Vince Flynn: Order to Kill

“The president is convinced that you’ll be pleased with the results of his program.”

Utkin’s smile faded. “And yet he sends you. Why? If he’s so confident in his economic policy, why not just call me to discuss it? Why the clumsy attempt to intimidate me?”

“Again, that’s not my purpose.”

Not surprisingly, Utkin was unconvinced. “Krupin’s quietly amassing men and materiel on the Latvian border, Grisha. Can we expect another military excursion that will do nothing but drain our resources and court a confrontation with the Americans? Is that his plan?”

Azarov wondered the same thing. Many Russians felt that the breakaway states had been stolen from them during the Soviet collapse. Flexing this kind of military muscle-the only kind of muscle Russia still had-spoke deeply to their nationalism.

“People are starting to look clear-eyed at the condition of their lives, Grisha. Flag waving and military spectacles aren’t going to keep them compliant for much longer. Is this how Russia is to end? With one man’s desperation to maintain power at all costs?”

The hypocrisy of the oligarchs became tiresome quickly. Like Krupin, all Utkin cared about was his own power. In the same position, he would act no differently. It was time to put an end to this meeting and go home. Azarov liked being in Russia less and less as the years wore on. There was a darkness in his country that penetrated deeper into him each time he crossed its border.

“Can I tell the president that he can count on your support, sir?”

Utkin didn’t answer and Azarov kept his eyes locked on the man, though he was really focused on his peripheral vision. The former soldier to his left had an open jacket and his arms crossed against his chest, keeping a hand close to his shoulder holster. With no windows, or even framed photographs, there were no reflections Azarov could use to assess the situation behind him. He could only assume the remaining two men were similarly alert.

“Tell Krupin that he’ll get my support when he shows results. Until then, I will protect my own interests. Just like he does.”

Utkin picked up the only document on the desk and began pretending to read. The meeting was over.

Azarov gave a submissive nod and turned, starting for the door. His tactical position was immediately improved. There was now only one man behind him and the glass wall, while frosted, was reflective enough to display his vague outline.

Neither the man behind nor the one waiting at his one o’clock had their weapons out. The man ahead and to his left had a silenced AR-15 hanging across his chest. An intimidating and impressive weapon, but one that would be hard to bring to bear quickly. His pistol was in a holster on his hip, held in place with a Velcro strap that would slow its retrieval.

Azarov couldn’t blame them for their carelessness. This wasn’t a battlefield and they had their unarmed opponent outnumbered three to one. In such situations, it was difficult not to become overconfident.

The man on the left moved across his path in order to open the door and Azarov casually kicked the back of his foot, knocking it sideway behind his other leg. He stumbled, instinctively tightening his hands around the assault rifle instead of throwing them out to break his fall toward the wall. When his head came even with the long crack in the glass, Azarov grabbed him by the belt and shoved him violently forward. The hope was that the glass would shatter and his head would penetrate, but the material wasn’t sufficiently compromised. Instead of bleeding from a fatal neck wound, he landed facedown, dazed from the blow to the skull.

Azarov spun and dropped, landing back-to-back on top of the man, pinning his weapon beneath him. In the brief moment it took him to free the guard’s holstered pistol, Azarov analyzed the tactical situation.

The man now on his left had a pistol out and his finger was already tensing on the trigger. Based on the barrel’s position, though, the first round would go well above Azarov’s head and the recoil would create a brief delay before a more accurate shot could be fired. Mikhail Zhestakov was facedown on the floor with his hands protecting the back of his head, as expected. Utkin was clawing clumsily at a drawer which undoubtedly contained a weapon that he had never used to do anything more demanding than execute a bound prisoner.

The soldier at the back of the room, though, was another matter. He was swinging his weapon smoothly in Azarov’s direction. There was no fear or panic in his eyes, only calculation. In another tenth of a second he would fire and he would hit what he was aiming at.

With no time to bring the pistol up in front of him, Azarov fired it from an awkward position near his hip. The round went a bit lower than intended, hitting the man just below and to the right of his nose. Sloppy, but still sufficient to spray the contents of his head across the panicked Dmitry Utkin.

The man to Azarov’s left fired and, as expected, the bullet went high. This time, Azarov was able to extend his arm fully and his shot impacted directly between the guard’s eyes.

Azarov shoved the pistol into the back of the man beneath him, using it to propel himself to his feet while firing a single round. A moment later he was standing with the weapon’s sights lined up on Utkin.

The aging oligarch had his hand wrapped around an old Makarov pistol but he froze just as it cleared the drawer. Unbidden, he dropped it and backed away with his hands in the air.

“You live up to your reputation, Grisha.”

He was neither stupid nor a coward. He knew what was coming and would die defiant and on his feet. It was how Azarov preferred it. There was something about killing cowards that he found distasteful.

“I’m sorry our meeting will end like this.”

Krupin had ordered him to shoot the man in the stomach and then to deliver a lengthy diatribe about the futility of defiance, but Azarov considered it both pointless and disrespectful. He fired a single round into Utkin’s forehead, followed by a round to the stomach in case Krupin should ever bother to look at the police reports.

He then set the pistol on the desk and went to help Zhestakov to his feet. The businessman’s eyes were wide and wet, and he backed away until he bumped into the wall.

“Dmitry’s empire is temporarily yours,” Azarov said, straightening his coat and checking for any blood that might have spattered on him. “You’ll manage its breakup and distribution to the other oligarchs and then you’ll take a position of responsibility in one of their organizations. Is that acceptable?”

He nodded silently.

“The president wants you to understand that he doesn’t blame you for Utkin’s behavior and admires your business acumen.”

Azarov didn’t bother to wait for a second hesitant nod, instead turning and stepping over one of the bodies on his way to the door.

Once outside, he dialed the phone in his pocket.

“Can I assume that Dmitry was uncooperative?” Maxim Krupin’s voice.

“Yes.”

“And that you’ve taken care of it?”

“Yes.”

“You handled the situation even more quickly than I expected. I thought that piece of filth would keep you there for hours whining about corruption and the fall of Russia.”

“May I ask the status of the Mitch Rapp operation?” Azarov said, changing the subject. There was little value in discussing Dmitry Utkin further. The threat he posed was at an end. This was very much not the case with the American CIA agent.

“A rare error on your part, Grisha. Everything is moving forward smoothly. The reconnaissance and preparations are complete and it appears that taking the woman will be a simple matter.”

“I’m pleased to have been wrong,” he said without conviction. He could still feel the slight queasiness he always suffered when Rapp’s name came up. Azarov had no involvement in Krupin’s Pakistan operation or in his plans to keep Rapp from interfering. It was the way he preferred it. At least for now.