s legal or otherwise. You must stay safe until you reach America. I doubt they’ll try to hit you over there.

      She gently extracted herself from his arms as a rumbling in the tunnel announced the imminent arrival of the train. Very well, I’ll do as you say. I don’t pretend to like it, but if you think I don't have a choice, so be it. But won’t they stop me at the airport?

      He gave a grim shake of the head. I’ve mapped out a different route. We'll travel by car to the border with Belarus. Once we’re across, we’ll take a flight to Amsterdam, and change planes for Chicago. The journey will be longer, but with any luck, we’ll stay below their radar. Stay safe.

      We?

      I’ll keep you safe, he smiled, I’m coming with you. Wherever you go, I’ll be with you. Looking after you, no matter what.

      She moved closer and gave him a brief hug. A small gesture of thanks, knowing the tough bodyguard would do whatever it took to protect her life, including taking a bullet for her, if the occasion demanded. Amid her despair at the massacre she’d witnessed in Red Square, she felt warmed by his devotion. With men like him supporting her cause, she had a chance against the enormous power wielded by the Kremlin. A slight chance, admittedly, but better than no chance.

      The train screeched to a halt, and the doors slid open. They stepped into the tightly packed car, and she smelled the odors of her fellow Muscovites. Unwashed bodies, soot, and the rank smell of clothes too long unwashed. Mingled with the fragrance of expensive French perfumes and leather designer handbags. People’s breaths bearing the fragrant overtones of last night’s expensive dinner.

      The new Russia. For some, the crushing of hope, and the end of dreams. For others, the path to excess, to expensive foreign sports cars and apartments in the wealthiest districts. Wealth bled from the have-nots and the hopeless, and squandered in the pursuit of reckless luxury. Her soul cried out for justice, for equality. The country she loved was becoming one to despise.

      * * *

      They were sitting inside the Café Bosco, just off Red Square. The woman’s voice carried as far as the café, and when the door opened, they heard her clearly. The three men were at a table in the front window, watching the ebb and flow of the crowd, and measuring their response to the hard-hitting rhetoric. They didn't like what they saw. People were drinking in her words as though dying of thirst and then finding cool, fresh water. The Militia began their attack, and they watched the chaos that followed. Frowned at the failure to arrest her, and the escape of the woman they wanted dead. So be it, the attack had been a desperate throw of the dice, and it had failed. Now they needed to try something different.

      The man who broke the silence wore an expensive, Western-cut suit that would have cost six months’ wages for the average Russian. He could have been anything, wealthy businessman, government hireling, even an oligarch. His name was Vladimir Ushakov, and his Kremlin role was a mystery to all but one man. The man they called The Czar, the former spy and FSB intelligence Supremo, who ruled Russia with an iron fist.

      She is growing more dangerous by the day. Something must be done to stop her, and soon.

      He meant his boss wanted something done about her. When Ushakov spoke, people assumed, rightly, he carried a message from another man. A message it would be wise not to ignore.

      Boris Makeyev, Russian Deputy Minister of Defense, sighed. You know we’ve tried to stop her on at least three occasions. He meant to kill her. The problem is the bodyguards. They're aware of the threats to her life inside Russia, and they guard her well. Her supporters afford her protection, too, which encourages her to disseminate treasonous poison like she was doing out there today.

      Ushakov leaned forward to speak quietly. In which case you must try again, and next time make sure it doesn’t fail. My boss’ patience is not endless. He will not always forgive failure so readily.

      Makeyev paled a fraction, which was not unnoticed by the others. They all knew if he showed weakness, a replacement would soon be found for the post of Deputy Minister. It was in their power to make such a suggestion, and the man at the top would listen. The Deputy Defense Minister spoke quickly. There may be an opportunity about to arise when her defenses will be weaker. You are aware she is to travel to the United States to begin a speaking tour. She will travel with a single bodyguard, and she will, of course, be outside the protection of her supporters. An opportunity for the right man to rid us of this woman for good. He smiled. We can blame it on a random shooting. They have no shortage of such crimes in America.

