Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) (2 page)

He kneeled low and wrestled a Serbian-made light machine gun out of the soaked nylon bag, extending the weapon's foldable shoulder stock. He placed the weapon against the wall and reached back into the bag for one of two detachable ammunition drums. He swiftly attached one of the seventy-five-round drums to the weapon and placed the second in a hip satchel.

Beyond the high-capacity ammunition drums, he had four standard thirty-round magazines velcroed into quick-access pouches on his combat vest, nestled among four stun grenades. He screwed a large suppressor to the machine gun's barrel and chambered a round with the weapon's charging lever. The final item he took from the bag was a gray, aluminum, ice-climbing axe, which he attached low on the side of his vest. He was ready.

He gripped the sturdy assault weapon with his left hand and hopped over the rock wall, using his right hand for leverage. After splashing down in ankle-high mud, he slogged through the torrential rain to reach the left back corner of the garage. From that spot, he'd be able to see the four men leave the porch, which was critical to his plan.

Marko arrived at the corner, careful not to expose himself. He checked all of his gear one more time, wishing he could check the computer and satellite phone in his waterproof backpack, but just as quickly dismissing the idea as last minute paranoia. He knew the electronics rig worked, and that it would give him a secure satellite connection for both the satellite phone and his computer. He had assembled and tested it nearly a dozen times within the last twenty-four hours. He might not even need it, but he wasn't about to take any chances, and neither was General Sanderson.

The rain intensified for a minute, as sheets of water pummeled the side of the garage. Despite having been exposed to the frigid early spring rain for nearly two hours, he wasn't cold. Under his paramilitary camouflage outfit, he wore a waterproof, insulated, one-piece jumpsuit. Certainly not standard issue for elite Serbian commandos, or even the most pampered members of Hadzic's paramilitary forces.

Nothing in Marko's equipment load-out was standard Serbian issue, which distressed him. As an American deep-cover operative, he hadn't fired or handled a weapon less than twenty years old since his arrival in Serbia two years ago. The model he held in his hand came fresh off the Zastava Arms assembly line, compliments of General Sanderson, but it felt alien to him. Instinctively, he knew everything he carried was superior to the ancient hardware handed down to him by senior members of the Panthers, who passed their equipment down to make room for newer toys. Still, it felt strangely uncomfortable.

He peeked around the corner of the garage and saw one of the men throw a lit cigarette out into the front yard. Another man talked excitedly into a small handheld radio and rapidly nodded his head. Showtime.

Marko released the weapon's safety and pulled a rain-soaked black ski mask down over his head. He peered cautiously around the corner, watching the men scramble off the porch. When they vanished from his sight, he moved rapidly down the unobserved side of the garage to the front corner and risked another peek. Everything looked just like he had expected. The lead SUV was already loaded with Radovan and the three men who had accompanied him inside the lodge. The four commandos from the porch jogged toward the rear SUV.

He'd witnessed the same scene several dozen times before. Radovan always insisted that the team assigned to the rear vehicle wait for all of the members of the lead car to get situated. When he'd first seen this, he thought it might be for security reasons, but he'd learned firsthand that this was simply another one of Radovan's psychotic quirks. He also knew that all four members of the rear security team, anxious to get out of the rain, would be so preoccupied watching the lead SUV that he could engage them completely undetected.

He pushed these thoughts aside and instantly engaged a near trance-like mindset. He stepped out into the open and lowered his body into a semi-crouch, aiming at the last man in the group. Through the Aimpoint sight, he placed the red dot on the man's upper back, just below the nape of his neck, and squeezed the trigger for a short burst. The weapon kicked considerably, but he kept it under control and repeated the process for the remaining three guards. He sprinted for the back of the empty SUV and reached it before the last guard hit the ground. None of them had a chance to react. If anything, a couple of them might have felt a warm, chunky spray. Less than five seconds had elapsed.

A quick glance back confirmed that all four members of Radovan's rear security team were dead, and Marko moved forward along the right side of the rear SUV, focused on Radovan's vehicle.

