Chapter 17 #4
Nicole rose, with the help of the rough-looking man who never left her side and walked toward her. This beautiful, elegant woman. A lady.
She put her hand on Consuelo’s shoulder. “You thank yourself, Consuelo. You got yourself out of this situation. We’re just helping. Follow the instructions you’ll receive from Harry and from Barney and you will be fine. We all wish you well in your new life.”
Consuelo placed her hand over Nicole’s without thinking, then, appalled at herself, tried to pull it back. But Nicole had grasped it, and wouldn’t let go.
“Good luck,” she said, bending down to whisper in Consuelo’s ear, and it was like a benediction.
Barney was at a side door, holding it open.
“Ma’am,” he said, his voice so deep it reverberated in her stomach. Or maybe it was the word. So insignificant. So important.
Consuelo rose and walked out the door.
The man who’d been fucking Chloe Mason on the balcony drove away.
Nikitin watched the vehicle drive up from the underground parking lot.
The side windows were smoked but the front windshield was clear and gave him an excellent view of the man’s face, which he’d last seen sweating as he humped the woman.
Chloe Mason was alone. And Chloe Mason was going to get him his thumb drive back.
He was going to need his trunk, and he was going to need Dmitri. But first he emailed Pirat.
Find coordinates of flat empty landscape around San Diego.
The answer came immediately.
Exceeded retainer.
Pizdets! Fuck!
Nikitin kept Pirat on retainer—30,000 euros a month. And yes, he’d exceeded it. Gritting his teeth, he transferred ten thousand dollars from his Bahamian account to Pirat’s account in Goa.
Happy now? He thought sourly. But he didn’t text it.
Three minutes later he had a set of coordinates, satellite photographs from 10,000 meters altitude, 5,000, 1,000, 500, 100 and so close he could read license plate numbers if there were cars around.
There were none. It was a desert. Anza-Borrego Desert was written in white script along the bottom of the 1,000 meter resolution photo.
Though his iPhone screen was small, Pirat had provided extensive maps and Nikitin spent ten minutes scrolling through them.
Pirat had also provided a map with a course set in a blue line leading to the desert.
He made calculations in his head. If he drove fast, he could make it to the desert in forty minutes. It would give him time to set up the handover.
He called Dmitri, gave him the coordinates of where he was, told him to bring the trunk and to park two condo buildings down from La Torre.
While he waited, he watched the apartment on the fourth floor.
The curtains in one room—the bedroom?—were drawn, but the rest of the apartment, which stretched out over five rooms, all connected by one balcony, with a small, separate balcony where the two had fucked, was open.
He could see the woman moving around occasionally.
His jaw was aching and his fingers clenched the binoculars so hard it was a surprise he wasn’t denting the metal. Sweat trickled down his back.
Nikitin was a soldier, and a good one. He’d been Spetsnaz for 14 years, in the Vympel, the best of the best.
He’d been in combat, fought numerous firefights in Africa and Chechnya. But going into combat, if you were good—and he was—you had a chance of survival.
Not here. If he was not able to produce the thumb drive when the vory came over for the auction, he was a dead man. And his death would be long and lingering.
It wouldn’t even be personal. The vory knew they’d have to make a lesson out of him for others who might be careless with several million dollars’ worth of information. The lesson would be a death with an epic amount of pain, every minute filmed, as an object lesson.
He was developing a plan on the fly with very little intel, in a foreign country, with one operative. All because of that bitch up there in her fancy condo, talking rebellion to the prostitutes.
Nikitin kept a close control on his emotions at all times. He had moved in dangerous circles all his life. His father had been shot for sedition when he refused to take his men in on a suicide mission in Afghanistan.
Nikitin knew how dangerous the world was, knew it in his bones and his blood. That he now found himself on the knife’s edge of a horrible death because of the meddling of some fucking woman made him shake with rage.
If it were up to him, he’d fucking walk into that apartment and blow her head apart and for a second, for one uncontrollable second, he wanted to do that so badly he trembled with it.
But then a lifetime of discipline descended upon him once more, enclosing him in its hard embrace. It was like his brain had had static for a moment, bad reception, but now was back in tune.
