Price of Duty

TWENTY-THREE

With the Radon assault carbine she’d picked up tucked securely against her right shoulder, Nadia Rozek ghosted ahead down a row of snow-dusted fir trees. Moving as quietly as he could, Brad McLanahan followed in her wake. Not far ahead, through a gap in the tree line, he could see what looked like a warehouse or maybe some kind of factory building. Several minutes and several hundred meters after breaking away from the crash site, they were coming up on the eastern flank of the small industrial complex occupied by Gryzlov’s assassins.

As soon as Martindale and Whack dragged Piotr Wilk into cover among the bullet-riddled police and fire vehicles, Brad and Nadia had made their own move. There was only one other way out of the kill zone set up by the Russians — a frantic dash through the wreckage of the downed 777. For what seemed an eternity, they’d dodged and twisted through a smoke-filled hell strewn with jagged, burning metal, smashed passenger seats, torn suitcases and carry-on bags… and smoldering, horrifically mangled bodies.

Brad swallowed hard against the sour, acid taste of bile. Keep it together, he told himself. This was no time to dwell on the horrors they’d witnessed.

Nadia dropped to one knee, close to the trunk of one of the fir trees. She waved him up to join her.

“See anything?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “No. But unless they are complete fools, they must have someone guarding this approach.”

“Maybe they’ve bugged out already?”

A flash lit the sky to the northwest, followed by the dull WHUMMP of an explosion. The would-be assassins had fired another RPG round.

“Or not,” Brad allowed.

Cautiously, he peered out from under the overhanging branches. There, about fifty meters ahead, he could see the building they’d been moving toward. There were no windows on this side. Beyond it was another industrial-looking structure, with a paved opening between them.

Thinking fast, and trying to remember what he’d seen from Wilk’s helicopter when they flew in earlier, Brad sketched out a rough map in the dirt. They were on the east side of a complex made up of several buildings. Two, including the one nearest to them, overlooked the crash site. Other buildings formed a rough square, crisscrossed by several roads. He thought he remembered seeing several big trucks and smaller cars parked behind the building most likely to be occupied by Gryzlov’s killers. The road they could see from here ran straight to that lot.

Nadia leaned closer, studying his crude sketch. She nodded and then scratched an X near the parking lot he’d identified. “That is where I would post my sentry,” she said. “Guarding my escape vehicles while also covering this exposed flank.”

Brad raised an eyebrow. “Just one guy?”

She shrugged. “I do not think this is a large force. No more than four or five men total perhaps. Certainly no more than six.”

“Based on what?” he asked, more curious than skeptical. Over the past year, he’d trained some for ground combat, but this was Nadia’s special province far more than it was his.

“I counted the shots,” she said with a slight smile. “I do not believe there were ever more than three or four men firing at us.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Brad countered. “If we’re up against like ten guys?”

“Then we are going to die,” Nadia said, very seriously. She shrugged. “The odds are bad enough as it is, even if I am right.”

“Yeah,” Brad murmured, looking down at his rough map. As it was, they were going up against a force of heavily armed, hardened Russian assassins — with a total of two 5.56mm assault carbines and sixty rounds of ammunition between them. “You sure we shouldn’t wait for backup?” he asked.

“I wish we could,” Nadia said. “But I fear the enemy will be long gone before help can arrive. These men are professionals, not half-trained terrorists.”

He nodded. This Russian scheme was too elaborate for its creators to have overlooked the need for an escape plan. He was willing to bet the assassins had people in position to warn them as soon as a serious Polish reaction force started heading this way. Trying to find them, once they slipped away into the surrounding towns and suburbs or into Warsaw itself, would be like hunting bare-handed for a needle in a haystack — as long as you assumed the needle was both mobile and poison-tipped. “Too bad we don’t have more firepower,” he grumbled.

“That is a problem,” Nadia agreed. “But I may have a solution.” Setting her carbine down, she scrabbled around in the dirt for a moment. “There we go!” she said, holding up her finds. She sounded pleased.

