Black Widow Read online

  Morrison smiled slightly, the concerned father figure returning for a moment. He put a hand on Leroux’s shoulder and squeezed. “Absolutely. Until I see a body, Dylan Kane is alive and well and fulfilling his mission.”

  Leroux smiled weakly. “Thank you, sir.”

  Morrison motioned to one of the screens, satellite footage on a loop. “Now, is this what you called me down here for?”

  Leroux drew in a quick breath, pushing his emotions aside for the moment and rose, walking down the steps of the operations center and into the pit, pointing toward the screen with a laser pointer. “Sir, we were able to pull some satellite footage that caught the tail end of the exchange.” He glanced at Randy Child, the newest and youngest addition to his team. “Bring up Isolation Zero-One.”

  Child hit a few keys and one of the displays showed an image with about a dozen men, a helicopter and a pickup truck. He pointed at the helicopter. “This is a Russian Mi-24 Hind helicopter. The tail number”—he snapped his fingers and an isolation of the tail number appeared—“shows it’s Russian Army, and still in service.” He pointed at four men spread out at the top of the photo, closest to the helicopter. “By their uniforms, we believe these to be Colonel Chernov and his men.” He pointed to the men on the north side of the SUV. “We believe the men in the suits are the SVR agents identified by the colonel.” He motioned toward the other men occupying the bottom of the image. “And these are the Chechens they met.” He aimed the pointer at one of them. “And this is Alambek Vok, the man we think is at the center of this.”

  “And we’re sure this is it, this is the meeting?”

  “It matches the date, time and location precisely.”

  Morrison rose, walking toward the displays. He pointed at a table that had been set up between the helicopter and SUV. “Did they open the case?”

  Leroux smiled. “Bring up Isolation Zero-Three.” An image of an opened case appeared, six distinct shapes inside. “Exactly as the colonel described. Six canisters.”

  “Can we know what they are?”

  Leroux shook his head as he motioned for Child to zoom in, the image pixelating then resolving. “We can’t be certain.” He motioned at Child. “Split screen with a known Cesium-137 canister.” A second image appeared. “You can see they definitely appear the same.”

  Morrison nodded, stepping closer. “And how much does a canister carry?”

  “This size, if full, contains a little over a kilo of material.”

  “And how much is that?” Morrison looked at Leroux. “From a dirty bomb perspective?”

  Leroux sucked in a slow, deep breath. “Sir, if just one of these canisters was detonated over Manhattan, it could poison hundreds of thousands and render the entire island uninhabitable for thirty years.”

  “Jesus.” Morrison paused for a moment, staring at the screen again before returning to his chair, the man clearly shaken. “Where is it now?” he asked, his voice subdued.

  Leroux smiled. “About the only good news I’ve got for you today, sir. We found him.”

  Morrison looked up, his mood clearly brightening. “How?”

  “We intercepted a phone call made in the clear. Apparently the Chechen leader, this Vok, is dropping SVR names along the way to get past border security. During the exchange something was handed over—an envelope”—the image appeared showing the handoff—“and we think it contains some document or something of that nature, as a universal pass. But at the Azerbaijan border I guess someone didn’t believe him, so decided to make a phone call to validate the document. From that phone call we’ve been able to pick up their trail and now know exactly where they are.”

  “And that is?”

  “They’ll be entering disputed Syrian territory within the next four days.”

  Morrison rose, a broad smile on his face. “Excellent work, everyone. You’ve earned your paychecks today.” He turned to Leroux. “I’m going to talk to the White House and see if we can arrange an op to retrieve the Cesium before it’s too late.”

  “And Kane?”

  Morrison put a hand on Leroux’s shoulder. “He’s the toughest man I know. He’ll figure a way out, of that I have no doubt.”

  Morrison left the op center, everyone all smiles at the compliment they had just received except Leroux, who dropped into his chair, praying to God his friend was still alive.

  11

  Outside Al-Raqqah, Syria

  Sometimes playing games with superpowers backfired, and Dawson just hoped today wasn’t going to be yet another example of that very thing. He peered through his scope at the scene below, a group of men on the edge of town waiting, six of them clearly armed, the other two who seemed to be in charge, sitting in two of four chairs placed around a table by the new arrivals.

  They were definitely waiting for someone.

  Intel said this would be where the sale of the missing Cesium would take place, and from his briefing, he knew they had to recover it at all costs, the potential human toll unimaginable.

  And in the White House’s infinite wisdom, it decided to inform the Russians that their missing nuclear material was about to be retrieved, and not to conduct any bombing missions in the area as there would be friendly forces present.

  The Russians had turned it around on the White House, insisting they accompany any mission otherwise they couldn’t guarantee the safety of American troops on the ground.

  The White House had agreed.

  The attempt to embarrass had backfired.

  American Special Forces were constantly conducting operations in the area, and there was no need to inform the Russians of any specifics, beyond that they were there. This had been a continuation of the tit-for-tat game playing out on the world stage leading everyone toward a second Cold War in which Russia wasn’t hampered by the flaws of communism.

  It was a standoff that could lead to serious bloodshed if someone didn’t figure out quickly how to deal with the belligerent Russian leader.

