custom jacket, the fit of the fabric giving him a physical confidence he’d lacked for most of his life. He opened the door of his office and stood in the doorway. Svetlana swiveled in her chair and faced him head-on.
“How do I look, Svetlana?”
“Oh, you look so wonderful, Oliver.” She was immediately at arm’s length, fretting over him. She straightened his already-straight tie, brushed a piece of lint from his lapel, and ran her hand across his bearded chin.
“You are ready, Oliver. You have worked so hard for this; go show the Pakhan how smart you are.”
Oliver held his head high as he took the elevator to Zharkov’s office. He was ready.
* * *
Zharkov looked over the written narrative of the plan for the second time. He had to admit that it was sound. Grey had done his homework; the CIA had taught him well. Zharkov had taken a gamble by hiring him, but that wager was already paying off. He set the target package down and looked at the figure before him. Grey’s transformation since their first meeting was evident. The CIA analyst had been an alcoholic mess, a loner and a filthy genius teetering on the brink of disaster. Like a puppy from the street, Zharkov had cleaned him up, fed him, and given him a purpose. And, just like a dog, Grey had given Zharkov loyalty in return.
“This is a good plan, Oliver.”
“Thank you, Pakhan. With the appropriate resources, we can eliminate the target.”
“I agree. There is something missing, though.”
Grey looked perplexed.
“It is a very thorough plan to kill Mr. Reece but it says nothing about his friend Raife Hastings.”
“Why would we kill him?”
“Because I don’t want him coming after us when we kill his friend.”
“I see. That is going to require more resources, more people. It will complicate the plan significantly.”
What Grey did not know was that Zharkov had done his own intelligence gathering. A jet belonging to Hastings’s father-in-law had taken off from Nice, France, just hours after the rocket attack that killed Grey’s mentor, Vasili Andrenov, in Basel, Switzerland. Andrenov had left behind a fortune. Zharkov had many associates in common with the late Russian expat and made some quiet inquiries as to whether there might be a reward for bringing to justice those responsible. Andrenov had surrounded himself with an extremely loyal group of advisors who now controlled the resources of his lucrative foundation.
In exchange for killing James Reece and Raife Hastings, Zharkov would quietly receive a ten-million-euro reward. The money would go into his own pocket and Grey, out for his own revenge, would repay Zharkov with a lifetime of gratitude.
“Add Raife Hastings to the target deck, and you will have my support,” Ivan declared. “Kill them both.”
CHAPTER 22
Yaak River Valley, Montana
DIMITRY HAD FLOWN THROUGH Moscow and New York and finally into Seattle. He’d driven the breadth of Washington State, picking up the weapons in Spokane. The Sinaloa Cartel’s network throughout the United States was an extensive web of hubs and spokes, allowing for the efficient transportation of contraband throughout the country. Though designed to move narcotics, that same network could move anything from teenage girls to weapons, including the dozen AKM rifles that his team would use on this operation.
Personally, Dimitry preferred the AK-74 he’d used during his own military service, a weapon that fired the smaller, high-velocity 5.45mm round rather than the more venerable 7.62mm Russian cartridge, for which the AKM was chambered. He loved what the little 5.45mm did to flesh. It created wounds so devastating that the Afghan muj called it “the Devil’s Round.” The arsenal mark indicated its Russian origin, sent no doubt to feed some insurgency in Central or South America during the 1980s. A rifle was a tool, and these tools would work fine after a good cleaning.
He steered the panel van through the darkness, following the directions that had been provided to him by the local asset. Rumor had it that Tanya was a tasty thing. Maybe he’d get a chance with her at some point during this operation. She had rented a remote farm in the Yaak River Valley, an extremely distant corner of Montana known simply as “the Yaak.” Situated only miles from the Canadian border, the Yaak was the kind of place where people minded their own business. A place where gunfire wouldn’t raise many eyebrows. A place where men could gather and train.
He crossed over the East Fork of the Yaak River and saw a sign that said “Stabin’ Cabin