Omega: A Black Flagged Thriller

Book 5: The Black Flagged Series

by Steven Konkoly

Genres: Thrillers; Military Thrillers; Terrorism & Assassination Thrillers

Synopsis

Over 500,000 books in BLACK FLAGGED series sold!

A TOP SECRET, JOINT U.S.—RUSSIAN SPECIAL FORCES RAID AGAINST A HIDDEN LABORATORY OFF THE COAST OF INDIA YIELDS AN ALARMING DISCOVERY!

Anatoly Reznikov, the deranged bioweapons scientist stolen from U.S. custody a few years earlier, vanished minutes before the attack--taking his deadly work with him.

In the United States, Beltway power brokers grapple with True America's surprise presidential win, finding the new administration to be anything but easy to work with. Karl Berg, demoted within the CIA due to the sudden shift in agency leadership, seeks to stay out of trouble, and retire quietly--a task he finds impossible when news of Reznikov's near-capture unofficially reaches his desk.

Oblivious to the growing threats domestic and abroad, Daniel and Jessica Petrovich finalize their plan to abandon the "Black Flag" business for good, only to have it delayed by close-hitting news. A last minute trip to the United States drags them closer to an unfolding plot in the heart of Washington D.C.

A plot connected to everyone and everything the Petrovich's have touched. A diabolical conspiracy none of them saw coming--AND ONLY ONE GROUP CAN STOP!

Book 1: Black Flagged Alpha
Book 2: Black Flagged Redux
Book 3: Black Flagged Apex
Book 4: Black Flagged Vektor
Book 5: Black Flagged Omega

By USA Today bestselling author (USA Today December, 15 2016)

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Steven's novels are recommended for fans of Brad Thor's Scot Harvath, Vince Flynn's Mitch Rapp, Brad Taylor's Pike Logan, Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan, Lee Child's Jack Reacher, Robert Ludlum's Jason Bourne, L.T. Ryan's Jack Noble, C.G. Cooper's Daniel Briggs, Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon and Mark Greaney's Gray Man.

Release date: February 20, 2017

Publisher: Stribling Media

Print pages: 455

Sample

PART ONE:

GRAY AREA

Chapter 1

Tverskoy District

Moscow, Russian Federation

Matvey Penkin looked away from the flat-screen monitor on his desk, directing his attention toward the open office door. A bulky man wearing an oversized suit appeared in the doorway, holding a satellite phone. Penkin nodded, and the man approached, reaching across the wide desk to place the phone in his waiting hand. Once the phone was in his grasp, the security guard quietly withdrew from the room, shutting the door behind him.

Penkin examined the orange, backlit LED screen on the device, not recognizing the number. Whoever was on the other end of the phone had decided against using one of the preassigned satellite phones assigned to their post. A call placed using one of those phones would immediately identify the caller. He checked the back of the phone before answering.

A three-letter code stenciled in white indicated the phone had been set up to receive calls from his territory or operations bosses in Southeast Asia. Given that the Solntsevskaya Bratva hadn’t widely penetrated the area, he had a good idea where the call had originated. Penkin braced for bad news about his special project, strongly suspecting it would be more than another unanticipated delay.

“This better be important,” said Penkin, breathing heavily into the receiver.

A digitally garbled, Russian-speaking voice answered, “Mr. Penkin, time is short, so I’ll get right to the point.”

“Who is this?” said Penkin.

“Never mind that,” snapped the voice. “Your laboratory project in Goa will be destroyed within the hour.”

“By who? You?”

“It doesn’t matter who. All that matters is that it will happen, and no amount of warning or resistance at the site can prevent it. Your only hope of salvaging the project is to discreetly evacuate only key personnel—immediately. I recommend using the river. The roads leading out are most certainly under surveillance.”

Penkin rapidly assessed the information passed by the mystery caller, wondering how much he or she knew about the true nature of his organization’s business at the site. The caller’s purposeful use of the word laboratory combined with the fact that he had somehow coopted one of Penkin’s encrypted satellite phones was unnerving to say the least.

“I need more than a cryptic warning from a garbled voice before I disassemble one of my operations,” said Penkin.

“You don’t have time to disassemble the operation, only to evacuate Dr. Reznikov and key biological samples,” replied the voice.

Penkin sat speechless for a few moments, a surge of adrenaline energizing his nervous system.

“I see.”

“I sincerely hope you do,” said the voice. “It would be a shame to lose one of our national treasures.”

The call disconnected, leaving Penkin puzzled.

Our national treasures?

Who the hell could this possibly be, and why the mystery? He muttered a curse, contemplating his next move. The answer stared him in the face. It was likely no coincidence that the call had been placed on this phone. He pressed and held “1” on the phone’s touch pad, immediately dialing the first preset number. Better safe than sorry. A gravelly voice answered several rings later.

“Yes?”

“Stand by to authenticate identities,” said Penkin, opening the bottom drawer of his desk.

“It’s three in the goddamn morning, Matvey,” the voice griped.

He removed a notebook from the drawer and opened it with one hand while talking. “I’m well aware of the time. Are you ready to authenticate?”

“Hold on,” the voice grumbled, followed by a lengthy pause. “Go ahead.”

Penkin read a ten-digit series of letters and numbers that would be matched on the other end to confirm his identity. A different alphanumeric set was recited back, completing the process. The code changed every month or after each use.

