Savage Son (James Reece #3) - Jack Carr Page 0,144
what of us then?” Reece asked the elder Russian.
“Yes, what of us?” Zharkov responded. “He killed your father. You killed my son. Very Shakespearian.”
“Only in that it is all a tragedy,” Reece acknowledged.
“By killing my son, you saved my life, Mr. Reece. Allow me to repay the favor. Allow me to offer you safe passage out of Russia.”
Reece looked at the old man quizzically.
“Come, Mr. Reece. How did you expect to get home? Walk back across Siberia and kayak across the strait?”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“It’s been done before.”
“That it has. As sick as my son was, he had friends in Russian intelligence. Friends who would not take kindly to an American invasion of the motherland, or the killing of one of their senior intelligence officers, Bravta connected or otherwise. If they suspect you are still in Russia, they will find you.”
“So, in exchange for your life you get me out of Russia?”
“Yes. We will use the satellite phone inside to call in another helo. My network will get you to the Black Sea and from there you will board a flight to the Central African Republic. I’m afraid I can’t do much more for you from there. You will have to make contact with the Americans at their embassy in Bangui. You will be on your own at that point, but you will be alive.”
Reece took a moment to take stock of the situation and then slowly nodded.
“I want to discuss something with you privately,” Reece said to the head of Russian organized crime.
“Oliver, go to the house to get the sat phone. Mr. Reece and I have additional business.”
Happy to still be breathing, Oliver said, “Yes, Phakan,” and limped toward the main home.
Reece remained quiet, watching Oliver Grey move up the gravel walkway. Memories of his father raced through his mind: road trips in their old Wagoneer, hikes in the Northern California redwoods, canoeing the boundary waters, fishing the Taylor, and learning to live in harmony with the land out of their trapper’s cabin in Alaska. He thought of the three of them, mother, father, and son, holding hands around the dinner table, saying grace over a meal of wild game.
“What was it you wanted to discuss, Mr. Reece?” interrupted Zharkov.
* * *
Oliver was nearing the back door to the house. He would make a call on the sat phone before bringing it out to the old man, informing Zharkov’s security forces that an American was holding them hostage and that he should be shot as soon as reinforcements arrived regardless of what Zharkov was about to tell them. The old man was under duress and was being threatened with death by the crazy American.
Yes, that would work. James Reece was just as stupid as his father.
“Grey!” Oliver heard the American call out.
The former CIA man turned and looked back down the slight hill toward the man who moments before had held his life in his hands.
Reece reached into his pocket and pulled out a small oblong box and held it above his head. A wire led from the box to the ground at his feet, angling up toward the dacha.
“I changed my mind.”
Reece depressed the detonator on the last Russian Claymore, sending an electrical charge to the imbedded blasting cap, detonating 700 grams of RDX, which explosively propelled 485 short steel rods at 4,000 feet per second through what had less than a second before been Oliver Grey.
The explosion that sent Grey to the afterlife took the aging mafia boss by surprise. He recovered quickly and looked back to Reece.
“And then there were two,” Zharkov quipped. “He had just outgrown his usefulness.”
Reece chose his next words carefully: “Mr. Zharkov, I have a proposal for you.”
“I am listening.”
“Get me out of Russia. To CAR. I’ll find my way home from there. In the meantime, I want you looking into everything you can find on Nizar Kattan, the Syrian sniper who helped take out President Zubarev last year. You must still have contacts at the SVR. Use them. Get me something actionable.”
“Don’t you have the CIA?”
“Nizar was employed by a Russian through a Syrian proxy. I think you might have better access.”
“And what do I get out of this little agreement?” asked the Russian, ever the dealmaker.
Reece looked at the tomahawk in his hand.
“In the short term, I won’t skin you alive. Longer term, you will have a back-channel connection to the CIA.”