Chapter 30
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If he had thought about it for longer than 10 seconds, the last two people Michael expected to see in Santo Domingo were Oscar Markov and Ivan Boskov.
Not surprising was Oscar's ill temper and long memory. They'd only seen each other once, briefly, because when Michael arrived at Ivan Boskov's Miami office, Oscar left. Escaped, actually.
Michael would have thought, by now, the incident had been lost as a bad memory for either man. Or that Ivan would have followed his later suggestion for the .45 in his hand and used it to end his errant spy problem, since Oscar was determined to kill to Sam's friend Beatriz whose reporting inadvertently outed him.
Obviously, Ivan had not selected the .45 option, which made their pairing troubling.
Michael told Anson, because the annoying tagalong bastard pressed him, all Oscar wanted was for the world to make sense, to know his sacrifice had been worth something for him and his country.
It wasn't different from what Michael wanted for himself.
Michael wanted this operation to be over; he wanted his new life with Fiona. And that, he realized, was why retirement as an operative was his next step.
If he lived that long.
Once tomorrow became more enticing than today, an operative lost his ability to be fully effective. He lost the microsecond critical in timing, in judgment, in observation. It didn't mean he was less skilled or less intelligent, it meant he had to work differently because he'd lost his edge by choice.
Inwardly, he grimaced. He was turning into Raines.
Michael touched Sophia's elbow to alert her to the changing dynamic. They were seated in the open air lounge talking to the Sinaloa contact, the woman who was to facilitate a real estate acquisition. Michael noticed she appeared to be looking for someone.
He glanced the direction where Jesse had gone; he was nearby, taking a call from Raines.
When Ivan greeted Michael, he knew he was in trouble and so did Sophia. With a small movement, he indicated she should move away. She saw, understood and ignored.
Ivan clapped a hand on his shoulder; Oscar appeared on his opposite side. He was indeed up for auction, Michael thought, and he didn't expect it happening this quickly.
He'd warned Jesse that predictable Russians liked the flourish of unpredictability, but until he saw Russians who should have been at the intelligence office masquerading as a security center inside Dyban Industries, he knew how unpredictable this situation had become.
"My friend Dmitri, Dmitri Malkin. How good to see you," Oscar said clamping on to his arm while shoving the barrel of a gun against his ribcage. Ivan checked his right arm and used his left hand to remove the .45 Michael had tucked at the small of his back before sliding it inside his suit coat pocket.
"It's my lucky day," Michael said in Russian, to which Ivan laughed. "No, it's ours, Westen."
Michael saw Jesse turn, assess and start walking toward them. Oscar saw him, too, and used the barrel of the gun to indicate Michael should stand. With his hands free, Michael rose and with a lightning-swift motion, latched onto Oscar's wrist and twisted, using thumb pressure to wrest the gun from Oscar's hand. It discharged, and Michael felt the percussion pressure in his ears and then the cold burn and thump of the shot below his ribcage. Ivan lost his grip momentarily, and the small, intense struggle changed when Oscar's weapon discharged again with Michael's hand locked on his, only this time it was Sophia who flinched.
Michael sought her face. "Run, go," he urged.
She turned and began moving away as Jesse appeared. When Ivan turned and pointed his weapon at him, Jesse held his hands at waist height, his fingers spread, his palms open and stopped moving.
Michael was struggling with pained, uncoordinated movements to remove his suit jacket as Ivan and Oscar pushed and shoved and moved him toward a waiting limo. By the time he got there, he was able to wad his jacket and press it against his waist to staunch the blood flow. He couldn't feel his back, so he didn't' know if the bullet had gone through or if it was tumbling around inside, shortening his life.
He was shoved into the limo and found himself facing two more Russians and Anson Fullerton/R.J. Buller.
The Russians were animated, arguing. Michael knew Fullerton didn't speak the language, something he could exploit.
"He's wounded, how could you let this happen?"
"He fought me. You didn't expect him to come easily, did you? With the woman there?"
"Alexi said he was not to be harmed!"
"There's blood on the leather! Alexi will not like that!"
Anson studied Michael and the blood on his hands, his jacket, his pants, the car seat.
"What are they saying?" Anson asked Ivan who chose not to reply.
"Michael?" he demanded. "What are they saying?"
"I don't know what they're saying, but my wife says you fight like a girl."
Ivan laughed.
Michael took that as a positive sign just before he passed out.
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Kimberly Danielle Pearce Porter was laser focused on her problem: Locating Michael Westen and getting him back.
