OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5) Read online

  OMEGA

  A BLACK FLAGGED THRILLER

  by Steven Konkoly

  Book Five in the Black Flagged Series

  Copyright Information

  Copyright 2017 by Stribling Media. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact:

  [email protected].

  Contents

  Dedication

  About Black Flagged Omega

  Prologue

  PART ONE: GRAY AREA

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  PART TWO: BLACKLIST

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  PART THREE: BLACK MAGIC

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  PART FOUR: BLACK MARK

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Epilogue

  Work by Steven Konkoly

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Character List

  ORIGINS

  Dedication

  To my family, the heart and soul of my writing. I couldn’t do this without their tireless support and love.

  About Black Flagged Omega

  THANK YOU for very patiently waiting for this book. I released Black Flagged VEKTOR (Book 4) in the summer of 2013, after deciding to take a short break from the series. I’d written four books back-to-back in two years and was starting to see the Black Flagged characters in my sleep. That short break turned into a long detour. Six books and several novellas, in two different series, to be exact. I really appreciate your loyalty and patience. I think you’ll find OMEGA worth the wait.

  I had a lot of time to ponder the fifth book, which I thought would be the last novel in the core series. I’m very pleased to let you know that there will be a sixth book. Halfway through OMEGA, I realized that the finale I had in mind for this story was worth a full novel, so you can expect book six within the next year or so. I don’t want to give too much away, but the scope of the conspiracy unveiled in OMEGA is vast and devastating, unlike anything you may have read before.

  On that note, I need to make a statement that I’ve never included in my books before OMEGA:

  All characters and corporations or establishments appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Why the disclaimer? You’ll soon find out. Here’s a little background and a hint. In 2012, I created a fictitious political movement for Black Flagged APEX, called True America. Some similarities in core beliefs between the Tea Party movement and True America existed, but my intention, as stated in APEX, was to create a third, viable party vying for political power. I had plans for True America later in the series. Fast-forward to the spring of 2016, when I finished the first third of OMEGA, in which True America shocks the establishment and wins the 2008 (series time) presidential election. You can probably see where this is headed.

  “Truth is stranger than fiction, but because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t” — Mark Twain.

  Black Flagged OMEGA takes place in 2009, roughly two years after the events of Black Flagged VEKTOR.

  ***I have also included a short story written about Daniel Petrovich’s time as an undercover operative in Serbia. CLICK HERE to read it before you start, or enjoy it after OMEGA. You can also find it in the Table of Contents titled ORIGINS.

  Prologue

  United Nations Detention Unit

  The Hague, Netherlands

  Srecko Hadzic shuffled impatiently along the pea green linoleum floor toward his cell. He’d just finished another unsatisfying meal of unidentifiable meat, mashed potatoes, and soft green beans in the cafeteria. He craved a cigarette, but this pleasure would have to wait. He’d waited all day for this moment. After dinner, the detention unit’s staff invariably left him alone until the first evening room check around 7:30.

  His attorney had passed him a USB drive, which contained an encrypted digital file from his nephew. Srecko had received an email from Josif a few days earlier, confirming that “production of the documentary was complete,” but he gave no indication of when the film would be delivered. The suspense had aggravated Srecko’s heart palpitations as he anxiously awaited the video of Zorana Zekulic’s gang rape and murder.

  The thumb drive had arrived earlier today at his attorney’s office in Amsterdam via DHL Overnight Delivery from Buenos Aires. A message from his nephew’s email account apologized for the delay and provided a decryption key for the thumb drive. He tried not to skip back to his cell. The mood in the detention unit ranged from dour to utterly depressed, and he didn’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions, including his fellow prisoners. He wanted a solid hour or two to enjoy Zorana’s last miserable moments on Earth. He wasn’t sure how long the video lasted, but he intended to savor it over and over again, fast-forwarding to the good parts…unless they were all good parts. He really hoped Josif had edited the final cut.

  He walked into his cell and closed the heavy metal door behind him, making sure to shut the observation hatch. They could open the peephole, but generally respected the detainees’ privacy during daytime hours. He couldn’t remember the last time one of the detention center guards had checked on him between dinner and the evening room check. Still, his computer monitor was fixed facing the door, so he would have to be careful. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to watch the video with his pants down. He’d save that for later, after he found his favorite scenes.