  And goading him would never work.

  “Here they come. Ten o’clock.”

  Dawson shifted his view to see where Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung had indicated and spotted two vehicles approaching, one stopping several miles back, the other continuing forward, toward the town. The vehicle came to a stop about fifty feet from the table set out for the transaction, the men seated behind it rising to greet their guests.

  Four men exited the vehicle, three with weapons, one with none obvious, and the only one to step forward.

  “Is that him?”

  “It does not appear so,” said the heavily accented voice to his left, Major Zolotov, the Russian lead on the mission. There were eight from each country, split into two teams of six plus two sniper teams, all deployed around the site, ready to engage on Dawson’s signal, it decided somebody had to be in ultimate command.

  If only the major knew my rank.

  While everyone’s focus was on the exchange, he redirected his attention to the second vehicle that had held back.

  “They’re gone.”

  Zolotov grunted. “It doesn’t matter. Look.”

  Dawson refocused on the table, a case produced and opened, it impossible to tell from this angle if it was what they were after, yet it was obviously what those gathered below were there for. He rose to his knees. “This is Zero-One. Execute in three—two—one—execute!”

  Two shots rang out from opposite sides of the gathered terrorists, two guards dropping, two more shots fired before their bodies even hit the ground. Dawson and his group of six including Sergeant Will “Spock” Lightman and Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James, sprinted toward the distracted hostiles, the other team approaching from the other side.

  In range, Dawson raised his MP5 and squeezed the trigger, taking out one of the new arrivals hiding behind the wheel of his vehicle, the Russians pouring a steady stream of fire on the proceedings, leaving little doubt to the enemy where their location was.

  Fools!

  It was an arrogant method of engagement, underestimating one’s enemy, putting everyone at risk. He glanced over at Atlas who was shaking his head, his weapon raised, yet to take a shot, there nothing left to shoot at.

  Arriving at the scene, Dawson, using hand signals, ordered a perimeter established while Atlas and Spock grabbed the case, bringing out testing equipment to confirm the contents. Atlas glanced up from the display and gave a thumbs up.

  “This is it.”

  Dawson approached, the Cyrillic writing plain to anyone. The Cyrillic writing on three canisters.

  There’s supposed to be six.

  A shot rang out behind him and he spun around, Zolotov having put a bullet in a wounded hostile. It was clear the Russians wanted no prisoners, probably so no one could identify their crooked SVR agents. Dawson jerked a thumb over his shoulder, at the case. “You guys in the habit of losing this stuff?”

  Zolotov stepped over to the table then nodded, raising a radio to his mouth. “Now.”

  The thump of helicopter rotors sounded in the distance, rapidly approaching, the betrayal Dawson had fully expected, and told the colonel would happen, now underway. He activated his comm. “Beetlejuice.”

  Zolotov raised his weapon, aiming it at Dawson, Spock and Atlas returning the favor. “What does this mean, this Beetlejuice?”

  Dawson held his hands out to his side, motioning for everyone to remain calm. “Simply signaling those back home what’s happening here.”

  Two Russian Hinds, probably the most intimidating looking helicopters ever built, cleared a nearby ridge, coming to a hover several hundred feet away, several more rushing over the town as half a dozen troops dropped from each. Dawson checked to the east then west and saw his sniper team of Niner and Jimmy led by gunpoint.

  Z
olotov flicked his AK-9 assault rifle. “Your weapons, please. And your communications equipment.”

  Dawson nodded to the others and they slowly rid themselves of the tools of their trade. Dawson held up his knife. “And this?”

  “That, you can keep.”

  Dawson sneered a smile. “You’re so generous.”

  His team of eight was lined up against a wall, half a dozen Russian troops holding weapons on them as the case was taken, the remaining troops loading into several choppers that had landed.

  Zolotov stared at Dawson. “Do you want to know why?”

  Dawson shook his head. “No need. I already know.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re Russian.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you can’t be trusted. Now you’ve just proven to Washington what those of us on the ground have been telling them for years.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That the Soviet Union is back.”

  Zolotov laughed, a broad smile on his face. “I like you, American. It’s too bad you are right. We might have shared some vodka and toasted our fallen comrades together.” He frowned, lowering his weapon and stepping closer to Dawson. “I’m supposed to kill you”—he tipped his head toward the hostiles—“with their weapons.”

  “Then why don’t you just get it over with?”

  Zolotov smiled. “Because I have what we came for, the terrorists are dead, and I only kill people I don’t like.” He pointed up at the sky. “I leave that to others. Say your goodbyes, gentlemen, you’re dead already.”

  Zolotov jogged to the final chopper waiting and climbed aboard, though not before snapping a casual salute at Dawson’s team. The Hind lifted off, banking sharply to the right and disappearing quickly over the rise. Dawson pointed in the same direction, knowing full well what the warning meant. “Run as fast as you can and don’t look back.”

  They all pushed off the wall, sprinting hard, Spock in the lead, the bastard fast, as the screech of fighters in the distance, rapidly approaching, filled their ears. They crested the rise just as the first Sukhoi Su-34 tore overhead, missiles erupting from its weapons pods. Dawson glanced back to see Atlas, the largest and slowest, just reaching the top of the hill, the rest already down the other side.

