“Yuri,” Misha said, “I’m headed out to check on our vehicle. I can’t remember if we left anything in the passenger compartment that might be a problem. QR is guaranteed to check it out. Sasha. Where are you?”
“I just passed Seva in Building Three at a dead sprint,” Sasha replied.
“Shit,” Misha muttered, “all of the windows are down.”
Farrington copied Misha’s last transmission, but didn’t respond. Misha could handle whatever showed up at his doorstep. Right now, he was focused on scrubbing Belyakov’s right index finger clean of the blood that had poured down his arms while slung over Sasha’s back. He held the finger under Grisha’s flashlight, barely satisfied with the job done by a combination of spit and his jacket sleeve.
“Move him over to the scanner,” he barked.
Grisha lifted the blood-slicked corpse by the armpits and dragged it to the biometric reader. Farrington followed, keeping the hand raised above the body to prevent blood from pouring over it. Farrington leaned over the body, still holding the hand high, and swiped Belyakov’s card, activating the access panel. The screen greeted the deceased scientist and asked that he press his right index finger in the scanner below. Farrington obliged the machine and waited. His hope for a successful mission faltered when the screen flashed, “Access Denied.”
“Shit. Access Denied. Misha, do you have any ideas?”
“I’m a little preoccupied at the moment. We have guests,” Misha replied.
Grisha kicked the wall next to the machine. “I’d microwave his fucking hand if I thought it would help.”
“His peripheral temperature probably dropped like a rock as soon as he was hit. His body did everything it could to preserve the critical organs, which included redirecting blood from the extremities. Fuck!” Farrington said.
“Stick the finger in one of the bullet wounds,” Grisha said.
Farrington could hear Seva’s footsteps in the hallway outside of the room.
“That might work, but we’ll have to clean it again,” Farrington said.
“You could stick it in your mouth,” Grisha replied.
“To clean it?”
“No. To warm it up.”
Farrington stared at Grisha for a moment, unable to come up with any reason why he shouldn’t stick Belyakov’s index finger in his mouth. He really wanted to come up with one. Without hesitating another moment, he grimaced and inserted the finger in his mouth, fighting back an incredible urge to vomit.
“I hope this works. I don’t want this to be one of my last images of you,” Grisha said.
Farrington managed to mumble a few obscenities, just before Seva entered the door a few seconds later, out of breath.
“Good thing he didn’t suggest sticking it somewhere else,” Seva said.
“That might work too,” Grisha added.
Farrington removed the finger, spitting in disgust, and placed it against the scanner glass. Nothing happened for a few moments, and Farrington started to shake his head. Suddenly, the screen turned green and flashed, “Access Granted. Welcome back, Dr. Belyakov.” He turned to the two operatives.
“Fuck both of you,” Farrington said.
“Seva, remove Belyakov’s right hand with the hatchet in your pack and deliver it to Misha. We shouldn’t be more than a minute or two behind you.”
Misha heard Yuri over the net, but was far from celebrating their success with anything beyond a subtle smirk. The Quick Reaction force had pulled into the parking lot earlier than expected, and caught him getting out of the driver’s seat of the SUV. They pulled up ten meters away, perpendicular to the SUV, and switched to high beams. He could barely see them as they climbed out of the car. His only confirmation that all four had exited came from the sound of four separate doors slamming shut. He glanced up at the main entrance to Vektor, but saw nothing that gave him any hope that he would survive this encounter. He carried a suppressed pistol behind his back, tucked into his pants, but had no chance of successfully taking down four trained men that he couldn’t see. If they asked him to turn around, he was screwed.
“What the fuck are you doing out here? We have a situation. Didn’t they call you?” one of the guards demanded.
He had already planned his response. “They did, but I wanted to get something out of my car before this place turned into a madhouse.”
“Are you out of your mind? Wait a minute. How did you get a car onto the campus? None of us are allowed to drive inside,” the guard said, stepping forward far enough for Misha to see him.
The sight of full body armor, ballistic helmet included, was not an encouraging sight. Neither was the shortened AKS-74U, fitted with a reflex sight, slung across his chest in a ready position. Misha’s pistol might buy him enough time to get behind the SUV, but that would be the full extent of its usefulness. He hoped someone was listening to his one-way conversation and had figured out a plan to neutralize the situation quietly. He decided to continue with his ruse, stalling for a miracle.
“All right. It’s not my car. My girlfriend works in building one as a lab assistant. That’s how I got this job. She wanted to come by. This is her car,” Misha said.
“And she’s inside? What did you forget, condoms?”
“Nothing ever happens on this shift,” Misha said.
“Well, you picked the wrong night for this shit. I’m going to make sure both of you lose your jobs. Get back inside the building.”
The lead guard turned and yelled to one of his men, “Call this in, and check out the SUV.”
Misha stepped sideways out of the glaring light, careful not to expose his pistol. Now he could see the entire group. One of the guards on the far side of the white four-wheel drive security jeep walked toward the SUV, while the others started walking to the Virology compound entrance. The lead guard stopped and stared at him incredulously.
“Are you going to stand there all night? Let’s go. Open the door.”
He had stalled the inevitable as long as possible. Where the hell was Sasha? As if on cue, a voice spoke up in his earpiece. “Take the guard talking to you first, then the one by the SUV…on three, two…”
“I’m talking to you!” the guard yelled.
“One,” Misha said, reaching behind his back with blinding speed.
The guard failed to react as Misha fired three hollow-point 9mm projectiles at his indignant face. Two of the rounds struck less than a centimeter above the lip of his ballistic helmet, deflecting into the night sky. The third struck the bridge of his nose, dropping him like a rag doll onto the dark pavement. He swung the semiautomatic pistol in the direction of the guard walking toward the SUV and concentrated his fire on a point high on the distant man’s torso. As the rounds started to strike his intended target, he was vaguely aware that the other two guards had fallen like the first.
The jacketed hollow-point ammunition in his Russian-made GSh-18 pistol had no chance of penetrating the guard’s body armor, so he went with a different strategy. Saturation and shock. The GSh-18’s magazines held eighteen rounds, which he used to pummel the man while advancing close enough to deliver a coup de grâce. The guard stumbled backward, trying desperately to remain standing, but unable to withstand the pain and kinetic energy imparted by a maelstrom of copper-lined, lead-core projectiles striking his chest and arms at 1,750 feet per second. Misha reserved the two remaining rounds and calmly approached the downed guard.
“Please. Don’t kill me. This is just a job. I have a family. Three kids. Don’t do this,” the guard sputtered, unable to raise his shattered arms.
Misha considered his words for a brief moment and fired the last two rounds at point blank range into the pavement next to his head. He had no doubt whatsoever that this man would have gutted him if the tables were turned, but there was no reason to execute him. He was unaware of the bioweapons program hidden in the basement of Building Six, and judging by his wounds, he posed no threat to the team. The man stared up at him, unable to respond. Misha kneeled next to the man and rolled him onto his side. He ripped his P25 radio out of its holder on the backside of his ballistic vest and yanked out the coil cord connected to the man’s shoulder microphone. He rolled the guard onto his stomach and turned to face the main entrance. Gosha stood in the open doorway, covering the parking lot with Misha’s suppressed PP2000. Sasha was running across the pavement, headed in his direction.