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  COVENANT

  A BLACK FLAGGED THRILLER

  A Novella by Steven Konkoly

  Book 4.5 in the Black Flagged Series

  Contents

  About COVENANT: A Black Flagged Thriller

  Character List

  PART ONE BLACK EYE

  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

  PART TWO BLACKOUT

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  PART THREE ALWAYS BET ON BLACK

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Work by Steven Konkoly

  About the Author

  About COVENANT: A Black Flagged Thriller

  COVENANT is a novella set in 2009, one year after the concluding events in VEKTOR, the fourth book in my Black Flagged series. The events in COVENANT serve as a bridge between VEKTOR and OMEGA, the fifth book. COVENANT was previously published as JET BLACK, in a fan-fiction collaboration that included a character from a different author’s series.

  Rights to this story have recently been returned to me, and I have republished the story as COVENANT, removing any crossover elements with the other author’s series. Since I designed the story to flow seamlessly within the BLACK FLAGGED world, crossover was minimal and COVENANT represents the best of what BLACK FLAGGED readers have come to expect from the series.

  I know you’ll enjoy this novella length foray into the BLACK FLAGGED world. All of your favorite characters play a role in the story.

  Happy Reading!

  Steve

  Character List

  Avi – Mossad. Assistant strike team leader.

  Karl Berg – Assistant deputy director, National Clandestine Service, CIA.

  Richard Farrington – Black Flag, Russian Group leader.

  Gilad – Mossad. Mission leader.

  “Gosha” – Black Flag Russian Group sniper.

  Timothy Graves – Black Flag electronic support team.

  “Grisha” – Black Flag ground team leader.

  Anish Gupta – Black Flag electronic support team.

  Talia – Mossad operative. Strike team leader.

  Alexei Kaparov – Deputy director, Bioweapons/Chemical Threat Assessment Division Federal, Russian Federal Security Services (FSB).

  Enrique "Rico" Melendez – Black Flag sniper, trained by Daniel Petrovich.

  Jeffrey Munoz – Black Flag operative. Latin America Group leader.

  Daniel Petrovich – Black Flag operative, semiretired. Married to Jessica.

  Jessica Petrovich – Black Flag operative, semiretired.

  Yuri Prerovsky – Assistant deputy director, Organized Crime, Russian Federal Security Services (FSB).

  Anatoly Reznikov – Former bioweapons scientist at Vektor Institute.

  Brigadier General (retired) Terrence Sanderson – Black Flag leader.

  “Yoshi” – Mossad sniper.

  Valery Zuyev – Solntsevskaya Bratva, Boyevik (Warrior).

  PART ONE

  BLACK EYE

  Chapter 1

  Talia pressed her lips together, spreading the burgundy shade of lipstick evenly. The dark red accentuated her tan skin, leaving just enough color to attract attention—or distract a bodyguard. She examined her appearance in the full-length mirror, searching for the smallest detail that might draw the wrong kind of attention. A missed button, frayed sleeve corner or errant wrinkle could spell disaster. The hotel staff dressed impeccably, one of the luxury resort’s signature touches.

  Finding nothing out of place on her tight-fitting outfit, she affixed a brushed silver, oval name tag just above the left breast pocket of her royal blue suit jacket. Today she was Selena Amador, Senior Concierge, La Joya Azul Resort and Spa. Tomorrow she could be a visiting European banker in Buenos Aires. Whatever they wanted her to be. She was their chameleon, and more often than not—their viper.

  Talia turned from the mirror and approached the white-marble-topped, dark mahogany vanity next to the spacious sink, noting the watchful eye of the team’s mission leader—and her stand-in husband for the operation. Without either of them saying a word, she removed a suppressed compact pistol from the top of the vanity and tucked it snugly into the custom holster sewn into her black leather Prada shoulder tote. A knockoff bag, she suspected. The Mossad’s budget didn’t include disposable thousand-dollar accessories—unless those accessories killed people. With the bag in place over her left shoulder, she smiled at Gilad.

