Black Flagged Redux (44 page)

He opened the door halfway and slid out of the sedan, staying low. Farrington had made the same decision, and they both stepped onto the street at the same time. Leo charged along the rear side of the Volvo, but was stopped in his tracks by a well-aimed burst of 5.45mm projectiles from a shooter near the Russians’ white Mercedes van. Three of the four bullets struck the Enhanced Small Arms Protective Insert of Leo's tactical vest, protecting the vital organs of his chest from instant jellification. The fourth bullet hit a few millimeters above the hardened boron carbide plate and passed easily through the softer level IIIA material. The hardened steel core projectile shattered his right clavicle and exited through the top of his right arm. The near simultaneous impact of all four bullets dropped Leo to the pavement, which saved his life. Another burst of assault rifle fire peppered the door he had just opened.

**

Farrington slammed on the brakes and raised his MP-7, searching for one of the targets he had identified as the car approached the front of the apartment. He braced the MP-7 against the steering wheel and centered the Reflex sight’s green dot on a man running across the street about 50 meters up the road. He fired a short burst and the entire front windshield shattered without falling, effectively obscuring his view of the street. Through the small hole punctured by the tight burst of 4.6mm projectiles, he could see that his target had stopped in the middle of the street. Aiming through the tiny opening in the opaque, bluish white windshield, he fired a long burst at the stationary man, but couldn't see the results. Without warning, the inside of the car erupted in a warm spray that painted the windshield red and coated the dashboard with a thin pinkish-red film. He didn't need to turn his head around to figure out what had happened. He heard muffled bursts of fire from the remaining MP-7's and decided it was time to hit the street. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Daniel open the front passenger door.

As he stepped out of the car, he immediately saw that his target had collapsed into a motionless heap in the middle of the road. A fraction of a second later, the sound of heavy caliber gunfire reached his ears, followed by shattered glass and a sharp pain in his upper left arm. He reacted swiftly and dove to the concrete roadway, as several bullets penetrated the open back door and slammed into the space he’d recently occupied. He squeezed off a hasty burst at a shooter located across the street from the van, causing the man to duck inside a doorway. He noticed that Leo lay bleeding on the pavement next to the Volvo's right rear tire. He wanted to help him, but made the decision to get off the street as quickly as possible.

He jumped to his feet and sprinted around the front of the Volvo, staying low as bullets followed his path, knocking out the rest of the Volvo's front windshield and peppering the silver Renault parked along the curb. He slid over the Renault's hood and landed on the sidewalk, searching for targets ahead of them. Thirty meters up the street, he spotted a man crouched low on the sidewalk next to a white sedan. The man fit the general description of the Spetznaz operatives, but Farrington didn't fire. The man looked panicked and appeared more interested in keeping his head low.

**

Hans Schafer hit the pavement running when the van stopped. He held the compact G-36C assault rifle under his coat, well aware that the barrel extended a few inches below the bottom. He was several meters from turning the corner onto Bondegatan when the shooting erupted. Instinctively, he knew that the sound of unsuppressed automatic weapons fire meant one thing. The team was in deep shit. He pulled out the assault rifle and sprinted to the corner, praying that he wasn't too late to help. The red light had fucked them over. Hubner wanted to run it, but by the time the van would have entered the intersection, there would be little doubt in any police officer's mind that they had just run a red light. The last thing they needed was a police escort to Reznikov's apartment, and he didn't have time to scan the full three hundred and sixty degrees around them to make a decision. Schafer had put his hand on Hubner's shoulder and told him to wait. He assured him that they'd arrive in time. As he turned the corner, his initial impression was that he had been badly mistaken.

He walked casually between two cars parked near the corner, careful not to draw any attention from the Spetznaz operative shooting from a concealed doorway along the sidewalk. Once past the cars, he ducked low and moved swiftly down the street. He saw Leo lying face down on the pavement, trying desperately to claw his way under the Volvo. Automatic fire erupted from behind the Mercedes van where he had been told to expect another Russian, followed by a deafening extended burst of fire from the shooter in the recessed doorway. The bullets hit the cars parked in front of the doorway, ricocheted off the concrete facade of the building and splintered the dark brown doorway to Reznikov's apartment. He saw Daniel and Farrington pop up from a position between the two parked cars and fire suppressed bursts at the Russians, who responded immediately with a fusillade of their own gunfire.

