The Voynich Cypher (48 page)

BOOK: The Voynich Cypher

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Radovan was immediately hit by two of the bullets that passed unhindered through the commando's throat. One struck him in the upper left shoulder, where it stayed, and the other ricocheted off the metal head rest post, and grazed the right side of his neck. The windshield in front of Radovan crumbled from the second bullet, and he instinctively grabbed for the short-barreled assault rifle that rested between his right leg and the door. Before his hand completed the twelve-inch journey, the front passenger door erupted in a fusillade of torn plastic, metal fragments, and safety glass.

His hand never touched the rifle. He felt incredible surges of pain at multiple points throughout his body, but remained conscious for a few seconds, vaguely aware that a figure moved across the front of the SUV, firing continuously into the vehicle. His head was violently snapped backward and to the left, leaving him with a view of a shattered body in the seat behind the driver. He tried to call out to the man, but couldn't form the words. He watched as a dark red stain splattered the bodyguard's window, and a red mist aerosolized the rear cargo compartment. This was the last thing Radovan would ever see.

Against all odds, the driver, Jorji, survived the seemingly endless hail of bullets. He was hit several times, but knew that he was not critically wounded. When the first bullets passed through the car, Jorji twisted his body to the right, pressing down on the center console, trying to present the lowest possible target to his attackers. This was not the first time he had been attacked in a vehicle, and his previous experience kept him alive a little longer than the rest of the Range Rover's occupants.

Several bullets pierced the back of his seat, and tore into the top left side of his body, causing mostly superficial damage, but shredding muscle and tendon from his left hip all the way up to his shoulder. The extensive muscle damage along his entire left side kept him locked in place over the center console, with his face nearly buried in Radovan's lap. No matter how hard he tried, he could not sit up, which was another reason that he was still alive.

Marko dropped to the soaked gravel near the front left tire of the Range Rover and rolled over onto his left side, which gave him easy access to the hip satchel containing the second ammunition drum. The gun's barrel sizzled as the rain struck the dangerously overheated metal. A hundred thoughts and stimuli flashed through his brain, which were immediately prioritized and processed for his use. His trance reduced useless distractions like emotion, hesitation or fear, and enhanced his focus on the highly specialized skills required to survive.

"Reload weapon" was at the very top of the list. His weapon wasn't empty, but he knew that seventy five rounds didn't last very long at the rate he had fired. In the flash of a synapse, "driver still alive" was also broadcasted, and his eyes narrowed. He had fired long bursts into each passenger as he moved counter-clock wise around the SUV. After targeting the rear right guard and Radovan, he fired a lengthy burst at the driver through the rear right door window. Marko knew the bullets had passed through the seat and connected with the driver, but the man's demise was not conclusive, and he knew it.

He detached the drum magazine, and threw it out of the way. The second drum was out of the satchel and attached to the light machine gun in a blur of his hands. Marko popped up from the ground into a low crouch, keeping well below the window, and fired a sustained burst through the center of the front driver door.

The silence felt like an eternity to Jorji, but he knew his lifespan was now measured in seconds, unless he could take the offensive. Jorji lifted his head up far enough out of Radovan's blood soaked lap to catch sight of the assault rifle jammed against the door by Radovan's leg. Jorji knew this was his only hope. His only weapon, a small semi-automatic pistol, was jammed under is right armpit in a concealed holster, and he couldn't lift his body to free it. Not that it would have matter if he could. Jorji was left handed, and a bullet had passed through the back of his left elbow, rendering his arm useless. He strained to slide his right arm free, and his hand managed to reach the rifle just as several bullets punctured the driver door, and put an end to any hope that he might survive.

He raised his body enough to see into the Range Rover, keeping the gun aimed forward. He saw the driver leaned over Radovan's lap, but couldn't be sure the man was dead. Through his weapon's sight, he centered the red dot on the back of the man's skull. One quick trigger pull put an end to Radovan's security team.

He pulled back up against the house and absorbed the entire scene. The carnage resembled a well-executed ambush, and there was little chance that anyone would suspect the attack was perpetrated by one person. The vehicle was shredded on all sides by bullets, and most of the safety glass lay shattered on the packed gravel. He fired from nearly every angle around the car, leaving shell casings scattered everywhere.

He saw that two of the guards behind the rear SUV had fallen on top of each other, and immediately decided that he'd stuff one of them into the trunk of the luxury Mercedes in the garage. He'd dump the car into one of the lakes near Belgrade. The absence of a junior member of Radovan's inner sanctum would lead Hadzic to suspect that this was an inside job, and if anyone took a close look at the ground around the bodies, they would only find the washed out evidence of three deaths.