Brad looked down in dismay. He looked back up. “A couple of rocks? You’re seriously proposing we go after the bad guys using rocks?”

“They are only rocks,” she said, grinning, “from a certain point of view.”

Spetsnaz sergeant Ivan Ananko lay prone close beside one of the two huge semi-trailer trucks the team had driven into Poland. Carefully stripped of anything that might lead investigators back to Russia, both rigs would be left behind when Major Berezin and the rest of them bailed out of this place. In the meantime, their big tires provided Ananko with useful cover and concealment.

He scanned the road to his east, watching for any sign of movement between the two buildings at the far edge of this small office and light-manufacturing complex. The PCS-5M passive night sight attached to his Polish-made Beryl assault rifle intensified every photon of ambient light, turning the darkness of night into a green-tinted, slightly grainy version of daytime.

Every weapon and piece of equipment they carried on this mission was either manufactured in Poland, used by Poland’s armed forces, or readily available in-country. Personally, Ananko thought that was overkill. No one in their right mind was going to believe the Polish president had been assassinated by his own soldiers. But orders were orders.

“Akrobat Pyat’, Acrobat Five, to One,” a voice crackled through his headset. That was Sergeant Dmitry Savichev, the fifth member of their team. The lucky bastard was currently comfortably ensconced in a plush hotel room overlooking Piłsudski Square. Site of Poland’s Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, this vast open plaza was named in honor of the soldier and statesman Marshal Józef Piłsudski, one of the founders of modern Poland. Over the years, it had been used for outdoor papal masses and other important ceremonials. Tonight, it was crowded with Polish military helicopters and armored vehicles.

“One to Five,” Major Berezin replied. “Go ahead.”

“The Poles are waking up, One,” Savichev said. “Their helicopters are spooling up. And I can see at least two infantry platoons forming up, ready to board soon. I estimate you’ll have more company than you want in about fifteen minutes.”

“Understood, Five,” Berezin said. “Keep me posted.”

Ananko knew what was coming next.

“Acrobat One to Acrobat Two and Three,” the major continued. “Prepare to withdraw on my command. We’ll kill Poles for another couple of minutes and then break contact.”

The sergeant heard Captain Chirkash and Lieutenant Kuritsyn acknowledge. He thought Chirkash actually sounded disappointed. Now, there was a bloodthirsty son of a bitch, he thought approvingly. Stories floating around the barracks claimed the captain had a private collection of dried human ears he’d collected while fighting in Chechnya, Ukraine, and other hot spots. Wild as that sounded, Ananko knew the rumors were accurate. He’d seen Chirkash collecting some of his “trophies” after they’d slaughtered some Ukrainian troops in an ambush a few years back.

“One to Four,” Berezin continued, addressing him now. “Any trouble out there?”

“Negative, Acrobat One,” Ananko said into his throat mic, still peering through his rifle’s night sight. “No hostiles. No movement of any kind.”

“Very good. Prep the SUV now, Sergeant,” Berezin ordered. “When we move, we’re going to want to move fast — not fart around waiting for the engine to warm up. Clear?”

“Totally clear, Major,” Ananko said. He lowered his assault rifle and scrambled to his feet. “I am moving now. Four out.”

Still cradling the rifle, he stepped out of the shadow of the semi-trailer truck he’d been using as cover. The black Hyundai Tucson slated for their escape was a compact SUV. A couple of years ago, this model had been one of the best-selling new vehicles in Poland. Which meant it wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb when they drove off and tried to blend back into Warsaw’s ordinary civilian traffic.

Ananko turned toward the SUV. It was parked close to a fire door leading into the machine shop and parts warehouse occupied by the rest of the Spetsnaz team. The keys were already in the ignition. The sergeant smiled. Soon they’d drive away, leaving nothing but dead and wounded Poles and confusion behind. Cover story or not, the lesson would be clear. Nobody fucks with Mother Russia, he thought coldly.