Schafer knew what needed to be done. He stayed low, sprinting along the cars, until he drew even with the Mercedes van. The recessed doorway was located ten additional meters down on his side of the street. He rose to a full stand and aimed through the window of the van, finding the Spetznaz operative's head through his 3X Zeiss RSA-S Reflex sight. He fired a quick burst through the van's window and turned to acquire the doorway shooter. As he placed the green dot on the next Spetznaz operative's forehead, he had time for a quick thought before he pulled the trigger. Fuck that guy was fast.

Schafer's 5.56mm bullets struck the Russian between the eyes, but not before the operative returned the favor with a well-aimed burst to Schafer's upper chest. Two of the bullets struck Schafer's assault rifle, shattering it. The third bullet passed through his neck, causing irreparable damage and severing his carotid artery. Schafer staggered forward, aware that he was fatally hit. He let the assault rifle fall to the concrete and raised his hands to his neck. He stared at his blood-soaked hands for a few seconds and moved his gaze to Reznikov's apartment. He watched Farrington and Petrovich fire point blank into one of the doors and kick it in. The last thing he saw before falling unconscious to the street was their van speed around the corner.

**

More than a dozen bullets snapped overhead, striking the concrete behind Daniel. Leaned against the front bumper of a compact white Fiat, he felt several bullets impact against the car's metal frame. One projectile popped through the hood and barely missed his right arm. He scooted backward, bumping up against Farrington, who had also decided that the tight space between the Fiat and bullet-riddled silver Renault was the only safe place on the street. A burst of gunfire shattered the momentary calm, and another fusillade of bullets skipped off the pavement near Farrington's feet. Daniel risked a peek through the Fiat's partially shattered windshield and saw Schafer running down the street, hidden from the gunmen by the line of vehicles on each side of the road.

"Our backup just arrived," Daniel said.

"About fucking time," Farrington muttered.

Daniel heard a burst of fire from Schafer’s G-36C, followed immediately by a tight burst from one of the Russian submachine guns. He popped back up to fire at the shooter in the recessed doorway, but the Russian had already fallen from view. A dark red stain covered the yellow wall next to the alcove, evidence of the Russian’s death. His eyes shifted to Schafer, who stood motionless for a moment in the middle of the street. Blood pumped furiously out of Schafer’s neck.

"Schafer's hit," he said to Farrington. He pulled out his handheld radio and turned to the door, pushing Farrington onto the sidewalk. "Get those bodies out of the way," he said, before speaking into the radio. "Move the van to the target doorway. You'll need to figure out a way to move the Volvo."

"Tell Schafer to move it. I'll be there in a few seconds."

"Schafer's dead. Farrington's the only other survivor," he said and stuffed the radio back into his jacket.

"Leo's still alive," Farrington said.

"He'll figure that out on his own," Petrovich said, kicking the remaining Russian away from the blood-showered door.

"Try the lock pick set?" Farrington said.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Petrovich said, aiming his MP-7 at the doorknob.

Farrington backed up and leveled his weapon at a similar point. Both weapons kicked furiously as the operatives poured several dozen armor-piercing projectiles into the area surrounding the doorknob. The bullets tore through the handle and obliterated the solid wood next to the door frame. Petrovich kicked the door with the bottom of his foot, and it gave no resistance.

"You want to knock on Reznikov's door?" Daniel said.

"No, I'm gonna use you as a battering ram."

Daniel smirked and darted inside the splinter-filled foyer, searching for the staircase. He found it just past a small set of stairs leading into a lobby.

"Up there," he said.

