The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) Read online

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you can guess, Judd.”

  “You can’t be serious. I mean, due respect, sir, but are you talking about murdering a suspect?”

  “Adler’s not a suspect, he’s a dead man. He died over nine months ago, and dead men have no rights – especially when they try to kill two of our agents.”

  “I know Adler’s pure evil, but the FBI doesn’t go around executing criminals. Every agent has taken a solemn oath to uphold the law.”

  “The FBI will have nothing more to do with this matter. I think you’ll understand if you’re willing to hear me out. This is something you need to hear, but no interruptions. Are we clear?”

  Talbot nodded his tacit approval.

  “You’ve heard about Beach’s role in bringing down Alex Devlin last year. And you know the President pushed us to accept him into the agency. If it weren’t for that support, he would have made an unlikely candidate. Don’t get me wrong. While Agent Beach fully deserves his title and position, let’s face it, he was well beyond our usual induction age. But his support doesn’t end there. After I got the call from Director Jamison, relaying the President’s ‘request,’ I received another call. And this call held far more weight for me.

  “Of course a presidential request is about as momentous as they come,” Whyley said, anticipating Talbot’s incredulity. “But this caller saved my life, and the lives of my family, at least once that I know of.

  “It was a few years earlier, while I was still an Assistant Director. We were working a very complex investigation, building cases against a brutal Russian crime syndicate, and getting very close to the head man. I got home from work one night to find my house in darkness. There was no sign of the kids, and my wife was nowhere to be seen. I tried to turn on the lights, but there was no electricity. The rest of the street had power, so I started to worry.

  “My apprehensions were confirmed when I rounded the corner into the living room. In the glow of street lights spilling through the living room window, I saw my family bound and gagged on the floor. Before I could grasp the situation and react, a garrote was around my neck and two big thugs loomed over my wife and kids. The man behind me with the garrote spoke in a heavy Russian accent. I’ll never forget what he said as long as I live. ‘Sit down, Mr. FBI. Now you watch your family die.’

  “I panicked and tried to struggle free, but the guy was huge, and he was choking me to death. But I kept trying – I mean, I couldn’t just watch them kill my family. All of a sudden the garrote went slack, and the guy fell onto my back. I felt warm liquid flowing onto my shoulders, and I began to fall forward from the dead weight on me.

  “I heard a suppressed gunshot a couple of feet from my ear, and one of the other Russians slumped to the floor, clutching his neck. I saw the third gangster reach for his gun, but a second silenced shot blew a hole through his hand. Then this tall guy in black motorcycle leathers moved like lightning from behind me and took the last Russian out with one strike to the throat. I didn’t know if it was a rescue or if my family and I were next on this guy’s list. It was terrifying – this guy was freakish. He’d taken out three seriously dangerous Russian thugs in less than three seconds, then leaned down and spoke to me like nothing had happened. There wasn’t the slightest hint of breathlessness or tension in his voice.

  “He told me to tend to my family, and not to call the police or my own people. He said not to touch anything, that I’d be briefed by phone in a couple of minutes. Then he just disappeared. I rolled the heavy Russian off my back, and untied my wife and children. A minute later, my cell phone rang. It was the same calm, controlled, voice. The call lasted less than a minute and left me in no doubt that I would follow this man’s instructions to the letter.

  “After what seemed an eternity, but was probably no more than twenty minutes, a crew of five men in coveralls and surgical masks let themselves into our home. These guys knew what they were doing.

  “They wrapped the three bodies in plastic and took them out to a van. They wiped down fingerprints, vacuumed the floor, and scrubbed the scene of any evidence. They didn’t say a word, just worked like well orchestrated ants until they’d finished. I stopped the guy who seemed to be in charge and asked him who they were, and who the guy who saved us was. He told me I didn’t want to know. All he said was that I should follow my instructions exactly as The Surgeon had told me.