And then two small objects arced out of the darkness. One landed with a clatter near the semitrailer. Another hit the asphalt only a few meters away and bounced toward him.

“Granat! Grenade!” someone shouted in Polish.

Oh, shit, Ananko thought, caught completely by surprise. He whirled away from the nearest grenade and threw himself prone.

It didn’t go off.

Instead, he heard movement up the road behind him. Frantically, the Spetsnaz soldier wriggled around. He swung his assault rifle up… too late.

Flashes erupted in the night.

Hit multiple times by 5.56mm rounds fired at close range, Ivan Ananko fell forward on his face, dead before he knew what had happened.

Brad McLanahan dropped to one knee, facing the building. He sighted down the short barrel of his Radon carbine. Anyone poking his head out through that door was going to take a bullet.

Nadia moved ahead. She went prone near the body of the Russian sentry they’d killed. Quickly, she stripped the corpse of anything that looked useful, including extra ammunition, weapons, and other gear. Then she scampered back to Brad.

Her teeth flashed white in the darkness. “No more rocks,” she said, handing him a small cylindrical object. Weighing less than a pound, it was a Polish-made RGZ-89 antipersonnel grenade.

“Sweet,” Brad agreed, smiling back.

“But this is even better,” Nadia told him, holding up the handheld tactical radio she’d found. She turned up the volume a bit — not much, just enough so they could both hear the bursts of speech crackling through it.

“Akrobat Odin ko vsem Akrobatov. Byli sdelany. Davayte s’yekhat’!” said a voice over the radio.

“They’re coming out,” Nadia hissed.

Brad hefted the grenade she’d handed him. “Then I say we give these guys a warm welcome.”

Posted at one of the windows inside the machine shop, Major Pavel Berezin squeezed off one last shot. A Polish police officer who’d been bravely, if futilely, returning their fire with his service pistol fell backward with a huge hole blown open in his chest.

Satisfied, the Spetsnaz officer laid down the bolt-action, magazine-fed Tor sniper rifle he’d been using. The .50-caliber long-range rifle was too bulky and slow for use in close-quarters combat. In its place, he picked up his backup weapon, a 9mm PM-84 submachine gun.

Then he turned and walked away from the window, squeezing between a pair of large metal-cutting machines to come out into a small open space not far from the fire door. Plastic bins full of metal shavings and finished pieces were stacked along the nearest wall. More machines of various types stretched down the length of the building, interspersed with tool racks and shelving.

Chirkash and Kuritsyn were already there, waiting for him.

“All set?” Berezin asked.

Chirkash nodded. For once, the captain’s normally sour face wore a contented smile. He was one of a very small minority among professional soldiers, a man who took real pleasure in killing.

Kuritsyn, on the other hand, looked pale and drawn. This was the young lieutenant’s first operational mission and his nerves were showing. “Did we get him?” he asked. “Did we kill Wilk?”

“I nailed him with my first shot,” Berezin said confidently. “Some clown got in the way, but they both went down hard.” He pushed the talk switch on his radio. “Acrobat Four, this is One. Stand by. We’re heading your way.”

Nothing.

“Four, this is One,” the major said again. “Do you copy?”

Berezin felt cold. Where the hell was Sergeant Ananko?

“Maybe the little prick’s got the stereo cranked all the way up inside that fucking SUV,” Chirkash growled. “And can’t hear you over that shitty rap music he likes.”

“You really think so?” Berezin snapped.

“Fuck no,” Chirkash said. “I think we’ve got company. Somebody out there got smart, swung around behind us, and then got the drop on Ananko.”

The major nodded, rapidly evaluating their tactical situation. He scowled. Put simply, it sucked. Right now they had no way to tell how many enemies were waiting beyond that fire door. Sure, there were other exits from this building, but they were all noisy, garage-style roll-up doors. Opening one of those would be like sending up a flare, saying “here we are, come and kill us.”