      Vladimir Ushakov intervened. ‘If you do this, your cover will need to be cast iron, lest you create an international incident. You are aware the President has said she is not to be overtly attacked? After a brief interval, both men gave a reluctant nod, and he went on. Too many political opponents have disappeared over the years. Should she become a martyr, it could turn into a rallying point for all those who oppose our President. In which case those responsible will spend the rest of their lives counting trees, is that clear?"

      Counting trees was a euphemism that dated back to Soviet times. Political prisoners sent east in sealed trains, and they shot the lucky ones out of hand. Those less fortunate reached the gulags in Siberia. There was nothing to break the grueling monotony of endless, backbreaking slave labor and starvation rations, except to count trees, of which the frozen Arctic wastes had no shortage. Life was short, and death no surprise.

      Makeyev shrugged. You have nothing to fear, Vladimir. The world will never know. The President will be able to show his hands are clean.

      You’d better be certain, Ushakov snapped. ‘No overt Russian involvement, none. You know the alternative. It is not comfortable, believe me."

      Most Russians had seen or heard of the unheated cattle cars used to transport prisoners to the east. Stories of frozen bodies being removed from the railroad cars with pry bars when they reached their destination.

      Makeyev attempted a confident expression, which almost succeeded. I will brief my team to keep their activities secret, on pain of death.

      Ushakov brought his fist down hard on the table. People turned to stare, but he directed his hard, cold gaze at them, and they turned away. No! You cannot send your own men. They would be too easily identified if they were caught. The only safe way is to use one man to carry out the hit, a man with no connection with our government, preferably not even to Russia. He must be the best, unstoppable, and who will never give up until he has completed his mission. And who will not divulge the identity of those who hired him. He sat back and shrugged. What we need is a killing machine.

      Makeyev raised his hands in a helpless gesture. I know of no such man.

      But I do. Another man spoke. He wore plain clothes, khaki slacks, and an expensive, tailored brown leather jacket. Nonetheless, his erect bearing, hard, cold face, and air of command meant he couldn’t be anything other than a soldier.

      Ushakov regarded him with interest. Perhaps you would tell us what you have in mind, Sergei Morozov.

      Colonel Sergei Morozov of Russian Army Intelligence, or GRU, began to speak. I know of one man, just as you describe, a killing machine. But he is expensive.

      Morozov knew they’d go for it, they had to, and he was already working out his profit. He was this man’s fixer, and indeed, had been instrumental in recruiting him as a freelance assassin but obedient to GRU orders, Morozov’s orders. The reason he was expensive was because a sizable part of the fee would go into the Colonel’s pocket. Commission well earned, he always reasoned.

      Is he the best? Ushakov watched Morozov’s eyes. Alert for the slightest hesitation. There was none.

      The very best, yes. He is as you say, a killing machine, totally committed to his work, and all but unstoppable.

      What is his name? This time Makeyev asked the question, as if he’d been sidelined from the discussion and wanted to become involved.

      He has no name, the Colonel grunted. Not anymore. He was badly injured and disfigured during a military action in Chechnya. His injuries resulted in substantial memory loss, together with much of his sensory and emotional abilities. After his release from hospital, he drifted into the world of petty crime and violence to survive. I discovered him after he returned to his hometown of Goronezh.

      Goronezh? Makeyev raised his eyebrows. Chechnya? He is a Muslim?

      He was. Now he is nothing, other than what I tell him. He was grateful someone took an interest in him, and after I’d established he was the right man, I offered him the chance of permanent employment. I persuaded him that killing was a more lucrative way of earning a living than robbing local storeowners, with better rewards.

      By rewards, you mean money?

      Not just money. The injuries to his brain continue to trouble him a great deal. Certain drugs help reduce the pain and anguish, but they are almost unobtainable because of their high cost. He also has a predilection for young prostitutes, says screwing them gives him some relief from his suffering, albeit for a short time. After that, it slowly gets worse again. It could be there is a cure, but why would we bother? His pain serves as a goad, and forces him to return to us for more rewards, which guarantees his loyalty.

      Rewards like more drugs and child prostitutes.

      Indeed.

      He sounds like a monster.

