“Just shut the FUCK up!” Sergei screamed. “Or your daughter… ”
“Is either dead or already rescued,” Arensky said, evenly. “Either way, that threat has grown weary, no?”
“Then try this one,” Sergei screamed, pulling out his pistol and holding it to the scientist’s temple. “Say one more fucking word and you are going to be splattered all over that window.”
Arensky raised his hands in surrender and then pulled on his seatbelt to tighten it. As the mobster put his weapon away the scientist braced his feet and shifted in his seat, grasping at the seat handles. After a moment he checked his watch, then braced some more.
“What in the fuck are you doing?” Sergei ground out. He was definitely feeling ill about this. He was practically shaking. No matter how bad an op had gone, he never shook. He was iron. Everyone knew that.
“Just bracing myself,” Arensky said. “Airbags aren’t perfect. I’m glad you chose a Mercedes, through. Oh, and checking the time.”
“Why?” Sergei asked, wiping at his forehead. He was definitely shaking. Damn. Damn this man. Damn this op. Damn those fuckers back there. Spetznaz probably. He’d probably trained some of them for fuck’s sake!
“Because as you were bundling me about and threatening me I was slipping three small needles into your thigh,” Arensky said. “You probably didn’t notice the slight pain what with everything else. One of them was coated in a product derived of ergot. It causes a reaction called Saint Vitus’ Dance. Think of it as LSD. Psychotropic, hallucinogenic, very effective. You’re probably already feeling the effects; it’s fast stuff. If that didn’t get you, the second was coated in a nasty little microbe that is found in sink drains world-wide. Very rarely kills anyone despite that; most people don’t eat food they pick out of the sink drain. However, if it is cultured by an expert and then stuck into someone’s thigh, it will spread through the bloodstream rather fast. Oh, it’s not going to kill you for three or four days, but that one was guaranteed. The last was, I’m pretty sure, botulinus toxin. One of the tins of meat you left us was rather swelled and the resultant culture sure looked like botulinus. And botulinus is nasty. A teaspoon would kill a city. The amount I gave you would only kill, say, an elephant. By the way, that would have killed me if I’d eaten it. Such great care you took, too… ”
Mike slowed the Mercedes as he saw the vehicle he’d been chasing suddenly swerve from side to side then roll off the road.
When he slid to a stop near the wreck all he could see was airbags. Frankly, he’d always thought Mercedes overdid the whole airbag thing. Sure, one in the front. Maybe ones on the sides. But that wasn’t good enough for Mercedes, oh, no. They had them on both sides, front and back, top and in the middle. If you so much as hit a pole in a parking lot you were suddenly smothered in exploding balloons.
The Mercedes SUV was upside down in a ditch, the driver’s side window pointed towards him. He and Sawn approached, weapons pointed forward, as the balloons slowly deflated.
The man hanging upside down in the straps was alive and, amazingly, unscratched from the crash. Okay, so maybe that many airbags had a purpose. On the other hand, he was having convulsions. It was clearly Sergei, though. He might be foaming at the mouth, but it was Sergei.
Mike considered putting a few rounds into his head and then thought better of it. The guy might have information they could use. Waste not and all that.
He ducked down and looked to the other side of the vehicle.
“And who are you?” Dr. Arensky asked.
“Mike Jenkins,” Mike replied, head on the side to look through the vehicle. “I work for various people. Right now I’m getting paid to get you, and some stuff you’re carrying, away from bad people.”
“Oh, glad to meet you,” Dr. Arensky said. “I seem to be stuck.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “What’s wrong with Sergei here?”
“Oh, that,” Arensky said with a shrug. “Mr. Jenkins, can I call you Mike?”
“Sure,” Mike said, trying not to giggle at the unreality. “Wait just a sec, though.” He keyed his throat mike. “Hello, God on High. You still listening?”
“Go, Mike,” the president answered, tensely.
“Got the package,” Mike said. “Call off the flyboys. Arensky is alive as well. Getting out will be interesting, but the package is secure.”
“Glad to hear it,” the president said. “Good job. Tell me when the material is… fully safe.”
“Yes, sir,” Mike replied, unkeying the mike. “Just make sure you make the payments. Sorry, you were saying?”
“Mr. Jenkins, Mike, let me suggest something to you,” Arensky said, smiling despite being stuck in the seatbelt and dangling upside down. “I know that you do a lot of hard things in your line of work. That you piss off a lot of people.”
“That’s a given,” Mike said, tilting his head again.
“Mike, Mr. Jenkins, my friend,” Arensky said, grinning. “Let me give you one piece of advice. Take it for what you will. Piss off terrorists, piss off mobsters, piss off your president if you wish. But never ever piss off a microbiologist.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The C2 device in Adams’ thigh pocket buzzed just for a moment. Time.
The snipers were using .338 Whisper sniper rifles. The rifles were big as was the round, but it was subsonic and the silencers were integral, part of the mass of the rifle. The two guards at the front door, shielding their cigarettes against the wind and rain, never knew what hit them. They slumped straight down, red blotches staining the wall behind them where their heads used to be.
The strike team crossed the road fast and silently. Shota was in the lead but even before he reached the door two teams of two Keldara each split left and right down the side of the building. The rest stacked behind the leaders, spread to either side in two wings of heavily armed, and armored, figures.
Adams was two men behind Shota and prayed that the big Keldara was finally going to get it right.
The big man, wearing body armor normally carried only by demolition squads, massive torso armor, heavy leg coverings and a helmet with integrated blast-shield face plate, armor that would have slowed a lesser man to a waddle, trotted up to the door, stopped, pressed the shotgun against the lock and triggered one round.
The blast of the shotgun rang through the street like an alarm but it didn’t even occasion a shout. Too many guns were fired for too many reasons in Gamasoara for anyone to notice a single shot.
That was about to change.
The Keldara, despite the fifty pound padding on his leg, kicked the door hard enough that it was flung off its hinges then…
Took one, two, three, four, FIVE steps into the room. At a good solid trot. Hallelujia!
Of course, while he was doing that he was being fired on from three separate directions. Three of the former Spetznaz guards had been playing poker at the table in the front room and did not react kindly to a large man blasting their door down.
The heavy duty body armor shrugged off even the point blank rounds from AK assault rifles and before Shota could finish his trot, Oleg and Adams were through the door, leaning to either side and using his bulk, and armor, as cover.
Three short bursts, nine rounds of 5.56 high velocity bullets and Russian former Spetznaz were down and dead. They were wearing body armor, too. But there was a qualitative difference between theirs and Shotas. And 5.56, at these ranges, had the penetration to break anything less.