Covenant Page 3

  “The feed has been hacked,” Reznikov squeaked.

  “Indeed,” said Zuyev, raising a small handheld radio.

  “Victor One is under attack. Victor Two, I want you in the hallway immediately. Kill anyone you find,” he said, waiting far too long for a reply.

  “Victor Two, this is Zuyev. Answer your damn radios,” he said, shaking his head.

  “These people are good,” whimpered Reznikov.

  “Which people?” said Zuyev.

  “They don’t play by the rules. We’re dead,” said Reznikov.

  Yergei tried to raise communications with the other room, receiving no reply.

  “Comms are hacked, or the team is already neutralized,” said Zuyev, smashing his radio against the wall.

  Reznikov stared at the pieces of the plastic radio scattered along the floor. They were most certainly dead. Well, not all of them. Berg had a surprise waiting for him. He was sure of it. The vodka bottles back in the suite tugged at him. Drinking himself to death sounded like the proper way to go. His gaze shifted to Zuyev, who spoke into a cell phone.

  “Victor mainland, I want a marina extract immediately—with helicopter support. Do not use the encrypted radios. They’ve been compromised,” he said, a garbled voice responding.

  Zuyev patted his shoulder with a worried smile. “Looks like you’re finally getting that boat ride you wanted.”

  “Wonderful,” replied Reznikov, looking over his shoulder in the direction of the vodka.

  Chapter 7

  The catlike assassin wiped the blood off her right temple with a hand, fixing her with a murderous stare. Jessica considered reaching for the knife on the floor, but decided against compromising her stance. Instead, she pressed against the right side of her bulging stomach and slid her hand into a snug nylon-lined pouch inside the gel “pregnancy” insert. In a flash, she withdrew a retractable, serrated blade, flicking it open with one hand. The knife was smaller than she preferred, but equally lethal in her hands.

  She was thankful that Daniel had insisted on the larger, seven-month belly insert. The knife turned against her had barely punctured the skin of her abdomen thanks to the massive, weighted bulge. A lucky break. The woman advanced, shaking her head in disgust at her choice of disguise.

  “I’m going to make this hurt,” the woman said in Spanish.

  “But you killed my baby,” said Jessica in English, pouting her lips and winking.

  A bewildered look passed across the assassin’s face. “Who the hell are you?”

  “The competition,” said Jessica, feinting a poorly aimed thrust.

  The woman refused her bait, instead opting for another painful reminder that neither of them would escape the encounter unscathed. She slashed Jessica’s forearm and retreated a step. Jessica winced.

  “Not exactly a fair fight,” said the woman, wiping a thin sheen of Jessica’s blood on the arm of her jacket.

  “Who said anything about a fair fight?” said Jessica, nodding behind her. “I wouldn’t make any sudden movements.”

  Munoz had accessed the hallway, staying at the far end while pointing a suppressed MP7 submachine gun at the woman. Jessica stepped to the left to avoid getting hit by any bullets passing through the assassin. She was moments away from ordering the woman’s execution when she received a disturbing question from Daniel.

  “Are you breaching the room?” he said.

  “Negative. Still dealing with the situation outside,” she said.

  “Shit. Something is wrong. I have unusual activity in the main suite. Guards are congregating toward the entrance. The off-duty suite still looks normal—wait, I’m seeing movement on the balcony. Engaging.”

  “Copy. Adapting to the change,” said Jessica.

  “Negative. Abort the mission,” insisted Daniel. “We’ve lost the element of surprise. Get into the poolside stairwell with Munoz and melt away.”

  An insane idea hit her. Something about the assassin and her team suggested a level of skill and sophistication not typically seen with contract murder squads. The two men chose to die rather than open fire and risk hitting the woman.

  “Who do you work for?” said Jessica.

  The woman shook her head slowly.

  “Both rooms have been alerted to our presence. Who is your target?” said Jessica.

  “Who’s your target?” said the woman.

  “My orders are to kill or capture Dr. Anatoly Reznikov,” said Jessica. “CIA orders.”