“Code authenticated,” said Valery Zuyev, his most trusted Boyevik, or “warrior.”

“Listen closely, Valery. I just received information suggesting that your site has been compromised. I need you to get Reznikov and the critical specimens out of there immediately. Be very discreet about your departure. The fewer people involved, the better. I’m told the roads may not be safe.”

“Do we have a time frame?”

“Within the hour,” said Penkin.

Zuyev didn’t respond.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m here. Just thinking for a second,” said Valery. “I have a river escape contingency designed for a small group. Essential security personnel only. We can be on the water within five minutes.”

“Good. Put as much distance between the laboratory and Reznikov as possible in the next hour, and whatever you do, avoid all contact with our brotherhood contacts in Goa. I don’t know who I can trust right now.”

“That bad?”

“I don’t know yet. Just get Reznikov out of there. We can’t afford to lose him.”

“I’ll call you when we’re clear,” said Zuyev.

“Good luck,” said Penkin.

Penkin put the phone down and rubbed his face with both hands. He could barely believe this was happening. His fate would be decided within the hour. Or had it already been decided? The only person outside of his own small network of trusted associates who knew anything substantive about the laboratory project in India was Dima Maksimov, head of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. If Maksimov was involved in any way with tonight’s call, he was most assuredly a dead man.


Chapter 2

Dudhsagar River

Goa, India

The skiff plied sluggishly through the water, its electric motor humming steadily. Reznikov lifted his right elbow onto the top edge of the aluminum hull and let his hand slide into the lukewarm water. The seemingly insignificant movement caused the overloaded boat to wobble, prompting him to pull his hand out of the river.

“Keep your damn hands in the boat,” Zuyev hissed.

Reznikov turned his head to respond, shifting his body at the same time, once again unbalancing the skiff. He froze in place, firmly gripping both sides. He’d never learned how to swim, and they’d left the project site too quickly to locate the lifejackets. Somehow, it had never occurred to any of his hosts to keep the jackets onboard the boat, the most logical location. That would have made too much sense for these idiots.

“Quit moving, or you’ll dump us all over the side,” Zuyev whispered forcefully.

Reznikov considered a retort, but let it go, instead bringing his hands into the boat to retrieve one of the flasks of vodka tucked into his safari vest. He took a secretive pull from the metal container, feeling his nerves steady as the blessed liquid warmed his stomach and worked its magic.

“Take one more drink and put that away,” said Zuyev. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of an escape.”

He’d noticed, all right. It was a little hard to ignore being pummeled out of a hangover-induced coma and dragged through the pitch-black jungle by two overmuscled goons. He still wasn’t sure what was going on. They’d dumped him into a boat and taken off into the darkness without an explanation. Twenty minutes later, nobody had spoken a word until now. Reznikov drained half of the flask with the next swig, holding it above his shoulder for Zuyev. Surprisingly, the mafiya boss took him up on the offer. Not a good sign at all.

“Things must be pretty bad,” whispered Reznikov.

“Things could be better,” Zuyev replied, handing the flask back empty.

Reznikov briefly considered the second flask, letting the thought go. There was no telling how long he might have to stretch his limited vodka supply out here. Plus, Zuyev would likely knock it out of his hand into the river. The skiff continued its slow, steady voyage along the riverbank, staying under the thick tree canopy that hung over the water. Bits and pieces of the clear night sky peeked through the foliage, occasionally exposing the brief flicker of a star or two.

A few minutes later, he felt the skiff ease into a turn. The pleasant breeze created by the boat’s forward motion died quickly. His face started to bead with perspiration within seconds. He hoped a vehicle with functional air-conditioning awaited them. The prospect of sitting crammed between these sweaty beasts in the backseat of a sweltering car terrified him. Of course, he was assuming they were headed to a vehicle. For all he knew, they planned on hiking to safety. He really hoped that wasn’t the case. It was bad enough sitting still in the sweltering heat. Trudging through a rainforest was another matter altogether. Zuyev whispered something Reznikov couldn’t decipher into his headset.

“Are we there?” said Reznikov.

“Shhhh.” A hand gently gripped his shoulder. “Listen.”

Reznikov kept still. A deep rumble rose above the chirps and squeaks, drowning out the jungle’s ambient noise. He didn’t recognize the sound at first until the steady rumble morphed into the distinct, rhythmic thump of helicopter blades. The skiff’s aluminum hull scraped against the soft bottom of the river, gently stopping the boat.

Helicopters thundered overhead, their powerful rotor wash shaking the tree canopy with a gale-force wind that dislodged the skiff from the riverbed. The violent disturbance ended as quickly as it started, leaving them adrift and showered with falling leaves. The high-pitched whine of the helicopters’ engines rapidly faded, replaced by the outbound thump of the rotor blades. He never saw the machines, but knew intuitively that they were headed upriver toward the laboratory. And when they didn’t find what they were looking for, they’d be back.

“Why aren’t we moving?” said Reznikov.

“Keep quiet,” whispered Zuyev. “We’re making sure they don’t have anyone on the river.”

“Who exactly are we talking about?”

“Someone with military-grade helicopters at their disposal,” said Zuyev.

“And you somehow knew about this?” Reznikov asked.

“Someone knew about it. My orders were to get you out of there.”

“Where do we go from here?”

“We have two vehicles hidden further downriver. GPS indicates we’re about ten minutes away.”

