Читать книгу: «Rocky Mountain Valor»

Prologue

Denver, Colorado August 21 5:30 a.m.

Ian Wallace pressed his back into the wall and drew his semiautomatic pistol. The visor of his helmet was pulled low. Black pants. Black shirt. Black Kevlar vest. He blended into the darkness like a shadow.

“Ready,” he said, his voice pitched low. His helmet mic transmitted his command to his team of ten, waiting behind him. His words also went to a van, parked three blocks away, that served as a mobile headquarters.

There was a singular objective with the raid—arrest the three drug dealers, dubbed Comrades One, Two and Three. Yet he was far more interested in what the trio of Comrades knew about Nikolai Mateev, the godfather of Russian organized crime.

For Ian, the hunt for Nikolai Mateev was more than a job, it was his life’s work. It covered his skin, raced through his veins and filled his lungs. He hadn’t felt this soul-deep yearning in years. And the memory of the last time stung deeply. Not for the first time, he found the image of Petra Sloane stealing into his mind at the most inconvenient moment.

He shook his head to clear it, determined to free himself of all thoughts of her. Past was past. They were over. The most important bust of his career—of his life—was about to go down, and he had to remain focused. Eternity passed in the span of a single heartbeat.

“Go! Go! Go!” he said out loud.

Two agents rushed forward, swinging a battering ram, breaking the lock and knocking the door off its hinges. Ian lobbed a flash-bang grenade into the room. Turning away, he ducked down. Light and sound exploded as tendrils of smoke wafted over him.

Comrade Three lay on the floor. A seam had been sliced into his forehead and it filled with bright red blood. Flex-cuffs were immediately slipped around the man’s wrists, and two team members remained as guards. The rest fanned out. Three went upstairs. Ian, with the remaining three, searched the ground floor.

Voices drew Ian’s attention. He sprinted down a short hallway to the rear of the house. He entered the kitchen in time to see Comrade One slip through the back door and into the predawn mist. Comrade Two rushed after him.

“You aren’t going anywhere.” Grabbing him by the shoulder, Ian gave a hard pull, throwing the man to the floor. Instantly, three guns were pointed at his head. The Russian lifted his hands in surrender.

Pulse and breath resonating inside his helmet, Ian ran out the back door in time to watch Comrade One scuttle over the fence. He stopped the chase, his eyes drawn to the ground. The final member of the team writhed in pain, a knife protruding from his thigh.

Ian slid his gun into a holster at his hip as he dropped to the ground and began to apply pressure to the wound.

“What happened?” he asked, his attention torn between his injured teammate and the escaped Russian gangster.

The other man gritted his teeth. “It was Comrade One. I didn’t see the knife and he stabbed me when I tried to apprehend him. I’m sorry, man. I screwed up.”

It was a serious mistake, for certain. Yet there was nothing to be gained with second-guesses.

“We’ll get you patched up,” said Ian. Then into his mic, “Man down. I need backup, stat.”

Roman DeMarco, an RMJ employee with combat experience, slid in next to the downed man. He began to administer rudimentary first aid. “I’ve got this,” he said. “Go.”

Ian was already consumed with the need to capture Comrade One. He took off at a sprint and vaulted over the wooden fence.

He landed in a neighboring yard. It was empty and eerily quiet. Ian scanned his surroundings. Nothing. Yet he refused to give up so easily.

With a curse, he jumped over the next fence, dashed through the yard and jumped over the next two fences after that. Landing on a sidewalk, he spun toward the sounds of screeching tires, as a set of headlights raced up the street. The car swerved. The undercarriage hit the curb as the bumper headed straight for him.

Without time to think, Ian propelled himself up. He came down hard, landing on the hood. His shoulder slammed into the windshield and he pitched forward. In that split second, he caught a glimpse of the driver. Comrade One. Ian continued the roll, landing on the ground. The acrid smell of burned rubber filled the air as the car dropped off the curb, a shower of sparks trailing behind when it sped off into the brightening morning.

Frustration from this latest setback filled his gut. He got to his feet, and for the folks in the HQ van, said, “Yuri Kuzntov, Comrade One, has gotten away. Repeat, Kuzntov, Comrade One, has fled via a dark gray sedan, partial Colorado license plates Foxtrot Echo Four Nine. I’m returning to the scene.”

“Copy that” came the reply.

Lights atop police cruisers, strobing red and white, were visible from four blocks away, while the wail of sirens grew closer. The front door, knocked off its hinges, had been set aside on the stoop. Ian crossed the threshold and removed his helmet, tucking it under his arm.

Comrade Three sat on the sofa, a medic treating his minor head wound with an antiseptic wipe. With curly dark hair and a beard that didn’t quite cover his chin, the Russian was the youngest of the group—aged twenty-four, Ian knew—and the least important.

Turning to the medic, he said, “Get DeMarco to talk to this one.”

Roman DeMarco, Ian’s first employee at Rocky Mountain Justice, was ex–Delta Force and fluent in half a dozen languages, including Russian. Ian spoke Russian as well, but his responsibility was to delegate and prioritize—whether he liked it or not.

“I’ll get right on it,” the medic said.

Ian nodded his thanks and moved to the kitchen. Four ashtrays, filled to overflowing, sat atop the table. Dirty dishes lay on the counter and a trash can vomited pizza boxes and takeout containers onto the sticky floor. Without question, these men had been living rough for days, perhaps weeks. Were they waiting for something? Or someone?