  “As a lawman, you understand, I was outraged at the idea of being part of a cover-up – at first. But as my mind cleared, logical thought returned. I could see there was really no choice but to do as I was told. Aside from the fact that all evidence had been skillfully removed, this Surgeon character had saved all our lives. I owed him – everything! So, I swore I would keep the secret, for the sake of my family. And I did – right up until this day. You’re the first person I’ve ever told about this, Judd. I hope you can see why it has to remain absolutely confidential.”

  Talbot was dumbfounded. “Why have you told me this?”

  “I got a call just over half an hour ago. It was that same calm, unwavering voice – that same man. That’s why I came to tell you in person – we’re unofficially standing down. I don’t know why, and to be honest, I don’t want to know. But Adler belongs to the Surgeon now.”

  Chapter 22

  Vladimir Petrov hung up his phone and stared at the device, deep in thought. After three long and brutal years working his way up within the Sergey Ugolev’s organization, he’d just had his first confidential business conversation with his boss’s father, former KGB Colonel Vasily Koskov. Koskov was a very powerful but secretive man. His standing as a trusted senior advisor to the Russian President and key members of the State Duma was crucial to the success of his master plan. While Koskov relied heavily on the significant financial resources his illegitimate son’s business empire provided, his tacit approval and occasional clandestine assistance were well-guarded secrets; as indeed was the fact he’d fathered the bastard, Sergey Ugolev.

  During the latter stages of the Cold War, Vasily Koskov’s obvious cunning, steely resolve, and staunch patriotism had seen him fast-tracked through the ranks. A chess Grandmaster, and highly politically astute, he’d foreseen the coming perils of Gorbachev’s Glastnost and Perestroika. Despite his early warnings to ranking KGB officers and party Apparatchiks, the political process had pushed forward, and the end of Koskov’s beloved USSR became inevitable. The former Soviet Union simply wasn’t ready for the avalanche of change brought about by such open-minded western thinking. Once the rot had begun to set in, it wasn’t long before the effects of political and journalistic openness had ended all hope for the party faithful.

  Koskov’s resistance to change had been well noted. He’d initially been eschewed by the new circles of power, but it wasn’t long before Russian politics had evolved to the point where a man of his wiles once again became highly valued. Whilst his checkered history with the KGB precluded him from formal ministerial postings, Koskov’s influence quickly became evident in many key decisions and processes within post Cold War regimes.

  Koskov’s hatred for the West sat deep in his soul. He placed the blame for the fall of his once mighty Soviet Union, squarely on the shoulders of the USA and her allies. Childhood indoctrination, a glowing military service record, and his highly favored position in the KGB, blinded Koskov to any notion that the USSR would not have become the greatest superpower in history, but for those damned Americans and the man Koskov saw as their puppet, President Gorbachev.

  Anger and resentment had simmered in him for years until his strategic mind had gradually overcome the fog of loss, to develop an audacious plan for revenge on the West, and a return to power for Mother Russia. The plot’s elegant intricacies required the kind of patience, diligence, and discipline only a man like Vasily Koskov could muster. Decades after his plot’s inception, the products of Koskov’s masterful maneuvers were beginning to coalesce. But from time to time, he still had to deal with ann
oying day-to-day flies in the ointment; the latest of which was a man apparently intent on killing his only son.

  Vladimir Petrov’s rapid rise within Sergey Ugolev’s Bratva had followed a similar course to that of the former colonel’s own within the KGB. Now Ugolev’s trusted right-hand man and protector, Petrov had caught Koskov’s attention early on. Petrov had proven himself trustworthy and invaluable from the start, and Koskov had encouraged his son to continuously test and cultivate the big man.

  The old colonel knew the value of a strong and faithful advisor, and despite the fact that Petrov had been partly raised in the USA, Koskov was confident his son’s deputy was Russian through and through. Indeed, the old man had come to realize that Vladimir Petrov’s time in the USA had taught him not only their ways, but the errors therein. And the fact he spoke Russian like a Moscow butcher endeared him with the old man even further.

