The Betrayed Series: Ultimate Omnibus Collection Part 70

Around her, others stirred as the rest of the men prepared for landing. Her sniper had no need to prepare. He was always ready for action. The only way you could discern the man was not a machine was the way his eyes stood at half-mast as his head tilted back a few degrees to rest upon his seat.

How long had they fought together? Those years had felt rich and full. What else could they expect? The Disciples' secret had been secured for centuries. The chance to defend their linage a distant memory. Generations of Disciples had gone into mercenary work. Always being prepared for the day one such as Monroe became too intrigued by the Torah.

A tiny thrill coursed through her body, feeling almost as satisfying as the sniper's hands upon her body.

"May I inquire as to why we are landing at Kaluga rather than Tula, Aunush?"

Aunush slid her eyes over to inspect the man, Nannan, who stood in front of her. He was not one of her men, clearly, or he would not have asked such a question. However, Nannan was a Watcher of the Word. Yet spending so many years down in the secret chambers had not done much for his sense of tactical strategies.

"Tula would be the obvious choice," she answered as she donned her socks.

Aunush stroked her hand over the arch of her foot, straightening her sock but also remembering her time with the master. Nannan felt himself above her. This she knew. Why would he not? He was of the Word and she nothing more than a lowly soldier. Her kind had been disdained for so many years as nothing more than swords with no cause.

Now though? Now that Nannan's precious Word was in harm's way? Now he needed one such as her.

When she didn't continue, Nannan seemed confused. "It being the obvious choice is exactly my point."

"As it is mine as well," Aunush stated as she laced up her boots, relis.h.i.+ng Nannan's frustration.

"But it is over an hour farther from Pushchino than Tula."

Aunush looked up to Nannan. "Do you know exactly how many satellites track each and every aircraft around the globe since nine-eleven?" Clearly he did not. "And do you know how many CIA computers are dedicated to determining probabilities of terrorist attacks based on their flight pattern?"

Nannan shook his head, having the good sense to not meet her eye.

"I guarantee you that after our attack in London, one small sliver of that intelligence pool is now solely focused on Pushchino. Calculating if any force is converging on the town. They are monitoring Tula like a hawk awaiting for any mouse to lift its head."

"In addition," her second in command Abraham stated, "Grabtsevo Airport is privately held. We have flown in under Volkswagen's company credentials. The flight apparently arises from their South African plant with a refueling stop in Portugal."

Aunush nodded to her man as she buckled herself in for the landing. "Exactly. They will not suspect our approach until we are upon them."

She smiled as Nannan's face drained of color.

CHAPTER 7.

Domodevedovo Airport, South of Moscow 1:04 p.m. GMT Rebecca sat cramped amongst tractor parts. It was absolute black within the crate. The sound though? Ugh. The forklift moving the crate from the plane's cargo bay to the tarmac rumbled loudly. Only adding to the nearly earsplitting sound was about three tons of metal parts rattling around her.

Lopez crouched right next to her, but she couldn't even make out his form.

"You can stroke my cheek or something if it'll make you feel better."

"Ricky!" Rebecca protested, smacking at what she hoped was his shoulder.

Chuckling filled the dark s.p.a.ce. "I'm just offering."

"What happened to never ever?" she demanded.

"Come on, you have to admit it was funny."

Yes, it was kind of humorous and did take some of the shame and embarra.s.sment out of the incident, but that did not mean she had to admit it. Not at all.

She was about to ask where they'd landed when the forklift sputtered to a stop. Shouts in Russian carried through the thick wood into the crate. Rebecca strained to make out the men's discussion, however her Russian was a bit rusty. Just about everything she understood were phrases like otebis, piz'duk, and hui. While considered "colorful" language, they were not exactly illuminating.

"What's going on?" Rebecca whispered to Lopez.

"They're just arranging to transport these crates to a railcar. From there we head straight to Pushchino."

"Aren't there any kind of customs?"

