“I had SAD backup in Tajikistan. We tracked the convoy from Ayni and hit it near the border. We didn’t know about the weapons until after, when we searched the trucks, though we had our suspicions. The target was Arzad.”
Cramer considered this. The answer satisfied him.
“Don’t worry, Bob. Your secret’s still safe. No one back home has any clue that you’re a fucking traitor. Far as they’re concerned, you’re another star on the Memorial Wall, and you’ll be forgotten within a couple weeks.”
“Traitor?” Cramer, outraged, as if he couldn’t believe someone would have the audacity to apply that label to him, kicked Avery again, this time low in the stomach. Avery doubled over on the floor, gasping for breath. “I devoted ten years of my life to fighting their dirty little war in Afghanistan, because I believed in it, and I thought they did, too. After New York and the Pentagon were hit, I thought they’d allow us to finally do what was necessary to protect the nation, but I suppose a few years are the extent of their resolve. They’re willing to negotiate with the Taliban and hand that place back over to the terrorists, fine. I’m just expediting the process and forcing them to confront their failure.”
“Yeah, sure, and how much money are you earning in the process?”
“Don’t give me that shit,” Cramer snapped. “You’re the goddamned sell-out, Avery. How many friends did you lose in Afghanistan? I’m a traitor? Who did I betray? These are the same fuckers who were willing to cut you off and leave you to die in Waziristan. You’d have died on that mountain, if I hadn’t broken the rules and intervened to bring your ungrateful ass out. But you’ll continue taking their money and doing what they tell you. You’re so goddamned pathetic.”
“Fuck you and your excuses, Bob,” Avery said. “We’re just grunts. We get shit, and we do what we’re told. But you, you’re a goddamned Russian agent. You deal in drugs and weapons with terrorists in exchange for money. How many Americans are going to die because of you?”
“How many Americans died because of inept presidents and senators? Over two thousand in Afghanistan alone. I’m not the traitor. Washington betrayed the trust of every single man and woman they sent to these hellholes. They’re as much to blame for the lives lost and families destroyed as the Taliban are.”
“Maybe try telling that to Wilkes.” Avery flinched and braced himself for another kick, but it never came. “But you didn’t pull the trigger in Khorugh, did you? That was your friend over there.” Avery shifted his eyes onto the man with the spider tattoo. “Speaking of which, didn’t I fucking kill you already?”
Nearly pushing Cramer out of the way, Ruslan Kheda lost all control. His eyes flared. He pounced forward and kicked the steel tip of his boot into Avery’s ribs, again and again, until Cramer finally placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. The Chechen relented, breathing heavily and balling his hands into tight fists in an effort to control his temper. He backed off, to prevent himself from killing Avery right then and there.
“You’re nothing special, Bob,” Avery said between gasps for air. Each breath was cut short by the pain in the side of his chest.“Frame it however you like, but the reality is you sold out to the Russians and the Taliban for some fucking drug money, and that’s how everyone will remember you. The truth will come out at some point. It always does.”
Cramer’s tone became softer. “You know, I’d offer you a cut if I thought you’d take it. You could get away from that little shithole shack of yours in Virginia. But that’s not your style, is it? You hate them as much as I do, but you’ll continue taking their shit jobs and their shit money. What the hell does that make you? I don’t understand it. Too goddamned stubborn and sticking to your own principals, whatever those are. You just don’t let shit go, do you?”
Avery didn’t say a word. He grew tired of this. If they were going to kill him, he wanted them to get it over with already. The man standing over him now wasn’t the same man he’d known in Afghanistan. Something within Cramer had snapped or collapsed, and Avery didn’t want to listen to his rants any longer.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Cramer shook his head again. “You know, I do miss the old days, when you and I were fighting the war on the same side, but I suppose nothing ever stays the same. I wish I could say I can at least make it easy on you, but I’m going to turn you over to my friend here.” He indicated the big Chechen standing behind him. “And he sure as hell is not about to go easy on you. Ruslan, he’s all yours, but the bodies get dumped over the Caspian. I reckon that gives you about five hours, so make the most of it. I’ll see you around, Avery.”
Cramer walked away and didn’t look back.
The next thing Avery experienced was Ruslan Kheda’s boot against his chin, returning him to unconsciousness.
When Avery came to several minutes later, his head was spinning and the wide aircraft doors were open, filling the hangar with warm sunlight and a cool, late afternoon breeze. Cramer was nowhere in sight, but Ruslan Kheda was present, along with several Russians standing about. Kheda glanced in Avery’s direction, noting that he was awake and stirring, and looked away. Avery followed Kheda’s line of sight to Aleksa, still on the floor.
Kheda walked over to her, grabbed a handful of her hair, and hauled her onto her feet. He gave her a shove, directing her toward the open hangar doors. Handcuffs secured her hands behind her back, too, but Avery thought she looked to be in far better shape than he was at the moment.
The An-22 Antonov sat on the apron in front of the hangar, with the cargo bay’s aft ramp lowered beneath the protruding twin-tail. Avery recognized the registration number from Ayni. A dozen meters away, there was an Ilyushin in GlobeEx livery and the trailer truck from the Sosny storage site. There were also men in Russian army uniforms near the Ilyushin, officers.
Two Russians in civilian clothing grabbed onto Avery by each arm and effortlessly picked him up, giving no consideration to his injuries. His damaged rib released new waves of pain coursing through his side and chest. Combined with the dizziness and nausea, he could barely maintain his balance, let alone walk in a straight line.
He must have stood around too long, because one Russian punched him hard in the gut and screamed something he didn’t understand in his face. Avery got the message and started walking, grimacing against the pain. After several staggering steps, between which he nearly fell over, he regained his sense balance and managed to stay upright and carry his weight outside the hangar.
The sunlight forced him to avert his glare down at the tarmac, but the warmth felt good, comforting. The stench of burnt jet fuel and hydraulic fluid carried to his nose, and he heard the low hum of idle jet engines and the sound of grinding metal, and then a forklift rolled away from the Antonov, having just deposited its load, while the trailer truck backed into the Illyushin’s wide bay.
Fifteen yards ahead, Avery watched Kheda’s men drag Aleksa up the Antonov’s ramp. At the top, she stopped and turned around, looking out for him. Then her escort shoved her inside, and they disappeared into the back of the mammoth jet.
Avery weighed his options. Like someone being abducted and forced into the kidnapper’s car, the last thing he wanted was to board that plane. His instincts screamed at him to do something, anything, to resist going aboard. In the air and outnumbered, he’d be absolutely powerless. Not that there was much he could do now. Sure, he could put up a limited fight, which would probably result with them beating the shit out of him some more and physically dragging him aboard. That is if they didn’t kill him outright. It’s not like the Belarusian police would give a shit if the Russians dropped him right here on the tarmac. Or he could make a run for it and get caught by the police or Litvin’s security.