A distant buzz penetrated the forest, echoing from the opposite side of the river. The buzz repeated, followed by the staccato sound of small-arms fire.

“Let’s go,” said Zuyev.

The skiff lurched forward, turning in a lazy circle to point in a direction Reznikov assumed was downriver. He honestly couldn’t tell for sure. It was a moonless night, and the dense jungle swallowed everything around them. Without night vision, which they had conveniently neglected to provide him, he was effectively blind and completely dependent on his hosts, no doubt by design.

A fierce battle raged a few miles behind them as they continued downriver. The trees on the opposite side of the river lit up once from a sizable explosion. The gunfire had started to slacken by the time he felt the boat slow again. He hoped they had finally arrived at the vehicles. The soldiers in the helicopters had to be moments away from discovering that he had recently escaped. Reznikov had zero doubt that he was the primary objective of the raid, and once they discovered he was missing, they would start scouring the area.

“We need to get off the river,” he said. “They probably spotted us with their thermal gear on the way in. They probably thought we were fishermen. I guarantee they won’t make that mistake again.”

“Take another drink and calm down,” replied Zuyev. “We’re almost there.”

He didn’t need another drink. He needed to get the fuck off this river before the helicopters returned. Ignoring Zuyev’s comment, he lowered his head, resting it against his knees for the rest of the short transit.

“We’re here,” stated Zuyev.

Reznikov raised his head as they glided silently under a low-hanging branch that scraped the top of his head. When the skiff stopped, the man seated on the raised bench in front of him swung his legs over the side and splashed down in the water, holding the skiff steady.

“Over the side, Anatoly,” said Zuyev, yanking him up by the back collar of his vest. “We don’t have any time to waste.”

Reznikov inched his way onto the empty bench behind him, careful not to fall overboard. Logically, he knew the water wasn’t deep, but his lack of swimming ability kept him from making any sudden moves. Without warning, Zuyev pulled him over the side, dropping him in the shallow water. A moment of panic struck when he hit the water, quickly dissolving when his rear side came to rest on the bottom of the river.

“Quit splashing around like a fucking baby. You’re in a foot of water,” Zuyev snapped, eliciting muffled laughter from the other two men.

Reznikov struggled to his feet, now soaked from top to bottom thanks to that ass, Zuyev. When all of this business was finished, he would kill Zuyev. The man had treated him like shit since the Bratva rescued him from the hands of his American captors. Two long years moving from one third world shithole to another, “staying off the radar,” as Zuyev was fond of saying.

After a few close calls with a relentless assassination team in South America, Zuyev brought him by ship to the west coast of India, where he’d spent the past year working in an isolated P4 biosafety laboratory built specifically for him. The Bratva had undoubtedly spent a fortune on the lab, both in terms of money and time, and all they had to show for it right now was a cooler full of virus samples and the genius who created them.

He could expect Zuyev to be in a particularly vicious mood after this, the brunt of which would be taken out on him. Yes. He’d make sure Zuyev died a miserable death, preferably at the hands of one of the viruses he paid Reznikov to create. He appreciated a sense of irony.

Reznikov slogged forward through the water, following the dark forms in front of him toward what he assumed was the riverbank. Zuyev and one of the other men manhandled him up the steep, five-foot bank, pushing him into the thick, untamed forest. He started to think they’d made a mistake when the foliage cleared, dumping them on a hard-packed dirt trail.

“Not much furth—” started Zuyev, his words replaced by a sickening gurgle.

To his left, a dark shape swiftly but silently materialized from the forest, instantly closing the distance to the mafiya guard directly in front of him. A crack broke the silence, a brief flash illuminating the suppressed pistol pressed against the guard’s head. The man dropped to the trail at Reznikov’s feet, landing with a heavy thump. He had no idea where the third security guy had gone.

Now he was truly fucked. Zuyev and two former Russian Spetsnaz taken down in the blink of an eye? A helicopter raid at three thirty in the morning? He was dealing with professionals, which meant one thing—a secure prison cell for the rest of his life.

“All clear,” said a Russian voice behind him. “Start the truck.”

The man put a gloved hand on his shoulder, causing him to flinch.

“Dr. Reznikov, we need to move immediately. It’s not safe here,” the dark figure said in Russian.

No kidding.

Grigor was missing, and he didn’t need the half-witted mafiya guard deciding to kill him rather than let him fall into enemy hands.

“There’s a third man in my group. He was first on the trail,” whispered Reznikov. “I don’t see him.”

A car engine roared in the near distance.

“That’s him starting the SUV. Grigor has been on our payroll for a while now.”

Grigor was one of the ex-GRU Spetsnaz that had freed him from the CIA prison in Vermont. The Bratva had extended his contract, assigning him a job as one of Reznikov’s primary bodyguards. The gruff asshole had followed him around like a shadow for close to three years, apparently waiting to sell him to the highest bidder. Was there no end to the double-crossing with these people?

“Where are we going?” asked Reznikov, resigned to his current fate with his new captors.

“Anywhere but here,” said the man, pushing a piece of gear with straps into his hand. “Hold these up to your face for now; we’ll get them strapped on later.”

