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Chapter 17

Star City, Russia

Friday

9:30 p.m. Moscow Standard Time

2:30 p.m. Eastern Time


Vladimir had spent the last few days getting out of Russia, and here he and Michael Tarin were, not on the outskirts or border areas, but in damned Star City in the heart of the country where statues had been erected to honor cosmonauts for their service. They had taken the helicopter from the yacht to Yalta and from there a private jet to an airstrip about fifty kilometers outside the outer ring of the Moscow Oblast region. Simply travelling about the world was only difficult for normal citizens. For people with access to large fortunes, customs typically wasn’t even a thing. Dorman’s holdings either owned or had access to private airstrips all over the world. Billionaires came and went all the time and nobody was ever curious as to their travel companions or cargo as long as the proper “taxes” were paid. And Dorman had paid all the right “taxes” everywhere…on the planet. The rest, the ground game, was going to be the tricky part.

They had alerted the merc team immediately before the helicopter had ever landed on the yacht. The team had been at the airstrip hours before they had arrived preparing. Once the plane taxied into the private hangar, Vladimir and Michael deplaned. They both reflexively counted heads on the way down the plane’s steps. Jamal was missing and so was Sandy.

“Greetings, comrades.” Vladimir waved.

“Where’re Jamal and Sandy?” Michael asked with a shrug.

“He is getting some last minute, um, supplies. She went with him. They will be here soon,” Overtund answered. The thirty-something South African smiled a big toothy grin, revealing the one front gold tooth on the right central incisor. “‘I’m certain you will like these supplies,’ is what Jamal made me promise to tell you.”

“Grenades. It’s probably grenades.” Arin laughed.

“Look, and here they come now.” Overtund pointed as two large four-door, beat-up, white-painted road construction trucks approached. The trucks were Russian-made military Ural flat beds with railings and a tarp covering the bed. The vehicles looked to be a decade or more older and had been repainted and repurposed for farm or construction work. They were the types of vehicles most people wouldn’t look twice at. That was the point. The two trucks came to a stop just inside the hangar about five meters away and Michael could make out the rust bubbles and flecks of military green that were making their way through the bad paint jobs on both vehicles. Russians weren’t anything if they weren’t utilitarian. These vehicles were most certainly that.

A tall, slender, Pakistani man practically fell out of the first truck, almost bouncing with joy like a kid at Christmas, slamming the door loudly. If Michael hadn’t known the man didn’t drink, he’d have sworn he was drunk. The slightly larger, bulkier redheaded female slowly and deliberately exited her truck adjacently parked and approached. Michael was always impressed by how precise and quiet she was in everything she did. Each step appeared calculated and her eyes were always searching her surroundings—probably for threats or things she could use to kill you with, or both. But her motions were not mechanical or robotic. Sandy moved more like a ballerina or a ballroom dancer or a Shaolin acrobat with fluidity, grace, and purpose—deadly purpose.

“Sandy, Jamal, what’d you bring us besides two ugly piece-of-shit trucks?” Michael asked, drawing chuckles from the rest of the team.

“Pieces of shit!” Jamal feigned at having his feelings hurt. “Maybe they are. But they should blend in without too much concern around here. The party, well now, that’s in the back my friend. Have a look see.”

Jamal held his hands palms out while slightly bowing and motioning them to the back seat of the truck he’d been driving. He opened the door and pulled out a meter-long pelican-style case. “Sandy, a hand?”

“Of course.”

Sandy grabbed the handle on the other end and the two of them placed the case carefully on the hangar floor. The team moved in around them to see what the box contained. There were a few “oohs” and “ahs” and reaffirming head nods as the lid rose.

“This, my friends, is just what the doctor ordered.” Jamal pulled a green canister from within and held it up. It was about fifteen centimeters in diameter and about a half meter long. It was covered in yellow Russian Cyrillic letters and numbers. One end of it was pointy like an artillery shell, because, well, that was exactly what it was. Wires extended from the pointy end and led down to a small electronic device taped to the cylindrical midsection. “This little baby here should make quite the bang. I have ten of them.”

“One-five-five-millimeter artillery shells?” Vladimer nodded approvingly. “Ten should do nicely.”

“What about guns? Standard B and E kit? And maybe some flares and diesel fuel?” Michael asked. “Those were all on the list I sent.”

“No worries, man.” Jamal made an expression as if his feelings were hurt again. “I wouldn’t let you down.”

“All is in the second truck.” Sandy said in a very monotone voice as if she were bored with the current conversation. “So, what are we doing here?”

“A simple breaking and entering, snatch and grab some fairly heavy gear, then burn the place to the ground so that no evidence we’d been there is left,” Michael explained and tapped his glasses, sending them new files. “Here is where we’re going. And here is what we are snatching and grabbing. Mostly a piece of cake.”

* * *

“We should have planned for this eventuality two years ago.” Vladimir drove the truck down the long straight street that pointed radially outward from the center of Moscow. Currently, they were headed northeast directly toward the city. There were enough side streets, trees, and ancillary buildings alongside the road at this distance out that the area appeared more like a business district with warehouses and shops. They were several kilometers from the gates into the Gagarin Cosmonaut Training Center and only a few blocks from the actual Orlan space-suit manufacturer, NPP Zvezda.

“Dorman insisted that his company would have better, newer, more maneuverable, and more advanced suits ready for us.” Michael checked the sideview mirror and made certain the other truck was behind them.

“We could have ordered Orlan-MKs from Zvezda and not be doing this nonsense.” Vladimir was clearly unhappy and Michael couldn’t really disagree with him. “Dorman owes us for this one. And he’s going to owe Schwab, I suspect.”

“Yeah, he will. He’s good for it. I’m sure after all this he’ll be more than good for it a billion times over. But honestly, I bet Schwab wouldn’t even know he owned this company if he hadn’t bought the damned thing just so he could put himself on top of the flight schedule. He couldn’t probably care less about the company in general. It’s no cash cow.” Michael looked at the map app on his phone and nodded. “Up ahead on the right. Let’s put the truck in that alleyway. We’ll move around the side alley and into the front door. Arin’s earlier recon shows cameras only on the front.”

“Just in case the video goes to a web-based server,” Vladimir parked the truck and then pulled the black ski mask down over his face. “Don’t want to give them any premature information.”

“Right.” Michael pulled his mask down. “I’ll text Keenan and tell him to scrub the area.”

“Good idea, M.”


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