      Colonel Morozov shrugged. He would best be described as a formidable machine, nothing more. We have used him on occasion to remove an inconvenient rival, and he has never failed us. I can issue him a Polish passport, and the name inside will be supplied by GRU. He understands Polish perfectly by the way, after two years he spent in that country during his military service. In theory, he could speak the language fluently, although he is a man of few words. If he were to be arrested, which is unlikely, no trail would lead to the Russian government.

      Ushakov regarded Makeyev, and their eyes met. What was there to discuss?

      Set it up. Money is no object, so you can set your killing machine in motion immediately. And make sure he does not fail.

      A cold smile. He never fails.

      He’d better not. If the President discovers what you’re doing, Colonel, he’ll string you up by the balls.

      Don’t you mean string us all up by the balls? Morozov replied smoothly. We’re all in this together. But don’t worry, he won’t fail, and no one will ever know who he is or where he comes from.

      Another look passed between Ushakov and Makeyev. Both men were Kremlin insiders, therefore experts at working the system to avoid blame falling on them. Of course you’re right, we’re all in this together, Ushakov murmured, his voice like spun silk. Tell me, Colonel, if they did capture and interrogate him, how much could he tell them?

      Morozov smiled and shook his head. He doesn’t even know his own name. You could tell him he’s Chinese and he’d believe you. He spluttered with laughter.

      The answer was the one they wanted. They smiled at each other contentedly, finished their coffee, and shook hands on the arrangement they’d just made to murder an innocent woman. Using a man from a small town named Goronezh. A man stripped of the last vestiges of his human identity, of humanity, and everything that separated man from beast. A man become beast.

      Chapter One

      Cris Rhodes couldn’t sleep, which was nothing new. Since the DEA operation that ended his career, the nightmares had haunted the long, nighttime hours. Like now, when he relived the massacre for the hundredth time. His job was DEA liaison to the FBI Hostage Rescue Team. The HRT was trained to extract American citizens from adverse situations; in the case of the DEA often meant their own men, after their cover was blown. He’d been with the unit for almost a year, and was accepted as one of them, after he took an active part in several missions that ended well. Until the last one, a raid into the jungles of Colombia. They went in hard and fast in a military helicopter, a UH-60, and rappelled into the compound.

      The surviving Colombians slipped away to an adjacent village and went on a maddened rampage. Gunning down men, women, and children, all innocent civilians, leaving the blood-soaked ground littered with the dead and dying.

      Like the HRT troopers, he had no choice but to fight fire with fire. The Americans went after them and fought with a bitter fury. Cris Rhodes surrendered his soul and his humanity to the killing, until the madness burnt itself out, and he stopped.

      When the shooting ended, the butcher’s bill totaled over forty dead, many of them children. Many more had suffered terrible wounds, and most of the narco soldiers had escaped. It all seemed pointless, knowing the flow of white powder would continue across the border unabated. Consumed by his anger, he’d tackled his DEA boss, arguing for a change of tactics. Knowing he was wasting his time, but he had to try. Almost a score of dead children couldn’t be ignored.

      We’re wasting our time. Not stopping them, and when we go in as many civilians die as narcos. We need a change of tactics. This can’t happen again, not ever. They were children, for Christ’s sake!

      He was unmoved. Shit happens. We can’t sit on our fannies and do nothing with a tidal wave of drugs coming into the country.

      Even if it means the deaths of innocent children?

      A shrug. Like I said, shit happens. That’s the price we have to pay.

      His voice rose as his anger grew. That’s the price those kids paid, not us.

      The senior DEA agent looked angry. We didn’t shoot those people, they did. We swallow the casualties and move on.

      Or move out.

      Excuse me?

      I’m finished with these cockamamie raids that achieve nothing and get innocent people killed. Find someone else to handle it, I’m out.

      They protested and tried hard to get him to stay. Cris Rhodes was good at what he did and handled himself as well as the best of the troopers from the HRT. He repeatedly told them no, and in the end they accepted he wouldn’t change his mind. A DEA physician concluded he was suffering from PTSD and recommended he see a department shrink. The Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was probably true. Except he didn’t like being labeled an invalid, so he told himself he was just tired, tired of the killing, tired of DEA, and tired of life. Since then, he’d been at a loose end and spent some of his spare time traveling. He’d never visited Chicago before, so he decided to stay for several days and see the sights. He bought an airline ticket to O’Hare and booked into a cheap hotel. Not quite a fleapit, but almost.

