Cold Warriors (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #3) Page 2

  Kane poured on the juice, sprinting with all his might through the alleyway, bursting through the other side and slamming headlong into a cart rushing through the back street far too fast. Kane spun but kept his footing, spotting his man a good hundred feet ahead of him, a grin on his face at Kane’s pain.

  Kane pushed through the ache in his thigh from where it had caught the spinning wheel and was soon back to full speed. His adversary rushed up a set of steps leading to the roofs of a row of houses lining the rear of the market and soon they were racing along slippery shingles and rooftop terraces. Kane shoved through a series of sheets hung out to dry, pushing the last one aside and gasping as he put on a burst of speed then jumped, only five feet of rooftop left between the sheets and the street below.

  He pushed off the ledge, his philosophy of ‘assume you’re already dead’ paying off as he saw the roof across the street, about one story below, rapidly nearing as his feet and arms waved in the air.

  “Not gonna make it!” he cursed as he approached the other side, the gravity end of the curve finally coming into play as he sunk, smacking into the wall with his body, his arms stretched out above him, grasping the ledge. As his fingers began to slip he raised his feet, pushing the toes against the side, creating some traction to push himself up slightly, his right toe finally catching on something large enough to halt his descent. He let go with his left hand and flung his entire left side up as hard as he could, grabbing onto the other side of the ledge, then pulled himself over the side, dropping unceremoniously to a rooftop patio, gasping for breath.

  Voices had him shoving himself up on his elbows. Two women were looking over the edge he had just climbed, one pointing below. The one pointing was older, the other younger, perhaps early twenties. A mother-daughter pairing if he had ever seen one. The daughter looked at him, smiling shyly. He scrambled to his feet as he surveyed his surroundings.

  His target was gone.

  Shit!

  It had taken him two weeks to find the man, Aslan Islamov, a known Chechen terrorist, or rebel as they preferred to call themselves. Anti-Russian all the way, and responsible for an extensive drug network that had its tendrils deep into the United States, distributing massive amounts of narcotics to the American public.

  And they were brutal.

  They put the Mexican gangs to shame.

  His assignment was to track and observe, see who his contacts were, and to then capture him if possible, take him out if not.

  But one week ago Kane had witnessed something he wasn’t supposed to. A meeting between Islamov and a man who was clearly Russian, his white skin and prominent nose a dead giveaway in this area. Kane had sent the photos back to Langley via satellite link as the meeting progressed, and he soon had IDs on the men. The guards were all former Russian Special Forces, Spetsnaz, and the main man himself was former Major General Yuri Levkin, once responsible for the entire Soviet nuclear arsenal.

  A staunch opponent of the new Russia, but fiercely patriotic—Levkin was a man who wanted the Soviet Union to return, in all its former glory, with an iron fist at its head. He was a tacit supporter of Putin, especially since Putin had begun to remove most of the freedoms Russians had gained, turning elections into a farce, crushing any opposition on the streets and in the press, and rebuilding the armed forces to once again rival that of their traditional enemy, the United States.

  But Levkin was one who felt that was just a start.

  He wanted the hammer and sickle to fly once again over the Kremlin, for the once proud CCCP acronym to adorn their military hardware, and for the world to tremble when Soviet armor redeployed, even if only on an exercise.

  So when this man met with Islamov, Kane immediately took notice. What appeared to be a massive amount of cash was handed over to Levkin by Islamov’s people, then computers were employed for about five minutes to most likely conduct wire transfers, and then the meeting was over.

  With Islamov apparently receiving nothing but a memory stick.

  When Levkin had left, Islamov had immediately plugged the stick into his laptop, then minutes later pulled it, destroying it with a rock and tossing it into a cooking pit with a flame substantial enough to melt anything exposed to it in time.

  Kane had retrieved it, but didn’t hold out much hope of anything being recovered.

  He had called in a satellite trace of Levkin in case they needed to pick him up, then awaited orders from Langley on what to do. They had come in just minutes ago.

  Take Islamov alive.

  Which was why he hadn’t just shot him in the market. Instead he had shot his four man security detail, all amateurs and barely trained from what he could see, but during this brief moment, the bastard had been able to escape on foot.

  And now was nowhere to be seen.

  He approached where the two women were, the young one blushing as she held her veil up, covering her face, but leaving a stunning pair of eyes to gaze out at him.

  “What is it?” he asked in Chechen.

  “Look for yourself,” was the response of the older woman, none too pleased to see him on her rooftop. She glanced at her daughter then yelled, the poor girl crying out in anger and embarrassment, then running toward the door leading to downstairs, casting one last glance, and with a drop of her veil, a smile at Kane.

  Kane returned it, hating to break a young girl’s heart, then looked over the edge.

  And found his target, Islamov, lying on the ground, barely moving, he obviously not as successful at clearing the alleyway as Kane had thought. Kane looked for a way down, but found none, instead running toward the door the young woman had just entered.