  “Your loyalty to my son is deeply appreciated, Vladimir Petrov,” He’d said in traditional Russian style, using both Christian and family names. “But I don’t want Sergey to waste any more of his time on this matter. We will keep the details of your task just between us. Can you do that for me?”

  “If that is your wish, Dedushka,” Petrov had replied, knowing the old man favored the innocuous nature of the Russian term for ‘grandpa’ outside official circles.

  “It is. And do not worry, this is simply a matter of expediency. It will not come back on you.”

  “I understand. What is the man’s name?”

  “Jake Riley. He is a former American Special Forces soldier. Sergey is of the opinion he was simply trying to take part of the distribution operations in Thailand and Cambodia, but my contact tells me he has some kind of personal vendetta against my son. You will take care of him, yes?”

  “It will be done, Dedushka.”

  Petrov had long since grown numb to the ultra-violent requirements of his role in Ugolev’s organization. He’d vowed never to waiver in his commitment. His physical power, cold efficiency, and years of specialized military training made him extremely good at his job. He knew the only way to achieve his sacred goals was to obey without question, and act without mercy. He leaned forward in his chair to perform his silent ritual. He stripped, cleaned, and reassembled his favored Sig Sauer then peered down the weapon’s sights. “Wrong place, wrong time - it’s nothing personal, Jake Riley.”

  *****

  “It’s not worth the risk,” Jake said, holding his hand up to stop Dozer and Priest. “Based on the last two pings, we know Adler’s headed in the direction of a ski resort about ten clicks to the west. Our rogue sniper is hot on his heels, and obviously taking his time picking Adler apart. The team from Kentucky should be here in less than twenty minutes. We’ll hold back until they arrive and Albrecht gets to work.”

  “Come on, Jakey, where’s your sense of adventure?” Dozer piped up. “We don’t need those blokes. Let’s just keep going, we’re not far behind.”

  “I think that’s the point, bro,” Priest said, grabbing his brother’s shoulder. “Jakey’s right. We should break off for now. Chow might even know we’re on his trail already. We’ve got no bloody clue how far he’s hanging back from Adler. We don’t want to walk into his line of fire.”

  “I thought our mission was to get a radioactive marker shot into Adler so we can track him accurately?”

  “It is, Dozer, but we can get Albrecht to take that shot. He’s three times more likely to hit the target than any of us.”

  “Seriously? You really think your boy’s that much better than any of us? I don’t know about you Seppo Special Forces blokes, but SAS soldiers can shoot the gonads of a flea at fifty yards, mate.”

  “I’m sure you can, Dozer, but can you shoot a low velocity radioactive marker tag into a running man through thick woods at a hundred and fifty yards? Maybe you could, but I know Albrecht can. No, we’ll hold back for now. Let’s do a satellite map recon on the ski resort. By the time we get the tracking signal up and running after Adler’s tagged, he’ll be getting close to the ski hills. I want to be familiar with the terrain before we get there.”

  Dozer gave up and turned around for his brother to access his backpack. Priest pulled the ruggedized military spec laptop out and opened it. He pulled up satellite imagery and overlay terrain maps of the nearby ski resort. He and Jake went through the images, looking for funnel points, and alternate access routes. “It’s your country, mate. You reckon there’ll be any punters there during summer?”

  “Hard to say. A lot of these places hold summertime events, like family picnics, brew-house exhibitions, and things like that, to maintain some kind of income in the off-season. It’s not a weekend, so let’s just hope the place is clear of civilians. We can do without collateral damage.”

  Priest called his brother over to see the configuration of structures for possible breach requirements, and they decided on manpower and formation scenarios for the most obvious possibilities. As he was packing up the laptop, Priest stopped, silently raising his arms in the air, and clearing his throat. “Uh, boys – I think we’ve got company.”

  In the dim final light of the glowing moon, Jake could make out a dark hulking figure holding a gun to the Australian’s back. Squinting through the darkness, he held his hand up to stop Dozer from charging at his brother’s captor. “About time you got here, Albrecht. Now, quit screwing around with the Aussies. We’ve got work to do.”

