Authors: Steven Konkoly
Vektor (56 page)
“I’ll do everything I can to help you with that. This is my responsibility.”
“You can start by pointing me in the right direction. Do you have any idea who was responsible?”
Another long pause ignited Kaparov’s suspicion that he wouldn’t get the full story.
“We took down three of the shooters. Tattooing suggests army Spetznaz and a possible
bratva
connection,” Berg said finally.
“Let’s just hope there is no connection to the latter group.”
“Unfortunately, it’s a distinct possibility. We contracted with some of their assets to make certain logistical arrangements,” Berg said in a defeated voice.
“You have no idea what you’ve unleashed. This is the worst-case scenario. I’ll need to see every detail you can provide. You can no longer keep anything from me. Is that understood? At the very least, I have to prove he is still alive before my government produces a corpse and shuts down my investigation,” Kaparov said.
“I didn’t tell you about the
bratva
because I wanted to keep the information compartmentalized, given what was happening in and around your office.”
“If I had known they were involved, I would have told you to cut your ties immediately, even if it meant shutting down the mission. You have unwittingly made the world a much more dangerous place. I’ll call you tomorrow to set up an arrangement to receive any information you have on our friend. This changes everything. I have to go…oh, I hope your shoulder is all right. Goodbye,” he said and hung up.
“Prerovsky!”
Kaparov’s assistant deputy burst into the room with an alarmed look, which immediately turned to confusion. “I thought you might have finally caught fire in the mess,” he joked.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Shut the door and take a seat.”
“This doesn’t sound good. Is the celebration cancelled?” he said, following Kaparov’s instructions.
“The celebration is cancelled, but I still plan on drinking myself into a coma, and after you hear what I’ve just learned, you’ll want to do the same,” Kaparov said.
Epilogue
2:14 PM
Caribbean Sea
Five nautical miles north of Cartagena, Colombia
The smell of diesel fuel and industrial disinfectant permeated the air, sticking to his clothes and saturating his hair. Even his skin reeked of it. Six days hidden away in a cramped cabin aboard a Liberian flagged container ship hadn’t exactly been what he had envisioned for his first week of freedom. His dreams of booze and prostitutes, compliments of his new Solntsevskaya friends, had been replaced by strict house arrest under the watchful eyes of three stern-faced commandos, who continued to remind him that they lost three of their comrades because of him.
Fucking babies
, he thought. They should be celebrating. Now they had more money to split among themselves. He guessed they were too stupid to do basic math. To add insult to injury, the quack doctor hired to examine him in Halifax had insisted that he avoid excessive alcohol consumption throughout the healing process, which his “captors” had interpreted to mean no alcohol at all. How was he supposed to heal without drinking? None of it made any sense.
He stood up and glanced at his watch. The ship had slowed several minutes ago, on their approach to the port. He had been assured by the ship’s captain, who was well aligned with the Solntsevskaya Bratva, that he would be free to move about on his own once they cleared customs and spirited him off the ship to a waiting van. He apologized for the second-class treatment, saying that the instructions for his transit had been clear. He was to avoid contact with members of the crew, who could only be trusted as far as their paychecks lasted.
The Port of Cartagena had a bad reputation for draining a sailor’s wallet, and despite the
bratva
’s influence throughout the dock area frequented by ship crews, the Americans had no problem throwing money around through their proxies. They needed to get Reznikov as far from the port area as possible. He was still highly recognizable at this point, thanks to Karl Berg.
He turned to face a small square mirror fixed to the bulkhead by two metal clamps. The dirty surface revealed a gaunt, slightly jaundiced face covered in stubble. His left cheek was buried under a large, dingy medical dressing that ran from the edge of his mouth to his ear. He gently pulled the gauze tape from his chin and lifted the bandage to expose Berg’s handiwork. A long, jagged red scar extended across most of his cheek, the skin still held together by black stitches.
He received little more than basic first aid until they arrived in Halifax, several hours after his escape from Vermont. By then, the deep slash caused by one of Berg’s bullets had started to fester, making it nearly impossible for the sham of a doctor the Russians had kidnapped to neatly sew his face back together.
The thought of living with this hideous scar for the rest of his life evoked a murderous rage against the backstabbing son of a bitch who had come to murder him that morning. There was no other explanation for the suppressed pistol Berg produced at a moment’s notice. He should have known better than to trust the man who had authorized his torture at the hands of two maniacs in Stockholm and then had the nerve to put him in the same room with one of them in Vermont. His heart had nearly exploded at the sight of the dark-haired, smarmy psychopath, who so casually toasted to stuffing his head in a toilet. He’d eventually find all of them, starting with Karl Berg. Nobody fucked with Anatoly Reznikov. No matter how long it took, he would patiently wait for the right moment to make them all pay.
THE END
If you’ve made it this far in the series, I can only assume that you’ve enjoyed reading the
Black Flagged
world as much as I’ve enjoyed creating it. Thank you! Without dedicated readers, the daily “zero dark thirty” wakeups would wear on me very quickly. Because of you, I look forward to tiptoeing around my house in the morning, careful not to wake the rest of the clan. Of course, I would love to dedicate more of my time to the writing. One of the simplest and most effective ways you can help me achieve this dream of writing full time is to leave reviews on Amazon.
These reviews accomplish two things. First, they give potential readers the confidence to spend their hard earned money on a new author in their favorite genre. Second, a well-reviewed book draws attention from readers and book industry professionals. All of this brings me “that much” closer to achieving my goal of writing full time and releasing three to four books a year, instead of two. See. This benefits you too! Consider leaving a simple review on Amazon for one or more of the
Black Flagged
books. You don’t have to write a novel, or anguish over what to say like I do. A basic expression of satisfaction speaks volumes to potential readers. Thank you in advance.
