Blacklist Aftermath

29

As Paladin’s tires hit the tarmac with puffs of burning rubber and the plane’s hydraulic landing gear boomed as it worked to suppress the massive forces of impact, Fisher and Briggs slipped around the hangar and ducked inside, behind the doorway, keeping to the shadows.

“We’re all going for a ride now,” shouted Chern. He gestured to his men that they take the pilot, mechanic, and cowboy owner into the plane.

Briggs lifted his rifle.

As did Fisher.

Freeing the hostages would require three perfectly timed and placed shots. Even the slightest miscalculation might allow one of Chern’s men to reflexively pull his trigger and kill his hostage.

Fisher hoped that any lingering doubts Briggs might’ve had were already put to bed — because he was taking two shots while Fisher took one, focusing all of his attention on the dark-haired Russian clutching the cowboy.

Meanwhile, Paladin’s pilot was steering the C-17 toward the taxiway with the intent of parking the plane between the two exits, creating a 585,000-pound roadblock.

If for some reason, Paladin had been late or the operation on the ground had gone south and the Russians had managed to get near their jet, Fisher had a pair of EMP grenades tucked into one of his belt pouches. Destroying the electronics of an expensive jet was hardly a consideration when it came to matters of national security, but if they could save the taxpayers a hefty repayment to the cowboy they would. Besides, having the C-17 on the ground would allow them to make a hasty exit with their high-value target. Fisher couldn’t wait to see the look on Chern’s face when he was reunited with Kasperov. They would all need glasses of vodka for that conversation.

Judging from Paladin’s current position on the runway and the men now moving toward the jet, Fisher assumed that the charter pilot couldn’t get his plane moving in time. The C-17 was coming, and nothing could stop it.

Chern’s party began storming across the tarmac, their gazes still distracted by the Paladin’s approach.

“Come on, Sam, I got a bead,” said Briggs.

“On three,” answered Fisher. He counted down while staring through his night-vision scope, the reticle centered over the Russian’s head as the man walked toward the plane.

Fisher took a deep breath.

Exhaled halfway.

And slowly squeezed the trigger. The hammer strike was, indeed, a surprise, and before the round even left his muzzle, he could tell this was a good shot.

The round struck the Russian’s head, knocking him forward, onto his stomach.

Briggs’s rifle cracked a nanosecond after Fisher’s, and another of Chern’s men took a round just left of his ear and tumbled sideways, away from the mechanic he’d been escorting.

Then, with remarkable precision, Briggs got on his second target as the man was attempting to hit the deck. Chern’s last associate was a handsome blond man with the trendy hairstyle of a Calvin Klein model. Briggs’s round removed a section of the man’s head before he reached the ground.

The old man Chern whirled and seized the pilot, grabbing him in a choke hold and using him to shield himself against Fisher and Briggs.

Chern stole a glance over his shoulder as Paladin’s nose came up behind the tiny charter jet like a white shark casting its massive shadow over the tarmac.

Fisher burst from the gloom with Briggs at his side. They charged toward Chern, who shuffled in retreat, nearing the open door and fold-out stairs.

Briggs shouted for the cowboy and mechanic to get back to the hangar, and they weren’t arguing. Fisher had never seen a man that large run that fast.

Fisher locked his gaze on Chern and shouted in Russian, “Sorry, this flight’s been cancelled!”

“You think glib remarks can save you now?” Chern cried.

Charlie, who now had control of the drone, brought the UAV in tight over Fisher and Chern.

Meanwhile, Briggs had his rifle raised at the Russian, keeping the man’s head in his sights.

The charter pilot was a clean-cut guy in his thirties, probably a young father who looked tense but was smart enough to keep still and offer no resistance, giving Briggs a cleaner line. Still, a sticky shocker to the head was not a good thing, especially for an old man like Chern. Better to free the hostage and target his center of mass with that shocker.

“Stand down,” Fisher ordered as he lifted his hand toward Paladin. “You’re done.”

Chern took a step back toward the jet. “You’re a little man with a big job. And this job is too big for you.”

“Listen to me,” Fisher cried even louder now, his patience gone, his anger working its way into his hands and the vice-like grip he kept on the rifle.

Chern shook his head. “There are no more words!”

Fisher lowered his rifle and took a step closer. “We know who you are. We know what you’ve done. Don’t waste any more of my time with this standoff — because my partner will blow your brains out.”

“He’ll do nothing! You want me for information!”

Fisher smiled. “I don’t need shit from you. Your plan has three stages. We know all about them. We know who your bosses are, and right now President Treskayev is having them all arrested. It’s over!”

Chern muttered something under his breath, his hair beginning to rage in the engine wash, his piercing blue eyes widening with what Fisher assumed would be a sense of defeat but strangely, something else was there. Something unnerving. His gaze was now borderline maniacal, and whatever he had in that briefcase must’ve been hugely important, because he’d taken the pilot with one hand but had never let go of the case.

Abruptly, he shoved the pilot aside, and the man took off running toward the hangar.

“You made the right decision,” Fisher shouted.

Chern clutched the briefcase to his chest and began shaking his head. “We must all make our sacrifices for the motherland.”

Fisher’s mouth fell open.

There was no computer with satellite link inside that briefcase.

No documents associated with the oligarchs’ plan.

No innocent travel arrangements or pornographic magazines or personal hygiene items.

There was, Fisher concluded in that second, only one thing:

A way for Chern to ensure that he was not captured by the enemy and turned for information.

Chern had been prepared all along for that contingency, and his associates had probably had no idea that inside his simple briefcase were blocks of C-4 rigged to a detonator built into the case’s handle.

Chern’s thumb slammed down on a button at the base of that handle.

Fisher turned to Briggs and cried, “Run!”

Grim and Charlie were shouting in their ears, but it was all white noise as Fisher wondered how many steps he could take before the explosion went off.

An even more troubling thought jabbed like a needle: What if Chern wasn’t just committing suicide?

What if he had something much more powerful than C-4 inside that case?

“There is always plan B,” Kasperov had said.