  Chapter 23

  As a psychologist, Dr. Holly Beach was far better equipped to comfort Danielle Foxx than Beach could ever be. He was having enough trouble coping with his own anxiety; there was certainly nothing he could do to alleviate hers. Beach had decided to escape the foreboding gloom of the waiting room. He needed to pace, and found a quiet hallway to suit his purpose. Ominous scenarios swirling through his head, he marched up and down past gurneys and doorways, trying to handle the strain. Finally, his phone broke the silent tension.

  “Beach.”

  “Agent Beach, it’s Simone from Forensic Accounting. I’m so sorry to hear about Agent Foxx. Is there any news on his condition?”

  “I’m afraid not. I appreciate your concern, Simone, but to be quite honest, I could do with the distraction. What have you got?”

  “You asked SAC Talbot to get warrants to access two bank accounts for you.”

  “That’s right, a prison transport driver, and guard.”

  “I wasn’t told who they are, but I think I found what you’re looking for. Both accounts received incoming wire transfers of exactly twenty-five thousand dollars, at the same time, on the same day.”

  “Can you trace the origin?”

  “That’s the tricky part. Someone went to an awful lot of trouble to cover their tracks. The transfers themselves came through some very clever, intricately designed anti-trace routes. But with our new system, I was eventually able to track the original source to a numbered account in the Caymans. If it weren’t for the new international banking laws, that would have been the end of it, but I was able to dig deeper, and found a shell company registered in Arlington, Virginia. Company searches turned up several non-existent directors, but one of them yielded a result. It’s an alias that’s previously been associated with a division of the Department of Defense, called, DARPA. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “You bet it does. Thank you, Simone. Can you text me the alias?”

  “It’ll be on your phone when you hang up. And I know there’s nothing I can say to help, but I hope Agent Foxx will be okay.”

  “Me too. Thanks again.”

  Beach looked at his screen then sent a message to the number Equilibrium had given him during their last encoded conversation. ‘Protocol Red 0600’ came her immediate reply.

  *****

  “I’m sorry, Vladimir, but this cannot wait until I return.”

  “I understand, Boss,” Petrov said. Ugolev preferred the western term over the Russian, pakhan. It was a taste the mafia boss had developed from watching
too many black & white American crime movies. “Another warning?”

  “Not this time, my patience has grown thin. Gyorgi refuses to abide by the boundaries we agreed upon. The Albescu crew has become too greedy and bold. It’s time for those wayward gypsies to fold up their tents and return to Romania – if any remain alive when you’re finished. I’ll leave that to your discretion, but I want it done now.”

  “Of course, Boss.”

  “I have arranged for the Militsiya to avoid Gyorgi’s compound for the day. You will only have to contend with his people, and your exit will be unhindered. Our Ukrainian operation has become more important lately, so I want you to stay there for a few more days after it’s done. This action will create a small vacuum. Let’s just see how things settle before you return to Moscow.”

  “It will be done, Sergey.”

  Petrov hung up the phone and sighed heavily. His boss was right about the Romanians, but Petrov had developed a soft spot for their ambitious, young leader. Gyorgi Albescu was a criminal success story like few others. Despite his tender age, Albescu had earned a reputation for astute business dealings and steely resolve. He reminded Petrov of his own younger brother, with whom he’d had no contact in four years, and missed dearly. Despite the tremendous desire to see his brother, such an act could expose his mission to unacceptable risk. Their reunion would have to wait.

  Albescu’s empire, though small by Ugolev standards, had grown rapidly from a ragtag group of childhood friends in rural Romania, to a thriving mid-level business. The charismatic young boss had led his fiercely loyal troupe from strength to strength before making the daring but fruitful foray into the Ukraine. A bigger territory meant bigger earnings, but brought with it, the inherent perils of fitting in with the larger, more powerful families. The heavy-hitters had tolerated the brash young man’s ambitions to a point. But his rapid rise had cultivated within him, a disproportionate degree of self-confidence.