**

Reznikov's eyes flashed open. He thought he'd heard gunshots. He tried to figure out where he was, but nothing made sense to him. His head started pounding immediately, and he tried lazily to lift his head from the table. His face felt numb and moving his head required too much effort. He started to pass out when two staccato bursts of gunfire jarred him back into the moment. His head shot up and he slid one of his heavy arms out along the table, knocking an empty bottle of vodka to the hardwood floor. The bottle shattered, and he tried to focus his vision with little success. The light pouring into the kitchen was overwhelming, and he squinted, which brought a temporary clarity to his sight.

He heard yelling and screaming from the street below and had the strange thought that he might not be in Stockholm anymore. He recognized the kitchen, so he must still be in his apartment. What the fuck was going on? He saw another empty bottle of cheap vodka teetering on the edge of the table next to a small leather-bound notebook. Dozens of crumpled pages lay scattered on the table, partially concealing a small black revolver.

He suddenly remembered why was sitting at the table, where he had apparently passed out from drinking. He had planned to kill himself, but admittedly the details were still hazy to him. He knew he should grab the pistol and put it to his head, but two bottles of vodka had erased much of the argument leading to this decision. He smiled. As a scientist, he would have to work through the process again and empirically prove that he must kill himself. He wondered if there was a shortcut, since he wasn't sure he'd be close to sober by nightfall. Several more bursts of gunfire echoed from the street, followed by screaming, which spurred him to grab the revolver. Someone was coming for him. If it was those dirty Jihadists, he might be back in business. Unfortunately, he didn't think he could effectively stand up from the table. A small detail to work out.

**

Daniel took two stairs at a time until they reached the third floor. He yanked open the stairwell door and quickly poked his head in and out of the opening, checking both directions. The hallway was empty. A polished brass placard on the wall in front of him indicated the direction they would take to apartment 3B. Daniel and Farrington turned right and slithered along the wall, aiming their weapons forward. They paused at the door to 3A and examined it. Daniel pushed on the thin door, testing it before he whispered to Farrington.

"Staggered hits until we're in. I'll go first," he said, and Farrington nodded.

They arrived at 3B, noting that it faced the street. Reznikov would undoubtedly be ready for something. They listened for a second and heard nothing. Daniel nodded, and they both backed up to the other side of the hallway. Petrovich barreled forward, tucking the MP-7 low and slamming into the door with his right shoulder. He felt the door buckle significantly and shifted left to clear out of Farrington's way. Farrington struck the door with his left shoulder and continued through the splintered door frame, rolling out of Petrovich's way.

Daniel braced his weapon against the doorframe and aimed at the figure sitting at the table. Reznikov fired his revolver three times at the open doorway, before placing the gun to the side of his own head. A single shot from Daniel's MP-7 struck the revolver and knocked it out of Reznikov's hand onto the kitchen floor, along with a few of his fingers. They both charged the Russian scientist, who knocked the table over trying to stand up. Farrington arrived first, grabbing Reznikov by the collar of his shirt and yanking him facedown into the table. Petrovich took a pair of zip ties from his jacket and secured his hands. They had Reznikov up on his feet in a matter of seconds. Farrington spoke to him in Russian.

"Do you have any of the virus here in the apartment?"

"It's all gone, you see. That's why I'm still here. They didn't do it…and now I have nothing…I can't even know this…"

"He's fucking drunk," Petrovich said.

"The notebook didn't lie…they just changed the game," Reznikov said, as his head wobbled and his eyes lost focus.

Petrovich punched Reznikov in the face twice before Farrington could react.

"What the fuck are you doing? We need to get out of here and I don't need him unconscious. Bag up that notebook and the crumpled papers. Ten seconds and out. I'll get him to the van," Farrington said, dragging the moaning scientist to the door.

Daniel turned around and got down on his knees to collect the scraps of paper knocked onto the floor. He dropped the MP-7 and started stuffing the papers into his pockets. The notebook was small enough to fit into one of the inner coat pockets. He glanced around for anything else that he could grab in the few seconds he had remaining. Under a metal frame desk parked against the hallway wall, he saw an open topped cardboard carton overstuffed with folders and loose papers. He grabbed his submachine gun and pulled the carton out, partially ripping the cardboard due to the weight of the papers inside. He didn't have time to dig through it. He jammed the MP-7 into the carton, and lifted it by the two handles.