Callsign: King - Blackout

25

The cold water was more of shock to Timur Suvorov’s body than the surprise attack that had preceded his plunge into the river. He remembered that Kharitonov had called out to him, warning that something was wrong, but before he could grasp what was happening, another boat had crashed into them and the next thing he knew, he was sinking into the Seine.

Sinking!

He clawed at the water, trying to swim back to the surface, but the weight of his equipment was bearing him into the murky depths like an anchor. He frantically pulled the sling of his Uzi off his shoulder, and then struggled out of the vest containing his spare magazines and an array of improvised grenades. His sodden clothes and boots still felt like an over-garment of concrete, but he was a strong swimmer and his powerful strokes reversed his journey. Nevertheless, his lungs burned with the acid of trapped carbon dioxide. The dark surface seemed impossibly far away…

He broke through with a splash, not caring if doing so revealed his presence to the enemy that had unexpectedly gotten the better of him, and sucked in air greedily.

He was treading water, turning slowly until he spied the barely visible silhouette of a Zodiac, evidently derelict, drifting a few yards away. The sound of a distant outboard motor drifted across the surface of the river but otherwise all was still. He swam over to the abandoned boat, and with no little difficulty, heaved himself up onto the inflated rubber hull.

The smell of fresh blood and recent death hung in the air. His probing hands found a body, wearing an outfit identical to his own. A wave of fear and anger built in his chest as he tore off the black balaclava to reveal the man’s pale face and light brown hair. Suvorov burst forth in a howl of pain when he recognized the man; his teammate, his brother in every sense but the literal, Ian Kharitonov was dead.

Suvorov peered out across the river and spied the outline of another boat, the still visible wake leading almost directly back to the place where he had surfaced. Kharitonov’s killer-probably one of Brown’s mercenaries-was on that boat and so also, he assumed, was Brown. He mastered his emotions, forcing them down and corking them with a promise.

He couldn’t bring Kharitonov back. All he could do was see the mission through, and hope for a chance to give his friend’s death some meaning.