Once, she told him a useful lie about a dog. She'd never had a dog, but she did have a bulldog-like determination she'd carried throughout her professional life. She'd thought the burned spy Max befriended was not to be trusted, and she'd been right in the wrong way.
Now, Michael and Fiona Westen, two people she once held in the least regard, had become the kind of friends she would go to the wall for.
Dani glanced at Fiona and grasped her contained, controlled panic about her husband who not only was injured, but he'd been kidnapped by at least four Russians.
Jesse reported the startling news before he'd gone looking for Sophia, then called back when he'd located her. Currently, they were in a DEA-operated storage building near the port, waiting for Sam, Ryan and Nick to arrive momentarily. A DEA team was on site, and Dani had been effective in dealing with their contact here.
Fiona's appraisal of Michael's kidnapping was darkly positive. "Somehow, he'll make it work," she said, "if he can. He wants to immobilize Anson."
"If it's getting Anson or removing Michael, we take Michael, and get Anson another day," Dani said. "Agreed?
"Yes." Fiona took a deep breath and met Dani's gaze. "I can't lose him."
"I know. I know."
When Raines had left, clearly emotionally torn between his work and personal life, Dani assured him she would handle the op.
Without asking, Fiona collected Barry and Oswald from an exterior office in SecuriCorp and brought them into the com room. They were monitoring the agents in the CIA and DEA that Ozzie already identified as info leakers, people most likely being blackmailed by Fullerton.
Fiona wanted ears on their working chatter, and wanted them to be aware of what she and Dani were doing. This way, they could also keep track of the FBI watching Sophia's kid-less kidnappers. Anson shouldn't check in with them, but if he did, they would know it.
Moving Ozzie and Barry did not follow security protocols, but Fiona had little respect for CIA protocol when it didn't make sense, and Dani had no objection. Separating Ozzie and Barry from them had never made sense to her. Also, the work area Oswald and Barry now had gave them broader access to monitoring the previously identified problems in all three agencies. With Buller Senior captured, they were following the last worm who'd riddled security in three agencies, and those they passed along information to.
Raines left Dani the contact info, so when she was prepared to move on the arrests in all three agencies, she would be able to.
Fiona also asked Barry to track Jesse's credit card purchases, and see if anyone was watching him that way. Ozzie and Barry were talking about the FBI mole activity when Fiona frowned and looked at Dani. "What's the problem?" she said, reading her expression.
"A shot on the left side means he could be hit in the stomach, pancreas, spleen or kidney. Depending on caliber, and the angle of the shot, he could actually . . . "
"He could die. I know. Just like you nearly died from blood loss, so don't try to cheer me up," Fiona said with grim humor, "because you're not any good at it."
Dani grimaced. "Sorry, I was thinking out loud."
"Don't stop," Fiona advised. "We all knew this could happen to any of them."
Fiona refused to give into panic.
Refused.
She needed every one of her senses, abilities and skills fully functional if she was to help Michael. She knew Dani understood and watched as she tried to reach Sam who wasn't responding at the moment.
Fiona and Dani assumed both ops had gone south so fast because previously identified leaks had either sprung new leaks or they'd missed someone.
"It all happened so fast," they heard Ozzie telling Barry. "We missed someone. We need to go looking."
"Maybe we missed more than one?" Barry surmised.
"Well, find them," Fiona said. "Michael's life may depend on it."
When Raines left, Dani opted not to report his absence or the reason for it. When her line blinked, alerting her to incoming communication, she opened it so Fiona could hear, too.
"Dani, we're watching and they're looking for someone," Jesse reported.
"Keep watching. Sam, Nick and Ryan should be there in ten minutes or less. We're still focusing on leaks. Both ops went bad too fast that we need to know who made that happen.
"How's Fi with that?"
"My idea," Fiona spoke up. "Guns blazing now could get Michael killed. We need to blind them, and stop feeding them info."
"I can't believe you just said that, Fi."
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When Michael awoke, he felt as if he was floating above himself.
Anson was there, speaking to a Russian. Or trying to speak to a Russian. Someone, a woman, was providing an inaccurate translation of the conversation for him.
Michael slit open an eye and tried to figure out where he was. He could hear the sound of water. He could see Fiona's face. Was she here? Swearing. Foul, Russian swear words. He heard that. Then . . . nothing.
The next time he came to, someone was speaking to him in Spanish. Cool, dry fingers touched his throat, his hand. Someone shone a light in his eyes. He squinted and tried to move, but his limbs felt so heavy he couldn't lift them.
He figured out it was a doctor who was speaking Spanish.
