Extraction: The Wildfire Saga, #6

By Marcus Richardson

Behind enemy lines, danger lurks around every corner.

The world teeters on the edge of World War III. Tensions are the highest between the US and Russia since the Cuban Missile Crisis. Ambassadors on both sides have been recalled—but the US Ambassador has gone missing. Cooper Braaten is tasked with rescuing both the ambassador and his wife and returning them to America.

However, if he's captured, the US government will deny his very existence, and a hostile Russian government isn't the only threat he faces: the bratva, a brotherhood of Russian mafia families, has set their sights on the ambassador and will stop at nothing to capture him. To make matters worse, Jayne Renolds, now the head of a multinational consortium, wants the ambassador, too—but not for politics or personal gain. 

Jayne wants revenge.

Cooper isn't alone, though. Danika Helström, the top-tier ex-Council assassin, and a legendary rebel known as the Chechen, join forces with Cooper in an effort to bring down the forces that decimated so many innocents around the world. 

Extraction is a high-tech, cloak-and-dagger military thriller that reads full-throttle from page one. Sequel to The Regent, Extraction is the 6th book in Marcus Richardson's near-future post-apocalyptic series, The Wildfire Saga. 
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Freeholder Press, LLC
• Release date: Oct 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386268802

Marcus Richardson

Marcus attended the University of Delaware and later graduated from law school at the age of 26. Since then, he has at times been employed (or not) as: a stock boy, a cashier, a department manager at a home furnishing store, an assistant manager at and arts and crafts store, an unemployed handyman, husband, cook, groundskeeper, spider killer extraordinaire, stay at home dad, and a writer.

Book preview

1

NEW OLD ALLIANCES

Moscow, Russian Federation.

The Magic Bullet Nightclub

Igor Voroshilov poured two Vodkas and slid one across the table. The man he was here to meet, an up-and-coming mobster, snatched his with a practiced ease—didn’t spill a drop—and raised it in silent salute.

Voroshilov tossed his back, noting with approval the self-proclaimed pakhan did the same without flinching at the burn. Mikhailovich was a troublemaker, a loud-mouthed, flamboyant man who wanted attention. He was famous for drawing the wrong kind of attention and using money and guns to get out of trouble. The other legitimate mafia leaders despised him and his ilk, the so-called newcomers. They didn’t respect the old ways, the code of honor, the rule of law among thieves that the original vorya established after escaping Stalin’s gulags.

Voroshilov snorted, thinking of the parallels with the Council. With the old king dead and buried, a new crop of lords and surviving aristocrats wanted to turn the Council into…what? A playground for the young and rich while the new king was in his minority and relatively weak?

Voroshilov had joined the Council decades ago as a young idealist, drank deep of the ritual and tradition going back to the middle ages, and soon realized like the kings and czars of the past, the Council’s days were numbered. As technology and global economics shrank the world, the Council was in danger of becoming as obsolete as the monarchy it was created to protect.

But what to do? Hold tight to the sinking ship of tradition, or jump to lifeboats manned by punks like Mikhailovich, who had no sense of tradition, no ties to the past. Everything to them was about instant gratification, and to hell with anyone or anything that stood in their way. He sighed. Such was the state of the world.

I am too young to be part of the old guard. Ah, Fate. She’s a bitch. It is time to make my own destiny.

Clearing his throat, Voroshilov took a moment to admire the waitress Mikhailovich had selected for their private meeting. She had dark, curly hair, large blue eyes and a slender, innocent face. If nothing else, Mikhailovich had excellent taste in girls.

And restaurants, Voroshilov grudgingly admitted. The private dining room in Mikhailovich’s club/restaurant, The Magic Bullet, had the appearance of an 18 th century British dining club. Mahogany paneled walls, carved decor on the molding…gilt handles for the doors and gas lamps to set the ambiance. It was classy and oozed prestige.

One day, I should invest in a place like this. It lends an air of legitimacy to everything Mikhailovich touches. How could the owner of such a place be under scrutiny for anything? Only the most wealthy and powerful are even invited to dine here…

Voroshilov caught Mikhailovich watching him, eyes like a fox: intelligent, sly, with a hint of danger. He cleared his throat and put his glass down. Yevgeny Mikhailovich, let us talk plainly.

The clean shaven, heavily tattooed mob boss, nodded. As head of one of the newest of the crime syndicates operating in Moscow, Mikhailovich was also the most eager to gain a reputation among the older, more established houses. He spread his callused, scarred hands wide, the hint of tattoos peeking out from under cuffs of his shirt.

