Brian Drake - The Glinkov Extraction

ANASTASIA’S HEART sank as the cars surrounded them. She skidded to a stop and there was only one thought in her mind. She would not surrender. She’d get out of Russia or die trying.

She lifted the AK as the cops in front started shouting. Flame blazed from the muzzle as she raked the cop cars, one of the cops falling with blood bursting from the holes across his chest.

“Run!” she yelled, turning around to the cops behind her, firing some more. Another cop fell. Another fired back.

STILETTO GRABBED Glinkov’s left arm and pulled him along, the pair running around the cars blocking them and deeper into the property. Scott focused on the darkness ahead, knowing the perimeter fence lay a hair beyond.

He looked back just once and saw Anastasia fall, her AK chattering skyward as she collapsed. He let out a curse.

“Don’t look back, Vlad!”

They ran on, reaching the shadows, and then the whipping rotor blades of a chopper drowned out the alarm. The helicopter passed low over the refinery, the forward-mounted spotlight shining on the ground. It landed on them and stayed there as they kept running. Scott raised the .45 and fired until the magazine locked back, but the chopper remained, tracking them closely. Glinkov fell, Stiletto trying to catch him and falling with him. He looked back. The cops who’d stopped at the gate were powering through, heading straight for them.

Stiletto fished a spare magazine from the pouch on his belt and slapped it home, about to raise it toward the chopper once again when the refinery finally reached critical mass.

The ground shook as the first explosion began, and when the fireball burst from the center, it engulfed everything in its path, pipes, tanks, all of it, secondary explosions mixing with the first. Stiletto and Glinkov raised an arm to shield their faces and then the chopper wavered, tipping from side to side, the pilot forced to pull up and fly away before the shockwave knocked him out of the sky.

“Up, up, up!” Stiletto shouted, grabbing Glinkov, and they continued toward the fence. The heat from the blast touched Scott’s back but the fence was finally in sight. Glinkov crashed against the chain-link, clamping both hands and trying to climb, but he let out a breath and collapsed.

Stiletto looked up the length of the fence to the barbed wire on top.

“Vlad, this is going to hurt.”

“Already does.”

“Step on my back.”

Stiletto dropped to hands and knees. The fire raged beyond, catching on the buildings. The glare of the blaze lit the night.

Glinkov placed one shaking foot on Stiletto’s back, and grasped the fence. He started pulling himself up, letting out a cry of pain, but he didn’t stop. He moved his hands and feet and reached the barbed wire, rolling over, tearing his clothes on the barbs, to climb down the other side.

Stiletto jumped up, scaled the fence quickly, and dropped beside his friend. “Let’s go!”

Vlad Glinkov rose slowly but stayed at Stiletto’s heel. The cold river lay only twenty yards ahead. They moved quickly across the dirt ground, reaching the shore, splashing into the water. It looked like a million miles to the other side and, worse, the ice-cold water sliced through them, numbing in its intensity. Glinkov almost dropped beneath the surface when they reached the deep part in the middle, and Stiletto moved up beside him, throwing an arm around his back and pulling him close. Stiletto continued treading, shivering, breathing hard, the other side of the river still seemingly miles away. Vlad kept going, kicking with his legs and swinging his left arm in an arc, propelling them forward. Presently they reached the edge and crawled out of the water, Glinkov rolling onto his back, still gasping, Stiletto staying on hands and knees, coughing till his lungs hurt. He dropped onto his back and looked across the water at the blazing refinery on the other side.

They were away, but he’d left two allies behind. One of them had the bargaining chip he sorely needed to get them back to the U.S. in one piece.

“There was nothing we could do, Scott,” Glinkov said, his voice raspy.

“But we can’t stay here,” Stiletto said, forcing himself to his feet. His felt for his gun, took it out of his belt and shook out some water.

Glinkov raised a hand. Scott helped him to his feet. Vlad’s skin was cold to the touch and the man was already shivering. Stiletto couldn’t hide the shakes, either. They needed to get warm fast and no mistake.

“We’ll have to find a car to hijack,” he said. “We’re racking up all kinds of charges.”

“Where are we going?”

“Safe house first,” Stiletto said, “and then we’ll the embassy.”

“What will they do?”

“Place us under house arrest,” Stiletto said. “Then they’ll turn us over to the police unless we get a miracle.”

He was thinking of the Cabal, but would they consider him damaged goods now and rescind their offer? He hadn’t pulled the trigger on the cops, but his association made him just as guilty. His mission had gone totally out of control. If he ever had any control to begin with.

Glinkov blinked.

“Come on,” Scott said.

STILETTO AND Glinkov walked along a dirt road. The lights of homes lay ahead, but prior to that sat the Otkrytiye Arena, the circular building dark and imposing but with a cluster of cars in a parking lot.

Stiletto and Glinkov crossed a quiet dirt access road and continued on pavement toward the arena itself. Stiletto was still cold; Glinkov shivered, his arms wrapped around his torso.

They stopped beside a storage building. Glinkov slumped against the wall and lowered himself to the pavement, breathing hard, shaking.

Stiletto stood at the corner watching the cars. Only a handful for a small staff on duty. He looked at Glinkov. Glinkov’s eyes were closed. Stiletto hoped the strain wasn’t making his injuries worse. He had to act fast, but not recklessly. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and looked back at the cars. Come on. Somebody exit the building. The glow of the refinery fire continued to light the night.

Finally, a side door opened and a lone man carrying a lunch box exited. A potential weapon, Scott thought, as he told Glinkov to stay put and started for the lot with the .45 in his right fist.

He reached the man as he transferred the lunch box to his left hand, keys jingling in his right as he inserted them into the door lock.

Stiletto did not want the man to yell, swing the lunch box, or cause trouble, but if the man was as hard-headed as the gate guard, there’d be trouble no matter what.

Stiletto swung the pistol and connected solidly with the man’s head.

The man’s legs collapsed under him and Scott lunged to catch the man, lowering him to the ground. He was out cold and breathing steadily and he’d have one heck of a lump on his head. Stiletto gave the keys a twist to finish unlocking the door, jumped behind the wheel. It was an older car with a stick shift. He jammed the stick into first and raced back to Glinkov.

The Russian’s eyes widened as Stiletto climbed out and helped him to his feet. To Scott he seemed to have more energy, thanks to the vehicle and the hope it provided, and Stiletto loaded him onto the passenger seat and slid back behind the wheel.

He drove off. They had half a tank of gas. Stiletto turned on the heat full blast. Hot air filled the interior.

“I can’t believe we made it,” Glinkov said.

Stiletto made no reply as he executed a few turns, the streets mostly empty, an odd glow from the refinery fire filling the night sky.

They were going back to the safe house, minus two, and no promises about what would happen next.

SCOTT LEFT the stolen car several blocks from the safe house. He and Glinkov walked the rest of the way on foot, both having warmed up to the point where at least they weren’t shivering any longer.