The Ghost Pattern

…67

Vitaliy Myatlev hadn’t moved from his chair the entire night, or day by Moscow’s time zone. His bloodshot eyes, transfixed, glued to the monitors, watched in disbelief how his entire operation was falling apart.

For hours, he watched powerlessly how these strangers, a handful of people, thoroughly destroyed everything he had carefully built. The most secret of his operations, buried deep in the Russian far east, exposed, blown away in just a few hours. How the hell did that happen?

He barked orders every now and then, sending reinforcements, and Ivan rushed to execute them with increasing reluctance. Ivan wasn’t an idiot; he knew very well that all people exposed to his boss’s top-secret operation would have to be eliminated. His Spetsnaz background still fueled loyalties to Russian armed forces, loyalties that sometimes stood in the way.

And yet, no matter how many reinforcements they had sent, how many armored vehicles and how many aircraft, these strangers took them out one by one. Drones, appeared out of nowhere, fired countless missiles, annihilating them.

He had lost… again. This time, there’d be hell to pay.

On the screens, in the early light of dawn, he watched a fleet of American helicopters land. His face a sickly shade of pale, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt, and his fists white-knuckled in anger, he could do nothing but watch powerlessly as every single person was airlifted away.

Then something caught his attention. Someone was lighting flares in a pattern, laying them on the ground. He watched petrified, through dilated pupils, as the flares lined up one after another to form the letter V.

His blood instantly turned to ice, and adrenaline kicked him in the gut, setting off familiar alarm bells. He zoomed in the satellite feed just in time to see clearly the woman who just finished lighting the flares. He saw her turn her face toward him, staring him directly in the eye through the monitor, as if she were in the room with him. He felt her eyes drill into the depths of his heart, making him shudder. Then she waved at him, smiling, as if she knew he was there, observing.

Shocked, he pushed his chair away from the desk and sprang to his feet, pacing nervously.

“Motherfucker,” Myatlev swore loudly, his voice raspy and strangulated with fear and anxiety. How could they know he’d be there, watching? How could she know? Who betrayed him?

Then he approached the desk where the satellite monitors were installed, and slammed both his fists against the shiny, cherry-wood surface, making the video equipment rattle.

“So, it’s personal, huh? Alex Hoffmann, you fucking bitch… You want to play? You’re on!”