Michael did not speak it. He could grasp basic English-like words but it cluttered his grasp of the Cyrillic-based languages of ancient Greek origins that Russians spoke. Why he could grasp easily what so many found so difficult was a mystery he had no interest in solving, not when those around him were proficient in the romantic languages. One of his captors lapsed into Spanish with the doctor. It was an odd linguistic note, Spanish spoken with a Russian inflection.
Michael understood they wanted him alive. He wasn't sure what the gunshot hit; he was fairly certain it wasn't his stomach, or was it? He was cognizant and clear thinking. Or was he dreaming that? Maybe, his eyes were closed. He moved his hand over his stomach and felt a bandage.
"What happened?" he asked in Russian. His shirt was gone. He had no idea how much time had passed since he lost consciousness, or where he was.
"Doctor removed the bullet," the reply came, also in Russian. "And stopped the bleeding."
Unfortunately, Michael now found himself in a similar position to the Yakuza mobster they'd captured last year when he refused to allow his mother, posing as a nurse, to inject him with a pain killer. As the doctor approached with an injection, Michael reacted instinctively and grasped his wrist to hold it away.
His captor laughed.
"It's an antibiotic, fool. Die, and I will watch with happiness," Ivan said in English.
"You must have changed your mind," Michael said, releasing the doctor's wrist, allowing the injection.
"About what?"
"You said you didn't like my friend."
Ivan's laugh was anything but cheerful. "You said you didn't either, but we have much in common, Westen, besides you. We want many of the same things."
Michael responded in Russian. "He breaks promises."
The Russian laughed again. "So do I."
"Be careful, Ivan, if you work with Anson and the cartels," Michael warned him in Russian. "He'll steal your cash and your guns and take them for his own."
"We know."
Michael watched the Russian for a moment before he lost consciousness and saw the folder. The image slipped and slid, coming and going. He felt queasy. It was an average blue and green bound file, not very thick, but it was stuffed completely full of nightmares.
Michael read it and had tried to hide it from Fiona, but she saw it and read it, too. In educating themselves about the Sinaloa and Los Zetas cartels, the CIA folder on cartel sicarios was an extremely disturbing and repulsive bible of atrocities.
He warned Dani when he passed the file on to her, but she was fully aware of the terror cartels harvested and put on display. The macabre report illustrated the level nauseating and terrifying actions sicarios used to obtain information from their victims. And sometimes, like Sophia's husband's family could attest, they purposefully thwarted the law enforcement by removing the heads of their victims, or hands, or fingers with identifying prints.
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Sophia had been waiting and watching as the CIA and DEA teams planned their next moves when she saw the little man of her husband's night sweats arrive with two other men.
This sicario was a man honored by the Sinaloas for his ability to obtain information from the most stubborn in very little time. She quickly alerted the teams waiting and watching the building where Westen had been taken. She discussed it with Jesse, and they debated, but in the end they called the change of circumstance back to Miami.
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Fiona was focusing on Michael's tracker. It had not moved in some time. He was either dead or passed out.
She prayed he was passed out. It was Raines' wife who was currently responsible for providing the highly valuable technological assistance for the operation. The experimental technology she'd developed that her company made available to SecuriCorp would be thoroughly vetted during this operation.
The CIA would have considered it risky technology, but private enterprise had already tested it and wanted real world field results to sell it.
The trackers she'd brought along were something entirely new. Lightweight, nearly undetectable by current scanning and disruption methods, yet powerful and accessible through some newly developed satellite technology. Dani made sure Michael and Jesse both had them in their shoes and the back of one of Sophia's pierced earrings had been affixed with one.
Michael had asked to have access to several of the smallest, thinnest and most easily applied. Parents were a potential consumers for the product, but the lightweight, nearly invisible and undetectable features made them ideal for use by intelligence agencies.
"Fi, what have you got over there?" Dani wondered, listening to low level chatter with Fi, Ozzie and Barry.
"Ozzie's found three active links, one at the CIA office here that links to a DEA location in Key West and other is across the street from the grannie the FBI is keeping an eye on in case Anson calls in to check on Sophia's kids."
"Fiona, come quick!" Dani said.
On the oversized screen before her, and the identical one Fiona could see, two small blinking lights appeared. The stationary one was Jesse; the moving one was Michael. Dani was still watching her map, listening for communications. Similar to being an air traffic controller, she had to see where everyone was, offer instructions and anticipate problems.
"Can we tell if he's walking or being moved?"
