Black Widow (Dylan Kane #5) (Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers) Read online

  He sipped his now ice cold drink, letting it sit on his tongue for a moment before tilting his head back and letting gravity do its job, the delicious concoction created from boring ingredients something he had been enjoying since he was a boy.

  A knock at the door had him putting his glass down and frowning.

  This is it.

  Nobody visited him. Not without calling first or using a coded knock a few trusted souls knew. He glanced at his PSS Silent Pistol sitting on the table beside him then stood, leaving the weapon where it was.

  Where’s the fun in that?

  It would be a four man team, two below, two sent in to do the job, their arrogance at being the best—which they weren’t—enough to think they didn’t need greater numbers. In fact, they were probably foolish enough to think he’d just stand there and die honorably.

  Sorry, comrades, you’ll have to work for it.

  He opened the door and his eyebrows jumped.

  It was the quintessential little old lady.

  “What can I do—”

  The back of a fist swung at him from just out of sight, cutting him off. Expecting it, both hands shot up, blocking the blow, as a second man came into sight, weapon drawn. He grabbed the forearm of the first man with his right hand, bracing it at the elbow with his left, then jerked back, the arm snapping, his still unseen assailant screaming in agony as Chernov pulled him inside by the now broken arm, using him as a human shield as the other man advanced, weapon aimed directly at him.

  Chernov shoved the screaming man at his still advancing partner, the man tossing him aside with his gun hand. Chernov darted forward, smacking the man’s hand as it swung around, hitting him on the wrist and forearm, the gun clattering to the worn linoleum floor with a thud. His hand clamped around the man’s now tender wrist and twisted, hauling him forward while he stepped to the side, knocking the man off balance. Controlling his fall, he swung him around, his arm hooking under the man’s chin and pressing against his neck.

  A moment later it snapped.

  His partner was still on the floor, gripping his dangling forearm, pushing himself toward the door when the little old lady stepped inside, brandishing a gun. Chernov stepped forward, snapping a foot directly at her chest, her surprised expression almost comical if she didn’t remind him so much of his own grandmother as she sailed out of the apartment and crashed against the neighbor’s door, her head slamming against the cheap wood, leaving her dazed.

  He picked up the now dead agent’s gun and placed two rounds into the back of the crawling man then two more into granny before stepping into the hallway and listening.

  Nothing.

  He pulled the old lady’s body inside, closing the door, then stepped over to the window and peered at the street below. There was a black Lada Priora below, idling, the exhaust from the tailpipe a dead giveaway, the make and model, and the fact it was illegally parked, almost acting like a large SVR sign on the roof.

  He stuffed his feet into a pair of boots, grabbed his jacket, hat, and gloves, then the go bag sitting inside his closet, ready for just such an event. He had money, passports, weapons, ammo, and a couple of untraceable cellphones.

  Just for the day his country might betray him.

  He stepped out into the hall, closing the door as his neighbor stepped out, a bitter widow who had yet to say a kind word to him in the ten years he had lived there.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Somebody hit my door.” She spotted the dent the old lady’s head had made. “Oh my God, what’s this!”

  “Probably some drunk.”

  “Drink will be the death of this country!” cursed the woman, shaking her fist at the world. “The death of it! It took my husband, and it will take my country!”

  Chernov took the stairs two at a time, leaving the still ranting woman alone, her shouts good cover for his footfalls, though they were light, he putting as much weight as he could on the handrail in anticipation of a third SVR operative at the ground level.

  Second floor.

  He paused, peering down, and smiled. It was the third man, standing at the mailboxes, checking his watch, probably wondering what was taking so long.

  Chernov began to whistle, taking the remaining steps at a leisurely, calm pace, his hands in his pockets, one gripping his gun, the other balled into a fist. He stepped onto the marble floor, it cheap and cracked from years of neglect—as was most of Russia—and nodded at the man. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  The man avoided eye contact, instead grunting, SVR notorious for not wanting to be looked at.

  It would be his downfall.

  The man glanced up as Chernov approached and his jaw dropped as he recognized the man his partners had failed to terminate.

  He reached for his gun.

  But Chernov had his out and pressed against the man’s chest before he could get a grip on it.

  “ID.”

  The man glared at him then reached inside his jacket.

  “Slowly.”

  A wallet inched into view.

  Chernov took it, flipping it open and chuckled. “SVR. What a surprise.”

  “You’re a dead man.”

  Chernov smiled. “You first.” He put two rounds into the man’s chest, pocketed his ID, then exited out the rear door, leaving the fourth agent to wait in his warm car to finally get concerned enough to check on his tardy comrades.

  As he headed out into the brisk fall day, he dialed Yenin, a trusted comrade and friend, and his second-in-command on the mission.

  It went to voicemail.

  He frowned.

  “It’s me. If you hear this get to safety, immediately.”

  He dialed the other two members of his team and both went to voicemail.

  He left similar messages.

  But it was too late.

  This would have been a coordinated op, all four hit at once. Either his men were still alive, going into hiding just as he was, or they were dead, not so lucky as to have as suspicious a nature as he had, a little old lady known immediately to simply be a diversion.

