26 |

Leaving Pechatniki Pre-trial Detention Center
Moscow, Russia

 

“Are you okay?”

Grekov flinched at the driver’s question. Sergei had been a colleague and friend for as long as he could remember, and he had a feeling they were partnered for a reason. They knew each other, and the brass likely felt they would never betray each other.

If only they knew.

He shifted in the passenger seat, risking a quick glance at his friend. “Yeah, it’s just my stomach. It’s been bothering me all morning.”

“Nerves or drink?”

Grekov grunted. “Probably a little of both. I have to lay off the vodka.”

Sergei laughed. “We both do. You need to find yourself a new wife. How long has it been since you lost Olga? Five years? The kids are all grown up and on their own. That apartment of yours is too empty.”

Grekov frowned. His friend was right. He was painfully lonely, the bar an excuse to be surrounded by real people, though he interacted with them rarely, instead sitting in his corner booth in silence, merely staring at his glass or out the window at the people with far more interesting lives than his.

I’m so lonely!

“I have my cats.”

“The worst kind of pet out there. They only love you when they need to be fed, and if you die, they’ll eat you. You need a dog, my friend.”

Grekov grunted. “Dogs are too much work.”

“They’re worth it.”

“So are cats.”

“I guess we’ll agree to disagree.”

“I guess.”

His voice must have been a little too muted for Sergei to ignore. “Something really is bothering you, isn’t it?”

They turned, their journey almost halfway over, and Grekov wondered if his fears were unjustified. “I’m just thinking of the future. Retirement.”

Sergei grunted. “I know. Me too. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t an honest cop. Can you imagine how much money we’d have stashed away now if we had only taken some of those bribes?”

Grekov’s stomach flipped and the blood drained from his cheeks.

And Sergei noticed. “Hey, I was only joking.”

“I know.”

Sergei stared at him for a moment, and Grekov turned his head to face his side window, eyeballing a man on a motorcycle, wondering what type of idiot rode one at this time of year.

“Don’t tell me…”

Sergei didn’t finish his sentence, instead leaving his statement dangling, hoping, Grekov was sure, that his friend of so long would complete it for him, complete it in a way that didn’t mean he had betrayed everything they both stood for.

“I-I did something stupid.”

“Moriz, what did you do?”

Another motorcycle.

“I-I can’t say.”

A hand gripped his shoulder. “Tell me! Did you sell us out?”

Tears welled in Grekov’s eyes. “I’m not sure.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I thought he was his brother. I thought he just wanted to say goodbye.”

Sergei cursed and grabbed the mike as two engines revved behind them, the distinct whine of motorcycles rapidly approaching. Grekov leaned closer to the window, staring at the sideview mirror, and nearly vomited at the sight of two motorcycles racing up the convoy, the riders slapping what had to be explosives to each of the vehicles.

Sergei spotted them too. “What’s going on?”

Grekov closed his eyes, his secret already out, his worst fears confirmed. It was over for him, but perhaps he might save the others. “Call it in! We’re under attack!”

Sergei dropped the mike, instead gripping the steering wheel with both hands as he jerked it to the left then the right. Grekov smiled as the motorcycle coming up his side swerved to avoid the rear end, slamming into a parked police unit, the streets from the jail to the courthouse closed and locked down for their journey only moments before they left.

Police surrounded the downed rider, but Grekov’s focus had already turned to the other motorcycles racing up the sides, at least two more on his side, spiked tires visibly tearing up the winter road.

“How many can you see?” he asked, and Sergei stole a quick glance. “At least three on my side. You?”

“Two more.”

Sergei swung again but two raced past them, giving them a wide berth, slapping their charges on the lead vehicles, the radios crackling with shouted calls for backup.

Then the worst horror Grekov could have imagined hit all at once.

The vehicles ahead erupted in flames as the explosives detonated simultaneously. Sergei slammed on the brakes so they wouldn’t run into the rear of the now torn apart vehicle they had been following, and bile flooded Grekov’s mouth as he caught sight of the trailing vehicles ablaze, some of the occupants who had survived the initial detonations struggling to escape the infernos as the support units and public lining the streets stood by in shock.

“We have to get out of here!” cried Sergei, downshifting then hammering on the gas as he cranked the wheel, taking them around the infernos blocking their path. “What did you do? What did you do?”

But Grekov couldn’t speak. He leaned forward and vomited, his insides heaving out the horror of what he had done, the guilt of his betrayal, and the knowledge they were all about to die.

And instead of facing his inevitable future like a man, he openly wept as one of his few friends tried to save them both.

 

Boykov smiled at the sight. It had been so long since he had seen any action, his old heart was pounding with the adrenaline rush. Even in the height of his career, he had never participated in an operation like this. He was an assassin. He would man the lonely post, waiting for his target to appear, then take the single shot that would change history.

Never had he worked on something like this.

I think I chose the wrong profession.

This was action to the extreme, with no concerns for collateral damage, no concerns with body count, no worries about the consequences. This was an all-out assault to achieve a single outcome, no matter what the cost.

It was almost overwhelming.

And he was so happy he had insisted he be part of it.

He had no intention of getting in on the action. He was too old for that. He recognized the fact this type of operation was a young man’s game. But he couldn’t risk Minkin not holding up his end of the bargain and meeting with him.