Ian hoped like hell that it was Nikolai Mateev.

Comrade Two sat in a kitchen chair with his hands cuffed together before him. He was the oldest member of the group. His hair was sparse, and his skin was like timeworn parchment—lined, slightly yellow and dry. Inked into his ring finger was an Orthodox cross with three bars. An outline of a diamond surrounded the whole. It was the initial tattoo for the vory v zakone, or thieves-in-law. Russian organized crime. Several other tattoos covered his hands and what could be seen of his wrists. One was for a prison where he’d served time. Another for a crime committed. The rest of his body would be the same and have a more complete list of his misdeeds than any dossier prepared by Ian’s old colleagues at MI5.

Ian eyed him closely. “Ty govorish’ po-angliyski?” Do you speak English? Even though Ian could have conversed in Russian, there were two other uniformed police standing guard, and he wanted to make sure they heard what was being said in case the conversation was ever part of a court case.

The man snorted. “Better than your Russian.”

“Where’s Nikolai?”

“I don’t know anyone named Nikolai.”

Ian refused to play games. “If you can’t help me, comrade, I can’t help you.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“I can arrange for you to be housed in a minimum-security prison. Nice meals. Cable TV. Tennis courts.”

“You think you can bribe me?”

“No,” said Ian, “but I can make it look like you cooperated and are receiving favorable treatment. How long do you think Nikolai Mateev would let you live, even in prison, if he thought you’d talked to the authorities for an easier sentence? Or you can really talk, and I’ll help you disappear.”

The man nudged the sooty ashtray with a finger. It was a simple reaction, but Ian knew he’d hit a nerve.

“You with the FBI?”

Ian ignored the question. Let Comrade Two think what he wanted.

“You don’t sound like an FBI agent. I bet you aren’t. Not with that accent, anyway. You’re English,” he said. “I can tell.”

Ian remained mute, unwilling to share even the most basic details of his life. Let the other man prattle and get nervous. It was just a matter of time before he’d talk. Leaning back in his seat, he prepared to wait the old Russian out.

“Ian?”

He looked at the person who had called his name. Another RMJ agent, Cody Samuels, stood in the doorway. During his years with the DEA, Cody had led dozens of searches like this and Ian was glad for his expertise.

Wearing the black tactical gear of all RMJ operatives, Cody had also donned a pair of blue latex gloves. He held a laptop computer. “I found this,” he said, “hidden behind a wall.”

Ian could feel it in his bones: the computer was going to be a critical link in the long chain that finally led to Mateev.

He turned to Comrade Two. “What’s the password?”

“I don’t know.”

Ian didn’t care if the old Russian was lying or not. “If you can’t be any help, then I don’t need you anymore.” He waved to the two uniformed police officers. “Take him away.”

“Wait,” said Comrade Two. “That laptop was only used for email. I never touched the computer, though, so I don’t know what was sent or received.”

“Take him away,” Ian repeated to the cops. “But have him placed in solitary for now.”

Comrade Two was lifted to his feet and ushered from the room.

Ian waited until everyone was gone and only he and Cody remained. He gestured to the computer. “Whatever we find will be important.”

“I thought as much. Just wanted to let you know before I turned it over to Jones.”

Special Agent Marcus Jones was with the FBI. At the beginning of the year, he had contracted Rocky Mountain Justice to find Nikolai Mateev. It had proved to be an uncomfortable relationship for Jones and Ian—neither man wholly a subordinate, nor entirely in charge.

Yet this was RMJ’s raid. The computer was their find. But once Jones took over, Ian would never see the computer again.

And he damn well wasn’t going to let that happen.

“For now, let’s keep this discovery between the team. We don’t know how significant it may turn out to be,” Ian answered.

Cody narrowed his gaze. “This is evidence,” he said, “and belongs with the FBI.”

“That may be, but right now we have custody.”

“I’m not going to get into a pissing match over evidence that we’re lawfully bound to surrender.”

Then again, maybe Cody had spent too long working in government bureaucracy. “Jones hired us to do the things that he can’t, to circumvent the law. You know what will happen once he gets this computer. It’ll be tagged as evidence then sent to the tech lab for analysis. It will be weeks, or maybe months, before anyone will act on what’s found.”

“And that’s the law,” said Cody.

Ian stared him down, refusing to yield. “If we have the laptop, we can get information now.”

“By breaking the law?” said Cody. “We agreed to this mission. There are still protocols to follow.”

“We aren’t going to catch Nikolai Mateev by following all the rules,” said Ian, his tone growing steely.

While with the DEA, Cody had opened a secret investigation against the Mateev crime family. An informant had been killed and it cost Cody his job—and his reputation at the agency. The road to getting his life back had been dangerous, including discovery of betrayal by people Cody had had true faith in...until Mateev and his money had undermined everything. Cody had nearly lost his life, and the woman and child he loved, fighting the Russian crime lord’s influence.

“Point taken,” he said now.

A rancid notion came to Ian. If he was really serious about stopping Nikolai Mateev, he’d have to break more than a few laws. He’d have to abandon every principle he’d ever possessed, break every oath he’d taken.

In fact, the only way to really stop Nikolai would be to put him in the grave.