      Insomnia was a killer. Well, maybe not a killer like the hard-faced men he’d fought in the bitter war on drugs, but bad enough. An hour spent trying to sleep made no difference, and he decided on a walk. The city streets were almost empty, with just the occasional vehicle, most of them cabs speeding past. He strolled along Michigan Avenue, past the car dealerships and apartment blocks, heading for Chinatown. Collar pulled up against the cold north wind that flew off Lake Michigan.

      It happened fast. One moment the street was clear, and the next, a limo drove past and swerved too late to avoid a cab speeding across its path. The limo collided with the taxi, and both vehicles stopped. The cab driver, an Arab, leapt out and began shouting and cursing at the limo driver. The rear door of the limo opened, and a woman stepped out. She wore a long, sheath-like evening dress cut low, with a draped Pashmina over her shoulders. Cris watched with interest and couldn’t help but admire her unmistakably foreign elegance, as well as her courage in confronting the cab driver. She approached him with a delicate smile, trying to reason with him.

      I am so sorry for the damage, but there was no way my driver could avoid your vehicle. I’m sure we can settle this amicably.

      The Arab turned an enraged face toward her. Are you fucking serious, lady? You know what you just did? This’ll cost me several days’ earnings, and all you can say is you’re sorry? His eyes hardened as they raked her up and down, taking in the slim, taut body. The evening dress did little to disguise it. Look at you, woman! Almost undressed, you look like a whore. I expect you’re going to meet a client in some fancy hotel, is that it? You should be ashamed. Lady, you’re gonna pay big for the trouble you caused me.

      The front door of the limo opened, and the driver emerged. He was a big man, well muscled, his suit coat stretched tight across his chest. He walked quickly toward the woman and the cab driver. Cris was interested to see how he’d deal with it. He didn’t look the type to use reason when fists and boots would be more eloquent. Then his foot skidded on a patch of oil, and he fell with an audible ‘crack’ as his head hit the curb. He lay on the ground, breathing heavily. Not badly injured but leaving his principal on her own, faced with a wrathful Arab.

      The cab driver’s stance changed, now the woman was alone. His expression hardened as his anger skyrocketed. You should cover your hair as well. You disgust me with your lack of morals. Women like you should be locked up and whipped!

      Spittle ran freely from his mouth as he worked himself into a frenzy. Unable to control himself, he raised his fist to strike her. Cris had taken enough. He ran on, taking light steps on rubber-soled shoes so he was almost silent, and he pushed in front of the man. His hands were rigid, like short daggers, and he delivered a series of strikes that pushed the cab driver back. He struck him twice more, and he fell to the ground. Cris knelt and checked his vital signs, as the woman spoke.

      Will he live?

      He looked up at her and confirmed his first impression. She was a looker, no question. An external fragility, but a closer glance perceived the inner strength. The way she stood with the poise of a ballerina, and the eyes keen and intelligent, probing and analytical, at odds with the dress that made her look sexy.

      The man who winds up with this girl will count himself lucky. Her voice has a trace of an accent. I’d guess Eastern European. Wherever she comes from, it’s sexy as hell.

      He’ll live.

      Her lips parted in a relieved smile as she regarded the man who’d come to her rescue, like a Russian fairy tale, and she liked what she saw. About medium height, lean, with clear blue eyes, dirty blonde hair, a man who moved with the fluid grace of a panther.

      I wonder what kind of work he does, soldier, athlete, workout freak, or all of those things?

      She was a good judge of people, and one look at the stretched, taut expression, lips set in grim lines, told her he’d suffered some great sorrow.

      An interesting man, and worth getting to know better. Besides, I owe him.

      Thank you, I thought he was about to attack me.

      He was, but he’ll think twice next time.

      I’m sure he will. My driver slipped and banged his head. I need to get him into the limo. Would you help me? I can take him to the ER room and get him checked out.

      For some reason, he was surprised. You can drive that thing?

      She returned his look. I can do a lot of things, Mr…

      Rhodes, Cris Rhodes. No ‘h’.

      Excuse me.

      My name, Cris. There’s no ‘h’. He grinned. Just joking.

