Going back to working as a bodyguard would be like a kick in the teeth. He felt he was entitled to a bit of slack — after all, if it wasn’t for him the high-profile Russian would either be in jail or dead. It was simple: Kozlov couldn’t be convicted without any witnesses, so snuffing out a couple of FBI agents had been a small price to pay for job security.
He was working in the cinder block detached garage of the safe house, taking care of business that needed to be done in private. The walls were off-white, and the building was empty aside from a makeshift plywood table piled with dirty rags and a random collection of power tools. He used a solvent to scrub down the black Chrysler 300 and strip away its temporary coat of paint. The car was slowly turning back to its original color of metallic gray.
Campbell anxiously waited for a call from Kozlov. He wasn’t on edge because one of the targets had gotten away — that detail had become the least of his worries. His real concern was how his boss would react when he found out he had killed the son of such a powerful man.
His cell phone started to play the opening for “Back in Black” by AC/DC. He picked it up off the table, looked at the display and confirmed it was the Russian.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“It seems that it’s raining fuckups in Washington,” Pavel Kozlov said. His thick Russian accent dripping with sarcasm.
“It wasn’t one of my better days,” Campbell admitted.
“You are lucky. Today I feel like being generous.”
Campbell winced. He knew there was always a catch.
“I have something to keep you occupied while Dimitri locates our missing friend,” Kozlov continued. “Log on to your computer to get the information. I want you to get started immediately. If you can take care of this minor detail for me, you will have earned yourself another chance.”
The line went dead.
Campbell headed into the house, went into the study and pulled out his laptop. He hated computers, and the shit the organization made him do to log on kept getting more complicated. The soldier used a bookmark saved on his desktop to connect to their server. He spoke the predetermined code words into the laptop’s built-in camera, and when the screen told him to, he blinked three times and turned his head to the right and then to the left.
Footsteps in the background signaled his driver walking into the room. He could sense the man was reading over his shoulder, but Campbell ignored him. It only took a couple of clicks and the laptop displayed a surveillance photo. The man looked like he was a professional. Campbell scrolled down the page to read the details:
Subject: Aliaksandr Petrov
Nationality: Russian
Known languages: Russian (native), English (British), Spanish (Castellano), French (Canadian)
Age: Late thirties
Height: 6’ 2”
Profession: Assassin
Proficiencies: Expert marksman, trained sniper, hand-to-hand combat, explosives
Details: Approach with caution. Hired to eliminate the operative known as The American. Operation completed.
Last Known Location (11 hours ago): Suite 129, Hilton Garden Inn, 8301 Boone Boulevard, Tysons Corner, VA 22182
If you can take care of this minor detail for me, you will have earned yourself another chance.
Kozlov’s words were telling. Bruce Campbell wasn’t familiar with the individual on the screen, but he had heard of The American. The man had recently crippled their European operation. Those who were lucky enough to survive said the operative worked with devastating effect, like a one-man army. It was obvious to Campbell that any person capable of eliminating The American would be a difficult man to kill.
He couldn’t resist clicking on the hyperlink to pull up The American’s profile. There were some blurry images that were obviously taken from video surveillance cameras, but as he scrolled through the photos he came to a few professional shots where The American, whose alias was listed as Ryan Turner, wore a numbered bib across his chest that read “Boston Marathon.” His employer was listed as a computer company, but that didn’t make much sense. Now that he was dead it didn’t really matter.
“The American? He doesn’t look like much,” the driver said dismissively.
Campbell shook his head. “You’d better stick to driving.”
Chapter 18
Etzy Millar woke to the sound of the latest CNN headlines. Pain from his ribs shot through his body as he eased himself up into a sitting position. He gathered up the makeshift bandage that had fallen off his hand during the night and looked down at the patches of dried blood his wound had left on the sheets.
Forty-eight hours ago he would have been worried about the stains on the sheets, but today they were the least of his concerns. He shivered involuntarily as the events from the previous night rushed through his head. He shook them away and turned to the television. He was still in a state of denial. The newscaster launched into a story about the abduction of a journalist in Gaza City.
She detailed the abductee’s exposé of a DEVGRU operative last year. An image of the soldier flashed on the screen, his face mostly obscured by a bushy beard typical of those worn by American soldiers serving in the Middle East. This was a story Millar knew well. He remembered the media frenzy when the operative’s identity had been revealed. The soldier had been part of a mission that had taken out several key figures of a radical Islamist terrorist organization.
The newscaster reminded Millar that the SEAL’s name was Brendan Manion. The classified details that the captured journalist published, which included the soldier’s name, provided the terrorists with enough motivation and information to exact revenge. Within a week a US-based terror cell had hunted down and murdered Manion’s wife and unborn child. Soon after the soldier had buried his family, he was killed in a Black Hawk helicopter crash in Afghanistan.
Images of the candlelight vigils that had been held around the nation for his family flashed on the screen. Millar supposed the journalist’s kidnapping was karma coming back around.
His thoughts returned to the previous evening. He caught his first break when he made it to the hotel room on Capitol Hill. It was the place where he and his friend Max launched their DC hacking exploits from. The room was paid for by Max’s father’s office to accommodate out-of-towners heading into the District to meet with him. The room was normally empty, and the staff at the Hotel George’s front desk knew Millar well. Getting a key to the suite was easy, especially since nobody wanted to feel the wrath of the man who paid the bill.
Working up the courage to open the door to the room had been daunting. The hacker stood there for five agonizing minutes before he made a move. First he slid the card key through the lock and ran down the hall. The fact that the beep didn’t spark off gunshots had been encouraging, but Etzy Millar still had a hard time mustering up the courage to go inside. His fear that the assassin was on the other side of the door gave way to the reality that the killer could possibly show up in the hallway. The possibility that he could have been followed provided enough motivation for him to do the deed.
When he whipped the door open, Millar was momentarily relieved that the lights had been left on by the hotel’s turndown service. He let out an awkward scream and froze when he saw a flurry of movement from the curtains. It only took a second to resign himself to defeat and hope that his death would be quick. By the time he realized it was the vent from the air conditioner blowing on the curtains, his mental state was frayed. It took a minute for him to get his heart rate down and recover.