Don’t overthink it, Berezin told himself. The longer they let themselves be pinned down inside this building, the more likely they were to run into police roadblocks. Or worse yet, elements of that heavily armed and well-trained reaction force heading their way. Right now, though, any Poles waiting in ambush were probably only police officers — good enough perhaps against petty criminals and looters, but not really up for a fight against elite Spetsnaz troops.

“Okay,” he told the others. “We go out hard and fast. Kuritsyn, you take point and move left. Chirkash, you go second and clear the right side. I’ll take out anyone in the middle. Got it?”

Both men nodded.

“Then let’s go,” the major snapped.

The three Russian commandos swung into a tactical stack, lined up front to back to the right of the fire door.

Sweating now, Kuritsyn unclipped a grenade from his tactical vest.

Berezin shook his head. “No grenades, Lieutenant,” he said dryly. “Not unless you’re planning to walk out of here on foot.”

Abashed, the younger Spetsnaz officer put it back. In trying to nerve himself up for battle, he must have forgotten that their vehicles were parked right outside the door — close enough so that any grenade blast was likely to damage or destroy them. Instead, Kuritsyn pressed up against the panic bar that would open the fire door, with his submachine up and ready.

“One. Two. Three,” Berezin counted down. “Move!”

Everything around him began slowing down as adrenaline flooded his system, speeding up his reflexes.

Yelling, Kuritsyn slammed the door open and started to charge outside. Before he cleared the threshold, an assault rifle stuttered, firing short, earsplitting two-round bursts. Splinters flew off the doorframe. Shot in the chest and stomach, the lieutenant crumpled.

Chirkash whirled into position over Kuritsyn’s body, firing back on full auto. The submachine gun hammered back against his shoulder as spent shell casings tumbled away. In that same instant, an olive-drab cylinder sailed through the door. It smacked into Chirkash’s left arm and bounced off to the side.

Berezin saw the grenade drop into one of the plastic bins full of metal shavings. His eyes widened. He started to throw himself down.

WHUMMPP.

The blast hurled him sideways with enormous force. He lost his grip on his submachine gun and slammed hip first up against one of the big cutting machines. Pain sleeted through him, turning the world red. For a split second, he lay curled up, dazed and hanging on to consciousness by a bare thread.

Then, through ringing, almost deafened ears, Berezin heard the sound of high-pitched, shrill screams. Shaking his head to try to clear his confused mind, he forced himself to his knees and looked toward the door.

What he saw was horrifying.

Caught by the full force of the blast, Andrei Chirkash had been hit by hundreds of grenade fragments and sharp-edged metal shavings. His face was a blood-soaked mask, with streaks of white bone showing beneath the lacerated flesh. His ears had been torn off, along with most of his hair and scalp. For a second longer, the horribly wounded Spetsnaz captain screamed in agony — and then, mercifully, he fell silent and slumped back, dead.

Berezin staggered upright with his back against the machine. He looked down at himself, suddenly aware that his own clothing was shredded and streaked with blood. Bright metal flakes protruded from small puncture wounds across his arms and chest. Like his submachine gun, his Walther P99 pistol was gone — either ripped away by the explosion or dragged out of his holster when he was thrown across the floor.

“Hell,” he mumbled. Slowly, awkwardly, he fumbled for the concealed combat knife sheathed behind his back.

Fast footsteps rang on concrete.

The major looked up in time to see a tall, broad-shouldered man charging toward him.

Brad McLanahan crashed through the open doorway and saw the bloodied Russian dragging out a knife. His finger started to tighten on the trigger, but then he reconsidered. They needed a prisoner, someone who could be used to finger Gennadiy Gryzlov for all this butchery.

This bastard would do.

Without thinking further, he flicked the carbine’s selector switch to safe and dropped the weapon. Then he lunged ahead, driving inside the other man’s reach at top speed.

The Russian tried to slash at him, but he was slower than he should have been — probably still feeling the effects of the grenade blast. Brad slid to the outside, caught the other man’s wrist in a left elbow hook, and then brought his right hand over on top, exerting even more pressure. Shoving down with all his strength while spinning through an arc, he yanked his opponent off balance. The man stumbled forward, right into a knee strike into his stomach and then another quick groin kick.