      He wasn’t joking. He wanted to stay talking to her for as long as he could. He picked up the driver under the armpits and gently placed him on the back seat, where he lay, moving slightly, fighting his way back to consciousness. Rhodes stood back while she inspected his head wound, and then she turned, as if assessing him. Sizing him up, in some way. They stared at each other for long seconds, and he found the experience more than interesting.

      Her lips formed a smile. Please, allow me to buy you lunch tomorrow. I know my diary is clear. I’m staying at the Newport Plaza hotel. Shall we say 1pm?

      He couldn’t believe it. A beautiful Russian woman had picked him up, a whole new experience. Sure, I’ll be there.

      She climbed into the driving seat of the limo, her eyes still fixed on him, when a cruiser came down the street at speed, blue light flashing. The vehicle skidded to a stop, and a cop leapt out clawing for his weapon. He shouted, Freeze, Mister. Don’t move or I fire!

      He melted into the shadows, leaving them to wonder where he’d gone. One moment he was there, the next he wasn’t. The cop stared at her. How the hell did he do that?

      She smiled. Magic, I guess.

      Like a Russian fairy tale.

      * * *

      The man with the badly scarred face stepped off the flight from Amsterdam Schiphol to O’Hare International. He arrived at immigration, carrying the bag he’d stowed in the overhead locker. If anyone found it strange he’d traveled the Atlantic with a single, small bag, they didn’t ask him the reason. The man whose passport identified him as Oskar Bielski was not the kind of man most people wanted to query. They’d more likely give him a wide berth. Not because of the scars, so much, although they were chilling. The eyes were the giveaway, the gateway to the soul. Empty and cold, an expression frozen into black nothingness that suggested Mr. Bielski would not encourage questions.

      The immigration agent also regarded his scarred visage, but with a great deal more interest. However, his visa and photo matched the system, and nothing suggested he was on a watch list.

      You here on business or pleasure, Mr. Bielski.

      He got a one-word reply, blurred by the twisted and damaged lips. Yes.

      The agent regarded the queue, and it stretched into infinity. He shrugged. Enjoy your stay, Sir. He gave him back the passport, but he didn’t immediately invite the next person to approach. For several seconds, he watched the departing passenger, and a thought crossed his mind.

      He was scary. I wouldn’t like to start a fight with that character. Not unless I was carrying an M60, and even then I’d open fire from long range. Jesus, what a monster!

      Smiling at his idiotic thought, he gestured to the next in line.

      Still, he’s probably harmless. Might have been in an accident and is in town to visit one of the city’s plastic surgeons. He sure needs one.

      * * *

      The scar-faced man emerged from the cab and walked along the street, heading for the address they’d given him before he left. He failed to notice people moving aside when they saw him. Not because their reaction was familiar, but because he didn’t notice any kind of reaction from any person, good or bad. They were just…people. Some he had instructions to kill, so he killed them. With no instructions to kill, he allowed them to live. His life was simple, and when he did as they ordered, he got the rewards, and enjoyed the glorious but all too short periods of relief from his anguish.

      Which is why he didn’t notice the four Hispanics, waiting for a potential victim fifty yards ahead. They’d timed their ambush well, and as he reached them, they blocked him from going further and smiled to each other. The guy was an obvious invalid, and he’d be easy meat. The biggest of them, whose name was Jesus Sanchez, and appeared to be the natural leader of the pack, made the challenge.

      Hey, Scarface, you look lost, like you need some help. We’ll show you the way. But it’ll cost you plenty, so why don’t you make it easy for yourself and hand over your wallet.

      The man known as Oscar Bielski remained still and expressionless. He noted the bulges inside the coats of at least two of them, and he was content. They had guns. He couldn’t travel with personal weapons, and he needed to acquire them in the city, without leaving a paper trail. He never left a paper trail. But here was a golden opportunity to take what he wanted. He never considered that they had weapons and he didn’t, so they could shoot him. Why would he? Whenever he went up against another man or men, no matter the weapon, or no weapon, he always beat them. It was a fact, no more and no less.