"It's all electronic now. The CIA has made sure the freight company is on the Russians' 'trusted' carrier status. Then the crates are just scanned by an automated fluoroscope."

Rebecca frowned. "Wouldn't that reveal us?"

"Why do you think we're surrounded by all this metal?"

Ah. Of course. The metal of the tractor parts would seriously scatter any X-rays, masking their presence. After a few more moments of fairly lengthy Russian cursing, their crate lurched as another, much larger forklift picked them up.

It was a short trip to the railcars. They must be at the Domodevedovo Airport. It was known as the largest cargo airport in the world. She and Lochum had used it several times. Basically if you s.h.i.+pped anything west from Russia, China, or even India, it usually went through Domodevedovo. Even more importantly Domodevedovo was south of Moscow. By landing here rather than the more common Sheremetyevo Airport, they had saved four hours trying to get through the major metropolitan traffic jam that was Moscow. Forget New York traffic. Moscow was New York tenfold.

The few times she had been to the Russian capital you might as well walk wherever you wanted to go. And if somewhere you wanted to go was farther than you wanted to walk? Well, get used to the disappointment.

The forklift's motor ground away as it lifted the crate into the train. One more jolt and the crate clanged to the metal floor of the railcar.

"Now what?" Rebecca asked.

Lopez s.h.i.+fted beside her. "Now we wait until the train heads out for fifteen minutes, then we pop the hood on this baby and stretch our legs." He paused briefly. "So...I've got a couple of ideas about what we could do-"

Rebecca punched Lopez, in again what she hoped was his shoulder.

Brandt's watch vibrated. As the train clacked along, he and Davidson took crowbars to the crate's lid. Standing on the tractor's compressor, Brandt got the torque he needed to pop the nails out. Davidson did the same on the other corner. Once out they were still in the pitch black of the railcar though.

"Rebecca?" he called out softly. "Lopez?" He flipped the light on his gun on, sweeping the beam across the other crates. "Anyone?"

Davidson climbed out, knocking against the other crates "Harvish? Talli?"

No one answered. Did something happen to them?

Taking the crowbar, Brandt worked on the crate next to them. Davidson wasn't a whole lot of help though. "Put your back into it," he urged. Worried that the others had somehow run out of oxygen.

"Sarge," Davidson said. "These others aren't our crates from our s.h.i.+pment."

"What do you mean?" Brandt asked, feeling his pulse rise. This was not happening. Rebecca should be right here. He never should have let her out of his sight. Screw what it looked like, he should have taken the crate with her.

They finally got the lid off as Davidson noted, "These aren't even tractor parts."

d.a.m.n it, the kid was right. They were looking down at a huge s.h.i.+pment of teddy bears from China.

"I think we got put in a different car," Davidson commented.

"No s.h.i.+t," Brandt said, heading to the railcar door. He tugged on the handle, but it wouldn't budge. Clearly locked from the outside.

Brandt pulled out a small block of C-4 and a detonator.

"This is a pretty confined s.p.a.ce," Davidson noted.

Again, no s.h.i.+t.

"I'm just going to blow the lock." Hopefully. Lopez was the blowing-c.r.a.p-up expert. "Get back."

He smeared the Silly Puttylike explosive where the lock should be, then plunged the detonator into the C-4. Hustling back behind a stack of crates, Brandt laid down the wick. Once certain that Davidson was secured, he lit the wick. It snapped a bright red and then settled down to a steady orange, sending tiny sparks as the flame made its way up the wick. Within seconds the blast cap blew a nice little hole in the metal door. His ears were going to ring for a while, otherwise no harm done.

Brandt rushed over and tried to put his hand through, but he had been too conservative on the C-4. He went to smear more, but Davidson stopped him.

"Let me," he insisted, snaking his thinner arm through the hole and unlatching the lock. Davidson then slid the door open.

Blinking back the sudden brightness, the countryside rolled past them. If he didn't know better, Brandt would have thought he was in the American Midwest. Rolling waves of amber grain and all. He grabbed hold of the handle and swung his body halfway out the car, searching up and down the long line of cars for any sign of the others.

