? ? ?
The overcast skies from that day had cleared and the moon was bright enough for him to navigate the stairs to the second level kitchen. He considered opening the refrigerator but it was a waste of electricity and he didn’t want the interior light to go on. While he was probably paranoid, there was no reason to be careless.
Instead, he got a glass of water from the sink and walked to the bank of windows facing north. Through them, the mountains were just outlines against the stars. His distant neighbors were all in bed and the ones who still had power reserves weren’t wasting them on things like exterior lights.
He saw a flash that his mind—still under the influence of years of training—immediately recognized as a gunshot. It came from near a rocky knoll that he himself had scouted when he’d been deciding where to place his house. The distance was significant at seven hundred and fifty meters, but it was somewhat elevated and had the clearest line of sight to the structure.
The glass was theoretically bulletproof, but anyone good enough to be sent for him and to identify that vantage point would use a round capable of penetrating. Azarov dove to the floor, knowing that he had less than a second before the impact. He hit the concrete hard but then there was nothing. Just the muffled hum of insects.
Could he have been wrong? Might it have been someone lighting a cigarette? Turning on a flashlight?
He didn’t have time to consider either possibility before the deafening sound of automatic fire erupted from the base of his driveway. The glass in front of him spiderwebbed and then finally collapsed, raining down on him as he crawled toward the island in the middle of the kitchen.
CHAPTER 3
NIKITA Pushkin had secured the high ground, giving him a reasonably unobstructed view north to Azarov’s house. The disused dirt road he was parked on had become overgrown, but was still navigable, unlike the dense jungle surrounding it. Distance was just over a kilometer, making direct involvement in the operation difficult. But that wasn’t his role today.
Through his binoculars, Pushkin saw the master bedroom light finally go out. Two a.m. Early to bed was apparently yet another of the military habits Azarov had abandoned.
There was a special operations team climbing the steep slope to the front of the house, but their activation was a last resort. The hope had been that the sniper positioned half a kilometer to the west would be able to end this before it even began. Unfortunately, Azarov hadn’t left the confines of his home since Maxim Krupin’s bold attack on Costa Rica’s power grid. Caution, it appeared, was not a habit Azarov had left behind.
During the day, the reflection off the windows made them opaque and at night he had an uncanny ability to stay away from them while running only emergency lighting angled to create glare.
It was insanity to expose his team for so long in this Central American backwater, even with the confusion caused by the power outage. He could have simply driven up to the property and killed the man but Krupin had forbidden a face-to-face confrontation. The president had made it clear that those kinds of actions were no longer his responsibility. That he wasn’t the soldier he’d once been. Now, he was a general.
But was it really true? Or did Krupin believe that he was the weaker man? Pushkin couldn’t escape the feeling that his mentor’s confidence in him was less unshakable than it had been in Azarov.
It was entirely unfair. Had he not carried out to the letter every order he’d been given? Had he not demonstrated unwavering loyalty? Had he not killed Krupin’s enemies and defended his supporters without question or hesitation? Had word of his existence and exploits not struck fear in the hearts of Russia’s oligarchs, politicians, and military commanders?
He spat on the ground in disgust.
The vaunted Grisha Azarov. A man who existed in the twilight between legend and reality. An avenging angel who could walk through walls and kill with a mere wave of his hand.
But what was he now? Nothing. Nobody. Another retired foreigner getting fat while wandering the local beaches.
Azarov had turned his back on the man who had given him everything. He’d failed to carry out his mission in Saudi Arabia and allowed himself to be shot by Mitch Rapp. Then he’d run in terror from the broken-down CIA man, abandoning one of the most critical operations in Mother Russia’s history.
Yet despite his cowardice and betrayal, his shadow continued to extend darkness over everything. Pushkin’s trainers constantly held up Azarov’s natural athletic gifts, his icy personality, and his robot-like ability to analyze tactical situations. All while dismissing the things he lacked: Belief. Gratitude. Patriotism.
Like his infamous predecessor, Pushkin had come from nothing—the fourth son in a family that had spent generations toiling in a forgotten corner of Russia. He had joined the military as a way out, but also out of a desire to be part of bringing his great country back to its former glory. He’d been accepted to the special forces and worked harder than anyone else around him. He had the ability to ignore pain and fear, and had never experienced the paralyzing effect of doubt.
After three years of distinguished service, Pushkin had been separated from his unit and put into a far more rigorous program overseen by some of the top people in the world. Weapons, tactics, extreme physical training aided by performance enhancing drugs. Language and cultural lessons that allowed him to disappear into the countries he operated in. Even instruction in literature, art, and elocution to help him navigate the social strata he was now a member of.
Everything he’d ever wanted was his at the snap of his fingers. The money, women, and power that had once been Azarov’s were now his.
“Report,” he said into his throat mike.
“We’re in position and setting up the spotlights.”
They would project a wavelength that was invisible to the human eye but still capable of penetrating glass. His sniper would soon have a view of the interior through his specially equipped scope.
After a few minutes the voice came over his earpiece again. “Lights are active.”
Pushkin wiped at the perspiration rolling down his forehead. He wanted desperately to go down there and do it himself. To throw open the door, look into Azarov’s terrified eyes, and put a bullet between them. To show Krupin that his former enforcer was less than nothing.
“Sniper. Report. Is the interior of the structure visible?”
Silence.
“Sniper! Report.”
The response had a slightly stunned quality, audible even over the heavily encrypted radio frequency. “The target is standing directly in front of the north windows.”
It was Pushkin’s turn to sink into shocked silence. This was the man that the great Maxim Krupin feared enough to disable a quarter of Costa Rica’s power grid? The man whose name was spoken only in hushed tones and behind closed doors?
“Take the shot. Now!”
There was a flash in his peripheral vision, but no sound. He turned toward the dark knoll where his sniper was set up, confused. At the very least, the crack of the round breaking the sound barrier should have been audible.
“Sniper, report.”
Nothing.
“Report!” he repeated, looking through his binoculars. They weren’t capable of picking up the infrared floodlights and registered only the darkness enveloping the house.
Again, no answer.
“Ground team. What’s your situation?”
“No impact on the glass, but Azarov is on the ground and out of our line of sight.”
Pushkin hesitated, his mind unable to make sense of what had just happened. In the end, though, it didn’t matter. Going back to Russia having failed to deal with Azarov wasn’t an option.
He turned and ran toward the Jeep he had hidden in the jungle. “Move in and take out the target. You have permission to fire.”
CHAPTER 4