  The woman cocked her head and squinted. “Who the hell is Reznikov?”

  “A bioweapons scientist working for the Solntsevskaya Bratva,” said Jessica.

  Screams erupted from the room behind and to the left of the woman. Daniel had started firing. Munoz crouched and shifted his aim to the door.

  “We’re running out of time,” said Jessica. “Who is your target?”

  She hesitated as the screams and crashes grew louder in the room.

  “Valery Zuyev, a high-level—” said the woman.

  “Zuyev?” interrupted Jessica. “He’s just a seller for Reznikov’s products.”

  “He’s courting some dangerous clients with those products,” said the woman.

  “The Bratva can replace Zuyev,” said Jessica. “Without Reznikov, they have nothing to sell.”

  “They we kill Reznikov,” said the woman.

  “Jess, you need to figure out what we’re doing with her right away,” said Munoz, shifting his knees and leaning into his weapon’s stock.

  Before she could answer, the off-duty guard suite’s door flew open, and the hallway exploded.

  Chapter 8

  Talia crouched as the Hispanic operative with the suppressed MP7 dropped the first Russian to pass through the doorway with a perfect headshot, spraying the armed men behind him with an aerosolized red mist. The second man froze, his freshly decorated pinkish red face struggling to register what just happened. His confusion was short lived. A short burst from the operative struck him in the face and neck, whipping him sideways and exposing a man with a tattooed neck. The man fired his compact assault rifle on full automatic, splintering the doorframe from the inside and filling the hallway with bullets.

  Talia sprang for the open suite door behind her, colliding with the bitch that had killed her team. The impact knocked them to the floor, and she momentarily considered stabbing the supposed CIA operative in the throat. Her survival instinct countered the temptation. They’d have to work together to get out of this alive, plus the woman had somehow managed to grab the empty pistol from the floor and reload it. The pistol was their only effective weapon at this point. She hoped they had more stashed in the room.

  “We need more firepower,” said Talia.

  “This is it,” said the woman, pushing her into the room and taking a covered firing stance at the door. “Unless you want to head back into the hallway.”

  A torrent of bullets tore into the doorframe, forcing the operative to move deeper into the room. She quickly switched sides and crouched, leaning out to fire several rapid shots at the Russians. A gurgled scream pierced the hallway, and the woman changed sides again, aiming the pistol carefully.

  “I don’t recommend it,” said the woman, firing twice. “Head shot! He’s down.”

  “Frag out!” a male voice yelled.

  Talia tensed, preparing to catch and throw any object that flew through their doorway.

  “That’s our frag,” said the female operative. “Time to grab one of those SMGs.”

  A thunderous crack shook the room, breaking plaster off the walls around the entrance and instantly filling the hallway with a cloud of dust. The operative changed positions, aiming her pistol toward the target suite at the end of the hallway.

  The knife burned in Talia’s hand. She could jam the small blade as far as possible into the woman’s middle back and dash into the dust-choked hallway to grab one of her slain friends’ weapons. She’d turn the suppressed HK UMP on the Hispanic operative and get the he
ll out of the hotel. The mission was screwed unless her sniper somehow got lucky. She paused as the debris settled.

  “Are you gonna stab me in the back or help me kill Reznikov?” said the woman, without glancing in her direction.

  “You’re crazy,” said Talia, sprinting through the doorway.

  She emerged in time to see the Hispanic operative disappear into the Russian’s off-duty guard suite. Several suppressed snaps from the room followed as she snagged both of the UMPs and dug through their blood-soaked clothing for spare magazines. A weak hand grabbed at her thigh, slipping back to the floor. Gilad was still alive—barely. He tried to speak, but a stream of blood poured out of his mouth. She glanced nervously over her shoulder at the woman that had shot Gilad, before leaning in close to him and whispering, “I’ll get you out of here.”

  He shook his head and rasped, “Mission.”

  “Get out of the hallway,” said the Hispanic CIA operative.

  He crouched in the scarlet-splattered doorframe in front of her and leveled his weapon at the target suite. They had no intention of backing down—and neither did she.