  “Hit the deck!” shouted Dawson and they all dropped, Atlas flying forward as massive explosions rocked the town behind them, the ground vibrating in protest. “Move! Move! Move!” Everyone was back on their feet as three more Su-34s thundered overhead, more missiles loosed.

  “Over there!” shouted Spock, pointing to a rock outcropping. Dawson turned, making a beeline for the cover, shoving everyone inside the cluster of rocks before crouching down and squeezing in himself. They were on the edge of a large number of boulders, the only cover in the area, but an area large enough that he hoped the Russians wouldn’t decide to take them out.

  They didn’t.

  The pounding of the town lasted for about ten minutes before the last of the Su-34s left, leaving nothing but the wails of those who had managed to survive.

  Dawson stepped out first, surveying the thick black smoke over the crest. Niner emerged from their cover, standing beside him.

  “Nobody was meant to survive that.”

  Dawson nodded. “No, we weren’t.”

  “Now what?”

  Dawson looked at the others then pointed up. “Everybody wave to the eye in the sky.”

  Everyone did, and within moments, Atlas pointed to the south. “There it is.”

  They all turned to see an RQ-7 Shadow UAV racing toward them, lower than it would usually travel, its operator, tucked away safely, perhaps stateside, rocking it from side to side, letting them know they had been spotted.

  Atlas’ impossibly deep voice rumbled. “The Russians really need to start understanding that just because their president can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

  Dawson chuckled then sat down, knowing their retrieval team was only moments away, his Beetlejuice code word the trigger for their departure.

  Never trust the Russians.

  12

  Al-Raqqah, Syria

  “No! Please no! I’ll do anything you ask, I swear!”

  Amira Shadid sobbed uncontrollably, her two daughters clinging to her legs as her arms stretched toward her pleading husband. A large group of ISIL soldiers, all laughing at their predicament, surrounded them as their leader, a man whose name she did not know, taunted her beloved. Another man, his face covered by a keffiyeh, his hand badly scarred, directed two others as they stacked tires around her husband.

  She dropped to her knees, crawling forward. “Please, sir, I’ll do what you ask, I’ll do anything, just don’t kill my husband!”

  The leader pointed at her, shouting at her husband. “Your women, they will fetch a good price at the market in Al-Mayadeen. They will service our warriors for years to come!”

  His men laughed, several comments about her body and those of her daughters thrown her way.

  Yet she could barely hear them now. The panic that gripped her was overwhelming as she held her young daughters tight to her sides. They were too young, far too young to even understand what these barbarians were saying, too young to know the evil that men were capable of when it came to women they had no respect for.

  It was the new reality she had lived under since ISIL had taken her town. Women had no rights, they treated as the property of their men. Her husband had joined them out of self-preservation, the only reason they were all alive today.

  But yesterday she had refused a request, and sealed his fate.

  “I’m sorry!” she cried, looking at her husband as he stood helpless, tires piled to his neck.

  He stared at her, tears staining his face, terror filling his eyes as he tried to get one last look at his girls. “I love you, I love you all! Never forget that!”

  “Oh, how sweet,” taunted the leader, approaching her husband, a book of matches in his hand as the scarred man doused the tires with gasoline. “Tender words in your final moments.”

  Her husband turned to the man. “Get this over with, you pig! This is not the work of Allah! When you die, you will burn in eternal damnation for what you have done here today!”

  “Please!” she cried, “Please stop! I’ll do what you want! Anything you want!”

  The leader eyeballed her. “You had your chance.” He tossed the book of matches to the scarred man who removed one, striking it then tossing it at the tires. The gasoline exploded, flames stretching toward the heavens as her husband screamed in agony. His daughters screeched in horror as she tried to cover their eyes, trying to prevent their innocent minds from seeing the evil Shaytan’s work carried out.

  Yet she couldn’t tear her own eyes away.

  The horror imprinted on her mind forever.

  Until the day she died.

  Her husband’s cries of agony stopped and her head dropped to her chest as she thanked Allah for taking him quickly, for ending his pain.

  Something in the distance had her staring up, as did the others gathered, their laughing and cheering, their shouts of Allahu Akbar, forgotten as several large helicopters whipped by overhead.

  Orders were shouted, lost to the rush of blood pounding in her ears, all she could hear beyond that were the crackling flames that was her husband, the love of her life, the father of her two daughters, and her sole provider.

  They might as well have killed us all.

  She sat on the ground, her daughters holding her, sobbing, not sure of what was going on, as the soldiers rushed around, shouting.

  Then there was a loud roar and the ground shook.

  And Allah had answered her prayers.

  Please take us too.

  Tarek Nazari raised his weapon and opened fire as the Russian fighter streaked across the sky. It was a near futile effort, though Allah willing, he might just get a lucky shot off that took down the infidel. Missile after missile pounded the town, a curious turn of events considering it was unimportant, and even housed a small hospital on the outskirts run by infidels. It was tolerated, as it meant a steady source of supplies they could steal when necessary, and skilled doctors were always welcome after a battle.