The knife clattered to the floor. Brad swept it away with his foot.

Still holding the armlock, he shoved the gasping, barely conscious man down onto the concrete — pressing his face flat against the unyielding surface. He looked back over his shoulder in time to see Nadia Rozek rush in with her own rifle at the ready.

She swung through a semicircle, checking to make sure all their enemies were dead or down. Then she turned back to Brad with a frown. “Charging in like that, on your own, was… most unwise.”

“Well, yeah,” he agreed, unable to keep a shit-eating grin off his face. “But you’ve got to admit it worked.”

Almost against her will, Nadia offered him a slight, crooked smile in return. “They say fortune favors the brave. Perhaps it also favors the foolhardy once in a very long while.” She nodded toward the wounded man he’d pinned. “You had better search that one for holdout weapons. I will cover him for you.”

Nodding, Brad released the Russian’s arm and crouched down beside him. Briskly, he ran his hands over the prisoner’s shirt and pants, checking for a concealed pistol or other knives. Some of the sharp metal flakes embedded in the other man’s wounds snagged his fingers, drawing blood. “Cripes,” he muttered. “This guy’s a walking pincushion.”

“Our medics can stitch him up,” Nadia said flatly. Her wry smile vanished, wiped away by memories of the carnage and cold-blooded murder they had witnessed tonight. The expression in her eyes was icy. “Which is more than this swine deserves.” Her finger tightened on the trigger. “In fact, maybe I should just put him out of his misery right now.”

Uh-oh, Brad thought. Warily, he rose to his feet. “Much as I might agree in other circumstances, I kind of went to a lot of trouble to take this guy alive. Killing him now, before he can answer any questions… well, that seems like a waste.”

Nadia exhaled sharply, almost as though she were waking up out of a nightmare. Her finger eased up on the trigger. She nodded tightly. “Yes. That is so. For now, we should call for backup and—”

“Move aside,” an eerie, electronically synthesized voice interrupted. “Now.”

Startled, Brad and Nadia swung around.

With a shriek of torn metal, a tall, man-shaped combat robot ripped the fire door off its hinges. The door went sailing away into the darkness, landing somewhere in the parking lot with a crash. Then, bending low, the CID squeezed its way inside the machine shop. Bits of broken brick and cement block pattered down around it.

Brad moved toward the machine with his hands out, palm first. “Hey, Dad,” he said, trying not to sound nervous. “It’s okay. We’ve got this.”

“I said, move aside,” the CID snarled. It stalked forward.

Brad gulped, staring up at the enormous machine as it loomed over him. “Dad, what the hell are you—”

Abruptly, the CID swatted him aside with one casual blow, much like a man shooing away some annoying insect. Sent flying, Brad crashed into the wall and dropped to the floor. Pain, white-hot and rimmed with fire, flared through every part of his body. It was impossible to breathe. The room around him flickered weirdly and then went black.

Coldly furious with the insolent fools who’d tried to obstruct him, Patrick McLanahan strode over to where the dazed prisoner lay bleeding on the concrete. He leaned over, grabbed the Russian with both hands, and then hoisted him high into the air. “Who are you?” he growled. “What’s your name? Your rank? Your unit? Who ordered this massacre?”

Large, articulated metal fingers tightened their grip — drawing a gasp of pain from the man he held aloft.

Though white-faced with terror, the Russian shook his head. “You cannot interrogate me this way,” he stammered. He hissed in agony as the powerful hands holding him squeezed harder. “As a prisoner, I have rights. I refuse to—”

Patrick’s hands tightened convulsively, snapping the Russian’s spine and neck as though they were matchsticks. The man’s eyes bulged out. His mouth fell open. Then he shuddered once… and died.

Enraged, Patrick tossed the corpse aside and turned away in disgust. His vision display showed a young woman cradling the body of the man he’d hurled out of his path only moments before.