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Please visit Steven's blog for more on
Black Flagged
and future projects.
A bonus excerpt from the next book in the
Black Flagged
series,
Black Flagged Reprisal
and an excerpt Steven’s first novel,
The Jakarta Pandemic
immediately follow:
Black Flagged Reprisal
excerpt
The Jakarta Pandemic
excerpt
Cast of Characters
(In alphabetical order)
Dmitry Ardankin –
Director of Operations, Directorate S, Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR)
Arkady Baranov –
Director, Center of Special Operations (CSN), Federation Security Service (FSB)
Sevastyan Bazin “Seva”
- BF Russian Group Demolitions/Assault
Audra Bauer
–Deputy Director, National Clandestine Service, CIA
Viktor Belyakov
– Russian bioweapons scientist, Vektor
Karl Berg
– Assistant Deputy Director, National Clandestine Service, CIA
General Robert Copely
– Director, CIA
Vadim Dragunov
– Zaslon operative, Directorate S, Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR)
Richard Farrington “Yuri”
– Black Flag, Russian Group Leader
Alexander Filatov “Sasha”
– Black Flag Russian Group Assault
Erin Foley –
CIA agent assigned to Black Flag Russian Group, aka Katie Reynolds
Luc Fortier “Luke”
– Black Flag Electronic Warfare Team, Europe
Lieutenant General Frank Gordon
– Commander Joint Special Operations Command
Maxim Greshnev
– Chief Counterterrorism Director for the Federation Security Service (FSB)
Jared Hoffman “Gosha”
– Black Flag Russian Group Sniper
Konrad Hubner
– Black Flag, European Group
Darryl Jackson
– Brown River Security Corporation executive
Alexei Kaparov
– Deputy Director, Bioweapons/Chemical Threat Assessment Division Federal Security Service (FSB)
Major General Bob Kearney
– Defense Intelligence Agency Director
Reinhard Klinkman
– Black Flag European Group
Dima Maksimov –
Solntsevskaya Bratva,
Pakhan
(Leader)
Thomas Manning
– Director, National Clandestine Service, CIA
Nikolai Mazurov –
Deep cover Black Flag operative, Moscow
Mikhail Nesterov “Misha”
– Black Flag Russian Group Tech/Assault
Mihail Osin
– Spetsnaz operative, Directorate S, Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR)
Lucya Pavrikova
– Technician, Center for Special Operations (CSN), Federation Security Service (FSB)
Matvey Penkin –
Solntsevskaya Bratva,
Avtorityet
(Brigadier)
Daniel Petrovich
– Black Flag operative, retired
Jessica Petrovich
– Black Flag, retired
Yuri Prerovsky
– Federation Agent, Federal Security Services (FSB)
Stefan Pushnoy –
Director, Russian Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR)
James Quinn
– National Security Advisor
Jacob Remy
– White House Chief of Staff
Anatoly Reznikov
– Former scientist at Vektor
Brigadier General Terrence Sanderson
- Black Flag Leader
Grigory Usenko “Grisha”
– Black Flag Russian Group Assault
Feliks Yeshevsky
– Field Agent, Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR)
Valery Zuyez “Viktor” –
Solntsevskaya Bratva,
Boyevik
(Warrior)
Excerpt from
Black Flagged Reprisals
United Nations Detention Unit
The Hague, Netherlands
Srecko Hadzic shuffled impatiently along the pea green linoleum floor toward his cell. He’d just finished another unsatisfying meal of unidentifiable meat, mashed potatoes and soft green beans in the cafeteria. He craved a cigarette, but this pleasure would have to wait. He’d waited all day for this moment. After dinner, the Detention Unit’s staff invariably left him alone until the first evening room check around 7:30.
His attorney had passed him a small USB drive, which contained an encrypted digital file from his nephew. Srecko had received an email from Josif a few days earlier, confirming that “production of the documentary was complete,” but he gave no indication of when the film would be delivered. The suspense had aggravated Srecko’s heart palpitations, as he anxiously awaited the video of Zorana Zekulic’s gang rape and murder.
The thumb drive had arrived earlier today at his attorney’s office in Amsterdam, via DHL Overnight Delivery from Buenos Aires. A message from his nephew’s email account apologized for the delay and provided a decryption key for the thumb drive. He tried not to skip back to his cell. The mood in the detention unit ranged from dour to utterly depressed, and he didn’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions, including his fellow prisoners. He wanted a solid hour or two to enjoy Zorana’s last miserable moments on earth. He wasn’t sure how long the video lasted, but he intended to savor it over and over again, fast-forwarding to the good parts…unless they were all good parts. He really hoped Josif had edited the final cut.
He walked into his cell and closed the heavy metal door behind him, making sure to shut the small observation hatch. They could open the peephole, but generally respected the detainees privacy during daytime hours. He couldn’t remember the last time one of the detention center guards had checked on him between dinner and the evening room check. Still, his computer monitor was fixed facing the door, so he would have to be careful. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to watch the video with his pants down. He’d save that for later, after he found his favorite scenes.
He walked through his room, which resembled a decently appointed college dorm. A spare bed with clean linens sat across from a wall mounted desk unit housing his computer. A simple hard plastic backed metal wire chair was pushed under the desk. He moved the chair back and sat in front of the desktop, eagerly pushing the thumb drive into the single USB port on the ancient machine.
The screen activated and he quickly navigated to the contents of the thumb drive, which contained one file. He removed a scrap of paper from a folder next to the computer and clicked on the file. He was immediately prompted for the decryption password. Once entered, Windows media manager launched, recognizing the file as an MPEG. When the MPEG launched, the status window indicated “20:17.” A little short, he thought. He had expected more than twenty minutes, but then again, a well-edited effort could be more rewarding than hours of drawn out torture and drama. He clicked on the play button.