**

Radovan sat impatiently in the front passenger seat of his Range Rover, listening to the rain hammering the truck's thick metal roof. He hated these trips and absolutely despised handing their hard-earned cash over to Hadzic's "gang-banger worshiping" brother, Pavle. Radovan was a committed ultra-nationalist and had no tolerance for the newly arrived American "gangsta" music that had penetrated the Belgrade club scene. When Radovan hit the town, which he frequently did, Belgrade went hip-hop free. Nobody risked incurring the security chief's wrath.

"Why the fuck are we not out of here already?" he yelled at the rain-blurred windshield.

Directly behind him, one of the commandos shifted uncomfortably.
Here we go again.
He turned his head back over his right shoulder, equally annoyed with his infantile boss and the idiots in the other Range Rover. Through the wide back window of the Range Rover's gate, he noted a figure sliding down the right side of the rear SUV, but never had a chance to form much more of an impression about the situation. Several steel-jacketed bullets ripped through his skull, initiating chaos within the SUV.

Radovan was immediately hit by two of the bullets that passed unhindered through the commando's throat. One struck him in the upper left shoulder, where it stayed, and the other ricocheted off the metal headrest post and grazed the right side of his neck. The windshield in front of Radovan crumbled, and he instinctively grabbed for the short-barreled assault rifle that rested between his right leg and the door. Before his hand completed the twelve-inch journey, the front passenger door erupted in a fusillade of torn plastic, metal fragments, and safety glass.

His hand never touched the rifle. He felt incredible surges of pain at multiple points throughout his body, vaguely aware that a figure moved across the front of the SUV, firing continuously into the vehicle. His head snapped violently backward and to the left, leaving him with a view of a shattered body in the seat behind the driver. He tried to call out to the man, but couldn't form the words. He watched as a dark red stain splattered the bodyguard's window, and a red mist aerosolized the rear cargo compartment. This was the last thing Radovan would ever see.

Against all odds, the driver, Jorji, survived the seemingly endless hail of bullets. He was hit several times, but knew that he was not critically wounded. When the first bullets passed through the car, Jorji twisted his body to the right, pressing down on the center console, trying to present the lowest possible target to his attackers. This was not the first time he had been attacked in a vehicle, and his previous experience kept him alive a little longer than the rest of the Range Rover's occupants.

Several bullets pierced the back of his seat and tore into the top left side of his body, causing mostly superficial damage, but shredding muscle and tendon from his left hip all the way up to his shoulder. The extensive muscle damage along his entire left side kept him locked in place over the center console, with his face nearly buried in Radovan's lap. No matter how hard he tried, he could not sit up, which was another reason that he was still alive.

**

Marko dropped to the soaked gravel near the front left tire of the Range Rover and rolled over onto his left side, which gave him easy access to the hip satchel containing the second ammunition drum. The gun's barrel sizzled as the rain struck the dangerously overheated metal. A hundred thoughts and stimuli flashed through his brain, which were immediately prioritized and processed for his use. His trance reduced useless distractions like emotion, hesitation or fear, and enhanced his focus on the highly-specialized skills required to survive.

"Reload weapon" was at the very top of the list. His weapon wasn't empty, but he knew that seventy-five rounds didn't last very long at the rate he had fired. In the flash of a synapse, "driver still alive" was also broadcasted, and his eyes narrowed. He had fired long bursts into each passenger as he moved counterclockwise around the SUV. After targeting the rear right guard and Radovan, he fired a lengthy burst at the driver through the rear right door window. Marko knew the bullets had passed through the seat and connected with the driver, but the man's demise was not conclusive, and he knew it.

He detached the drum magazine and threw it out of the way. The second drum was out of the satchel and attached to the light machine gun in a blur of his hands. Marko raised his body into a low crouch, keeping well below the window, and fired a sustained burst through the center of the front driver door.

