Brad Thor - The Athena Project

It was an image the Russian had worked hard to cultivate. Abressian had no doubt that everything the man wore, everything the man said, and everything the man did was very well calculated and considered.

“Thank you for coming, Viktor,” Armen said as he extended his hand. “I apologize for the circumstances.”

Mikhailov’s digits looked like a cluster of sausages, but he had an incredibly strong grip. He shook his head as he clasped hands with Abressian. “What has happened is very bad, Armen. Very bad. I have given you protection and this is how you repay me?”

“As I said over the phone, we need to talk face-to-face. Why don’t you come inside?”

Abressian led the way to his office, where a bottle of vodka sat in an ice bucket on his desk. Mikhailov told his men to wait outside.

“What were you drinking in the snifter outside?” asked the Russian. “B &B?”

Armen nodded.

“Good,” replied the former KGB agent. “That’s what I’ll have, then.”

Abressian poured the man’s drink and handed it to him as he refreshed his own snifter.

“What are we going to do about this situation, Armen?” asked Mikhailov as he took a seat. “Who the hell do you have working for you, Dr. Mengele?”

The Nazi reference took Abressian by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? You’re up here in this compound doing God knows what while one of your scientists is snatching up my girls and killing them. That’s what I mean.”

“And I want to compensate you for your loss. It’s the right thing to do.”

The Russian shook his head. “After one girl, maybe we could have worked something out. Your professor would have had to have his leg broken along with a couple of ribs, but we could have come to an arrangement. Now, though, four of my girls are gone.”

“We can pay you for the four girls.”

Mikhailov drained the contents of his glass in one swallow and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He set the glass down and looked at Abressian. “This has nothing to do with paying me for the girls, which you will do, by the way. My other girls are afraid. They don’t believe I can protect them, and my competitors see me as weak. Everyone knows those girls are gone and everyone knows who did it. I can’t let that go unanswered, Armen. I like you, but this is business.”

Abressian nodded and took a sip from his snifter. “Then we have a problem.”

Mikhailov hadn’t been expecting that kind of response. “Excuse me?” he said.

“Professor Cahill is integral to my business. I can’t allow anything to happen to him.”

“Maybe you misunderstood me,” replied the Russian. “I’m not giving you a choice. I want Cahill. Now. ”

Abressian set down his glass. “That’s too bad. I was hoping that I could help you see the light; that we could come to some sort of an arrangement.”

The ex-KGB man stared at him in disbelief. “Maybe my English is not so good.”

“Your English is fine, Viktor, as is mine. I’m not giving you Cahill. He is too valuable to me.”

“Then we have nothing left to discuss.”

Abressian stood. “I’m sorry we couldn’t come to terms.” He offered his hand, but the Russian refused it.

“I will burn you to the ground,” said Mikhailov as he turned and walked out.

Not if I burn you first , Abressian said to himself.

The Audi spewed gravel across the motor court as the driver spun its tires and sped off out of the gate.

“I take it he didn’t see the light?” asked Sanders as he joined his boss once again on the stairs outside.

“Not yet,” replied Abressian as he lifted his cell phone and pressed the button for his head of security. When the man answered, Armen said, “He’s all yours, Marko.” He then ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket.

Sanders looked at him. “What are you doing, Armen?”

Abressian pointed toward the horizon and said, “Watch.”

For several minutes they stood as Armen drew on his cigar and released peaty trails of blue smoke into the air. Just as Sanders was about to ask what they were waiting for and how much longer it was going to be, there was the sound of automatic weapons fire, lots of it, followed by the distinct sound of a rocket-propelled grenade as it sizzled through the air.

Then came the explosion as the RPG slammed into the Russian’s Audi and a billowing fireball lit up the night sky.

Sanders turned to look at his boss, “What just happened?”

“I think Mr. Mikhailov has finally seen the light,” replied Abressian as he raised his snifter and toasted in the direction of the explosion. “No hard feelings, Viktor,” he said. “It’s only business.”

Though Armen was smiling, Sanders couldn’t help but dread the hell they had certainly just unleashed upon themselves.

BELGRADE

Early on, Gretchen Casey had a bad habit of telling Hutton how incredible he was. It probably opened the door for everything else that had followed between them. What she meant to say was that the team of people the Unit had access to was incredible. She learned to be much more careful with her words.

Nevertheless, as she stared at the aircraft sitting on the tarmac of the small airport outside Belgrade, she was tempted to once again credit its appearance, as well as all the gear inside, to how incredible Lieutenant Colonel Robert Hutton was. She was going to have to work on that impulse. It was unhealthy.

Waiting for her and Julie Ericsson were two Icarus Extreme FX 69 parachute rigs. They were compact, highly steerable, and provided for fast flight. The max weight of a jumper loaded down with gear-guns, radio, NVGs, harness, reserve chute, and so on-that the FX 69 could handle was 152 pounds. This meant that few, if any, of the male Delta operators could use them. Many Athena Team members did, and those who did loved them.

Like their fellow team members, they had learned their parachuting skills in the Special Forces HALO program and then picked up their advanced skills in specialized Delta training. On top of that, Gretchen and Julie were recreational jumpers. One of their favorite events was the annual para-ski competition at Snowbird, Utah, where they had to parachute out of an aircraft, hit a target, and then ski the rest of the way down the mountain.

The only real competition Casey and Ericsson ever encountered was each other. Via the military, they trained throughout the year. A good Delta team could land together in a ten-foot circle.

Tonight, though, it wouldn’t be a whole team landing. It would just be Gretchen and Julie. But they’d be landing in a very tight area. In fact, the plan was for them to land on Branko Kojic’s roof.

Alex and Megan pulled the gear meant for their part of the operation off the plane and tucked it into the trunk of the car they had rented. While they didn’t mind jumping, they weren’t as gung-ho about it as their teammates and were happy to leave that part of the assignment to Casey and Ericsson.

Once the women had gone over the plan one last time, they said their good-byes. Cooper and Rhodes drove off, and Casey and Ericsson got down to the business of checking and rechecking every piece of equipment that had been sent for them to use.

They didn’t need to ask where the plane and all the gear had come from. The Strategic Support Branch, also known as SSB, had been established so that clandestine DoD operatives wouldn’t need to depend on the CIA for support.

It was after 11:00 P.M. by the time Megan Rhodes radioed that she and Alex Cooper were in place outside Kojic’s building. Their responsibility was to provide visual security and coordinate the exfiltration at the end of the assignment. If things went badly, then they were to get their guns into the fight right away.