Brian Drake - The Glinkov Extraction

“But will Scott?”

“He’s smart enough to get as far as he has,” Fleming said. “He’ll know what to expect if and when that time comes.”

Canadian Border

STILETTO HAD no problems at the six-lane border crossing in Vermont. His beard had grown just enough and his hair coloring didn’t raise any eyebrows. If any cameras had captured him, he hadn’t seen where they were located. He drove into Montreal at a moderate speed.

After the confrontation in New York, Stiletto stayed on the interstate for a few hours before pulling over at a rest stop to sleep. Awaking with a sore neck, he continued on, finding another motel to clean up and have a decent meal. His mind was still buzzing with the consequences of his actions against the abusive husband. He did the right thing. He was sure of it. But the fact that he had to keep telling himself that made him wonder if he was right.

As he crossed the St. Lawrence River via the Champlain Bridge around 9:30 p.m., the landscape and lit buildings of Montreal spreading out before him on all sides, he forced his mind to empty of what had happened. He had to make contact with Hammond and find a way to get to Russia. That’s all that mattered now.

He turned onto Rue St. Patrick and followed the roadway as it swept around a long curve, the Canal de Lachine off to his right and a warehouse and construction zone district on his right. Hammond ran a bar just off Rue St. Patrick, with a clientele that ran heavily to the construction crowd, and he watched for the neon sign announcing the establishment. The bar was a stone’s throw from the airport, where Hammond maintained a fleet of cargo planes under a cover name. Stiletto wanted to be on one of those planes, whichever was going toward Russia. He hoped he had enough cash to cover the ticket.

He reached the bar, with the name Hammond’s in bright neon out front, and made a circle of the crowded parking lot. Not a space to be had. He pulled back onto the street and pulled over on the right side of the road. He exited with his tote bag and jammed the Colt .45 in his belt before crossing the street. The cool air touched the back of his neck. He shivered. The water in the canal rippled quietly. This was hardly the place for a fight, but if Hammond required an impression, Stiletto had an idea of how to deliver one. Scott crossed the street at a trot but instead of entering via the front door, circled the building to the back. He smelled pungent cigarette smoke.

Two men stood near the back door in a makeshift smoking area, with a bucket for butts and some stray beer bottles lined up against the back wall. Stiletto rounded the corner and took a step toward he door. He expected the two men to let him pass but they remained in place.

“Gotta go through the front, man,” said one.

“Can’t get in without paying the cover,” said the other.

Stiletto kicked the closest one in the balls.

The man doubled over, his cigarette hitting the ground with a small amount of vomit as he upchucked some tequila. The other tried to swing but Stiletto’s sharp sucker-punch to the solar plexus took the breath and fight out of him. Scott added a sharp jab to the temple and the man dropped, unconscious.

Scott stepped over the bodies, the first still groaning in pain, and entered the back of the bar.

The narrow hallway had very little light but the brightness ahead was the main bar, where voices and music battled for supremacy. More smoke and whiskey smells. He passed a small kitchen where a short woman in a black apron juggled a trio of microwaves and a bunch of paper plates loaded with pre-cooked food. Across from that, an office marked Private. Stiletto opened the door. Small space. Cluttered desk and shelves. A musty smell. Tears in the chair behind the desk had been repaired with duct tape. Stiletto left the door open, turned on the lights, and sat behind the desk. He took out the .45 and set it amongst the clutter.

It didn’t take long. The woman in the apron passed the doorway carrying two of the paper plates; she stopped short and stuck her head in.

“What are you doing here? Get out.”

“Get your boss.”

“I’ll get the bouncer.”

Scott showed her the .45. “Get your boss.”

The young woman blanched and hurried away.

Stiletto held the .45 in his lap and waited.

A hairy hand presently pushed the office door fully open. The rest of Jason Hammond was as hairy as the hand. The hair on his head was an overgrown helmet tied in the back, his thick arms furry up one side and down the other.

Hammond stood there with a bald man, the bouncer, behind him. The bouncer’s plain blue T-shirt stretched tight across his body-builder frame.

“You’re gonna wish you hadn’t showed your face here, bub,” Hammond said. The bouncer pushed past the smuggler but stopped when he found the .45 pointed at his gut.

“Chrome Dome can leave,” Scott said. “I need to speak with you alone, Mr. Hammond.”

Hammond let out a few curse words but Scott didn’t budge.

“It will be a profitable conversation, I promise,” Stiletto said.

“American dollars?”

“Of course.”

“Beat it, Chrome Dome.”

The bouncer grumbled at his boss but exited. Hammond shut the door.

“You’re in my seat.”

“You’ve been sitting all night.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll stand here and look like an idiot. At least put the piece down.”

Stiletto complied.

“You could have some in the front door, you know,” the Canadian said.

“The bartender would still be telling me he’s never heard of you.”

“Touché.”

“I need to get into Russia. You have planes that go that way. How much?”

“I don’t even know who you are.”

“The name on my passport says Peter Drumm.”

“That can’t be your real name.”

“At least I didn’t tell you Smith .”

“Or Jones. I get a lot of guys named Jones. They tell me they’re all related.”

“How much?”

“How much do you have?”

Stiletto pulled the tote bag onto his lap and unzipped it. He flashed some of his cash. “Twenty grand.”

“I’ll take nineteen grand,” Hammond said. “Leave you some eating money.” He laughed. “My next flight in that direction doesn’t leave for another forty-eight hours.”

Stiletto bit off a curse. He was taking way too long to get to Moscow. Glinkov could be dead by now.

“Okay,” Scott said.

A knock at the door. A female voice. “Everything okay, Jason?”

Hammond opened the door and let the woman in. She had dark hair, brown eyes, and wore a blouse and skirt combo that seemed way out of place for where they were at. Her black hair framed her pretty face very nicely; she had a small nose and mouth. Her lips shined with red lipstick.

“This is Kim Cortner, my assistant manager, who dresses way too nice for this dump,” Hammond said. “Kim, meet Peter Drumm. We’re going to give him a ride to Russia.”

“Are you paying cash?” she said.

Hammond laughed. “One track mind this girl.”

Stiletto smiled. “Know a place I can stay tonight? Nearby?”

“I got a spare room upstairs,” Hammond said. “Ain’t five star but it’s a cot and there’s a toilet here.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Kim will show you where it is.”

“Follow me,” the woman said.

Scott put his gun away and Hammond moved out into the hall to let Stiletto and the woman pass. He followed her back down the hall to an alcove that had a door at the end, the door revealing access to the second floor. There was even less light in the narrow stairwell but they managed, the woman pushing open the only door on the top landing. Scott turned on the light. White walls, bare floor, cot with a wool blanket in the corner against the wall.