Brian Drake - The Glinkov Extraction

ANASTASIA DROVE Ravkin’s car. Stiletto sat in the passenger seat wearing a long overcoat. He had the sawed-off shotgun slung under one arm and the short-barreled MK18 MOD0 under the other. The .45 rode behind his back and he doubted he’d even need that.

Anastasia’s slender fingers held the wheel loosely as they moved through late night traffic. It had been a long day at the safe house, the routine broken only by a quick stroll around the block and back, in shifts, just for fresh air. Glinkov’s daughter was having the hardest time, her mother now worried that she was talking less and less for reasons she didn’t understand.

They stopped for a traffic light.

“How did you know Vlad?” she asked.

“He helped us out on a few joint missions,” Stiletto said. He dared not mention the information Vlad covertly passed to the U.S. “One of them took place here in Russia.”

“When?”

“About a year ago, maybe. I was looking for some neo-Nazis and they decided to hide here.”

Anastasia laughed. “I suppose they could have done something more stupid than that.”

“They did.”

“Oh?”

“They killed a bunch of our people and got away.”

“Now I remember,” she said. “We had many bad days after that. You got them all?”

“Every last one.”

Anastasia pressed the gas as the light changed. Stiletto noticed something he hadn’t seen at all since meeting the woman. She smiled. It was a half-smile, one of satisfaction knowing that an enemy has been removed from existence. Scott thought maybe they could actually get along now.

“DID RAVKIN tell you about me?” she asked.

Traffic creeped along.

“Couple things,” Scott said.

“Like what?”

“You lost a lover to the mob. He was undercover.”

“Yes.” Her voice softened. “The night he died we had an argument about whether or not we were going to get married. He wanted to, I didn’t. We never finished talking about it.”

She drove some more.

“What happened to the gang that did it?”

“They’re gone. Every last one.”

“You?”

“Me, and some others.”

“Ravkin?”

“All he did was find them for us.”

Stiletto said nothing.

“Here we are,” she said.

They passed the neon-fronted club, the word PULSE flashing on and off. Anastasia turned a corner and found an open curb space. There was barely enough room but she wedged the sedan into the spot and they exited the car.

She wore a long coat, too, with the sleeves too long for her arms. The cuffs were rolled back. She carried the full-auto Glock-17C and the Dakota Tactical D54R. No bulges showed under either of their coats.

Scott followed Anastasia across the street and she pushed through the cluster of young people on the sidewalk to get to the front door. No line, no doorman with a list. Stiletto frowned. He’d have expected that. He followed in her wake, his eyes scanning for threats. He spotted a few not-so-hidden cameras, but no muscle. The wide alcove of the entrance felt like daytime; bright lights, radiating body heat; music thumping; fresh air mixed with cigarette smoke and laughter.

Inside Scott had another surprise waiting.

Pulse was a karaoke club, with a trio of inebriated patrons on a small stage belting out, off key, some sort of Russia pop song.

Even with that it wasn’t the rowdy dance place he expected. Plush couches sat against the left side walls; the bar occupied the right side. The center of the club was less of a dance floor and more of a dining area, with tables and chairs, the tables polished glass. The floor had a black-and-white zigzag pattern. Track lighting provided plenty of illumination, and big speakers hung from the ceiling. There was no way not to hear the singers or music. The floor vibrated with the bass.

Stiletto let out a sigh. He hated karaoke. But while he grumbled, he noticed a set of stairs beside the stage leading to a second floor.

“Pushkin’s office is up those steps,” Anastasia said.

“This place was his idea?”

“He’s a frustrated performer.”

They were not totally out of place with their long overcoats. The attire of most customers was business casual or semi-formal. Not everybody was watching the singers.

It was all so Americanized Stiletto decided that had it not been for the language, he might be in New York City.

“Stop gawking,” Anastasia said. She started forward, waving off a hostess who was about to ask if they wanted a table. Stiletto followed her across the zigzag floor to the stairs.

They went up the steps. The landing and short hallway above them were lit brightly and a lone guard stood at the hallway entrance, out of sight from patrons below. He stepped forward as Anastasia cleared the final step.

“Can’t come up here.”

She stepped to one side as Stiletto slipped the sawed-off from under his coat and bashed the guard on the side of the head. The floor shook when he hit the carpet. Anastasia drew the suppressor-fitted Dakota Tactical and advanced down the hall to a door at the end. She kicked it open. Stiletto followed her through.

“What is this?” shouted the man behind a desk. He wore a dark suit with a full head of hair despite the wrinkles on his face and pronounced jowls. He turned a lighter shade of white when he saw the gaping end of the sawed-off. Anastasia swept the room with the muzzle of her weapon, but there were no other guards to deal with.

“Where is Glinkov?” Stiletto said.

“You’re American?”

Anastasia turned her weapon on Pushkin and fired once. The bullet chugged quietly out of the muzzle, destroying the computer monitor on Pushkin’s desktop. The monitor sparked, sharp pieces of debris flying everywhere, Pushkin throwing up an arm to shield his face. He lowered his arm and looked incredulous.

“What is the meaning of this? Tell me!”

“Vlad Glinkov,” Stiletto said.

“What about him?”

“Where is he?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because her next round goes through your head.”

“Then how will I answer your question?”

Anastasia fired again. This time Pushkin screamed and clumsily fell, knocking his elbows on the desktop. The bullet had crashed through his right knee, blood spattering on the wall behind him. Anastasia dragged Pushkin by his ankle out onto the middle of the floor.

The big Russian made whimpering noises into the carpet. Stiletto put a foot to his shoulder and shoved him onto his back.

“I meant the round after that,” he said.

“Why do you care about Glinkov?” Pushkin said through the pain filling his face. “Are you traitors too?”

Scott knelt beside the man. “Tell me where he is and you’ll have a chance to walk normally again. Otherwise—”

Pushkin spat at Scott, who wiped his face. Stiletto rose. “Well, I guess we’ll have to kill him.”

Anastasia grinned and lifted her weapon.

“Wait!”

Anastasia lowered her weapon.

Pushkin gasped, sweat beading on his forehead. A trickle ran down the side of his face as he looked up at Scott.

“There’s an oil refinery,” Pushkin began. He talked for two minutes, ending with, “That’s all I know.”

“He’s still alive?”

“I think so. If he isn’t they would not have consulted with me. Maybe I have an ambulance now?”

Anastasia said, “No,” and raised her weapon once more. Stiletto jumped back as the top of Pushkin’s head popped like a dropped watermelon but the cuffs of his pants and shoes couldn’t avoid the spatter of blood.

Anastasia’s face remained stoic.

ANASTASIA POWERD into traffic as Stiletto checked their back.

“There’s a lot to say for noise covering your exit,” he said. Only normal traffic was behind them, the neon flash of Pulse fading in the distance. And then—