  Yenin didn’t live far, only a few blocks away, and he kept a swift though not too attention drawing pace, cursing as he rounded the corner, the distinctive flash of emergency lights greeting him along with a throng of onlookers, all staring up.

  He looked.

  And his chest tightened.

  He couldn’t tell from the distance and the rapidly failing light who it was that hung by his neck from a balcony three stories up, yet he knew exactly who it was.

  Yenin.

  I’m sorry my friend.

  He wanted to defend the man’s honor and shout down those gathered who disparaged the man’s memory by criticizing his committing suicide. It wasn’t suicide; there was no way. Yenin was one of the happiest men he knew, and this was a cover up. Suicides were far too frequent in Russia, especially among men, and this wouldn’t even be investigated.

  The SVR would see to that.

  I wonder what they had planned for me.

  A quick cab ride had him at Lieutenant Vasnev’s apartment, there no commotion outside, no obvious SVR presence.

  He decided to risk it. If there was even the slimmest chance of saving one of his men, he had to take it.

  What he found had him cursing.

  Vasnev, dead in his bed, an empty bottle of pills at his side, a note resting on his chest.

  I’m sorry for what I did.

  Vague, meaningless. Enough to know he had committed suicide, not enough to know what he was talking about.

  Unchallengeable.

  Vasnev’s cellphone vibrated on his nightstand.

  He ignored it.

  It stopped, then a text appeared. He looked.

  And frowned.

  Answer the phone, Colonel.

  He cursed.

  Another text.

  Or Lieutenant Ishutin dies.

  He grabbed the phone and hurried from the apartment, it clear he was under surveillance.

  The phone vibrated in his hand and he took the call.

  “Surrender yourself, Colonel, or he dies.”

  “Go to hell, we’re dead already.”

  “You still have one way out of this, Colonel.”

  He stepped out into the street, checking both ways, seeing no one obvious that might be tracking him. He returned to his brisk pace, dodging into an alleyway and sprinting. “Put him on.”

  “Very well.”

  There were some shuffling sounds then the young lieutenant’s voice.

  “Colonel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t do anything these bastards say! Save yourself, I’m already dead!”

  A gunshot rang out and he ended the call, grabbing a young boy by the back of his jacket as he rode by on a bicycle.

  “Hey, what are you doing?”

  “Want an iPhone?”

  The boy eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

  Chernov handed over the phone. “It’s yours. Just pedal as fast as you can to Gorky Park then back. Got it?”

  The boy grabbed the phone, his eyes wide, a greedy grin on his face.

  And he was around the corner in seconds.

  Chernov tucked himself between a couple of garbage bins and waited, the cold slowly eating into him as he plotted his revenge.

  Maggie Harris Residence, Lake in the Pines Apartments, Fayetteville, North Carolina

  “I think I’d like to wait until my hair grows back.”

  Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson raised his eyebrows, glancing at his fiancée, Maggie Harris. “That could take a while.”

  She grinned at him and jumped on the couch beside him, resting on her knees and leaning forward, giving him a cleavage shot that his comrade in arms Niner would have had a hard time resisting commenting on, and he couldn’t help but glance at, she the most beautiful woman in the world as far as he was concerned.

  Regardless of her very short hair, a result of surgery after a gunshot wound to the head in Paris months ago.

  “You in a hurry?”

  He smiled, looking up at her. “There’s no right answer to that.”

  She squeezed her arms together, glancing down. “See something you like, soldier boy?”

  “You know it.” He grabbed her, flipping her on her back, a delighted squeal escaping as he climbed on top of her, their bodies intertwining as passion replaced wedding planning. As they tore each other’s clothes off, he reveled in the fact that this woman he loved had bounced back so quickly from her near death experience and seemed to have lost none of her zest for life. Her recovery had been slow and painful at first, though the men and women of the Unit had been a huge help, she never left alone to dwell on her situation.

  And her beautiful hair growing back enough to hide the vicious scar on her head had triggered a breakthrough.

  An outing.

  Repeated many times since, the barrier broken.

  “You like my hair, don’t you.”

  He bit her earlobe. “Yes.”

  She returned the favor. “I mean my long hair.”

  “Yes.” He kissed her hard, gripping the back of her head, careful not to put any pressure on the scar, it no longer a pain issue, simply a comfort issue for her.

  She pulled her lips away. “Are you even listening?”

  “Kind of busy, babe.”

  He got to second base.

  She moaned.

  “Screw the hair,” she groaned, grabbing his head with both hands and shoving him down her chest. “Remind me why I put up with you.”

  He looked up and grinned. “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  “Oh no!”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m on your phone and it’s vibrating.”

  He winked. “Umm, is that a bad thing?”

  She laughed, reaching under and pulling his pants out from under her. “How the hell did they get there?”

  “Who cares?” She tossed the phone on the table and stared down at him. “Weren’t you on a mission?”

  He laughed, then rocked her world.

  And she his.