Reznikov raised the device in front of his head, placing the two green-glowing eyepieces to his face. The darkness transformed into a monochromatic green picture, revealing the true nature of his rescue. The man that had given him the goggles was dressed in military camouflage and armed with a suppressed shortbarreled AK-74. He wore a heavily laden tactical vest rigged with communications gear and bulging magazine pouches; night-vision goggles were strapped to his bearded face.

The absence of a helmet led Reznikov to believe the man was not part of the raid against the laboratory. Those soldiers would be covered head to toe in body armor. This guy looked like he had geared up for an extended jungle operation. He wasn’t sure if this was a good or bad sign. The fact that they hadn’t put a bullet in his head was a decent enough start.

He turned to face the second, similarly outfitted commando, who scanned the trail behind them with his rifle. Valery Zuyev lay at Reznikov’s feet, blood pumping from the back of his neck onto the hardened mud. Zuyev’s lifeless eyes stared past him, fixed skyward. Reznikov spit on his face.

“We need to go,” said the commando, picking up the temperature-controlled specimen cooler dropped by Zuyev.

“Who are you? What is this?”

“You’ve been liberated, Dr. Reznikov. But if we’re not on the road moving south within the next thirty seconds, that may well change. I don’t hear any more shooting from the lab. It’s only a matter of time before they realize you’re gone.”

“Liberated by whom?”

“People with deep pockets,” the commando replied, nudging him forward. “That’s all I know—or care to know.

“Be careful with that cooler,” said Reznikov, remaining fixed in place.

“The cooler was our primary objective,” said the commando. “I suggest you start moving. If you slow us down too much, I’ll have to leave you behind like Zuyev. Risk versus reward. The faster you move, the less risk.”

Reznikov shook his head. Sold like cattle to the highest bidder. He could figure it all out later, after finishing off his second flask.


Chapter 3

FSB Headquarters

Lubyanka Square, Moscow

Alexei Kaparov strained to view the live camera feed displayed on the operation center’s main projection screen. An impenetrable crowd of senior agents and high-ranking bureaucrats gathered in a tight semicircle around the display wall, essentially blocking most of his view. Only a cattle prod at its highest setting could open a space between these piranhas.

Mercifully, he’d been ushered into the darkened, overcrowded room several minutes after the Alpha Group Spetsnaz team had gone to work on the suspected bioweapons laboratory site. The FSB higher-ups obviously didn’t want him and the rest of the B team to see the special operations team’s insertion. Thank the world for small miracles. He really didn’t care at all to watch the operation unfold. Unwatchable shaky green images, heavy breathing, and gunfire didn’t interest him in the least. The end result was all that really mattered, especially in this case.

Killing Reznikov would close a dark chapter in Russia’s history, a chapter the government had rewritten several times over the past decade, the most creative revision foisted on the Russian people and the international community several months ago. He had to give them credit. They must have dusted off the best Communist-era propagandists to pull it off.

Instead of continuing to blame the astonishingly tragic situation in Monchegorsk on some kind of separatist uprising, which nobody believed from the outset, the government took the unprecedented step of admitting that the city’s population had been deliberately infected with a bioweapon created at the Vektor Institute State Research Center for Virology and Biotechnology. With a caveat, of course.

That faux caveat being that Russian authorities were completely unaware that a rogue group of scientists had secretly restarted Biopreparat’s banned bioweapons research and development program until it was too late to stop the tragedy. Of course, as soon as Russian Federation authorities discovered the illegal and clearly unauthorized program, they did what any responsible government would do under the circumstances. They destroyed it. History was rewritten, and with the United States government’s complicit silence, the story was bought hook, line and sinker, for the good of everyone, especially Kaparov.

Prior to the historical rewrite, he’d found it increasingly difficult as the head of the Bioweapons and Chemical Threat Assessment Directorate to pretend that the number one threat to Russian Federation security didn’t exist. He couldn’t wait to hear the Alpha team’s final confirmation that Reznikov was dead. A late night drink—or five—could be in order.

“I’m beginning to suspect the raid is a bust,” said a vaguely familiar voice to his right.

Kaparov turned to face Maxim Greshnev, Chief Counter-Terrorism Director for the FSB, one of the last people he would have expected to find watching the operation with the rest of the riffraff.

“Good morning, Director,” said Kaparov, instantly disappointed with himself for the robotic underling response.

“Nothing good about it,” said Greshnev. “They’ve been through every building except for the one they managed to blow up and they still haven’t located Reznikov. Take a guess what building went sky high?”

“The laboratory?”

“Of course,” said Greshnev. “Because why the fuck would we be interested in a full inventory of Reznikov’s work?”

“Look on the bright side, maybe they blew him up with the lab,” said Kaparov.

Greshnev chuckled, a rare show of visible emotion from the man. “We could only be so lucky,” he said, shaking his head.

Kaparov decided to ask a question he suspected would not be met with a straight answer. It wasn’t every day that you had the ear of one of the most powerful men in the FSB.

“How reliable was the source?”

“We received a onetime anonymous tip,” Greshnev replied.

“You get what you pay for,” Kaparov commented.

Greshnev stifled a laugh. “Apparently the laboratory is located in western Goa.”

“India?”

“The warm beaches of Goa attract Russian tourists year-round,” said Greshnev. “Hundreds of thousands of tourists and a few thousand permanent residents. They call the area between Arambol and Morjim beaches ‘Little Russia.’”

“No doubt the Solntsevskaya Bratva is well represented,” said Kaparov, understanding the connection.

