Brian Drake - The Glinkov Extraction

Return fire came his way, blasting the cabinet, sparks flying, black smoke coming from the back. Now the cooling fans audibly stopped. The alarm continued. Ravkin ran.

ANASTASIA SQUATTED behind a cooling cylinder about five inches off the ground and twelve feet in length. The outside of the cylinder was very hot. A thin pipe went in one end and out the other.

She braced the Dakota Tactical over the top, aiming for the troops chasing after Ravkin. Her first burst brought down a rear straggler; her second clipped the shoulder of a man up front. Others turned her way and opened fire, Anastasia ducking. She fired from underneath the cylinder, but none of her shots connected as the gunners sought cover among the myriad of pipes.

She moved right, staying low, her submachine gun held high, trailing in Ravkin’s wake.

She saw him fire at the gunners as he moved; she sprayed rounds their way too, return fire erratic and none of the rounds coming particularly closer to her.

The alarm continued, pounding her eardrums. The red cherry lights continued flashing. She wasn’t sure what Ravkin had done or how long till the problem reached critical mass, but she wanted to be out of there before it happened.

Ravkin dropped behind cover, spraying rounds, while Anastasia broke off from his trail and advanced toward the shooters, ducking and dodging pipes. As she went by one, a valve snapped, the break sounding like a gunshot, and a jet of steam blasted at the back of her head. She lunged forward, hitting the ground hard. Gunners looked her way and fired, the ricochets pounding around her, one smacking into the ground inches from her face. She raised her SMG and fired back, knocking down one gunner, his buddies advancing toward Ravkin.

She looked. The little Glock auto pistol kept firing. Anastasia took a shot. Another gunner dropped. She counted three still on their feet.

The three shooters poured fire at Ravkin. She moved closer. Her SMG spat flame. One shooter down. Two left. One turned her way. She dropped as more ricochets pelted the pipes, letting out a scream when one of the stray rounds smashed the action of her Dakota Tactical. The broken SMG fell from her stung fingers, and she hit the ground. If they thought she was out for good, they didn’t bother to come check. Their fire intensified.

She had no handgun. Staying flat, she scrambled along the ground, breaking into a run for one of the dead gunners about ten yards away. She scooped up his Kalashnikov and a spare magazine and charged back to her last position.

She slammed to a stop against a vertical pipe, shouldering the AK, aiming at the backs of the gunmen. As she squeezed the trigger, one of them got Ravkin. Ravkin rose just a little too high, the salvo from his Glock cut off as AK rounds stitched through him. He let out a clipped yell, the slugs opening small red holes across his chest and exploding out the back. Ravkin’s body dropped. Anastasia screamed. He first blast split open the back of one shooter, but the other took off running. She fired. The burst clipped at his heels but didn’t bring him down.

Anastasia pounded after him, leaping over the other gunners’ bodies and making a sharp left turn down a narrow walkway. More pipes and tanks surrounded her. She shifted slightly and powered up a flight of steps, sprinting along a long catwalk, the last gunner right ahead and checking over his shoulder. He stopped, a confused look on his face. Then Anastasia yelled out a curse. The man looked up. Anastasia’s burst took off the top of his head.

She collapsed to her knees, breathless, the alarm still blaring. But more gunfire crackled far behind her.

She reloaded and ran back down the steps.

They couldn’t get Scott too.

STILETTO BROKE left, staying close to the empty buildings, using the shadows for cover. He gripped the MK18 in both hands.

His boots scuffed on the concrete as he moved, and then he tripped on a raised section of the concrete. He fell headlong, landing hard with a grunt, MK18 flying out of his hands. It slid across the ground.

One of the guards at the portable shined a flashlight that might as well have been a spotlight. The beam landed right on him. Somebody shouted. Two shots popped but Scott was already moving, rolling left, deeper into the shadows. The long coat became tangled around him but he managed to get to his feet and toss the coat away. The light beam danced as the guard converged, alone, his mate remaining by the portable.

Stiletto grabbed for the .45 under his arm but his hand closed on an empty holster. He scanned the ground frantically as the guard closed the distance. He saw no sign of his Colt. It must have slipped out while he was rolling.

Stiletto retreated deeper into the dark, back against the building wall. The sawed-off under his right arm remained in place, and he grabbed it with his left hand. Breaking the action, he took out the one shell he’d fired at the shack and replaced it. He closed the action as the guard shined the light again and brought up his AK. Stiletto raised the shotgun at the same time. He fired first, both barrels, the blast almost louder than the alarm, and the guard’s chest split open. Stiletto moved low, spotting the .45 and grabbing it. He scooped up the guard’s flashlight and started for the portable. When he was close enough and the remaining guard called out a name, Scott blinded him with the flash and fired a .45 slug through his head. Blood and bits of bone created a kaleidoscope-like pattern on the wall. His body thudded on the ground.

Stiletto yelled out in Russian. The door swung open and another man came out holding a pistol. Two shots from the .45 sent him tumbling down the steps. The man’s body stopped at Scott’s feet.

Stiletto ran up the steps and into the building, swinging the .45 left and right, stopping at the body chained to the wall. The man’s eyes connected with Stiletto’s.

Vladimir Glinkov smiled, though he was missing a few teeth, his upper body full of welts and cuts.

But he was alive.

Stiletto holstered the Combat Commander and took out a pocket knife. He started sawing at Glinkov’s ropes.

“My family?”

“Safe. Ravkin and Anastasia are with me.”

“I failed,” Glinkov said. “I couldn’t hold out.”

The ropes snapped. Stiletto helped the injured man to his feet. He leaned heavily against Stiletto.

“Later,” Stiletto said. “We gotta get out of here.”

Glinkov tried to walk and limped at first, but gritted his teeth and remained upright, almost falling down the steps and taking Stiletto with him. Another figure ran toward them from the shadows. Stiletto started to lift the .45 but let off the trigger once he recognized Anastasia.

“Vlad!”

She ran to assist and they started for the gate.

“Ravkin’s dead,” she said.

“Let’s just get out of here, Ana,” Stiletto said, but Glinkov suddenly felt heavier.

“I can walk,” the injured man said, Stiletto letting him go. He kept up as they moved faster toward the gate.

Sirens wailed. Half a dozen police cars with flashing cherry lights pulled up at the gate, several continuing onto the property while two stayed at the shack.

Anastasia said, “The river’s behind us!”

“Vlad, can you run?”

“I have too.”

Anastasia steered them left and Stiletto stayed behind Vlad, who jogged steadily but Scott saw him wincing and breathing hard.

But they weren’t faster than the police cars. Two stopped on a wedge behind them while another pair screeched to a halt in front of them. All three stopped short. Cops jumped out with handguns leveled and started shouting.

Stiletto started to say something when Anastasia raised her Kalashnikov and opened fire.