  “Time to put my best assets to work,” she whispered back.

  He smirked briefly before coughing uncontrollably. By the time she reached the perceived safety of the woman’s suite, Gilad was silent.

  Chapter 9

  A sharp explosion rattled the walls, causing the Bratva security team to collectively flinch. Reznikov tried to pull away, but a firm hand kept him in place on the cool marble floor.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” said Zuyev.

  The gunfire in the hallway quieted after the explosion, a bad sign for the backup security team.

  “Yergei,” said Zuyev, “time to go.”

  Reznikov watched in horror as Yergei moved to the double doors, signaling silently for the team to form up around him.

  “Going out there is suicide. You’re supposed to keep me alive,” pleaded Reznikov, straining against his grip. “I don’t think Mr. Penkin would approve of this decision.”

  “If I’m wrong about this, it won’t matter one way or the other,” he said, yanking him closer.

  He could smell Zuyev’s lunch; garlic shrimp dominated the hot air spewing from his mouth less than an inch away. Reznikov felt nauseous.

  “You stay right behind me. Understand? If you run, I’ll shoot you in the spine and drag you out of here like a sack of dirty laundry. I’m only responsible for what’s in here,” said Zuyev, poking him in the forehead. “The rest of you is unimportant.”

  Holy shit! He was truly surrounded by psychopaths—not that this came to him as any revelation.

  “Ready in three, two, one—” said Yergei, pulling on both door handles.

  The men started firing before the doors fully opened, sending bullets through the thin wood into the hallway. Yergei’s head snapped back before he could put his rifle into action, his body crumpling in place. The rest of the team scrambled past his lifeless, awkwardly sprawled corpse, steadily emptying their rifles’ ninety-five-round-capacity drums in long bursts. Zuyev pulled him forward when the attackers’ bullets stopped striking the wall behind the doorway.

  Reznikov froze at the threshold, nearly pulling Zuyev off balance. Sharp cracks filled the air as the Bratva commander jerked him into the smoke-filled hallway.

  “You’re on your own now,” said Zuyev, shouldering a drum-fed, short-barreled Saiga-12 semiautomatic shotgun.

  Reznikov paused on the crimson-streaked marble, watching in disbelief as Zuyev fired the shotgun over and over again at the nearest open door. The shooters in the doorway disappeared in a shower of splinter fragments and plaster dust, emboldening the rest of the team to move forward in tight formation. Five of the original eight security guards remained, forming a compact shield of human flesh and bone. He followed Zuyev into the protective wedge, crouching as low as possible. The shotgun boomed, ejecting red-hot shells onto his head and shoulders.

  A warm spray hit the right side of Reznikov’s face, and the guard next to him dropped to both knees, clutching his neck. Bright red blood pumped through his fingers; a look of disbelief on his face. The gap was quickly filled by the next guard, who fired on full automatic into the room next to them. Zuyev’s shotgun blasted over his head, pumping several shells into the same room as they passed. Deep inside the hotel suite, Reznikov caught a glimpse of long black hair whipping around a corner.

  Chapter 10

  Talia slid behind the kitchen island, immediately flipping onto her stomach. Jess, as the other operative called her, crouched behind a bullet-riddled wall across the opening exposed to the front door. The woman peeked around the corner, lifting the UMP and firing on full automatic toward the entrance.

  “That’s our target!” Jess yelled over the gunfire.

  Without hesitating, Talia scooted forward and pressed the trigger, sending a fusillade of hastily aimed bullets toward the mass of khaki pants and short-sleeved shirts visible through the thinning dust. A man carrying an AK-74 stumbled backward, hit simultaneously by their barrage. He fell onto a man crouched behind him, shielding him from her next burst of fire. A shotgun barrel appeared on the right side of the doorway, filling the room with buckshot. She hated shotguns. Logically, a 5.45mm bullet to the face would be far more conclusive at this range, but the jackhammer boom of the semiautomatic shotgun and the resultant wall of lead forced her back.

