67 |

Approaching Newfoundland & Labrador, Canada

 

“Sir, we’re approaching the coast.”

Kozhin nodded at Anokhin and rose, following him to the rear of the aircraft. The mercenaries, with the exception of the pilot and copilot, were gathered, all now dressed in civilian attire, no longer in their private contractor gear.

Anokhin presented two of his men. “They will be diving with you. They are two of my best. We’ve already confirmed the boat is in position to meet you. They’ll guide you down. Just remain calm, remember what I’ve told you, listen to them, and you’ll come out of this no problem.”

Kozhin looked at him. “I still think we should all be going.”

Anokhin shook his head. “No, a large group will draw too much attention. And don’t forget, we have our own contingency.”

Kozhin nodded, trying to keep a brave face on for the sake of the alpha males that surrounded him. He had never been one to consider himself a coward, then again, he had never done what he was about to do. It was insane, and once again he questioned whether he should go forward with it. So he’d spend some time in prison. Big deal. He could do the time, especially with the money he had.

They’ll probably deport you to Russia.

He frowned at the memory of Anokhin’s words. Russian prison was not something he could survive. The horror stories of the modern gulags were bone-chilling, and even those with money who had challenged the almighty leader, were rotting, their billions unable to even ease their suffering. He drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

“Let’s get this over with.”

 

Dawson checked his gear once again, readying for what the CIA had suggested might be the endgame move of their target, one Konstantin Kozhin. The man had quite the file, his father an even thicker one, and had a history of going to the extremes when in tight quarters—and none were tighter than he was in now.

He had been found out, betrayed by General Gorokhin in his final moments, resulting in him being trapped in a tin can in the sky. While it was an interesting idea to run the operation from a Russian Air Force plane over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, it left few options if one were discovered.

Which meant he had a contingency plan.

The Russians had confirmed the plane wasn’t manned by their people, which likely meant mercenaries. The CIA had found out that Kozhin had dealings with Medved Corps, a group made up mostly of ex-soldiers, many of whom were Spetsnaz—Russian Special Forces. They were good at their jobs, and would have planned for such a scenario, even if Kozhin hadn’t.

His comm crackled in his ear. “They’re descending. Stand by.”

Dawson stood and stretched, turning to the others. “Looks like our friends at the Agency might be right. Check your gear, and be ready for a fight.”

The others all rose and Dawson inspected Spock’s gear then he did the same for him. A slap on the back had him turning to face his men. “If this goes down the way I think it will, we eliminate the escort first, then Kozhin only if necessary.

Spock cocked an eyebrow. “And how are we supposed to know who’s who?”

Dawson smiled slightly. “My guess is he’ll be either the one without a gun, or the one who doesn’t know how to use it. Nothing in his file indicates he has any experience.”

Atlas grunted. “Files have been known to be wrong.”

Dawson shrugged. “Then we shoot them all, and sort it out later.”

 

Kozhin stood while Anokhin checked his gear one last time. “Are you ready?”

Kozhin frowned. “Hell, no. But let’s do this anyway.”

Anokhin grinned at him. “That’s the spirit!” Anokhin nodded at one of his men, and a door was opened to the outside. The cabin temperature rapidly dropped as the wind whistled around them. Kozhin turned to face the door and his two escorts each took one of his arms, leading him to the doorframe, the rugged landscape of a chilly Newfoundland below them. He closed his eyes and began to feel dizzy.

Not a wise choice.

He opened them and his equilibrium returned. A light turned green to his left and the first man stepped out, pulling him with him, Kozhin’s pilot chute in the second man’s hand.

“Arch!”

He completely forgot his brief verbal training, unsure of what to do, when he heard the single word yelled again. He thrust his arms and legs out and shoved his head and shoulders back, arching his spine.

Suddenly he heard a flutter above him then a jerk as the pilot chute dragged his main open, killing his speed. He took a moment to orient himself, grabbing his straps velcroed above him, and confirmed a good chute.

That was the end of what he was responsible for.

The plane roared away rapidly and two fighter jets broke off their pursuit, slowly circling this new development, no doubt radioing in the fact three people were now under parachutes, about to set foot on Canadian territory.

A rumble above and to his right had his head swiveling to figure out the source.

And he cursed.

 

Dawson dove out the aft baggage door of the Gulfstream G550 first, the others following rapidly. As he dove, his arms at his sides to increase his speed and close the gap with the enemy, he gave silent kudos to whoever at the CIA had figured out what the contingency plan might be.

What was surprising was that only three had made their escape. There had to be more on the plane. Kozhin would have no clue how to operate it, and there was no way two men could operate everything.

The three chutes below him were rapidly approaching. He could overshoot them and just meet them on the ground, but that would give the hostiles too many opportunities to shoot out their canopies from above.

“Deploy now.” He pulled his chute, the others around him doing the same, then prepared his MP5 as he double-checked his canopy overhead. “Control, Zero-One. Be advised, only three hostiles left the plane. Over.”

“Copy that, Zero-One. Will advise Zero-Two’s team. Out.”