  He pushed the door open and wound himself down several flights of steps until the bottom, coming out into a common area where the girl was sitting on the floor, preparing a meal. She jumped up, her eyes full of hope as her mother burst from the stairs, yelling at him to get out.

  Kane gave the girl a wink, she blushed, and he stepped out into the alleyway and over to his target. He quickly checked the man’s vitals. He was weak, and judging from the piece of rebar shoved through his abdomen, he would have a few minutes of slow, agonizing dying before he’d be of no more use to Kane.

  Kane smacked him on the cheek, reviving the man. Groans were the response, then fluttering eyes.

  “Help me,” he muttered.

  “I will if you answer some questions.”

  “Help me.”

  “Why were you meeting with Levkin?”

  The man shook his head.

  Kane grabbed the rebar and gave it a push.

  The man winced, paling even more, but now a little more alert, the sharp pain having sent a surge of adrenaline through his system.

  “Don’t make me hurt you. Why were you meeting with him?”

  “Codes.”

  “Codes for what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Another jerk on the bar.

  “I don’t know!” gasped the man. “I swear.”

  “You paid a fortune for codes you know nothing about?”

  “I’m just the middleman.”

  “Who are the codes meant for?”

  “I don’t know. I emailed them. He wired the money.”

  “What’s the email address?”

  “I don’t know, I destroyed it.”

  The man’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Your account number?”

  “In my wallet.”

  Kane searched his pockets, pulling out a worn black leather wallet. Between several bills he found a folded piece of paper with an account number written on it.

  “Do you have any idea what this is about?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did Levkin say anything that didn’t make sense?”

  “Help me.”

  “I will, if you tell me what I want to know.”

  “He said, ‘Now Crimson Rush can finally proceed.’ That’s all.”

  “Crimson Rush? What’s that?”

&
nbsp; But Islamov didn’t answer, finally passing out from the pain and loss of blood. A growing crowd was gathering at either end of the alley and it would only be a matter of time before this man’s friends would find him.

  Kane decided it was best to avoid that.

  He stepped back inside the house he had just left, the mother protesting, slapping at him, the daughter smiling shyly behind her veil, as Kane thanked them in Chechen for their hospitality, climbing the stairs then racing across the roofs and away from the body that was once one of Chechnya’s greatest drug lords, his mind consumed by one thought.

  What the hell is Crimson Rush?

  The Opera House

  West Berlin, West Germany

  February 5, 1982

  One week before Checkpoint Charlie Exchange

  Alex West sat in the high back leather chair, a luxury compared to what he was used to. One way to judge the importance of a meeting to those organizing it was how comfortable the chairs were. It was his experience that the most important meetings were in comfortable chairs like these; the most life threatening in the utmost uncomfortable imaginable.

  He sat on one side, alone, about a dozen chairs surrounding the table. He sipped his coffee, black and horrid, wincing with each sip at the bitter brew that rotted his gut with each ounce he consumed.

  The bastard responsible should be handed over to the Soviets.

  He put the mug down, the blue NATO logo emblazoned on white facing him. He pretended to be interested in the logo as he assessed the situation. Only two weeks ago he had successfully rendezvoused with a nuclear sub in the Bering Sea with a microfilm obtained from a double-agent in Siberia that contained information he was forbidden to look at, the canister containing it apparently rigged to detect if he had.

  At the time he had decided not to risk it. If it was that important he’d find out eventually if there was a need to know. Meetings like this with this many chairs were rare, which had him guessing this was about his last mission. Either a debriefing by a high-level committee, or a briefing by an equally high-level committee.

  “The Opera House” as it had been nicknamed was a series of offices in the American Sector of West Berlin housing most of the CIA personnel in the zone. Top of the line security and anti-surveillance technology filled the building, but nothing beat burying everything. At the moment he was sure he was at least fifty feet underground, devices embedded in the soil to detect any digging from the Soviets.

  It wouldn’t be the first time a tunnel had been dug from one side to the other. In 1954 the British MI-6 and the CIA, in a joint operation, had tunneled almost 1500 feet to the Soviet side and tapped all their landlines, gathering intel for over a year before the Soviets discovered the taps.

  Unfortunately the Soviets had known all along, a KGB mole inside MI-6 having tipped them off before the tunnel was even complete. To protect their mole, the Soviets left the taps in place, staging the accidental discovery. An incredible amount of intelligence was gathered, and the propaganda coup the Soviets had hoped to gain with the discovery backfired, the public in the West instead marveling at the balls displayed by their intelligence apparatus.

  West looked up as the lone door opened and a stream of brass and suits entered, each taking seats as if assigned by perceived pecking order. Somebody frowned at West’s apparent choice.

  I’m not moving. I was on time.

  Several ducklings lined the walls, apparently too junior to merit chairs, but with security clearances high enough for whatever was about to be presented. He recognized the man sitting at the head of the table. Chester Albright. He was the top CIA man in Europe. For him to be here meant this was big.

  Very big.

  Albright cleared his throat and an aide leaned in, activating a speaker and microphone so somebody else out of view could listen in.

  Probably Control.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” began Albright.