  “How do I look?” said Talia.

  “Deadly as always,” he replied, without expression. “I just hope deadly enough.”

  “I can handle two thugs at close distance,” she said.

  “If the guards are more alert than intelligence suggests—you walk away. It only takes the blink of an eye to pull a trigger. We’ll find another way,” he said.

  “I just need to get within thirty feet,” she said. “This ridiculous outfit will get me close enough.”

  “You’re good, but not that good. You need to ensure two dead-center head shots. A skull ricochet might hit the door, alerting the guards inside. Fifteen feet minimum. Preferably five. The closer you get, the narrower their focus,” he said.

  Her concealed earpiece crackled. “Strike, this is overwatch. Shift change underway.”

  Gilad’s eyes darted up and to the right momentarily, a subtle tell that he had received the same message.

  “Five minutes,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Let them settle in.”

  She nodded, slipping her hand into the shoulder tote and checking the holster action. Within a fraction of a second, Talia pointed the suppressed Glock 26 subcompact at her image in the mirror.

  “Maybe twenty feet,” said Gilad, finally smiling.

  Chapter 2

  Jessica Petrovich took a sip of cold sparkling water from a perspiring highball glass, setting it on the turquoise-painted, wrought-iron stand next to her chaise lounger. The vanishing ice cubes rattled and reorganized in the glass, reminding her to order another drink the next time she saw their server. Of course, if her observations proved correct, she’d probably never take a sip of the new drink. It didn’t matter. She had to keep up appearances, and right now she played the role of a pampered wife, relaxing poolside with her husband—or the man pretending to be her husband.

  Enrique Melendez, one of the few Black Flagged operatives she fully trusted, sat upright in the lounger next to the iron table, pretending to read a book. Behind his designer sunglasses, he scanned their wide view of the pool area, searching for possible threats and keeping an eye on their primary target. Her job was to watch their backs.

  Their cover story as a fake couple was tight, but the Russians had plenty of money to throw around—and they didn’t hesitate to back up their money with a healthy dose of intimidation. Her team’s last minute arrival consisted of three expensive transactions outside of normal resort booking channels. Pricey to keep them discreet—she hoped. Of course, hope got you killed in this game.

  She glanced over her shoulder again, feigning a search for their server. Noticing nothing out of place, Jessica’s eyes darted to a balcony on the third floor. The expansive glass slider was fully open, thin white curtains waving lazily on the edges of the room’s shadowy interior. Her husband, Daniel, was hidden in the room, carefully watching
the team’s target through binoculars. She wished he was next to her instead of Melendez, but Daniel had spent “quality” time with their target, and the team couldn’t risk the possibility of recognition. Intelligence suggested that this might be their only chance to kill or capture Reznikov before he disappeared again.

  “The Russians are on the move,” said Melendez.

  She eyed her gold, jewel-studded watch. “A little early.”

  Her earpiece filled with Daniel’s hushed voice. “Shift change. Lots of movement in both suites. Time to head upstairs, my love. Munoz, you copy?”

  “Lima Charlie. Ready to move,” replied Jeffrey Munoz, who waited in a room on the target floor.

  Munoz was one of the few surviving graduates from General Sanderson’s first generation training program. Upon graduation from the Black Flagged program, Munoz spent the next few years infiltrating drug cartels in Central America, while Daniel melted into the killing fields of the Balkan Peninsula. They never laid eyes on each other again until Sanderson rebooted the Black Flagged program several years later. Daniel trusted him, but she wasn’t one hundred percent convinced. Munoz’s loyalty ultimately landed at Sanderson’s feet, a fact she couldn’t reconcile.

  “You should get out of the sun, honey,” said Melendez. “It’s probably not the best thing for you, given your condition.”

  “Still a comedian,” she said, pushing herself up from a semi-reclined position. “I’ll slowly work my way up to the room.”