What is it you ask of me? he asked, his eyes following the young waitress.

Voroshilov frowned. You know who I am? Who I work for?

The mob leader nodded and swiveled his grey eyes to Vorohsilov’s, as if wary of a trap. It had been many decades since any member of the bratva—Russia’s mafia clans—had tried to take on the Council. The past results were unpleasant enough on both sides that the old vorya knew what to expect if they crossed the Council.

Voroshilov tapped a finger on his shot glass. The younger, more ambitious young bucks, like the boss—pakhan—sitting before him, might still like to test the old limits from time to time. Voroshilov wanted to make sure that didn’t happen this time. Years ago, the Council and the bratva had been allies…now?

Mikhailovich sneered. I know you and your friends are not what you once were. Times are hard for—

Voroshilov felt a rush of heat in his cheeks. He raised a hand and silenced the impudent crime lord. We have weathered such persecution from governments before, he said, spewing the well practiced lie without a hint of deception. This will be no different—make no mistake, those who oppose us will pay, whether they are governments or brotherhoods.

Mikhailovich raised an eyebrow. A scar bisected it, so it looked like two small eyebrows. His deep-set eyes took in everything and held Igor in a predator-like gaze. His mouth curled up. No doubt. Will you release an anthrax plague to kill us all this time, or maybe the real plague?

He raised his hands in mock surrender. I joke, relax. No one doubts the power the Council wields. He poured another round, keeping his eyes on the drinks. "Tell me, Igor Voroshilov, how is your tsar?"

Voroshilov clenched his jaw, taking a moment to calm his temper. Alas, the king is dead…and his heir… He shrugged. He is young.

Mikhailovich clucked his tongue and shook his head. A pity. Your people fall on hard times, indeed. He took the refilled shot glass and slugged it back. "But then again, you did try to kill us all."

That was an...oversight…of the old king’s regime. I assure you that kind of negligence won’t happen again. Voroshilov smiled. We are not so bad off, actually. Call it new leadership if you like.

Mikhailovich’s split eyebrow raised again. Oh?

Yes, we have a new regent—I think you know her—Jayne Renolds." Voroshilov smiled as the color drain from Mikhailovich’s face.

The younger man blinked. "Tigritsa? he breathed. She is… Mikhailovich cleared his throat. She is running things? Personally?"

Voroshilov grinned as he poured another shot for them both. "Da. Tigritsa—the Tigress herself."

After the empty glasses slapped on the table once more, Voroshilov got down to business. Now that I have your attention…I have a business proposition for you.

Mikhailovich coughed and adjusted his suit. Proposition? For me?

Is there an echo in here? Surely you can’t be that stupid? Vorohsilov smiled. "Tigritsa ran into…certain complications of late—you may have heard about the recent unpleasantness in Edinburgh?"

Mikhailovich frowned. "Something about zombies, nyet? He shook his head. Nonsense."

Just so, Voroshilov replied, keeping a straight face. It was not planned the way it— he raised a hand to stop the question on Mikhailovich’s lips, "you don’t need to know what the plan was to begin with—I don’t even know. Suffice to say, someone made a mess of Tigritsa’s plans, Yevgeny Mikhailovich, and she intends to repay the favor, with interest."

Mikhailovich snorted. "I bet. Why come to me? Why not go to the bigger, older houses? Surely the vorya would be happy to help…"

Voroshilov approved of the eager look in Mikhailovich’s eyes. The man was business smart, that was good. Earning Jayne’s trust would be beneficial to the continuation of his heretofore meteoric rise in the bratva world. The man wanted to take his place among the most powerful vorya, the upper echelon mafia leaders, and would be a willing accomplice for whatever Jayne needed.

Because you are expendable. Because the vorya do not like you, fool. You make things difficult for everyone but yourself. You are a liability.

Out loud, Voroshilov said: You are aware of the current political difficulties the Americans are causing…?

Mikhailovich nodded but remained silent. At least the man knew when to listen to his betters.

Voroshilov examined his shot glass. "They have recalled their ambassador. We have created enough static politically that they have been forced to request help in extracting him and his family."

Mikhailovich waited, hands resting on the table.