  Like I had a choice?

  “What you are about to hear is classified. You are not to repeat it to anyone. No notes or records will be kept, paper or electronic.” Albright droned on for another minute repeating what was pretty much standard in the meetings West was involved with.

  Blah blah blah, you talk you die.

  A folder was placed in front of Albright by an aide. Albright opened it, flipped past a cover page, then looked around the table, his eyes settling on West for a moment, then continuing around the room.

  “This is what we know. Thanks to a double-agent, now dead, one of our agents was able to obtain disturbing intelligence last week that powers far above me have decided must be taken seriously, and acted upon immediately.”

  West was quite certain it was his intelligence that was being referred to. He felt a twang of regret that the other agent was dead, then again, the man was a traitor of opportunity to his country, even if the enemy. Playing both sides for a profit was a dangerous game, and not looked upon favorably in the spy community. Double-agents were valuable, their information sometimes invaluable, but it said something about a man who was willing to betray his country for profit.

  West could never see himself betraying his country, going against orders, or doing anything disloyal or unpatriotic.

  He loved his country fervently, believed in democracy and the West’s way of life, and was determined to defend it against the tyranny of Soviet Communist aggression.

  So when a double-agent he had shook hands with not seven days ago died, he knew he wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it.

  “The intelligence was scant, but we think valuable,” continued Albright. “This is what we know, and it is minimal. The Soviets have developed a new first strike weapon system, referred to as RA-155. We know it is an offensive weapon, it can apparently hit our cities with zero warning time, and if deployed, could change the balance of power overnight. Other than that, we know nothing beyond its code name.”

  The room seemed to lean forward in anticipation.

  “Crimson Rush.”

  Hotel Arena City, Grozny, Chechen Republic, Russian Federation

  Present Day

  Kane smacked yesterday’s newspaper on yet another cockroach, striding to the balcony with “city view”, scraping the dead inheritor to all that is and will be on the railing, then flicking it to the street below. He looked out upon the city, half still in various states of repair, the other half rubble, the long civil war having taken its toll, including on the currently darkened power supply. Russia was pouring money in now to try and rebuild the capital to maintain the support of the ruling, pro-Moscow government, the rebel movement mostly crushed.

  On the street below beaters and asses competed with Bimmers and Astons, the gap between the rich and poor in this former Soviet state far more harsh than back home. He chuckled as he saw two horses passing by below, pulling the chassis of a Jaguar XK-8 cabriolet, the harness integrated into the empty engine compartment, this apparently not a recent development.

  It’s probably more reliable now!

  The owner sat in the driver seat, reigns in hand, flicking them gently as the odd pairing moved with traffic, his dated clothes nearly immaculate, his posture one of forced dignity, he apparently no longer the success he once was.

  Suddenly the power came back on, his fan kicking in, the only state of the art piece of equipment in the room beyond the flush toilet, it at least stolen from someone who had purchased it this millennia. The TV was Soviet era, the phone would have looked at home on Stalin’s desk, the light a single bulb dangling from the ceiling, now rocking back and forth in the fan’s breeze.

  He checked his satphone and saw it was now charging, the battery completely dead from a week in the field with no electricity available, and frequent transmission of photos and data back and forth. His solar panel meant for those situations had failed on the third day, leaving him at risk of being incommunicado. He had relayed his status, then shutdown, only turning his gear on for emergency broadcasts or his twice daily sc
heduled check-in.

  But now back in near-civilization, he was taking the opportunity to charge up everything. He activated the satphone and dialed a now familiar number, checking his watch to see what time it was at Langley. The phone rang, picking up on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey old buddy, how’s it hanging?”

  There was a pause as he knew his friend Chris Leroux would be trying to figure out a way to respond without giving away who it was. He had known Leroux since high school, Leroux a nerd two years his junior that had tutored Kane in his final two years, getting his grades high enough for college, and in exchange Kane had protected Leroux from the bullies. They had become friends, but lost touch after school.

  Kane had only attended college for a year, dropping out in his second year, almost immediately after 9/11, joining the army after a long heart-to-heart with his archeology professor, James Acton, a man whose CIA file was over an inch thick and incredibly interesting reading. He had gone Delta eventually, then CIA Special Ops. Leroux on the other hand had completed college, then been approached by the CIA after passing some aptitude tests with flying colors. He was now one of their top analysts with the ear of the Director.

  Neither had realized the other was in the CIA until a chance encounter at Langley, and their friendship had been rekindled. In fact, Kane considered Leroux one of his best friends, if not his best friend, the nature of this business making it almost impossible to make close friends. It meant constantly lying to them about what you did, where you were, how you got that cut, why you were so tanned.

  It felt like a holiday with his family, forced to constantly lie.

  With Leroux it was different since he knew exactly what Kane did. He could be more open with him, not hiding who he was. He didn’t talk missions of course, but at least could honestly say the ringing in his left ear was due to a grenade rather than a Linkin Park concert.

  “Hi, umm, it’s hanging fine? Ah, you? I mean, yours?”