  Gasping for breath from the other side of the room, they somehow having left the couch, clearing the table and chairs, Dawson stared up at the ceiling, Maggie draped across him, a finger circling his nipple. “That was fun.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Yeah, we should talk about your hair more often.”

  She rolled on top of him, her hands pressed into his chest, her chin resting on top as she stared at him. “I never did get a straight answer.”

  She loved her long hair, and its now short length was a constant reminder to her of what she had been through.

  And wedding photos were a once in a lifetime thing.

  He hoped.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he began, carefully. “I want to marry you. Whether that’s two weeks from now or two years from now, I don’t care. As long as I know you feel the same way about me as I do about you, then I’m not worried about trying to seal the deal. We’ll get married whenever you want. If you want to wait for your hair to grow back out for the wedding photos, then we’ll wait.”

  She stared at him, the love in her eyes crystal clear. “How did I get so lucky?” She slid up and gave him a kiss, her legs trapping the little sergeant major between them. “Ooh, I think someone’s looking for seconds.”

  The phone vibrated again for the fourth time.

  “You better get that first.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I guess.” He was off duty and if it were Unit related, a coded message would have been left. None was, the caller always hanging up before his generic greeting played.

  He was always on-call, it simply a fact of life as a member of America’s elite 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta, more commonly known to the public and Hollywood as the Delta Force. They were the elite of the elite, sent on their country’s most dangerous missions, and the only military unit authorized to operate on American soil, the President having authority to suspend Posse Comitatus for this unit only.

  Maggie rolled over and Dawson stood. She gave the little sergeant major a smack. “Hurry back.”

  He winked, grabbing the phone and swiping his thumb before it went to voicemail. “Hello?”

  “Do you recognize my voice?”

  Dawson recognized the accent. Russian. Though not the voice.

  “No.”

  “We’ve met.”

  “That narrows it down.” It actually did. The number of Russians he had met that might actually call him, he could count on one hand. “Give me a hint.”

  “We enjoyed some boating on the Black Sea once.”

  Dawson immediately knew who he was speaking to, and context gave him the voice recognition he needed. It still didn’t explain why this man, a Russian Spetsnaz Colonel, would be calling. “I know who you are.”

  “Good. I need your help.”

  Dawson sat on the couch, Maggie wrapping herself in a blanket, she already sensing the fun was over. “Our countries aren’t exactly on the best of terms.”

  There was a chuckle. “Indeed. But this has nothing to do with my country. This is one soldier talking to another soldier.”

  Dawson’s eyes narrowed. “Why me?”

  “You’re the only person I trust right now.”

  His eyes opened slightly wider. Interesting. “What’s happened?”

  Colonel Chernov quickly filled him in, Dawson beginning to get dressed within the first thirty seconds. This was huge. Horrifyingly huge. Nuclear materials delivered into the hands of Chechens, by the SVR, was almost inconceivable.

  If it hadn’t happened several times before.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I need you to get this intel into the right hands. There’s nothing I can do with it at this point.”

  “Do you need help getting out?”

  “No. I have a few loose ends to, shall we say, tie up? Then I doubt you’ll be seeing me again, my friend.”

  Dawson knew what that meant. Chernov was going to eliminate the SVR agents involved, then disappear to some island somewhere under a new identity.

  “They’ll want proof.”

  “As soon as I hang up I’ll text you a link. User ID is your first name, password is my first name. The cloud site has everything I know. It’s all verbal, that’s the best I can do, but I’ve given enough details that you should be able to verify at least some of my story.” There was a pause. “Listen, friend, I have no reason to lie about this, but I need to know if you believe me.”

  Dawson had to admit he did, there no conceivable reason for this to be a lie. The question was whether what the man was telling him was accurate, not truthful. “Yes. I believe you believe you’re telling me the truth.”

  Chernov laughed. “You should go into politics, my friend.”

  Dawson chuckled. “As I told our President once, I’d probably kill too many of my opponents for them to ask me to stay.”

  Chernov roared. “I like you, comrade. You and I will drink some vodka together one day perhaps, when we are both old men, hiding from our governments.” The joviality suddenly disappeared. “Listen. This is legitimate. I saw it myself. If you do not stop them, I don’t know how many will die, but it will make 9/11 look like a training exercise.”

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  “Raptor One, Sierra Four! Abort! Abort! Abort!”

  Dylan Kane bolted upright, his body dripping in sweat, his head throbbing in protest at the sudden movement. He looked around the dimly lit room, trying to gain his bearings. He was in an unfamiliar bed—not that that was unusual—and it was daytime, the sun mostly blocked out by heavy curtains, but from what he could see the room was immaculate, a print depicting the Chinese zodiac over the bed.

  Fang!

  He lifted the sheets, found his underwear still on, and breathed a sigh of relief. Lee Fang was a beautiful woman—gorgeous—but if they were going to sleep together, he’d definitely have wanted to remember it, and his throbbing headache suggested there had been a hell of a lot of alcohol enjoyed the night before.

  Yet it wasn’t that.

  If he were to sleep with her, he wanted it to be special.