He didn’t trust the man.

After all, he was former KGB, and KGB were never to be trusted.

Including himself.

Their SUV pulled out in front of the escaping vehicle carrying their target, all four doors opening as the team of hired guns took aim, one with some sort of EMP weapon, something Boykov hadn’t even known existed until this morning’s briefing. A trigger was squeezed, and the power source it was connected to, sitting in the rear of their vehicle, sent a pulse into their target, killing its electronics and bringing it to a slow halt barely feet from them.

The team rushed forward, those that remained on the motorcycles taking up position around the operation, providing cover as they sprayed bursts of gunfire over the heads of the local police and civilians scattering for their lives.

Small charges were placed on all the doors, including the cab, and quickly detonated, the driver and passenger hauled out and thrown to the ground as the rear doors blasted open, a hail of gunfire from inside greeting the team.

Yet he wasn’t paying attention to what was happening at the rear of the vehicle anymore, his entire attention now on the passenger, prone on the ground, a gun swinging toward his head as the driver was executed.

There would be no witnesses, apparently.

“Wait!” Boykov struggled out of the back seat and stumbled toward the passenger, his executioner staring back at him.

“Stay in the vehicle. That was the agreement.”

“He’s mine. He’s seen my face.”

Grekov twisted his head, his eyes wide with terror, his face the sickly pale of a guilty man. Boykov aimed his weapon at the poor bastard and his executioner relinquished his task to the elderly spy, quickly leaving to assist those at the rear. Boykov took a knee, pressing the barrel of his Makarov against the man’s temple.

“I’m sorry it happened this way. I didn’t know.”

Tears rolled from Grekov’s eyes and onto the frozen ground. “Just get it over with.”

“Very well.” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “Enjoy your retirement, my friend.” He squeezed off two rounds, pressing the poor man’s face into the pavement, making sure he wasn’t moving, then headed back to the SUV, his heart hammering at the first shots he had taken in years.

Two shots that affected him more than all those that had preceded them.

 

Minkin tried to keep his cool as the armored transport rocked from multiple detonations, the four officers locked inside with him in a panic as they readied their weapons, the doors to the rear now hanging off their hinges, his rescuers wisely placing explosives on all points of weakness at once.

Gunfire erupted from all four defenders and he ducked, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his ears, preparing for what he suspected was about to happen. There was no way his men would fire inside the vehicle, not unless it became absolutely necessary.

But there was one thing they could do.

The flashbang thundered within the confined space, his own cries joining the unprepared others as their senses were overwhelmed by the device. The vehicle rocked as his men rushed in, gunfire erupting, all four defenders eliminated within seconds. Everything was a blur, his ears ringing, his eyes blinded with a kaleidoscope of colors, but he could still feel. Hands grabbed him and hauled him into an upright position, shadows moving about as orders were shouted, none of which he could make out.

Suddenly his wrists were freed of his restraints, then his ankles, and he was hauled to his feet and carried by both arms out of the vehicle, the harsh cold of a Moscow winter greeting him as his feet hit the ground, his vision and hearing slowly returning as he was shoved into the back of a waiting vehicle.

The whine of motorcycles and the engine of his getaway vehicle were the first sounds he could distinguish, and he was pressed into his seat as they accelerated. He rubbed his eyes then turned to see the man he least expected sitting beside him, smiling.

Boykov.

“Feel like sharing now?”

 

Grekov lay on the frozen ground, not moving a muscle, his ears still ringing from the two shots his betrayer had fired into the pavement only inches from his head. And as he lay there, playing dead, listening to his comrades dying around him, their murderers escaping the scene only minutes later, he shook from the cold and the shame.

He had lived, yet he feared none of the others had.

And it was all his fault.

Why did he let me live?

What was it he had said?

I’m sorry it happened this way. I didn’t know.

To have let him live must mean some level of remorse. The man had to be feeling guilty about how things had turned out, though there was no way he could feel as guilty as Grekov felt right now.

This was all his fault.

A tear rolled down his nose and onto the pavement.

Nobody knows except Sergei.

He opened his eyes, and gasped at the first thing he saw. Sergei, lying dead, on the opposite side of the vehicle, his bloody head visible under the raised undercarriage.

And guilt racked him at the relief he felt.

Nobody knows.

If he managed to survive the day, he could use the money to get out of Russia, to begin a new life, and to try and make up for what he had done here today.

He pushed to his feet as the crowds of bystanders and police personnel guarding the route finally found the courage to approach the scene, and he drew a slow breath, trying to steady himself.

As he was surrounded, questions bombarding him, cellphones held out and recording him, he realized there would be no escaping what had happened.

He was the one that lived.

And there was no reason for it.

And there was no way his faked execution wasn’t caught on someone’s camera.

He’d be arrested before the day was out, his children arrested to make him talk, and he’d spend the rest of his life rotting in prison.

Why didn’t you just kill me?

He closed his eyes, a long sigh escaping, then reached for his weapon. Several in the crowd screamed as he drew his gun, those gathered quickly backing away, then gasping collectively as he squeezed the trigger.

Finishing the job the man who had betrayed him should have.