"To avoid a diplomatic situation escalating into a…kinetic situation, you see. Voroshilov waved his hand as if shooing a fly. The politicians like to think they are inching toward a world war, but we employ enough of them from both sides to know that won’t happen. Not without our blessing." He looked down his nose at Mikhailovich.

"Regardless, the Americans have reached out to a mercenary—one of their former special forces soldiers—to bring the ambassador home without international incident. Tigritsa wants you and your brigadiers to handle this man they are sending." Voroshilov reached down beside his leg, into his briefcase, and pulled out a folder. He glanced around the restaurant, then slid it across the table.

Mikhailovich flipped through the dossier and whistled. He has impressive credentials.

Not too much for you, I hope? asked Voroshilov.

Mikhailovich grunted. What kind of payment? he asked, without looking up. A target of this kind…I will need equipment… He glanced at Voroshilov. Weapons are not so cheap now as they once were, no?

Voroshilov nodded. Agreed. We have a standard compensation package, with a bonus for you, of course, he said, sliding over an envelope. You understand that if you pull this off—

Ah-ah, Mikhailovich clucked, holding his finger up to interrupt Voroshilov. "When. When I pull this off."

Voroshilov inclined his head in response. "When you pull this off, you could very well find the FSB looking the other way for a long time regarding your protection racket…and the drug shipments coming in from Siberia."

Mikhailovich smiled like a shark and reached for the money. You know about that, eh?

Voroshilov kept his hand on the package. So does the FSB. And who do you think controls them? He grinned. "In addition, she will be grateful for your assistance."

Mikhailovich liked his lips, his hand hovering over the envelope of untraceable cash. Grateful?

I have you now. Voroshilov released the money and nodded as he leaned back to pour another shot. "Da."

Mikhailovich closed the folder and hefted the envelope, testing its weight in his hand. He accepted the refilled vodka. Consider it done.

"Khorosho," Voroshilov replied. Good, you didn’t count the money. You’re showing promise, Yevgeny Mikhailovich. I hope you survive long enough to prove useful.

What do you have on the ambassador? Mikhailovich asked.

Voroshilov swallowed his vodka, then handed over another folder. John Marquadt, age 59, his wife Kyrsten, age 35.

Mikhailovich flipped through documents and photos copied from FSB records. "How does a pig like this get a woman like her to marry him? He shook his head. She would be a tsarina among my girls, even if she is a little old. He whistled appraisingly. I have clients who would pay a small fortune for a night with a woman such as this. Such a waste. He closed the folder and looked up at Voroshilov. Children?"

"Nyet. She is a trophy wife."

Mikhailovich nodded. Even better. Where are they right now?

Voroshilov pulled out a satellite phone. On the move, attempting to outrun the some friends of mine. I have their car tagged with a GPS locator. It’s keyed into this phone. He slid it across the table into Mikhailovich’s hand and gave the mob boss a few moments to examine it before speaking again.

"When you’re ready, Yevgeny Mikhailovich, call me on that—and only that—it’s untraceable and has my number programmed. I will have the FSB pull back and let you take over. I recommend you capture the ambassador and his wife and take them to a safe house—but it’s your call."

Mikhailovich seemed to consider this. He nodded. And the American mercenary?

He is en route. I will update you when he lands. The fool is coming straight to Moscow.

"Such arrogance. This is my town, he said, jabbing a finger into the tabletop. When he arrives, we will give him a proper welcome, nyet?"

Voroshilov frowned. "See that you do—but be careful. The Council underestimated him once—we won’t do it again. I don’t recommend you underestimate him, either. This bastard has proven to be...costly…to us."

I heard about Reginald Tillcott. Always admired his work.

Voroshilov studied Mikhailovich for a moment. You have someone in mind?

Mikhailovich smiled, the skin of his face pulled into a death’s head. "Da. Ex-spetsnaz. Big as a mountain. He owes me. Wants to be one of my brigadiers. He hefted the money-filled envelope. With this, I can buy his services—keep the vorya from using him…"

I would have a backup plan, Voroshilov warned.

Mikhailovich scratched his jaw, looking at the dossier on the table. This could make him.

Voroshilov nodded. "This could make both of you. He poured another shot for each, then raised his in salute. Mikhailovich did likewise. I look forward to watching your progress on this, Yevgeny Mikhailovich. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

The ambitious pakhan grinned again, downed his shot and slammed the glass on the table. He circled his hand above his head to get the waitress’s attention—who’d remained at a discrete distance while they talked. Don’t worry, Igor Voroshilov, Mikhailovich said, smirking as the girl walked over, this American is as good as dead.