He decided to skip any further house surveillance, and moved toward the door. He had done a mixed job of keeping the noise level down, and didn't want to waste any time if Pavle's bodyguards had been alerted.

The silencer had worked perfectly, and ensured that the automatic weapon would not draw anyone's attention. He could barely hear the gun's internal mechanisms over the rain storm. The Range Rover was a different story, and he was not at all satisfied with the noise created by the bullets that impacted with the SUV's heavy steel frame. To Marko, it had sounded like multiple, low speed fender benders, and it nearly jarred him out of his operational mindset. He had backed up against the house more out of fear than a rational tactical decision. It was the right decision, but this was not how he had been trained to operate.

He reached his right hand over to the door knob, and tried to twist it. It didn't move. Wasting no time, he reached into his hip satchel and removed an object that resembled a small plastic explosive charge. He tightly jammed it between the door knob and door trim. He pulled a small plastic device out of a pouch on his vest, and slid it upward along the door from the first small charge. The device's LED turned green about two feet above the door knob.
Dead bolt.
He placed a second charge against the trim, right where the LED flashed green. He quickly pulled a small cotter pin on each of the homemade devices, and pressed himself flush against the paved stone wall of the lodge.

In rapid succession, each device ignited, and burned intensely for five seconds. The thermite packages created very little noise, but generated an incredible amount of smoke, usually on both sides of the door. He pushed firmly on the heavy oak door, which gave way now that the locks had been melted. He held his breath and stepped into the house. The caustic smoke obscured his vision and burned his eyes momentarily, but he immediately recognized that he was on a small landing. Several stairs led up into the house through an enclosed stairwell that separated the landing from the main house, and kept him out of sight.

His ears picked up a familiar sound, which relieved him of any fears that his attack had been compromised. A hardcore rap song from Dr. Dre's
Chronic
album vibrated throughout the lodge. His mouth formed a thin grin as a Serbian accented "Yeah motherfucka" echoed alongside Snoop Dog's lyrics.

He eased up the stairs, and peeked around the corner. The lodge's ground floor was an open concept space, which gave him a clear view straight through the kitchen, into the great room. He didn't see any smoke detectors in the kitchen, which allowed him to relax the pace slightly.

The ceiling opened up just past the eat-in kitchen area to form a two-story great room, with floor to ceiling windows on the far wall facing Marko. A dark gray slate fireplace and chimney split the middle of this wall, and disappeared into the timber framed ceiling. The men were stationed around a rustic, dark wooden coffee table, which was centered on the fireplace, and littered with a pile of mixed currency. A dimly lit chandelier hung low over the coffee table, attached to the ceiling by a thick, black chain.

He spotted Pavle immediately, which was not a difficult task. Pavle was paralyzed from the waist down and confined to a wheelchair, which currently faced the fireplace. Both of Pavle's outstretched arms embraced the deep hip hop beat with a slow, synchronized wave. Each hand held a thick stack of American bills.

He assessed the bodyguards. A large, stocky man in a black turtleneck sweater and brown jacket stood in front of Pavle, bouncing up and down completely out of rhythm. The second bodyguard sat on a dark, rich leather couch to the left of the table, nodding his head to the steady rhythm and rolling what Marko assumed to be a marijuana joint. He didn't see any obvious weapons, and chuckled at the pathetic crew in front of him.

Ready to make his move, he took the time to touch the razor sharp edges on both the front and back of the climbing axe. The axe would provoke the final outrage. The inevitable civil war between two of Slobodan Milosevic's largest paramilitary groups would tear Belgrade apart from within, and give Marko the cover he needed to tie up a few more loose ends before vanishing. For the first time in several years, he felt hopeful.

His time in this shithole of a region was rapidly coming to an end, and he intended to walk away with a little more than just the satisfaction of a job well done. Pavle held the key to his brother's vast criminal fortune, which would soon belong to the United States government - minus a small finder's fee. He caressed the axe's blade once more before he lowered his body to a full crouch, and slipped into the kitchen. He still had a long day ahead of him.

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About the Author

Russell Blake lives full time on the Pacific coast of Mexico. “Capt.” Russell enjoys writing, fishing, playing with his dogs, collecting and sampling tequila, and waging an ongoing battle against world domination by clowns.

By Russell Blake

Fatal Exchange

The Geronimo Breach

Zero Sum

The Delphi Chronicle trilogy

Night of the Assassin

King of Swords

The Voynich Cypher

Revenge of the Assassin

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