“It’s a small outpost for the Bratva, completely off our radar until now.”

“And we’re sure he was there?”

“It was impossible to get anyone too close to the compound without tipping our hand, but relatively easy to ascertain that a sophisticated, medical-grade laboratory had been built in the middle of the jungle. It fit the profile, so here we are.”

He considered Greshnev’s revelation. Unless the director had lied about the anonymous nature of the tip, the information couldn’t possibly have originated from a source inside the jungle compound. A guard assigned to the laboratory would have attached a significant price tag to their sudden shift in loyalties. Nobody took a risk like this without a sizable financial incentive, and the Russian government wasn’t exactly known for handing out generous bounties to informants. Something didn’t make sense.

“How detailed was the information provided?” asked Kaparov.

“Detailed enough,” answered Greshnev, signaling that Kaparov’s line of questioning about the source had come to an end.

“Americans?”

“Definitely not,” answered Greshnev.

“You don’t expect they’ll find him, do you?”

“I had my doubts from the beginning,” said Greshnev. “I’ll make sure you receive a copy of the after-action report for this operation. I need a pair of cynical eyes sifting through the results.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Your cynicism is what I like about you, not to mention your experience. Take a hard look at the report and get back to me with your observations. I’ll make sure Inga knows.”

Inga Soyev, Greshnev’s personal secretary, had earned the reputation as one of the most pitiless gatekeepers in Lubyanka’s history. Nobody saw Greshnev without her approval.

“I’ll see what I can dig up,” said Kaparov, still not sure what to make of this bizarre meeting.

“Looks like they finally discovered my absence,” said Greshnev. “Surprised it took the jackals so long.”

A pack of agents craned their necks from side to side to find him, some abandoning their prime locations in front of the screen to reposition themselves closer to the director.

Jackals indeed.

Instead of stepping forward into the inner circle, Kaparov took a few steps backward and made room for the swarm. A few eyed him skeptically, or jealously—he couldn’t tell in the soft blue glow of the tactical operations center. He truly didn’t care one way or the other. Getting out of there was his number one priority. If he managed to sneak away within the next few minutes, he could be home in bed within the hour. Any longer and he might as well lie down on the floor in his office.

One of the support agents seated among several smaller monitors arranged at a spacious workstation next to the main screen made an announcement over the loudspeaker.

“Alpha team leader reports negative contact with primary objective. The team managed a quick pass through the undamaged part of the laboratory structure, finding no human remains. Secondary objective destroyed in the fire.”

He assumed the secondary objective meant live virus samples. Greshnev shook his head, mumbling something to one of the men standing next to him as the report continued.

“The team needs to be airborne in two minutes. ELINT support has detected increased sensor activity and radio transmissions from the Indian Naval Air Station at Hansa. The team has shifted its focus to intelligence collection for the little time they have left.”

“Has there been any indication of a local law enforcement response?” Greshnev responded immediately.

A few seconds passed before he received an answer.

“No response detected,” said the agent.

“Pass along an urgent request to Director Baranov at CSN (Center of Special Operations). I strongly suggest they leave a discreet team behind, as discussed during the planning phase. There’s one shitty little road leading to and from the facility, and we’ve had it under continuous surveillance. If the primary objective was indeed on-site at any time in the past forty-eight hours and somehow narrowly escaped this attack, he can’t be far away.”

“Understood, Director Greshnev,” replied the agent.

The director glanced back at Kaparov, his look betraying the same skepticism that Kaparov himself felt. Something didn’t add up here.


Chapter 4

White House Situation Room

Washington, D.C.

Frederick Shelby studied the faces of the men and women seated around the conference room table. He was far more interested in their reactions to the unsuccessful raid than the news itself. Shelby was still an outsider within this tight circle of power, a fact he couldn’t afford to forget or ignore. He’d secured a seat at the highest stakes table in town because of a single instrumental act of loyalty to the True America party, but knew all too well that the chair could be yanked out from under him at any moment, regardless of the cards he held. Reading poker faces could be as critical to success inside the Beltway as competence, especially tonight.

The failure to capture or kill Anatoly Reznikov in tonight’s raid would fall squarely in the CIA’s lap, and as the director of National Intelligence’s representative tonight, it would hit Shelby’s lap first. He noted a baleful flash from General Frank Gordon, commander of United States Special Operations Command, but he’d expected as much. SOCCOM had lives directly on the line tonight, and the intelligence shared with them by Shelby turned out to be a bust. He expected them to be hot. No. His focus centered on the immediate members of the president’s inner circle, the people that really mattered. The wrong word whispered in the right ear could be disastrous for Shelby.

He briefly turned his attention to the massive projection screen mounted to the front wall of the room. Live video feed from Operation RAINFOREST occupied the left half; a digital map displaying military symbols filled the right side. Four blue symbols clustered a hundred miles off the central western coast of India, each corresponding to one of the friendly units still in play. Within minutes, barring any unforeseen circumstances, only two blue circles would remain, their speed and direction data indicating a high-speed run due southwest, away from the coast.

The adjacent green-scale image showed the slowly approaching flight deck of a low-profile combat ship from one of the pilot’s helmet-mounted cameras. One of the two hangar bays situated forward of the flight deck was open, swallowing the tail rotor of a recently landed helicopter. The image switched to the crew chief’s helmet, revealing a secret that would never extend beyond the handful of men and women in this room or on board the helicopters.