She looked up at him in sorrow. Tears ran down her face. “What have you done, General?” she asked in anguish.

He froze in horror, suddenly seeing clearly for the first time in months. The woman was Nadia Rozek. And the man he’d struck down without a moment’s hesitation was his own son.

An hour later, Patrick stood outside in the darkness, well away from the Polish soldiers, police, and emergency medical teams who were busy clearing away the dead and tending to the wounded. Another CID, this one piloted by Charlie Turlock, waited not far away.

He winced. Charlie had followed him all the way out from Warsaw. But she started too far behind him and arrived too late.

The lights of the ambulance carrying Brad away vanished in the distance.

“The kid’s tough. He’ll be okay,” a voice said quietly.

Patrick looked down at Whack Macomber. He swallowed hard. “I hope so. But this was my fault. I lost it. I got so focused on nailing that Russian son of a bitch that I lost my situational awareness.”

“Situational awareness? That’s bullshit and you know it, General!” Macomber exploded. He continued coldly. “You lost a hell of a lot more than your grasp of the tactical position. You damned well slid over the edge into full-on kill-crazy. And not for the first time, either.”

Patrick stiffened. “You’re way out of line, Major.”

“No, I’m not,” the other man snapped. “Remember how you butchered those Chechens who mortared us at the base? You didn’t just take them out. You ripped them apart, limb from limb. Christ, General, their blood and guts were splattered all over that damned metal can you’re riding.”

“I had to act fast,” Patrick said stubbornly. “Combat’s not pretty, Whack. You know that.”

“Yeah, I do,” Macomber agreed. His expression hardened. “But I also know the difference between combat and wholesale slaughter. You crossed the line, General. And now you not only just killed a prisoner we urgently needed to interrogate… you beat the crap out of your own kid… without even recognizing him.”

Patrick stayed silent, not sure how to respond to that.

“I’ve seen the medical readouts from your CID,” Macomber continued. “You’ve been systematically screwing around with your brain chemistry, probably thinking you’re boosting your fighting efficiency. And maybe that’s so… but it’s also driving you insane.” His voice grew softer, but more urgent. “You’ve gotta face the facts, General. Riding that big metal machine full-time is keeping your physical body alive, but what’s that worth if it kills your humanity?”

Patrick felt a sudden spike of anger. No one could know what he’d endured since he woke up inside one of Scion’s combat robots, trapped and unable to survive for more than a few hours outside the machine. Yes, he’d been rescued from death, but at a terrible price. He clenched his jaw. How dare Macomber criticize him? Without conscious thought, the fingers one of his huge metal hands curled into a fist.

The other man looked straight up at him, apparently unfazed. “What’s your plan, General? Are you gonna smack me around too? The way you just did to Brad?”

Patrick froze, suddenly aware of the murderous impulses flooding his mind. Memories of the things he’d done and been tempted to do in recent weeks rose in a dizzying, shameful cascade of gruesome images. Behaviors and ideas he had believed rational at the time stood revealed as nothing more than the expression of raw, uncontrolled rage and desire for revenge — no matter what the cost to himself or to those who relied on him. It was like awakening from a terrible nightmare, only to learn that he had not really been dreaming. He shivered, suddenly feeling cold despite the CID’s precisely calibrated environmental systems.

Worst of all was the realization that this brief moment of moral clarity was likely to be fleeting. He could no longer hide from the truth. Macomber was right. Life inside this machine, isolated from other people, was steadily robbing him of his essential humanity.

He’d put this day of reckoning off for three long years. But maybe the problem with living on borrowed time was that the hidden costs kept piling up — climbing higher and higher until they were beyond any one man’s ability to pay. “It’s time, isn’t it, Major?” Patrick said slowly, unsteadily. “Time to pull the plug.”

Macomber nodded sadly. “Yeah, General, it is,” he agreed. “You can’t ride that damned machine anymore. You’re putting too many other lives at risk.”