Page 64 of Denied Access
Once again, Rapp jerked him back to his seat. “Aren’t you tired of running?”
“Maybe. But I’m not tired of living.”
“Then sit down and stay awhile.”
“Do I have a choice?”
Rapp smiled.
CHAPTER 35
BIZERTE, TUNISIA
FYODORgrinned at the familiar fluttering in his stomach.
The feeling of the hunt.
The Alfa Group operative hadn’t experienced the rush that came just before kinetic action in far too long. Or at least the surge of adrenaline that accompanied hunting prey on favorable ground. Fyodor had first deployed operationally to Beirut in 1985, when he’d been part of the task force sent in response to the kidnapping of four Soviet diplomats by radical Islamicists. The brutality of that mission was his baptism in fire, as were the results. The three living diplomats had been released, and not a single Russian diplomat had been taken hostage since. In the ensuing years, Fyodor had stalked his nation’s enemies on battlefields ranging from the Middle East to Afghanistan.
But this hunt was special.
Today, he had the opportunity to serve justice to a traitor.
“Five, this is One, target in sight. He is alone. I say again, target is alone, over.”
“Five copies all,” Fyodor said, whispering into the mic hidden beneath the cuff of his shirtsleeve. “Four, are you in position?”
“This is Four, thirty seconds, over.”
Fyodor keyed the transmit button on his low-profile radio twice, indicating that he’d received the assault team leader’s transmission. His Arabic was passable, but his accent was horrible. He could have conducted the radio conversation in French, but didn’t.
His assault team leader, Sergei, was gifted at a great many things.
Languages wasn’t one of them.
Fyodor crouched on the dirty street to tie his shoe. It was one of the oldest tricks in the surveillance book, but like dead drops, chalk marks, and brush passes, the technique was still practiced for one simple reason.
It worked.
As he played with his shoelaces, Fyodor let his gaze wander across the street before settling on the source of his unease—the person who’d been following him for the last block. He’d heard the footsteps but hadn’t had a chance to lay eyes on his tail until now. Though the waterfront maintained a veneer of respectability, that shine disappeared within steps of leaving the tourist area. Shops still lined the streets, but rather than windows or doors, most places of commerce had metal accordion-like gratings that could be lowered at the close of business each night. Storefront windows were at a premium, so Fyodor had been unable to catch a glimpse of his pursuer in a reflection.
After securing the final knot, Fyodor allowed his fingers to linger near the cuff of his trousers and the PSS silent pistol strapped to his ankle. His primary weapon, a Makarov handgun, was nestled in the small of his back, but that would be a more difficult draw from a crouched position. With his left hand, Fyodor began massaging a nonexistent cramp in his calf muscle while his right hand unsnapped the concealed ankle holster before sliding around the pistol’s grip.
The tail was just behind him and to his left.
His shoulder prickled beneath the person’s gaze.
The footfalls grew louder, but their cadence never changed. Then Fyodor saw the tail. He almost laughed. It was a teenager with a soccerball tucked beneath his arm. The youth gave Fyodor a questioning look but continued shuffling along.
False alarm.
“Five, this is Four, assault team is set. I say again, assault team is set.”
“All call signs, this is One. Target is getting up from his table.”
Fyodor stood and stretched, trying to contain his nervous energy.
Showtime.
