AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Semenov, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen. There looked to be a kitchen to the northeast, but taking refuge there would put him downrange of his guard. More likely, he was behind the closed door directly to the man’s left.
With no other viable course of action, Rapp dropped his rifle and pack, then pulled the Volquartsen .22 strapped to his thigh.
He toggled his throat mike as he stepped up onto the windowsill. “Mas. I need another two minutes.”
He was initially answered by a burst of gunfire, but then the big man’s voice came over his earpiece. “Not much more than that, though, okay? They’re not going to hole up in there forever.”
CHAPTER 45
ALEKSANDRSemenov bolted upright in bed, confused by the light flickering through the open door to his bedroom. Initially, he thought it was dawn breaking, but then he noted the low rumble. Still groggy, he rolled on his side to turn on a lamp. The illumination from it was comforting for only a moment before being swallowed by a blinding flash.
He raised a hand instinctively to protect his face as the lamp hesitated and then went out. A moment later, red emergency light bathed the room, combining with the glimmer of what he now understood to be fire. Fully awake, he slid from the mattress and snatched up a robe hanging nearby.
His cell phone was fully charged, and he used a shortcut to call the guardhouse, but failed to get a connection. A closer examination of the screen suggested he had neither cell signal nor Internet.
He started hesitantly toward the door, when the air around him seemed to compress. The entire building shuddered, shifting beneath his feet violently enough to knock him to the floor. Next to him, the massive west-facing window spider-webbed and then collapsed,sending glass shards falling into the desert below and hurtling toward him through the chemical-scented air. Again he covered his face, this time less in confusion than in terror. Adrenaline surged through him as the sound of machine-gun fire mingled with additional detonations.
The facility is under attack.
The realization caused his stomach to revolt, and he struggled not to vomit as he stumbled toward the living area. The main window looking south was gone, and through its empty frame he could see the south guard towers being consumed.
He stumbled back as smoke began to drift across the scene, trying to process what was happening. Moscow? Had Boris Utkin decided that getting rid of him was worth the political blowback? No. Not like this. It was too overt. Too reckless. The Syrians? Impossible. Even taking into account their fury over the loss of the Golan Heights, they were still entirely dependent on Russian support.
Damian Losa?
For some reason, the thought of the cartel leader had the effect of bringing Semenov’s mind fully back online. Was it conceivable that this was the doing of a common criminal with delusions of grandeur? The Mexican’s remaining manpower in Syria was virtually nonexistent—nothing more than a few defeated insurgents and out-of-work drug dealers. In contrast, Semenov had a cadre of highly trained soldiers, some of whom were barracked directly beneath him.
But how many? The Canadian had killed three of his men in the Syrian countryside and another five had died in the attempt to transport him to Tartus. He froze for a moment when he realized that Fournier could be out there. The seemingly demure attorney who had been responsible for the deaths of eight of his best men could be out there leading the assault. Who else would Losa send?
Semenov ran back into the bedroom, flinging open his closet and trying to calm himself as he dressed. The soldiers in this building weren’t the only ones charged with defending him. There werethe guards in the main part of the facility. And with the test subjects locked in their—
He froze again, this time hunched with only one leg in his pants.
The truck.
They were bringing in prisoners that night. Is that how Losa’s men had gained access? Could they have hijacked the incoming vehicle? Is that where the main blast had come from? If he was using terrorists, it was conceivable that a jihadist could have gotten into the underground garage with an explosive. If so, they would have instantly incinerated half of his remaining men.
The smoke was getting dense enough to burn his eyes by the time he finished dressing and ran to an old-style telephone in the living area. It was hardwired to the facility’s communication system and would have backup power. When he brought it to his ear, though, there was nothing but silence.
Machine-gun fire erupted in the stairwell and Semenov spun. When the door started to open, he panicked and slammed his body against the steel in an effort to close it again. The effort failed and instead he was pushed back with sufficient force to send him to the ground.
“No! Don’t shoot!” he screamed before recognizing the soldier lurching across the threshold.
The man moved as if he were blind, and his right pants leg was soaked with blood. Still, he managed to secure the door behind him. Semenov began to choke and suspected that some kind of gas had been deployed in the stairwell. He wiped at his eyes as the armed man stumbled into the kitchen and turned on a faucet, splashing water over his face.
“You have to get me to my helicopter!” Semenov shouted as he struggled back to his feet. “Now! Where is the rest of your team? We have to move!”
The mercenary turned toward him, bright red eyes capable of focusing again. “They’re trapped by the tear gas and at least twocombatants in the stairwell. But they’re not injured, and they have masks. It’s going to take—”
His voice was drowned out by another blast, this one just outside. Dust billowed through the gaps around the steel door, but it held.
“Have you called for reinforcements? Our people in Hmeimim?”
“Comms are down,” the man said, flipping an oak dining table on its side and dragging it toward the back wall. “By the time anyone even knows about this, it’ll be over.”
“You have to get me out of here!” Semenov repeated as the man took a position behind the table and aimed his rifle over it.
“Shut the fuck up.”