      They moved suddenly. The big man stepped toward him, and two others went either side, hands reaching to grab his arms. The fourth thug stood back, scanning the streets, watching for cops. Bielski didn’t even bother to dodge. He put up his arms to stop them holding him, ignoring the hard punch the bigger man hit him with on the chin. He didn’t flinch, and Jesus gasped in astonishment as the big man took his fist in one huge hand and squeezed. The other hand bunched into a fist and slammed into the attack on his left. The man on his right rained several blows at him, which he ignored. He squeezed hard, and the bones of the hand cracked aloud as the Hispanic squealed in pain. He sank to his knees, and Bielski hammered a punch into his face that almost took his head off. He skidded to the sidewalk to lie alongside the man he’d hit first.

      The last of his three attackers had stopped and was staring at him in disbelief.

      Victims don’t do this. They don’t fight back. Madre de Dios, what’s going down?

      He paused for another second, before deciding enough was enough. He turned to run, but the big man shot out a hand and held him by the collar of his coat. He dragged him back, and his fists repeatedly hammered into his head, until blood poured from cracks in his skull. He left the lifeless body and went to the first two men he’d tackled, the ones with the guns. They were both groaning, and he helped himself to their weapons. A snub nose Colt .45 revolver, and a Taurus Millennium lightweight polymer frame 9mm automatic.

      They would be enough, for now. He frisked their pockets for anything he could use, and found a spare magazine for each of the weapons.

      Only than did he eye the fourth man, standing twenty yards away, his expression still frozen in fear. It took him less than a second to work out his options, and he took the sole viable option. He turned and ran. The gunman was relaxed. He had what he wanted and continued walking, careful to leave the scene before any cops arrived. He felt comfortable walking through the almost empty city, for he’d become a creature of the night. It was during the hours of darkness when he felt most at home.

      Minutes later he pressed the call button to gain entry. The door buzzed, as if the resident, Alexander Kalinin, had been expecting him, which he had. They’d told him he could rely on this man not to betray him, for he was another Russian, a man with parents who still lived in Russia, in St Petersburg. The SVR man made it clear they were making a polite request for his cooperation. In return, his parents in Russia would continue to enjoy their peaceful existence. He was petrified at being involved in something illegal, but he had no choice. 

      He ushered the big man into the apartment through the front door and showed him his room. The newcomer didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t speak, and closed the door on him. Bielski looked around the squalid room, ignoring the peeling paint and wallpaper rimed with dirt, and put his small bag on the bed. He went back to Kalinin, who stared at him like a snake staring at a mongoose.

      Yes, how may I help you?

      Shower.

      Uh, yeah, right. Through there, he pointed at a door, and the man went inside the bathroom and examined the rust streaked bath with a shower over. He stood under the lukewarm shower for several minutes and emerged to return to his room. Kalinin smiled as he came out.

      Find everything you needed?

      He didn’t reply, re-entered his room, and lay on the bed to catch up on some sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day, and he intended to complete his mission by the end of the day so he could go home and claim his reward. The drug that dulled the torment and pain that was always there, filling his body and his mind. He’d force the young girls to do what he wanted, no matter how much they were horrified. If they refused, so much the better, the more physical the confrontation, the more he enjoyed it. He didn’t get to sleep, his mind dominated by thoughts of how best to handle the target. She would have a bodyguard, but it would make no difference. She may as well have carried a paperback book for protection.

      Should he go for a close range shot with a pistol, or hit her at long range with a rifle? He was more than capable with either weapon, and as his mind ranged over the possibilities, he anticipated the familiar pleasure he would take with the killing. Afterward, the usual rewards would be his, for they would be pleased when he got back. Pleased he’d carried out their instructions and the target was dead. He saw nothing wrong with what he did. Death was his business, or so they told him. At last he felt sleepy, satisfied with what lay ahead. He didn’t smile. He never smiled. Death was a serious business.

      * * *

      Rhodes couldn’t sleep. The encounter with the Russian woman dominated his thoughts. Not that he objected. If he was going to lie awake for most of the night, there were worse things he could picture in his mind. The invitation to lunch was a surprise. After all, he’d intervened for just a few minutes to resolve a minor altercation.

      What does it mean? Am I thinking like a kid, drowning in those huge, deep, dark eyes? That’s the most obvious explanation. She no doubt uses her beauty to overawe any number of men she meets. I’ll see her tomorrow, so I can feast my eyes on her over lunch.