RAINFOREST redefined the concept of “need to know.” Not even the ships’ commanding officers had been told what the stealth helicopters had ferried across the Indian coast or where they had stopped. Each Arleigh Burke destroyer had capably served as a two-billion-dollar taxi for one of the most classified military operations in recent U.S. history.

Shelby sensed a shift in the White House chief of staff’s posture and took his eyes off the body-armor-clad soldiers seated inside the helicopter to meet her glare. Beverly Stark’s words were quick to follow.

“Well, that was a bust.”

He held back, knowing that nothing good would come out of his mouth for the next several seconds. Better to let someone else speak first.

“The operational pieces are undamaged and appear to have remained undetected,” said General Gordon. “That’s all that matters at this point.”

President Alan Crane continued watching the helicopter on its final approach to the ship’s flight deck. Without turning away from the screen, he directed a question at Shelby.

“Any new information from our friends in Moscow?”

Shelby scanned his laptop screen for any last second messages transmitted from the Defense Clandestine Service (NCS) Operations Center. A single-sentence post appeared moments before he responded.

“Interesting. The Russians left a skeleton team behind to try to pick up Reznikov’s trail,” said Shelby, typing a question for the DIA (Defense Intelligence Agency) team talking to Moscow.

“They did what?” said Gordon, furiously typing on his own laptop.

“Is that confirmed?” asked Beverly Stark.

Gordon looked up, nodding. “Confirmed. A three-man team from Gladiator-One stayed behind.”

“How did we miss that?” asked President Crane. “More importantly, how the hell did it go unreported?”

“I’m trying to get to the bottom of that,” Gordon replied.

“Please do,” said Beverly Stark, turning to Shelby. “And you need to make it crystal clear to our Russian friends that this is unacceptable. There was no mention of purposefully leaving a team behind during any of the mission briefings. This leaves us exposed.”

Shelby couldn’t see how it left them exposed, but instead of addressing the obvious kneejerk question, he summarized the answer relayed by the DIA. “Intelligence strongly suggested that Reznikov was on site when—”

“I don’t see how he could have escaped if that was the case,” interrupted Gerald Simmons. “It’s not like he had many options.”

Shelby feigned a smile. He hated Simmons. For the life of him, he didn’t understand how this smarmy little shit had landed the position of White House Counterterrorism director. Prior to the 2008 election, Simmons had played a relatively obscure role in the Pentagon as the assistant secretary for Special Operations and Low Intensity Conflict. Shelby had only run into this turd a few times prior to the 2008 election and remembered wanting to smash a computer over his head the last time they were together.

In fact, the meeting had taken place in this very room, during the failed raid on Sanderson’s Argentina compound. Operation BOLD SCIMITAR. What a cluster fuck that had turned out to be. He wouldn’t be surprised if Simmons brought it up, especially since Shelby had provided the initial intelligence for that operation. Guys like Simmons thrived on other people’s failures.

With a strained game face, Shelby replied, “That’s precisely why they insisted on leaving a team behind. With few exfiltration options available, the Alpha Group commander felt they stood a solid chance of either catching up with Reznikov or uncovering a solid lead regarding his next move.”

“With the state’s Indian armed forces on full alert,” added Stark. “Not to mention every law enforcement asset in the area.”

“The Russians left behind are no longer our concern,” said Shelby.

“Except for the fact that we deposited them on Indian soil,” stated the president.

“Nobody will ever know that, Mr. President. We’ve run through the scenarios—”

“Not this one,” Stark cut in. “At no point did we discuss leaving a team behind to investigate.”

“I’m sure they don’t plan on lingering at the site,” Shelby explained, starting to get annoyed.

What was done was done. Everyone in the room knew the risks going in. Ferrying Russian commandos into India to conduct a raid against a suspected bioweapons target was unheard of in the first place. Now they were squabbling about three Spetsnaz operators that could probably live off the land, remaining undetected for weeks? He hated this kind of shortsighted pettiness.

“The Russians know what they’re doing,” said General Gordon. “And I suspect the detachment they left behind is part of Spetsgruppa Charlie, or Smerch.”

“Smerch? Sounds like something out of a James Bond movie,” said Stark, eliciting a few stifled laughs.

“Service of Special Operations,” said Shelby, who had made it a point to learn everything there was to know about Russian Special Operations (Spetsnaz) groups. “It’s a relatively new group that specializes in the capture and transfer of high-profile mafiya or bandit leaders throughout Russia. If Reznikov or his handlers left a trail, they’ll find it, and will stay out of sight.”

General Gordon interrupted the conversation. “Gladiator-Two is secure on board USS Mustin. The taskforce is headed southwest at top speed. There’s no indication that either the ships or helicopters have been detected by Indian sensors. I’d say we’re free and clear.”

The video feed next to the map changed to a black screen blinking the words LINK LOST.

“The helicopters flew over thousands of people and shot up several buildings just a few miles away from some reasonably populated towns,” stated Nora Crawford, secretary of state. “I expect State to hear from the Indian embassy tomorrow, especially when they determine that the buildings are part of a laboratory facility.”

“Surely not blaming us,” said Erik Glass, secretary of Defense.

“Not directly, but I’ll get the call nonetheless,” said Crawford. “There’s only one military capable of flying helicopters in and out of another country undetected.”