Wind whipping around him, Brandt swung back into the car. "We're going to have to do a car by car search to find them."

"That's not going to work."

"Why the f.u.c.k not?" Brandt growled. Tired of having to explain himself to not just a man outside his unit but a traitor as well.

Davidson pointed to their crate. A large "Destination: Moscow" was stamped on the side.

"That doesn't mean-"

Taking away any hope that the stamp was a mistake, Davidson pointed past the countryside to a large splotch on the horizon. Moscow.

They were heading in exactly the opposite direction of Pushchino with absolutely no idea if the others were safe or not.

f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k.

Rebecca bit her lip. "Where are they then?" she asked Lopez.

"Best guess?" he answered as he shut the railcar door. "Brandt and Davidson are on another train." Lopez nodded to Talli. "Stay on the door. Monitor and report if anything changes."

"How can you be sure?" she asked. This didn't make any sense. There were three crates destined for Pushchino. Why did only two make this train?

"I can't. Like I said, best guess." He turned to the point man. "Harvish, get prepped. We may have to make a quick exit."

She didn't like this side of Lopez. The business-first, serious, worried Lopez. She greatly preferred the cad, player, hotd.o.g.g.i.ng Lopez. His sense of adventure had always made whatever situation they were in more tolerable. If Lopez wasn't worried, everything must be okay. What did it say when that very same Lopez had concern drawn on his features?

"Could they have been captured?" she asked, her voice quavering.

"Not likely."

Rebecca tried to keep her voice from becoming shrill. "Why? I mean-"

Lopez turned to her. His eyes bright under the soft glow from the flashlights. "Because the Russians would be stopping every freaking train out of Domodevedovo. They kind of take an American strike team on their soil rather poorly."

She wasn't quite sure whether to take that as a positive or not. "Can't you try to raise them on the radio?"

"Darlin'," Lopez said with a sigh. "We are in Russia. Not near Russia. Not out in the freaking Siberian plains. We are within a stone's throw of Moscow. We are radio silent until we leave the Motherland's borders."

Her eyes scanned his face. She knew the corporal's hands were tied. Special ops had very specific regulations. Ones that couldn't be broken, even for Brandt. And now the feel-good Lopez had to be in charge. Enforcing those rules.

He put his hands on her arms. "The rally point is Pushchino. He'll find his way there."

Struggling against tears, Rebecca bit her lip again, but this only made Lopez chuckle.

"Enough of that, woman," he said. "Out of all of us, you should be the least worried."

"What do you mean?"

"Duh. Like Brandt isn't going to go walk through h.e.l.l's fire to find you. Seriously. Chill out."

With that Lopez turned back to the men.

Was the corporal right? Had Brandt changed so little in the last few months? Would it be Brandt's priority to think of her rather than his pregnant wife? Could she cling to that tiny hope?

Brandt gritted his teeth, readying himself for the jump from the train. The d.a.m.n thing had to be going at least fifty miles an hour. He glanced over to Davidson.

"You don't have to do this," Brandt yelled over the wind. "You can get off when it pulls into the next station."

"Yeah, right," Davidson said with a slight grin, or at least Brandt thought the expression was a grin. With all those scars it was hard to tell. "I wouldn't miss this for anything."

Really? Because right about now with his sore shoulder from London and cramped quadriceps from the torpedo launch, Brandt was pretty much ready for a twenty-four-hour period that did not require him to exit a vehicle moving at high speeds.

But that was not this day.

Brandt held up three fingers, ticking each one down until it came time to fling themselves from the train. Without hesitation, Brandt swung his pack in front of him and pushed off the train car. He got lucky-the pack hit first, and the ground next to the track was a nice soft gra.s.s. Better than the asphalt of London.

Davidson didn't look much worse for the wear as he rose. Neither spoke. They knew what they needed to do. Gathering up their packs, they made their way east. A small darkening on the horizon marked a town. A town with cars. One hopefully that they could quietly and easily steal.