The Sniper and the Wolf

33

“What the hell is going on out there?” Kovalenko snarled.

Vitsin threw himself against the wall to the right of the window, stealing a quick glance outside to see Anatoly’s body sprawled over Zargan’s. “They’re both dead!”

Without warning, Tapa burst out the back door, headed for the blindside of the house with the submachine pistol thrust before him. Without morphine, his pain had begun to increase exponentially over the past few minutes, and he knew that within the hour, he would be completely useless. It was better to die in combat than to have to be killed by his comrades.

He stalked around the corner of the house to see red and blue strobe lights flashing a hundred feet away by the road, a pair of weapon-mounted flashlights coming toward him through the trees. Hearing the crackle of police radios, he turned back to warn the others and was slugged in the face with a 1911 pistol, falling to the ground unconscious.

Dragunov grabbed Tapa around the head and twisted viciously, breaking the neck and dragging the body into the brush before running off up the hill toward Gil’s position.

A second patrol car skidded to a stop near the first, and two more policemen jumped out, running toward the house with MP5 submachine guns.

Kovalenko saw the police through the front window of the house and ordered Vitsin out the back. “Police!”

They went out the back door, and Vitsin was cut down by a burst of fire from an MP5.

Kovalenko whipped around and fired the AWS rifle. The 7.62 mm round cut through both the cop who had killed Vitsin and the cop right behind him, dropping them both dead in their tracks. He slung the sniper rifle and grabbed up one of the MP5s, taking off cross-country on foot to the west.

The other two cops were storming the front of the house as he disappeared into the night.

Atop the hill, Gil and Kovalenko pulled back out of sight, preparing to withdraw cross-country to the south.

“The police are in the house,” Midori said. “One of the Chechens is escaping east on foot. Looks like he’s gonna get away.”

“What do you think?” Gil asked Dragunov. “Wanna run his ass down?”

Dragunov adjusted the Beretta tucked in the flat of his belly. “I think we keep moving. There’s no way to know if it’s Kovalenko, and this entire area will be crawling with police very soon.”

That was good enough for Gil. They took off overland to the south.

“I have some good news for you,” Midori announced.

“Gimme,” Gil said, chugging along.

“One of our in-country operatives has just stashed a car for you two miles southeast of your position. It’s parked behind a pizza restaurant. I’ll vector you to it.”

“Where was this guy earlier? We could have used him.”

“It’s taken time to marshal our resources,” Midori replied. “And technically, he’s not really an operative. He’s a pilot from our naval air station there on the island. He was ordered to stash the car for you guys and catch a cab back to the base. We’re playing this off the cuff, Master Chief.”

“Thank God for the navy,” Gil muttered. He hurled the G28 into the brush, knowing it would only slow him down; his right foot was already beginning to give him trouble again. “Gimme my gun back, Ivan.”

Dragunov handed him the 1911, and they made toward a road at the bottom of the hill.

Kovalenko ran without stopping for the next thirty-five minutes, the bullet wound to the back of his thigh throbbing like hell. He finally stopped at a small house in a quiet neighborhood and sneaked in through an open window. He found the owners sleeping in their bed and murdered them with the last two bullets in his suppressed pistol. Then he pulled all the drapes and got on his satellite phone to Rome CIA Chief of Station Ben Walton.

“What kind of fucking game are you playing?” he demanded.

“No game at all,” Walton replied calmly. “The operation is scrubbed, and I’ve gone off the grid. As a matter of fact, I was about to drop this phone in the sewer when you called.”

“The operation is not scrubbed!” Kovalenko shouted. “I’m running for my life over here on this fucking island! My entire team is dead — just like you’re going to be if you don’t find a way to get me out of here! I know where you’re running to, and I have friends there as well!”

“Calm down,” Walton said.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Kovalenko screamed. “I will find you and carve out your liver, you fucking American pig! Are you listening? Are you listening to me?”

“I’m listening,” Walton said. “Tell me what happened.”

Forcing himself to talk in a normal voice with no little effort, Kovalenko gave him the thumbnail version of the past twelve hours.

“Okay, well, you’re in luck,” Walton said. “Shannon and Dragunov are going to be extracted off the point of San Vito Lo Capo via a SEAL delivery vehicle. If you can get there ahead of them, you might manage to pick them off on the beach.”

“How do you know that?” Kovalenko challenged. “How do I know that isn’t more CIA shit?”

“I know because there are loose lips in the White House,” Walton said. “Hell, there are loose lips all over DC these days. But hey, you know what? You can either take my word for it or go fuck yourself, Sasha. We’re both up to our asses in this mess. I’m sorry I can’t get you off the island, but I just gave you Gil Shannon — if you want him.”

“I want him,” Kovalenko grumbled. “You bet I want him!”

“Well, then, you’d better get a move on, because I doubt very seriously he’ll be hoofing it all the way to San Vito. The US Navy has a lot of resources on that island, and they can’t afford to have their most recent Medal of Honor winner captured and prosecuted by the goddamn Sicilians.”

With much of his anger suddenly abated, Kovalenko began to feel like Walton was one of the few friends he had left in the world. “So you’re a man without a country now, eh?”

“I’m afraid so,” Walton said. “I gambled and lost. Stupid, but that’s how it goes sometimes. I’ll make out all right. So will you. You’ll think your way off that island, and once you get yourself back to the mainland, you’re back in business. Umarov needs men like you — especially if he still plans on hitting the BTC.”

“He’ll never give up on the pipeline,” Kovalenko said.

“You might want to forget Shannon,” Walton advised. “Lay low. Sicily’s a big island. Your friends in the GRU can find you a place to hide until the heat is off.”

“You’re right,” Kovalenko said, realizing there was an off chance someone might be listening. “Forget Shannon. The podlets isn’t worth the risk.”