"Just a sec, let's see if he activated . . . yes. He's good. He's got the thin trackers on three of his captors. Good job, Michael," Dani praised.
"Look," Fiona said.
"That's Jesse, there's Sam and the team. They're right behind them. I think you're about to get your husband back."
Fiona couldn't spare a look away from the overlay on the wide screen.
That's when Jesse reported the news no one wanted, about the arrival of a Sinaloa sicario whose lethal actions were only surpassed by his savagery.
They were standing down and reassessing.
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One of the flaws in co-opting a second identity and having a father whose physical appearance was nearly identical to his own, was how easily Anson Fullerton/R.J. Buller could be incorrectly identified.
The senior Buller was unmistakable with his sun bleached hair and ruddily tanned skin, and so was the younger. Senior had been operating inside Mexico for decades, trading guns and drugs, supplying transportation.
In the last few years, he'd grown as greedy as his offspring, and had started selling information on Sinaloa activity to Los Zetas.
Then he decided to bring the Russians in and sell them information, too.
In the senior Buller's world, everything had a price, but he should have known better. Russians never liked being played as fools by Americans, even if the American wasn't particularly loyal, patriotic or steadfast.
His father used his identity; they swapped their identities when it suited their purposes. From a distance, they looked like the same person. So there were two of them, but there was only one being held by the Russians who discovered one thing they could reach an agreement on with the Sinaloa cartel: the man who served as a traitor to both. Or, his son.
Judging from the look of pure terror on Anson Fullerton/R.J. Buller's face, he knew who the sicario was, too.
The sicario took a pair of pliers and used it to break one of Anson's thumbs. He cried in pain. The men with him bagged his head, handcuffed him and led him away.
The woman who had been Michael and Sophia's Sinaloa contact turned to the Russians. "This was a good trade. You have your prize, we have ours."
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Hector Oaks sent his final message to Anson. The newest information he had from the DEA put their team on his doorstep in Santo Domingo in the next 3 minutes. What happened after that was not his concern.
For a decade he'd led a double life until last year when Westen and another agent arrested him. When he wouldn't talk, they threatened him with Westen, but after speaking to the man with the frightening reputation, he found his hope restored. Briefly.
But, no longer. He was done now. Anson couldn't know his parents had released the Valdez children to the FBI a week ago. His parents would be incarcerated for their roles in the kidnapping and he couldn't help them any other way.
Hector had no reason to live.
His wife and daughter had been killed in an accident after he'd given the CIA Kessler's location following Westen's interrogation. He'd been hopeful but that ended when the DIA shrink arranged for him to slip away from the psychiatric care he'd been incarcerated. Anson had taken a sick delight in manipulating Hector for his computer skills. He was the one who'd arranged for his wife and daughter's death; next would be his elderly parents.
Hector could do this no longer. He'd sent a detailed confession to several high level managers inside the DEA and CIA.
A lethal nap was his personal choice to end pain. He took the tablet in his mouth, then his last sip of cola and sat in the lounger, and put the foot rest up. He hoped he would see his wife and daughter soon. He closed his eyes.
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Barry grinned. "That's my guy. George Anders. He went underground for a while but he's back, and look who he's doing business with? A whole bunch of Russians. We may want to rethink who you stash cash with, Oz. Looks like George is a little off."
"We're a little off," Ozzie replied.
Fiona nearly choked on the sip she'd just taken from her bottle of water. Barry wasn't talking to her, he was talking to Ozzie. "Did you say George Anders?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"I know a George Anders. Tell me about your George."
"He's kinda . . . sleazy, if I do say so myself, but that's not his charm. He's an excellent, private banker. Hides money for everyone, including me. He just got back after a long vacation."
"Back?"
"He's in the Caymans, Fi. All the good bankers are. You know that."
She wasn't done. "And you know him because . . . ?"
Barry sighed. "Just because you've incarcerated me and the CIA has coerced me into sticking around here doesn't mean I stopped taking care of my business. My clients demand the best in personal service and I provide it. I was just checking on some stuff for Oz."
She ignored Barry's assessment of being coerced. Raines was paying him and Ozzie handsomely for their services. "Can you tell from that . . . who his clients are?"
"You mean, like their names?"
"And account numbers."
"It'll take a while, but probably. Is this important?"
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Sam had waited as long as he was going to wait. Screw the DEA and their decision making processes. Let 'em call HQ. He didn't work for them or the CIA, well, not really. That was his friend inside, and he was injured.
He looked at Peterbaugh and Carnahan. "I'm not waiting for these guys to make a decision. We know who's there and what's where. Let's go."