Dawson took aim at the first chute on the left, trying to figure out which one was Kozhin.

 

“Look out!” cried Kozhin as he spotted six chutes deploying above them. Both his escorts looked up and weapons were pulled. Gunfire erupted from both, and Kozhin watched with satisfaction as a chute overhead was shredded, the man dangling under the canopy now rapidly descending.

Gunfire from overhead responded, and Kozhin turned his attention to the ground as they closed in on it. He could see a boat matching the description he had been given, near the shoreline. They were supposed to land then make their way to the shore where they’d be taken to the larger vessel. They would then steam into international waters, and onto a cargo vessel that would take them to Europe and its masses crammed into beautiful, open borders.

But all of that could only happen if they could get to the ground alive, and onto the boat. Something loud erupted below them, bright flashes coming from the deck of the boat bringing a smile to his face.

 

Dawson cursed as he dropped, his MP5 belching lead at the two armed men below him, the others joining in. The hostiles’ chutes were quickly shredded, but that wasn’t enough. As they lost their lift, they dropped toward the ground like he was, and he kept pace, leaving what was left of his chute still deployed rather than cutting it loose. He wanted to control his descent at least somewhat, because once he deployed his reserve, that was it.

No third chances.

One of the hostiles shook several times as Dawson’s aim was true, then the other, someone on his team taking the final gun out of the equation. He was about to cut loose his torn chute when he heard the distinctive sound of a .50 caliber from far below.

“It’s coming from that boat!”

Dawson searched for the boat Spock was referring to and spotted it, muzzle flashes erupting from its deck. “Break away, I’ll take care of it.” Dawson pulled the release, his useless chute tearing away, and he dropped. Leaning forward, he gained speed, his arms crossed over his chest as he held his weapon tight against his body so it didn’t tear free and knock him out.

He blasted past the only remaining hostile’s chute, the man unarmed, or at least not partaking in the battle that had just taken place, so most likely Kozhin. He could see three men on the deck now, one operating the .50, another feeding it ammo, the third with a pair of binoculars finding the targets.

And apparently ignoring the free-falling body they assumed was dead.

That should do it.

Dawson pulled his reserve, the speed and size of the chute resulting in a bone-wrenching jolt, something he had felt hundreds of times before in training and on missions. He gripped his MP5 tight, raising it to take aim, when the man with the binoculars suddenly spotted him. He could hear the shouts above the surf below, and the barrel of the machine gun turned toward him.

Dawson squeezed the trigger, pouring lead on the deck. The man feeding the ammo was hit first, and Dawson adjusted left, the next few bursts eliminating the threat, the final ones sending the spotter over the side. The engine fired up and Dawson banked to his right, taking aim at the bridge, opening fire and shattering the windows. A body slumped forward and into sight as he rapidly closed the distance between himself and the boat.

He kept his weapon aimed, his eyes searching for any movement, then mere feet from the deck, reached up and flared his chute, trimming his speed. He hit the deck hard and rolled with a grunt, immediately regaining a knee, scanning left to right for any movement. Finding none, he freed himself of his chute, letting it flutter away, eventually landing in the roiling ocean.

He cleared the deck, making sure the two manning the weapon were indeed dead, then killed the engine before performing a quick search of the vessel, finding no one else on board. Back on the deck, he stared up at the sky to see one lone chute about to land nearby on the shore, and five more chutes closing in. He smiled as he fired up the engine, making for land.

Try to take him alive, boys.

 

Kozhin closed his eyes, pulling down on his toggles as he had been told to do. He felt himself float back up and the sensation sent butterflies through his stomach.

Then he slammed hard into the rocky ground, the sensation merely an illusion.

Keep your eyes open at all times.

Anokhin’s warning echoed too late through his head, and as he struggled to his feet, trying to reel the chute in, he wondered what he was supposed to do next. He stared down at his chest and pulled at the buckle. The harness released and he shrugged out of the chute.

Something fluttered overhead and he looked up, cursing as he spotted the team sent to capture him coming in for a landing. An engine roared to his right and he turned, smiling as he spotted the boat he was to rendezvous with, racing for the shore. He sprinted over the craggy landscape, toward salvation. If he could get to the boat first, he just might escape these insane men who had jumped out of an airplane to pursue him.

“Halt!”

He glanced over his shoulder to see the first of his enemy touch down. Kozhin’s foot stubbed a rock and he stumbled, falling headlong onto the unforgiving ground. He cursed, his body screaming out in pain, but he pushed to his feet.

He wasn’t going to prison.

Not today.

He willed himself forward, the boat now at the shoreline. He would be there in less than a minute. He just had to keep going. He waved at the pilot as he emerged from the bridge, then nearly cried out in disappointment, the man in what appeared to be a US Military uniform with a weapon strapped to his chest, returning the wave with a big smile.

Kozhin slowed then stopped, his shoulders slumping as his knees gave out. He collapsed to the ground, the sounds of heavy footfalls behind him easing, the chase over. He stared up at the heavens, his heart heavy.

Please don’t let them put me in a Russian prison.