  Jessica swung her legs over the side of the lounger and sat there for a moment, hands resting on the top of her swollen abdomen. Her one-piece, black bathing suit was stretched to the limit. She stood up slowly, shouldering a tan canvas beach tote.

  “Be careful,” said Melendez, lifting his glasses to look at her clearly pregnant stomach.

  “Knock it off,” she whispered.

  “No. I actually mean it. Daniel, back me up here,” said Melendez.

  “Watch yourself, Jess,” said Daniel through her earpiece. “The men guarding that suite would gut their own siblings for a paycheck. They won’t hesitate to kill you, regardless of your condition.”

  “Well, shit, maybe I should give it one hundred percent, then. You know, based on this patronizing lecture,” she said, picking up her canvas tote.

  Melendez shook his head and mumbled, “Dude, it’s been like this the whole trip.”

  “How do you think I feel? You’re just the rent-a-husband,” said Daniel.

  “I heard that,” said Jessica.

  “You were supposed to hear that,” said Daniel. “Make sure Munoz is ready before you hit the hallway security team. That’s a tactically based recommendation, not a lecture.”

  “Yes, husband,” she said, winking at Melendez.

  “She’s making fun of you,” said Melendez. “I give up trying to read her.”

  “Join the club,” said Daniel, quickly changing his tone. “The balconies are empty. Definitely shift change. I’ll let you know when I can maximize the damage against the off-going security team.”

  “I’m on the move,” she said, strolling toward the hotel lobby.

  Chapter 3

  Daniel Petrovich cracked a thin smile behind the 6X ACOG/RMR combination scope attached to his suppressed SOCOM 16 rifle. He loved that woman; no matter how much shit she gave him. The smile quickly faded with the thought of the task in front of her. He wished there was another way to ensure Reznikov’s death, but short of detonating a bomb powerful enough to level a significant portion of the hotel, sending Jessica and Munoz into the suite appeared to be the only way.

  He’d spent nearly every second that Reznikov had been awake during the past three days watching the balcony and praying that the Russian would make a mistake. All he needed was a clear line of fire for a few seconds. The suite’s poolside-facing balcony sat three hundred and twenty-three feet away from his position. A head shot he could take with one hundred percent confidence and lethality—if the drunken shithead ever left the darkened confines of his suite.

  In three days, Daniel had counted two possible opportunities, each carrying unacceptable risks. Two days ago, a few minutes before sunset, Reznikov ventured into the Jacuzzi on the north-facing side of the balcony, but a slatted privacy screen obscured his view of the Russian’s head. Through the scope, he could see part of his target’s body, but not enough to guarantee a head shot through the screen.

  The second chance came yesterday afternoon, when Reznikov’s scarred face materialized in the darkness behind one of the open balcony sliders. There one second—gone the next. He didn’t have enough time to press the trigger after bringing the scope’s illuminated red crosshair reticle onto the man’s ugly visage. All he had needed was another second, and Jessica wouldn’t be walking into a gunfight. They’d be back in their private beach bungalow on Anguilla, sipping cold drinks and enjoying each other’s company.

  In retrospect, he wasn’t sure why they had agreed to take this mission. Attachment to the past? A sense of duty? Sanderson’s snake-oil charm? Probably all of the above. Not to mention that they both missed the work—a very unhealthy addiction in their area of expertise. There was no point reflecting on another bad choice. All of his mental energy needed to stay focused on the two hotel suites. The better his shooting, the better his wife’s odds of surviving the assault. That was his only purpose right now. His only mission.

  He released the trigger safety and scanned the balcony adjacent to Reznikov’s suite, waiting patiently for the off-going crew. Shirtless, they would quickly settle around the table, swigging vodka out of bottles and furiously puffing cigarettes—trying to make up for the reduced nicotine and alcohol intake incurred during their overnight watch.