Voroshilov traced his fingertips over the empty shot glass as he leaned back and regarded the mafia boss. So will you, when this is all over.

2

MOTHER RUSSIA

Moscow, Russian Federation.

Sheremtyevo International Airport

Cooper Braaten, Lieutenant, U.S. Navy (retired), kept his place in the customs line and tried to look casual, like a local returning from a long business trip. Terminal C was crowded, as the number of people who’d fled Moscow during the bio-weapon attack had been high and the government was doing its best to bring people home.

His tongue ran over the prosthetic piece in his mouth designed to make his upper lip stand forward a bit, changing his profile in the event someone ran spot scans with an automated facial recognition protocol. To further escape the notice of an electronic eye, he’d had cheek bone enhancers glued to his face and blended into his skin by an expert special effects wizard during his layover in Helsinki. He decided he wasn’t a fan though…the glue used to adhere the prosthetics to his gums made his mouth itch. But the makeup covered his half-healed cuts and bruises from Edinburgh rather well.

Cooper had to resist the urge to reach up and touch the little pieces of plastic and silicone that changed the shape of his skull—to a camera—just enough to make him different from himself. Between his close cropped hair—he was practically bald—the goatee, and second-gen augmented reality glasses Oakrock had provided, he looked like a different man.

To the casual observer.

Cooper took a breath. All he had to do was fool the customs official, currently busting the balls of a British journalist and his family. He just needed time to get to a safe place and contact Beslan.

"What do you mean I don’t have the correct page stamped? It’s right bloody there," the reporter complained, leaning toward the agent’s both and tapping his passport.

The agent sighed and looked down at the passport. "Nyet, this is page two. I need to see page three."

The journalist looked at his wife and teenage daughter in exasperation. "But page three is sodding blank—they told me when I left here last week to use only page two. We’ve been through this twice already—"

Apologies, but regulations—

The reporter threw his hands up. Bollocks!

Cooper watched impassively through the AR glasses as the reporter’s body temperature rose.

Dude, back down. A quick look at the customs agent showed the man inside remained calm as ice.

George, whatever does he mean…? asked his wife.

Cooper glanced down at his own passport—page three was completely blank. Cursing under his breath, he pretended to pay no attention to the drama unfolding before him. Behind him, the line for customs snaked into the distance. This hour of the night, airport officials must not have deemed a full crew of agents worthwhile.

He just needed to get past this booth and then he’d be free to escape the airport—free to contact Beslan. If the wily Chechen was half as good as he’d appeared the last time Cooper had worked with him, there wouldn’t be much of a problem getting supplies.

Cooper grinned, thinking of their last meeting during the buildup to Tehran. Beslan had proved to be one wild-ass freedom fighter. He operated on the edge of legality—and sanity. Charlie once joked that working with Beslan was like a surgeon using a blowtorch instead of a scalpel during and appendectomy.

Two agents in oversized military hats stepped around the corner carrying clipboards. As Cooper looked on, the AR glasses outlined them in red as potential threats and highlighted the weapons they carried at their sides. He knew the micro-computer hidden inside the glasses had evaluated the density, color, and shape of the agents’ outfits to surmise that they were armed, and where—and what—the weapons were, but it still amazed him that it could be done so fast. He knew right away they were armed, but if he had to guess, he’d have assumed they wore standard hip holsters. But according to the AR glasses, they wore shoulder rigs under their coats.

Brent wasn’t kidding around when he said the V2.0 model was a significant upgrade from the prototype I used in Los Angeles.

Cooper subvocalized the word tag, barely moving the muscles in his throat, without making a sound, and the AR glasses highlighted the two armed guards in a dashed red outline. As he turned to casually observe the waiting area—they had twelve booths available, yet only two were open to process passengers…typical.

He subvocalized tag all hostiles.

Cooper blinked in surprise as over a dozen people glowed with the same hashed red outline. Some stood in line, but most ringed the walls. Cooper frowned. He hadn’t seen the man in the corner by the dead ficus tree, in its ridiculously large, ornate pot. The passengers marked as threats were curious—he’d love to know how they’d smuggled firearms on their planes. He personally hadn’t taken the chance. No sense in blowing his mission before it started.