  He walked through his room, which resembled a decently appointed college dorm. A spare bed with clean linens sat across from a wall-mounted desk unit housing his computer. A simple hard plastic-backed metal wire chair was pushed under the desk. He moved the chair back and sat in front of the desktop, eagerly pushing the thu
mb drive into the single USB port on the ancient machine.

  The screen activated and he quickly navigated to the contents of the thumb drive, which contained one file. He removed a scrap of paper from a folder next to the computer and clicked on the file. He was immediately prompted for the decryption password. Once entered, Windows media manager launched, recognizing the file as an MPEG. When the MPEG launched, the status window indicated “20:17.”

  A little short, he thought.

  He had expected more than twenty minutes; then again, a well-edited effort could be more rewarding than hours of drawn-out torture and drama. He clicked on the play button.

  The video started with a panoramic view of a neatly arranged bedroom, eventually settling in on a stainless steel contraption that Srecko immediately recognized as some kind of restraining device. It looked extremely durable and sturdy, with thick straps affixed at several points along the suspension bars. He tried to envision how she would be strapped into this contraption. The video stayed focused on the device, teasing him. His nephew produced superior work. He glanced at his cell door and reconsidered his clothing options. No. He would wait.

  The image faded, replaced with a close-up shot of a bloodied woman that he immediately recognized. She looked like she had been beaten and strangled for hours, her clothing and skin slick with blood. She stood there for a moment with a blank look on her face, like she had given up. He kind of wished that they hadn’t skipped the beating part of her experience. Maybe Josif would use flashbacks to show this. From what he could tell, his nephew had quite an artistic talent.

  The scene changed again and Zorana was strapped into the contraption, but something wasn’t right. Why had Josif dressed her up in white coveralls? He saw Zorana struggle and twist to no avail, which eased Srecko back into his chair for a moment. The writhing stopped a few seconds later, and she lifted her head above the horizontal plane of her body. He violently launched the chair back against the bed and stood up with a disgustedly confused look on his face. Josif was strapped into the harness with duct tape across his mouth. What in the hell was wrong with his nephew? This was the person he had groomed to run the show while he was temporarily stuck in prison?

  He suddenly understood what he was watching when Zorana Zekulic appeared and took a seat on the bed next to his nephew. She grinned madly at the camera and effortlessly twirled a wicked-looking black serrated knife in her right hand. He sat back down and gripped the sides of the chair, squeezing them as Zorana went to work on Josif. He forced himself to watch the rest of the video, feeding the rage that raised his blood pressure and heart rate to dangerous levels. Several minutes later, he watched helplessly as one of her accomplices summarily executed his nephew. Josif had still been strapped to the harness when the man sprayed his brains onto the bedroom wall.

  Srecko twitched in the seat, wanting to rip the computer from the wall and smash it over the nearest prisoner’s head. He wanted to kill everything in his path, using everything at his disposal. He was wheezing at this point, breathing through his mouth. This travesty of a video was almost finished. The digital time counter in the lower left corner of the screen showed less than ten seconds remaining. He stared at the screen as Zorana suddenly appeared, covered in blood and smiling like nothing had happened.

  “Hope you enjoyed the video, Srecko. Josif didn’t get to deliver his lines, but I do like the pattern his brains made on the wall. Very artistic. What do you see when you look at the splatter? Quick. First impression. A butterfly? A waterfall? Do you know what I see? I see a good start. You’re next.”

  She kissed the camera lens, leaving a smudge that blurred the screen. A few seconds later, the video ended.

  Srecko sat down in his chair and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. He ran his stumpy, mottled hands through his thick silver hair and closed his eyes. One thing was certain. He was going to kill that bitch and her traitorous husband in person. Josif had proposed a plan to get him out of here, which made more sense now than ever before. He’d spend every last penny…every last ounce of his energy, making sure they paid dearly for this.

  He pulled a gnarled cigarette from the crumpled pack in his shirt pocket and gripped it between his lips. He didn’t care if the cells were designated as nonsmoking. Not today. He searched around for matches, but found none. On shaky legs, he rose and searched his pockets, still finding no way to light the cigarette he desperately needed. He crushed the cigarette in his hand and threw it against the wall, fully intending to rip his room apart. Instead, he calmly walked toward the door, opting to ask nicely for a new matchbook from his captors. He would need to be on his best behavior to have any chance of getting out of here.

  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?”

&n
bsp; “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.