  Members of the on-duty team were occasionally allowed onto the main suite’s balcony to get a nicotine fix—but it wasn’t enough. Not based on the chain-smoking that occurred before and after a shift. The scene was almost comical. They’d drink and smoke until they nearly passed out in their chairs. One by one, they’d haul their pasty, tattooed bodies back into the suite to sleep for several hours. Today, Daniel would expedite the balcony-clearing process. He’d kill or disable every guard visible on the terrace, leaving the rest to Munoz. Then he’d shift his deadly eye to Reznikov’s suite, searching for targets of opportunity.

  Chapter 4

  A fragrant breeze enveloped Jessica at the edge of the lobby, the sweet scent of native blue crown flowers filling the spacious open-air lobby. She avoided eye contact as she picked up the pace, heading straight for the elevators that serviced the northern wing of the hotel. Once inside the brass and mirror elevator car, she pressed the number four and examined her reflection.

  The halter dress swimsuit accentuated her toned arms and shoulders, while the deep V-neckline highlighted the results of the suit’s patented push-up technology. Of course, no amount of maternity-wear tricks could draw the observer’s eye away from the main event—her obviously pregnant stomach. Just as well. She only needed one of her physical features to catch their attention.

  The door opened, emptying into a spacious, white marble elevator lobby outfitted with turquoise cushioned rattan furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened to the gardens and pool between the two hotel wings. Somewhere in the sea of tan pool umbrellas sat Melendez.

  The bright vestibule connected to a wide hallway that ran the length of the fourth floor. She took a few deep breaths and stepped into the passageway, turning right. At the far end of the hallway, a set of windowed doors requiring a room key led to a separate luxury suite hallway. Through the doors, she caught a distant glimpse of the men guarding Reznikov’s suite—nothing but pastel-colored shirts at this point.

  Jessica walked briskly toward the luxury suite area, her eyes darting briefly to the right as she passed room 425. Jeffrey Munoz lurked behind that door, no doubt watching her pass. She would call him forward once the guards had been eliminated. Munoz would breach the room adjacent to Reznikov’s suite, quickly dispatch
ing the guards inside while she wreaked havoc on the Russian scientist. Once Munoz was finished, he’d join her in the festivities—not that she’d need the help. With Daniel targeting the guards visible from his sniper’s perch, the Russians would never know what hit them.

  She inserted her room key and opened the door, drawing the immediate attention of the two stocky men seated in rattan chairs taken from the off-duty guard suite. Every second of every day in the hallway had been recorded and reviewed by her team. As predicted, the same two guards started the day shift. For the past three days, the Russians never changed the guard schedule, which made her job easier. She’d interacted with all of the guard teams by this point, assessing their state of readiness, and most importantly—their potential state of distraction. The two men standing in front of her represented the far ends of the spectrum.

  The goateed brute wearing thick gold chains under his half-unbuttoned light blue, short-sleeved shirt eased his left hand behind his hip. He was the least distracted of the guards she’d seen, but he was the most obvious about his intentions. Broadcasting the firearm behind his back, along with his apparent eagerness to use it, earned him the dubious honor of dying first.

  The second man, standing three inches taller and many pounds heavier than “goatee,” crossed his arms and grinned at her—before slowly moving his dead eyes down her body. He was second in line to die, but would leave this world in a far more painful, dramatic fashion. She’d seen what men like this were capable of, and took pleasure in erasing their legacy.

  She smiled and nodded demurely, fiddling with the ends of her long brown hair as she disappeared into the suite. Once inside, the coy demeanor vanished—eclipsed by the practical, efficient operative at the core of Jessica’s existence. She stepped out of her strappy sandals and quickly replaced them with black, low ankle cross-training shoes. Not exactly a match with her swimsuit, but she had yet to see any of the guards look at her feet. A quick trip to the safe located in the suite’s master bedroom yielded a loaded semiautomatic compact pistol, a nylon belt fitted with five magazine pouches and a five-inch suppressor.