      He grinned to himself for his schoolboy emotions.

      Dammit, I’ll pick up the check myself for a date with this classy girl.

      Sleep still evaded him, and his thoughts drifted back to Colombia. He was in a small town, along with a unit of FBI HRT. Kevlar helmeted, clad in Nomex reinforced black jump suits, and ballistic vests making them appear bigger and more formidable, weapons held ready. Cris held an M4A1 in his hands, and a Smith and Wesson M&P 9mm in his leg holster. The raid went in as planned. What happened afterward wasn’t. Screams of the terrified and injured, bodies of children, and the narcos firing indiscriminately at HRTs and civilians alike; a cold-blooded ploy to slow down the pursuit. It worked. Even the most hardened trooper finds it hard to step over the writhing body of a badly injured child and keep going.

      He dozed to the sound of the wind rattling the ill-fitting glass in the windows, but just before sleep took him, he recalled that intriguing, Eastern European accent of the woman in the limo. A classy lady, out of his league, but at least he’d see her again. He had a final thought before he lost consciousness.

      She didn’t even give me her name. Damn!

      * * *

      The scar-faced man bought a newspaper and sat on a stool in a coffee bar across the street. The barista gave the counter top a final wipe, approached the new customer, pausing when he saw his face. He felt the empty eyes looking at him, or looking through him. He couldn't tell which. Only that the guy was scary, although still a customer.

      What’ll it be, Mister? Coffee?

      Yes.

      Anything else?

      No reply. He shrugged and turned to the counter top machine. The heated water hissed through the ground up beans and emerged from the spout.

      Milk, sugar?

      No reply. He passed the coffee to the customer and found something else to occupy himself. The killer sipped at his coffee, engrossed in the article about his target. He wasn’t the sole customer, but other patrons steered clear. Not that they would consciously cold-shoulder this disfigured man, but it was more than the facial scars. There was something else about him, an indefinable vibe he gave off. A vibe that warned, ‘stay away.’ Like the danger warnings on live subway rails and electricity substations, although he didn’t need to display danger warnings, he wore them like a suit of clothes.

      The newspaper front page screamed, ‘Maria Tereshkova – the savior of the Russian nation?’ He couldn’t care less about politics or patriotism, or the Russian nation. His focus was on killing, and the sweet rewards that came when the job was completed; rewards that would blot out the pain for a short time. His head hurt now, like it always did. Soon he would find a temporary peace. The news item stated the name of her hotel. He would go there and kill her.

      He knew he’d been a soldier once, because the colonel told him about his previous life, before that fateful night when injury wiped much of his memory and left him disfigured. He’d been a very good soldier, the leader of an elite reconnaissance unit. The colonel explained his skills with weapons and unarmed combat had once been legendary, held up as a model for the rest of the army. He wished he could remember.

      He’d managed to view the after-action report, a pointless night attack on a strong Chechnyan position. The operation was ill-conceived, with no definable objective, a way for his superiors to gain brownie points and break a few Muslim heads. However, orders were orders, and they obeyed.

      Automatic fire and mortar rockets met the attack and wiped out his unit, except for him. He was left on a corpse-strewn field, more dead than alive, and almost died of thirst and loss of blood. Two Chechen teenagers scavenging for loot found him, and the medics patched him up. Although they couldn’t repair his mind, and they didn’t even bother with the scars. Imprisoned in a deep, dark basement cellar for two years, he returned home during a prisoner swap. At least, his body returned home. He’d left his mind back in Chechnya on some forgotten field. Severe brain damage left him a hollow husk, all humanity forgotten. However, his strength and military skills were undiminished.

      The unnamed colonel who arrived at the hospital had a proposition. He couldn’t be sure how he knew he was a colonel. He was dressed in plain clothes, khaki slacks, and expensive, brown leather flight jacket.

      I need a good man, a gunman. A man who will follow orders, and this will sometimes mean traveling abroad. Your job will be to kill certain people who oppose the best interests of Mother Russia.

      He waited, not certain what the man was saying.