**

The silence felt like an eternity to Jorji, but he knew his lifespan was now measured in seconds unless he could take the offensive. Jorji lifted his head up far enough out of Radovan's blood-soaked lap to catch sight of the assault rifle jammed against the door by Radovan's leg. Jorji knew this was his only hope. His only weapon, a small semi-automatic pistol, was jammed under his right armpit in a concealed holster, and he couldn't lift his body to free it. Not that it would have mattered if he could. Jorji was left handed, and a bullet had passed through the back of his left elbow, rendering his arm useless. He strained to slide his right arm free, and his hand managed to reach the rifle just as several bullets punctured the driver door and put an end to any hope that he might survive.

**

Keeping the machine gun aimed forward, he peered into the SUV and saw the driver leaned over Radovan's lap. The man was shredded, but his death was still far from conclusive. Through his weapon's sight, he centered the red dot on the back of the man's skull. One quick trigger removed any doubt that Radovan's security team was finished.

He pulled back up against the house and absorbed the entire scene. The carnage resembled a well-executed ambush, and there was little chance that anyone would suspect the attack was perpetrated by one person. The vehicle was shredded on all sides by bullets, and most of the safety glass lay shattered on the packed gravel. He'd fired from nearly every angle around the car, leaving shell casings scattered everywhere.

He saw that two of the guards behind the rear SUV had fallen on top of each other and immediately decided that he'd stuff one of them into the trunk of the luxury Mercedes in the garage. He'd dump the car into one of the lakes near Belgrade. The absence of a junior member of Radovan's inner sanctum would lead Hadzic to suspect that this was an inside job, and if anyone took a close look at the ground around the bodies, they would only find the washed-out evidence of three deaths.

Marko decided to skip any further house surveillance and moved toward the door. He had done a mixed job of keeping the noise level down and didn't want to waste any time if Pavle's bodyguards had been alerted.

The suppressor had performed as advertised, ensuring that the automatic weapon would not draw anyone's attention over the rainstorm, but the Range Rover was a different story. He was not at all satisfied with the noise created by the bullets that struck the SUV's heavy steel frame. To Marko, it had sounded like multiple, low speed fender benders. He would have to move quickly.

He reached his right hand over to the doorknob and tried to twist it. It didn't move. Wasting no time, he reached into his hip satchel and removed an object that resembled a small plastic explosive charge. He tightly jammed it between the doorknob and door trim. He pulled a small plastic device out of a pouch on his vest and slid it upward along the door from the first small charge. The device's LED turned green about two feet above the doorknob.
He placed a second charge against the trim, where the LED flashed green. Marko pulled a small cotter pin on each of the homemade devices and pressed himself flush against the paved stone wall of the lodge.

In rapid succession, each device ignited and burned intensely for five seconds. The thermite packages created very little noise, but generated an incredible amount of smoke, usually on both sides of the door. He pushed firmly on the heavy oak door, which gave way now that the locks had been melted. He held his breath and stepped into the house. The caustic smoke obscured his vision and burned his eyes momentarily, but he immediately recognized that he was on a small landing. Several stairs led up into the house through an enclosed stairwell that separated the landing from the main house and kept him out of sight.

His ears picked up a familiar sound, which relieved him of any fears that his attack had been compromised. A hardcore rap song vibrated throughout the lodge. His mouth formed a thin grin as a Serbian-accented "yeah, motherfucka" echoed alongside the lyrics.

He eased up the stairs and peeked around the corner. The lodge's ground floor was an open concept space, which gave him a clear view straight through the kitchen, into the great room. Marko didn't see any smoke detectors in the kitchen, which allowed him to relax the pace slightly.

The ceiling opened up just past the eat-in kitchen area to form a two-story great room, with floor to ceiling windows on the far wall facing Marko. A dark gray slate fireplace and chimney split the middle of this wall and disappeared into the timber-framed ceiling. The men were stationed around a rustic, dark wooden coffee table, which was centered on the fireplace and littered with a pile of mixed currency. A dimly-lit chandelier hung low over the coffee table, attached to the ceiling by a thick, black chain.