“Rumored to be capable,” said the secretary of Defense.

Crawford took a deep breath, exhaling before she replied, “I’d get these two warships back into their regular deployment schedules immediately. I guarantee that India’s Research and Analysis Wing will be monitoring our ships’ movements closely.”

“They can watch our ships all they like,” said Glass. “The USS Mustin is on its way to the Arabian Gulf from Japan. Part of a scheduled deployment. And the USS Howard is on its way home to San Diego after an extended deployment. They’ll adjust their speeds, supported by fuel tankers, to maintain their schedules after diverting close enough to Diego Garcia to launch the helicopters. The Navy has worked out the timing for a late night landing at the air base on the island.”

“I want those birds out of sight and out of mind as quickly as possible,” said General Gordon. “We have another mission brewing in the region that might necessitate their use.”

“Strategic Airlift Command has two C-17 Globemasters waiting at Diego Garcia to fly your birds stateside. You’ll have your helicopters within the next forty-eight hours,” said Glass.

Beverly Stark shook her head. “I still can’t believe we let the Russians see those helicopters.”

Neither could Shelby, but he wasn’t about to share that sentiment. The entire mission had been a compromise-turned-joint-effort between the United States and the Russian Federation. The Russians had precious, timely intelligence on a top-tier threat to both countries and the United States had the delivery platforms to pull off the raid. U.S. Special Operations Command offered to execute the mission on behalf of the Russians, but Moscow wanted confirmation that Reznikov had been terminated, not assurances, and that meant Russian boots on the ground during the mission.

“Trust but verify,” they’d said. He didn’t blame them for throwing Reagan’s words back in their faces.

“Their interaction with the helicopters was minimal, as agreed,” said Gordon. “On load. Off load. There’s not much for them to see inside the helicopter, or outside for that matter.”

“But now the Russians know we have them,” said Stark. “Which means everyone will know soon enough. Seems like the Russians came out ahead on this one.”

Gordon shrugged, blatantly offering the same sentiment Shelby fought to conceal. They’d been through this over and over again. The Russians hadn’t faked the intelligence and gone through the motions of putting their own commandos in harm’s way just to gain access to their latest generation stealth helicopters. Beverly Stark couldn’t seem to get this particular conspiracy theory out of her head.

“So…where does this leave us with Reznikov?” asked the president.

“Back to square one if the trail goes cold,” said Shelby. “The Solntsevskaya Bratva has proven to be adept at hiding Reznikov.”

“Then I guess we better offer Moscow our support in the matter,” said President Crane. “Frederick, make the necessary arrangements with the National Reconnaissance Office to coordinate a real-time package.”

“Understood, Mr. President. I’ll coordinate with them immediately.”

“Is there anything else?” asked President Crane, scanning the faces in the room.

Shelby gave him a quick shake of his head when their gazes met, taking his cue from the rest of the room.

“Then that’s it for now.”

The room cleared, leaving Shelby alone with General Gordon, who appeared to linger. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Gordon right now.

“Look at the bright side. At least the Russians didn’t hijack one of the helicopters or purposely disable one,” said Gordon.

The last part of his statement was a clear reminder of the failed operation to grab Sanderson two years ago. The only shot fired during the clandestine raid, a strategically placed .50-caliber sniper rifle bullet, shredded the tail rotor assembly of a Black Hawk helicopter that had landed inside Sanderson’s compound, forcing the assault team to leave it behind on Argentinian soil. A fact used by Sanderson to buy a blanket immunity deal for the Black Flag organization. All sins of his past and present wiped away with a single bullet. The whole thing was a setup, and Shelby had provided the intelligence that led Gordon’s people and the White House right down the primrose path. At least the general had waited until the president and his cronies had departed.

“You win some and you lose some in this game,” said Shelby. “You’ve been around long enough to know that.”

“So far you’re batting zero when it comes to invading other countries,” replied Gordon.

“I just provide the intelligence. You can always say no.”

Gordon considered him for a moment, his caustic glare easing imperceptibly. “Not with people like Reznikov on the loose,” said the general, leaving the room.

Shelby cracked a faint smile. “Especially not with people like Reznikov on the loose.”


Chapter 5

Lockrum Bay, Anguilla

Jessica Petrovich stirred under the soft silk sheets, a warm breeze caressing her face. Her eyes opened to a red-orange sky beyond a wide, floor-to-ceiling glass sliding door. A scattered band of puffy, dark purple clouds floated above the red ocean, outlined by the fiery sunlight moments from breaching the horizon. She’d never get used to this view, or the life that came with it.

She yawned, stretching her hands above her head until they touched the headboard. Holding that stretch for a few seconds, she glanced at Daniel lying next to her. He appeared undisturbed by her movement or the light pouring into the room, but she knew better. Her husband woke to the slightest change in his sleeping environment; a survival instinct drilled so deeply into his psyche that she doubted it would ever slip away.

He’d probably been awake for several minutes now, waiting for her to rise naturally. Possibly all night with the balcony door open. If the intermittent breezes didn’t keep him awake, the fact that an exterior door just a few dozen feet from their bed was wide open to intruders most certainly doomed his night of sleep. The pristine ocean air carried into the room by the calm late evening winds had lured her into bed with the best intentions of getting up and closing it a few minutes later. She vaguely remembered Daniel joining her in bed a little while later, nestling his warm body against hers. Nothing after that.