The adjacent line shuffled forward. Several people glanced at the irate reporter, but looked away quickly, as if not wanting to draw attention to the fact that they had even noticed the drama. The two newly arrived agents took note of the furtive glances, however, and approached the first people in the next line, holding up their clipboards and examining the men as they walked. One turned to look at Cooper’s line as the reporter and the agent raised their voices.

Cooper got a glance at the paper on the agent’s clipboard: an Interpol wanted fax, featuring one Cooper Braaten. The AR glasses recognized the image and took a snapshot, superimposing his face over the right lens for him to stare at the evidence.

Clear, dammit, Cooper subvocalized, trying to keep his anger in check. The picture vanished.

Fuck me sideways. How the hell did that happen? Atkins said I had at least 48 hours before they’d get word I was coming…this is a hell of a way to start a mission.

His mind raced as he listened to the desperate journalist switch to the begging tactic. He was a resident alien of Moscow, he had a house, he paid his taxes and never once complained about anything—despite never finding a decent blood pudding in the whole sodding town—why where they giving him so much grief? He’d made several trips before and never once had an issue.

When the agent glanced over the reporter’s shoulder and made eye contact with Cooper, he figured the game was up. They were delaying. Giving reinforcements enough time to get into position before they took him down. A bead of sweat trickle down his spine.

He cursed his luck that the only time he’d be unarmed on the entire mission was when he entered the airport and passed through customs. There just wasn’t any way around it. This was his most vulnerable time, and it looked like the FSB were going to catch him before he even got a chance to find the goddamned ambassador.

His eyes darted around, looking for items he could use as improvised weapons. The woman to his right, waiting patiently in the next line, had a large messenger bag slung over her left shoulder. A glossy magazine stuck out the top. Cooper relaxed somewhat—at least he could make a baton with that. A rolled-up chunk of paper like that could ruin someone’s day if used properly on the face and neck. It was about as dense as a block of oak and felt much the same when used like a club.

The agents working their way down the adjoining lines paused to look at each man, ignoring the women and children. They were definitely on to him.

Cooper swallowed, adjusted his shoulders to prepare for a fight, and slid his feet just a little wider apart. He could disable the nearest agent and take his sidearm easily enough, but a stray gunshot might cause a riot—there were far too many civilians around for him to escalate the situation to full-on tactical. A lot of people were going to get hurt…

His eyes found the nearest exit and the AR glasses locked the location on his tiny HUD. When they made their first move, he’d break through at that point and head to the next closest exit—marked halfway down the wall plastered in gaudy advertisements. The primary exit would be too obvious—especially because the AR glasses couldn’t get a heat signature reading from the other side of the door at his range. There could be a whole company of FSB officers on the other side of that exit, just waiting for him.

No, the easiest thing would be to disable the closest agent—crush his windpipe in a surprise attack—and when he dropped to the ground, race round the booth directly in front of him. It might actually help the journalist if the ruckus caused enough of a distraction.

Another pair of grim-faced agents appeared around the back of the booth and flanked the journalist. They murmured to the man in the booth and held a low-voiced discussion with the increasingly animated journalist. His wife hugged their daughter to her and looked ready to bolt.

I don’t blame you lady. But they’re not after you. Just be patient.

While he was watching the journalist, one of the agents working down the next line suddenly switched and moved over to Cooper’s. He had no time to prepare, no time to tense—the agent held up the clipboard and looked right into Cooper’s eyes. Cooper looked back with what he hoped was an expression of disinterested boredom.

You’re a traveling businessman. You’re tired, you’re hungry, you’re finally home, but you’ve got to be patient and not rock the boat…

The agent grunted and lowered the clipboard, moving on to the next man behind Cooper. He wanted to exhale, but the real challenge would be the agent in the booth. A causal glance from someone using a years-old picture as comparison was easy. The booth agents took their time examining passport photos.

The exasperated agent in the booth raised his hands and signaled the two outside to remove the reporter. Cooper watched as the wife and daughter were ignored while the loudly protesting reporter was dragged off to a side room for questioning. The wife looked at the agent, then around at the other people in line as if someone was going to step forward and do something to help. Her heat signature spiked, and so did the kid’s. By now the reporter glowed almost all red-orange. He was pissed—as if Cooper couldn’t tell from the shouting.

The agent in the booth muttered something to her, then gestured to get out of the way. She moved on wooden legs with a stiff gait to a crude holding area on a faded red carpet, sporting a crusting of ash and cigarette butts.

The agent gestured with a bored wave for