He saw clearly what had to be done and how he would do it and saw that if he did it clean and fast there might be a way out of this. With some luck, which had to begin turning his way again, the vory would never know what had happened.
He could, perhaps, explain away the disappearance of the two men assigned him by reporting the loss of a considerable sum of cash.
The two men had embezzled the money and disappeared, probably south to Tijuana.
Nikitin could promise the vory that as soon as the new transaction was over he’d track them down and get the money back.
But for now, he had to get his hands on Chloe Mason.
Dmitri was parking about 500 meters away. Nikitin carefully scanned the horizon, 360°. There was no one observing him, no one on the balconies of the luxury condo, no one out for a walk. This was a residential neighborhood and most of the inhabitants were at work.
The binoculars went into his backpack, then he rose and strolled out to the beach, just a man taking a morning break and getting some exercise.
He walked past Dmitri, watching carefully for onlookers, then doubled back, knocking on the driver’s side window. It buzzed down.
“Did you get everything?” Nikitin asked, voice low. In answer, Dmitri unlocked the back of the vehicle.
Nikitin made a quick inventory. He prepared two backpacks, for him and Dmitri. A GSh-18 with suppressors, three magazines each. No rifles, not now, that would come later. Two gas masks, a canister with fitted tube, high speed drill, small amount of C-4 with detcord.
He tucked the pistol in the small of his back, the rest fit into his backpack. He hefted it and signaled to Dmitri.
Dmitri closed the trunk and fell into step beside him. “Easy,” Nikitin murmured. “Nice and slow.”
They ambled toward the end of the peninsula, two men in sports clothes, out for a walk. Without hesitating, they walked through the huge two-story glass doors of La Torre.
His luck was holding, Nikitin thought. About time. They had encountered no one, not one car was on the road. The huge atrium was deserted except for one guard behind a U-shaped console.
Nikitin looked around with a faint smile on his lips, a connoisseur appreciating a well-designed building. Four security cameras in the corners, angled to cover the entire footage of the atrium. And two more vidcams over the elevators.
“Help you folks?” The security guard had a polite smile on his face, but he was young, fit and alert. He rose as Nikitin and Dmitri approached, one hand on the counter, the other loose at his side, right next to the Beretta in a holster.
An array of high-resolution monitors glowed on a shelf below the countertop.
Nikitin leaned on the chest-high counter with a smile, making sure he didn’t touch anything with his hands.
The guard couldn’t see him reaching behind his back.
“Yes,” he said, shaking his head ruefully, “I’m looking for a Mr. Darren Smith.
He said he lived in Coronado Shores, in the La Torre condominium. Am I in the right place?”
“Yes, sir, you are,” the guard replied. “But I’m afraid we don’t have anyone living here by that—"
In a smooth practiced move, Nikitin brought the GSh up, firing point-blank at the bridge of the nose, straight through the neocortex. Pink and gray spray shot out behind his head and the guard slumped boneless to the floor, already dead.
“Name,” Nikitin finished the sentence.
They didn’t need to talk. Both of them donned latex gloves that were in Dmitri’s backpack.
Nikitin disconnected the monitors while Dmitri disposed of the body beneath the shelf.
There was some blood spatter on the floor but you’d have to come right up to the security desk to see it.
Nikitin nodded at Dmitri who walked briskly across the huge atrium, boot heels echoing on the marble floor.
He threaded plastic restraints around the inside door handles and tightened them.
The restraints were almost invisible from the outside.
It would take 500 pounds of pressure to break them.
The building would be cut off from the outside world for the short time it would take them to snatch Chloe Mason.
Anyone visiting or returning to the condo would see a missing security guard and locked doors and assume there’d been trouble and probably call 112.
No, this was America, he reminded himself. 911.
He studied the security camera system for a minute while Dmitri was taking care of the front doors. He was familiar with most security systems. This one was particularly upscale.
But not invulnerable.
He flipped a switch and raised his eyes to the four corners of the atrium. The LED lights next to the cameras were off.
Okay, the building was sealed and blind.
Phase two.
The Mason woman had been on the 4th floor, second apartment from the right.
Ordinarily, he would have ascended to several floors above hers then come down the stairwell, but time was tight.
The security system was off but he had no idea whether there were two guards on duty.
That was the problem with improvisation—no intel and no proper planning.