  Jess didn’t flinch, even as some of the shot grazed her exposed arm. She continued firing toward the door until the shotgun stopped.

  “Let’s go,” she said, ejecting her spent magazine and picking up another from the floor.

  The rifle gunfire intensified outside of the room, and Talia peeked around the base of the disintegrated kitchen island. The doorway appeared empty, but she wasn’t inclined to charge into the open. Jess had no such reservations—or common sense. The CIA operative stood and moved forward, UMP jammed tight into her shoulder. As soon as she stepped into the hallway, the shotgun barrel materialized at the bottom of the door frame. She scrambled to her feet and leapt across the kill zone, tackling the impulsive operative to the ground—as dozens of lead balls buzzed inches behind her.

  “Get off me!” said Jess, struggling underneath her.

  “You’ll get us both killed,” said Talia, trying to hold her down.

  She pushed Talia off, knocking her to the marble floor next to them. Before she could react, Jess was on her feet, slamming the bolt home on the UMP. The woman was single-minded and suicidal—a bad combination in the field.

  “Hold it!” said Talia, springing into a crouch. “That shotgun will tear you to pieces.”

  The 12-gauge monster boomed outside of the room, sounding distant. Talia lined up behind and to the left of Jess, tapping her on the shoulder when she had a clear line of fire. They advanced together until they reached the doorway, Jess crouching low and Talia standing over her next to the splintered frame. Two dead Russians lay crumpled on the floor in front of the door. Three more cluttered the floor closer to the double entrance—not including the two she had killed before everything went to shit. The gunfire started to echo, like the shooters had moved into a tightly enclosed space.

  “Stairwell,” said Talia. “You ready?”

  “Let’s do this,” said Jess, peeking around the corner with the UMP. “Clear.”

  They stepped out of the room, Jess aiming directly ahead of them at the stairwell entrance on the right side of the hallway; Talia covered the off-duty guard suite and the stairwell on the opposite side. A third guard sat propped against the right wall, his mangled head canted to the left at an extreme angle. A bright red stain covered the blue pastel wallpaper where his head should be. The gunfire died out completely, replaced with yelling from one of the stairwells. The Russians were on the move.

  They stepped over Gilad’s body, and Talia forced herself to stay focused on the scene ahead of them. Jess hesitated, stopping parallel to the guards’ room.

  �
�Any sign of my operative?” said Jess.

  She peered into the smoky room, seeing nothing but shattered wood, bloodstained walls and collapsed bodies. Nothing moved.

  “I can’t tell,” said Talia, her eye drawn to the stairwell door several feet away from the suite.

  The metal fire door had been propped open at a ninety-degree angle to the wall; an empty rifle magazine jammed between the inside of the door and the frame. Jess’s shoulders slumped. She’d seen it too. The door was riddled with bullet holes.

  “Munoz?” Jess yelled, keeping her weapon pointed at the opposite stairwell door.

  “We need to move,” said Talia. “They probably have a boat waiting for them.”

  Jess slid forward, stepping into the stairwell.

  “Shit” she said, shaking her head. “All stations, Munoz is critically wounded in the poolside stairwell. Target has escaped down the beachside stairwell.”

  Talia moved forward far enough to see down the stairs. A thick pool of blood spread along the concrete landing, originating from the other CIA operative. Munoz must have been concealed behind the stairs, fighting desperately to keep the Russians from accessing the stairwell directly across the hall. Jess turned her head, keeping the UMP aimed forward.

  “I have two of my people moving to intercept. Do you have more backup?” said Jess.

  “Overwatch, this is assault. What is your status?” she said, pausing several seconds before tapping her earpiece. “Nothing. I think it’s broken from our fight.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We should have enough people to make this happen. I counted six down in the hallway and one just inside the target suite. Eight guards in a shift, plus Zuyev, Reznikov and the security chief. We’re up against four at most,” said Jess.

  “Then what are we waiting for?” said Talia.

  “Giving them some room. I don’t want to be surprised on the stairs,” said Jessica. “And I have someone moving into place that will be able to track them.”