      I can promise you generous rewards for your efforts. The doctors tell me you will continue to suffer mental and physical anguish. I can help you with that, expensive drugs to blunt the worst of the pain, and certain, ah, goodies to satisfy your other needs. He sensed his confusion and hurried on. Women, girls, and money, of course. You will want for nothing.

      For the first time, the colonel sensed an interest. When he said the word ‘kill’ the eyes had blazed for a split second. They blazed again when he mentioned girls. What do you say?

      The silence stretched out to several minutes, and eventually he spoke one word, Yes. And so the gunman was born. What this man offered him was life, where he had none. He became a hunter, and he would stalk and take down his prey until the target was dead.

      He considered how best to kill the woman inside her hotel. He would need better weapons than the modest handguns he’d taken in the street, a good quality pistol and a rifle. He snapped out of his reverie, sensing movement. The barista approached him, his expression wary.

      You wanna refill, Mister?

      He stared at him, and the young guy visibly shivered. He tossed two singles on the counter, got up, and left. He needed guns, and so he would find them and take them. Across the street an advertising banner caught his eye, ‘Gun Sale.’ The directions were to an address about a mile away. He started walking. A beaming smile greeted him as he stepped inside the store.

      Whatever you want, buddy, we got it for you, and right now we’re offering big discounts. The beefy gun storeowner waved a hand around his emporium, like an Arab bazaar owner selling his wares. You’re real lucky, Mister. Today is a special clearance day. You name it and it’s yours, and I can promise you a giveaway price.

      The gunman wandered through the racks of weapons toward the counter. He selected a brand-new pistol on a display stand and hefted the weight and balance. Still holding the gun, he looked around, and a rack of rifles caught his eye. They displayed bright orange stickers. ‘Deal of the day’ and ‘Accurate weapons for the most discerning hunter.’ The storeowner followed the direction of his gaze.

      You’re looking at one of the finest hunting rifles on sale in America, the Remington Model 700. You a hunter, Mister? Lot of game in the woods around the lake.

      Yes. He returned his attention to the handgun.

      That’s a quality piece, Mister. Ruger 9mm, the SR9, and on special at five hundred dollars, that’s almost giving it away. There’s a wait on handguns, but you’ll find it worthwhile. If you wanted something real special, how about this?

      He opened a display cabinet and pulled out a large automatic, bigger, heavier, and with a longer barrel than the Ruger. He held it out for him to examine.

      Now this here is your kind of gun, Mister. It’s a Wildey, fires a Magnum .475 round like these, he placed a box of bullets on the counter. This baby has real stopping power. You hit someone with the Wildey, and they ain’t getting up. He eyed the scarred visage and hid a shudder. I guess you’ve seen some action, that right, buddy?

      Yes.

      Thought so. Tell you what, I’ll bundle the Wildey and the Remington, and you won’t believe the price. The Ruger is a fine gun, but if you’re the kind of man prepared to go the extra few bucks, it has to be the Wildey. He stopped speaking and waited, confident of a sale.

      The gunman gave the Wildey a careful examination and was satisfied. He took down the Remington, sighted along the barrel, and left it on the counter. Then he returned his attention to the Wildey. He picked it up, ejected the magazine, and opened the box of bullets. He began loading the magazine, and the storeowner objected.

      You can’t to that in here, Sir. If you want to try the gun, we have a range out back, but the rules say you can’t load a weapon inside the store. Now why don’t we wander out. You can fire a few shots, and I can work out a price. You can take the rifle right away, and come back for the pistol.

      Yes. He raised the gun, aimed, and fired, and sure enough, the big Magnum bullet slammed into the man, and he went down. Unhurriedly, the gunman stuffed the Remington into a sports bag with a box of bullets, added the box of Magnum rounds, and zipped it closed. He stuffed the Wildey into his waistband, so it was hidden by his coat, and noticed the bunch of keys next to the cash register. The keyring carried a Ford tag, which meant a car. He needed a car, so he took the keys, hefted the bag, and walked outside. He pressed the remote, and a nearby silver-gray Ford Explorer beeped and flashed its lights. He spent precious minutes working out the intricacies of the satnav, punched in the address, and drove back into the city center. The display guided him to his destination, and he was very close to the Newport Plaza Hotel.

      * * *

      "May I help

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