“You awake?” she whispered.

“Yep,” he said immediately, keeping his eyes closed.

“Sorry. I should have shut the slider.”

He met her glance with weary, half-open eyes and a warm smile. “I could have shut it before I lay down.”

She playfully raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I love you,” he replied, broadening his smile. “And I’m not afraid of the boogeyman.”

Jessica kissed his lips and pressed her forehead against his. “It’s not about being afraid. It’s about being smart about our security.”

“I know how much you enjoy the fresh air.”

“And I love you even more for that,” she said. “But it’s not like I can enjoy it after I fall asleep.”

“You were up at least three times last night, breathing in the ocean air,” he said, kissing her.

“It is kind of nice,” she admitted.

“By this point, I should be able to leave a door open and not worry about someone sneaking in and slitting my throat,” said Daniel.

Jessica wasn’t sure how to respond. The fact that he’d so bluntly brought it up was a significant step down a path she wanted him to follow. On the surface, Daniel always looked unaffected, rock solid to a fault, but nothing could be further from the truth. He had an exceptionally difficult time letting go of old habits. He was just far better at concealing and suppressing his emotions; a talent she’d never really mastered.

Unfortunately, Daniel’s façade took a severe toll on both of them, hindering the kind of joint emotional progress needed to put enough distance between the past and present to escape or, at the very least, keep them from regressing.

They’d been close to escaping before, living a slightly forced version of the American dream in Maine, until General Sanderson crashed the party. Within the short span of twenty-four hours, the general had erased every gain they’d made after disappearing from Belgrade. Five years of healing, rebuilding, reprograming, forgetting, all flushed down the Black Flag toilet. They needed to make a clean break from the past this time, or they’d never break free. For the first time in a long while, she sensed that Daniel wanted it just as badly. The sooner they made their move, the better.

“I’m running the George Hill loop, then a quick swim in the bay,” she said. “You up for the swim?”

“I might join you for the swim,” he said. “Wake me up when you get back from the run.”

All of that meant no, and it had nothing to do with getting a bad night of sleep. Daniel had stopped exercising regularly a few months ago, a really bad development. He needed rigorous physical exercise and constant distraction to keep his mind focused on the present. Without it, his mind turned inward. To dark places she had never managed to access. Places she had no interest in visiting.

Daniel had stood at the edge of the abyss at some point in Yugoslavia, staring into a vast darkness meant to swallow him. He’d made that much clear, without going into specifics. Bumping into her outside of a Belgrade nightclub had saved him from jumping into the blackness that had already consumed most of the Black Flag operatives assigned to the Balkans. She’d seen him like this a few times before, but never for this long. It was time to revisit an idea they had batted around a few months ago.

“Maybe you should get some more rest. I’ll make us a nice breakfast when I’m done,” she said, kissing his forehead.

She’d broach the topic over gourmet coffee and omelets.

“That sounds good,” he said, burrowing his head into the pillow.

Jessica walked to the balcony and shut the slider, locking the door. A faint beep sounded from a compact digital tablet on Daniel’s nightstand. The home’s security system had registered the change in door status. A few minutes later, dressed in black triathlon shorts and a pink tri-top, she descended a wide, open-riser metal staircase to the gray marble foyer.

In the kitchen, she flipped the switch on the stainless steel espresso maker and downed a tall glass of cold water poured from a bottle-fed water dispenser. A double shot of espresso and a few glasses of spring water would fuel her five-mile run. She refilled the glass and left the kitchen, headed for the two-story bank of windows covering the eastern side of the villa’s great room.

Bright orange rays of light reflected off the far wall, illuminating a collage of colorful Caribbean-inspired artwork. A deep blue Dubai leather sectional faced the window, flanked by two polished chrome arc lamps, encompassing the entirety of the great room’s furniture. She walked deeper into the room, pausing to shield her eyes from the blazing horizon with her unoccupied hand. A few seconds later, the room dimmed as the bottom of the sun disappeared behind one of the low-lying cloud masses.

Jessica walked to the window and scanned Lockrum Bay. The tall bobbing mast of a blue-hulled sloop immediately caught her eye. A Hinckley Sou’wester 52 sat at a storm-reinforced mooring a few hundred yards offshore. Just the sight of it gave her hope. She’d come up with the idea a year ago, soon after insisting that they take sailing lessons and follow up with a two-week bareboat charter out of the British Virgin Islands. Daniel took to sailing like a natural, embracing its dynamic nature and the constant need for vigilance.

The two-week taste of sailboat life far exceeded Jessica’s expectations. Not only did she feel far more relaxed and liberated than she could ever remember, but Daniel had caught the sailing fever. It had started with mojito-fueled conversations about what it would be like to freely sail around the Caribbean for a few months a year, and ended with the purchase of a rarely used sailboat built by one of the most reputable names in the business.

They’d cruised the islands for three months after the purchase, pausing to conduct some business for Sanderson in South America. Ugly business that nearly got all of them killed. Daniel hadn’t been the same since. Something had shifted in the dark recesses of his mind, brought too close to the surface for his comfort. She needed to get him back on that boat—permanently.

Jessica took a sip of cold water and grinned. La Ombra, Italian for ghost or shadow, swayed gently in the bay. Ghost. Exactly what they would become once they sailed for the horizon and never looked back.