Ten minutes later, after they'd searched everything they could search, he called Jesse.
"They're gone, Jess. Call Dani and see if that fancy tracker is still working," he said as Peterbaugh motioned for him to come over to a small box like room. He shone his Streamlight on the problem: shoes, bloody pants, bloody jacket and a bloodier shirt, all clothing Jesse confirmed Mike had been wearing earlier in the day.
Carnahan interrupted. "Where are the DEA people?"
"Behind us, arguing about what to do next."
"That shouldn't be a problem," Carnahan said. "There are enough drugs and guns stored here to keep them busy counting for weeks."
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"They're on their way back to Miami," Dani told Jesse. "The trackers are active. That's strange. And it looks like Michael is with them. You need air support."
"Could you tell how bad he's hurt?" Fiona asked.
"Yeah, Fi. It's bad."
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On the up side, he was back in Miami.
On the down side, he was a hostage of a Russian black ops team.
"You remember me?" Alexi asked, holding the radio transmitter with a deadman's switch in his hand. He waved it in front of Michael's face.
Michael's hands were tied behind his back. He was on his knees, with only his boxers and a scuba diver's belt wired full of C-4 packs between himself and the outside world.
He was in pain and knew he could not move, but his mind was clear enough to realize this was about revenge, retribution.
The Russians were taking great amusement that Michael Westen, the one man brigade who brought so much havoc and death to the Spetsnaz, had been flown from Santo Domingo to a private Dyban Industries airfield in Miami in his underwear. He'd been barely conscious, but aware enough to know what was being said around him.
He'd passed out several times; no matter how he fought for awareness, he couldn't maintain it. He thought he heard the Spanish doctor once or twice, but he was cognizant now.
Michael grew intensely aware of the grit of the concrete under his bare knees, the sun burning into his back and shoulders, the binding cutting into his wrists, the crippling pain in his abdomen.
The scenario was eerily familiar, a dramatic re-staging of a moment Alexi needed to erase. It was taking place in the same parking lot Michael himself had chosen two years before for Alexi's humiliation.
The Russian had changed his appearance dramatically since then. Gone was the head full of curly hair. His scalp was shaved in an obvious attempt to induce a harsher image more in line with his Spetsnaz training.
Unless he was mistaken, the Russian black ops team with him had familiar faces. Funny, he thought they were all in prison since they'd been arrested at Congressman Cowley's home two years ago.
"You should not have told me you shot my brother," Alexi said. "Now you will die."
"If you are in business with the Sinaloa cartel, you will have the same opportunity," Michael said.
"We are friends, for now. You, Vesten, you are enemy. You vill die here. Your friends vatch."
"My friends?" Michael looked beyond Alexi's shoulder.
"I invite them. See?"
He stepped away from Michael, until he could see Fiona and Sam in front of him. they were being held at gunpoint by Alexi's comrades. Which meant Jesse was somewhere near. And Dani. And maybe Peterbaugh and Carnahan, he hoped.
Alexi stood straighter and moved behind Michael. He held the switch so everyone could see the power he welded.
"Now, I give you Michael Vesten," Alexi said with a certain flair. "Lots of little pieces."
He stepped back, and put some distance between himself and Michael.
"Better move back a little more, Alexi," Sam yelled the advice. "If you've got as much C-4 as that belt looks like it has, you and your friends are going to be as splattered as us. Isn't that what you want? For all of us to die together?"
"You deserve it," Alexi muttered, backing away another step.
The Russians holding guns on Sam and Fiona also backed away, perhaps more than Alexi would have wanted.
"Please . . . " Fiona begged. "I just want to say good bye to him."
Sam looked at Fiona then addressed Alexi. "Aw come on, Alexi, we let you live. Let his girl give him a kiss."
Alexi held up the transmitter. "Go, kiss. Then good bye."
Fiona walked slowly then dropped to her knees in front of Michael and used the small, surgically sharp blade she'd palmed to slice through the wired connectors on the dive belt while kissed his hot, dry lips at the same time. When she was clear, she raised her arm so Sam could see which triggered the rest of the team.
Carnahan and Peterbaugh told Alexi's support to drop their weapons in Russian; Jesse approached Alexi from the rear while he was busy trying to activate the switch that was no longer effective.
And Michael Westen was saved by a kiss.
He was also saved by an ambulance that was waiting nearby. Later that day, the surgeon told Fiona that the massive infection that was eating his body from the inside out could have killed him in another ten minutes.
He had no idea how he'd managed to survive for as long as he had.