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Chapter One
Russia, My Old Friend
It wasthree in the morning when I arrived in Saint Petersburg, Russia. The last time I’d been here was ten years ago after meeting Mila. She was a ballerina with the Bolshoi, whose cousin was an operative with the SVR. I was not fond of the city then, and I’m not too fond of it now. Too many bad memories overshadow the good, and I’ve tried to forget the night that took Mila’s life. She was collateral damage in an intelligence war she had no business being a part of—She was supposed to be an assignment, but in the end, I developed genuine feelings for her. As I pass the Astoriya hotel, I can’t stop remembering our nights there. I’d believed I cared for her more than I did the job and could walk away from the CIA any time I wanted. And back then, I wanted her more than the job—or at least I thought I did.
I’d been a member of SEAL Team One for over five years when my best friend recruited me.Come work for me,he said,be a part of something bigger than the both of us. It will be like old times, the two of us together, taking names and kicking ass.Sawyer was the closest thing to family I had, and my arrogance and loyalty made me say yes. In my mind, I envisioned myself as the next James Bond, and trust me; I had no qualms about killing. It was like breathing for me. Instinctual.
The partially lit sidewalk smelled of humidity, and the concrete was still wet from an early rain. Footsteps echoed behind me as I reached into my raincoat to retrieve the nine from my shoulder holster. My finger releases the thumb break as my hand wraps around the barrel. Just as I’m about to turn and draw on the person behind me, a car door opens, exposing a pair of long toned legs. A brunette exits the waiting car as I continue to walk past. Without giving them the time of day, I start to lower my gun but hesitate when I hear the female voice.
“Alexei is that you?” the brunette calls out.
Hearing her say my undercover name brings me to a stop. I ease the gun back into its holster and turn to find Alina, an old friend of Mila’s. She’s standing next to a gentleman with his arm wrapped around her waist. Behind them is a man, the footsteps I’d heard earlier, holding a gun with a suppressor in his hand as it rests by his side. He raises the gun and fires two bullets, one penetrating Alina and the next on the man with her. I lunge for cover behind the concrete stairs that lead up to an apartment building entrance and wait, pistol ready. The footsteps keep coming; the arrogance of the shooter tells me without a doubt that the man is an SVR agent.
The footsteps slow the closer they come to the stairs that block me. I raise my gun as the man stops in front of me, gun pointed at my head. I pull the trigger before my assailant has the opportunity to fire his, the bullet flies, landing square in the center of his forehead, and he drops to the ground.It’s safe to say the Russians know I’m here.
Pulling my victim’s trench coat aside, I retrieve his wallet before I take off running down the sidewalk. I know it’s only a matter of time before lights come on and anyone can get a look at me. I reach for the keys in my pocket as I turn the corner three blocks from the incident and enter the safe house. I toss the wallet I retrieved from the dead man on the table and hang my coat on the hook by the door. I hear the sirens zoom past my building enroute to the triple homicide. Though I know the news tomorrow will only report the death of the ballerina and her gentleman friend.
Boris Ivan Badenov, the I.D. confirms. I’m positive it’s a cover name, and it will do no good to dig deeper, but I’ll reach out to Sawyer and let him do the leg work in case something comes from it. I knew I’d never get in and out under the radar, but I had hoped I’d have more time before the SVR got wind of my visit to St. Petersburg. I’m positive they think they’ve got the upper hand, but they don’t know I’ve prepared for all contingencies, even the possibility of this one.
When the Agency hired me, some thought I would be expendable if something like this happened. But little did they know I’d be their most valuable killer. Like a rabid dog lusting with a thirst for blood, I couldn’t get enough of the adrenaline rush that came from watching life fade out of the terrified eyes of my conquest.
No one knew the ins and outs of the inner workings of the SVR better than I did, thanks to Mila. She’d been my lover and unknowingly my connection to her cousin Slava, an intelligence agency member. In the short time we were together, I garnered more intel from her cousin than any agent before me. Slava was arrogant, a narcissist. He had a big mouth, making me invaluable to the CIA, and himself expendable to the SVR.
I knew that the Russians had no clue why I was here, just that I was. Before they could figure it out, I’d be gone. Brian Johnson, also known as Vladimir Podovsky, was a double agent I’d followed from Moscow to St. Petersburg. I was in Russia to send a message that the United States would not tolerate the arrogance of the Kremlin. I had it all planned out. I’d invite Brian to meet me in Red Square on April 22ndunder the pretense that I was here to give him important information about the Kremlin. Then I’d shoot him between the eyes and let his body fall in front of Lenin’s tomb. Killing a double agent on Lenin’s birthday in front of his tomb sent a very distinct message—We know what you are doing, and we will not tolerate it.Though the minute he left Moscow for St. Petersburg, I had to implement a backup plan, and now here we both are. Two separate missions, with only one outcome—his death but not before I figure out why he was in a city he should have never been.
My personal phone vibrates on the coffee table, and I walk over and pick it up, looking at the caller I.D.Her Brotherflashes on the screen, the words impossible to link back to Sawyer if it ever fell into the wrong hands because no one knew who she or her brother was. Only I would understand the connection.
Picking it up, I answer. “Why are you calling me on my cell instead of the burner?”
“Because this is personal, and I need you back in Reston as soon as possible.” There was an urgency to his tone that bothered me.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll fill you in when you get back. How much longer will you be?”
“I’m not sure, a few more days possibly.”
“Well, speed it up and see me the minute you’re home.”
“Damn it, if this is important, you need to fill me in now.”
Sawyer took a deep breath and then replied. “I’m still working on some information, but I’ll have it by the time you get back. Just expedite what you’re doing and come home.”
I followedVladimir around for two days until he finally met with his Russian handler on the third day. The two met in an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town along the Neva River. The windows had been painted over in black, limiting the view inside. Finding an old metal door ajar, I snuck in, quietly moving behind the pallets of what appeared to be automotive parts ready for export. I watched as the older man handed Vladimir an envelope. “This is the information you are to provide to your U.S. idiots. They’ll be searching for something that doesn’t exist, and by the time they figure it out, you’ll have the information we need about the new weapon.”
“Da. I won’t let you down, Serge.”
Vladimir, or should I say Brian’s, accent was very distinctive here in his motherland, but back on U.S. soil, you didn’t hear the slightest bit of it. I waited for him to leave before stepping out from behind the crate. The suppressor masked the sound of the bullet as it left my gun. Yet the scream from the middle-aged man as the shot landed in his leg was not. He dropped to the ground and reached for his firearm. As he raised his arm, I fired a second time. The bullet passed through his forearm, causing him to drop his weapon. I walked toward the man as he lay on the ground.
“Who are you?” the injured man snarled.
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is the information you are going to tell me.”
The man spat at my feet. “Never.”
“We’ll see,” I said as I raised my pant leg and removed the knife strapped to my ankle from the sheath. “What was in the envelope?” I demanded as I knelt on his uninjured arm.
Again, the man spat at me as he stared at my face. I straddled his body, ensuring he’d have no use of his arms before jamming my blade into his eye socket and extracting his eye. His screams of unbearable pain were music to my ears as they echoed through the building signaling the sweet sound of victory.
