Page 43 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

B IZERTE , T UNISIA

F YODOR grinned at the familiar fluttering in his stomach.

The feeling of the hunt.

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 soccer ball 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.

He’d put a great deal of time into planning this operation.

Far more time than with the average target, but there was nothing average about the man he was hunting.

The traitor had done incalculable damage to the Soviet Union by passing secrets to the Americans.

The range of the former intelligence officer’s treachery ran the gamut from a list of Soviet assets that had penetrated American intelligence and military targets, to Afghanistan battle plans, to deliberations between the KGB’s senior leadership.

Even so, Fyodor couldn’t allow his thirst for vengeance to cloud his operational judgment.

Yes, Dmitri Volkov was an old man and much past his prime, but it would be a mistake to underestimate the spy’s wiles.

Volkov hadn’t just outwitted his compatriots for the years he’d been an active CIA asset.

He’d also managed to stay hidden after defecting.

Fyodor assumed the traitor still had a trick or two up his sleeve.

With this in mind, he and his assistant team leader had chosen to take the western edge of the harbor inlet.

This side was more congested, but Fyodor intended to use this to his advantage.

Throngs of pedestrians meant that the traitor would have a harder time picking up the Russian surveillance team, and the warren of streets and maze of alleys provided multiple opportunities to interdict the traitor away from prying eyes.

Volkov might have been a master spy, but he was no match for a team of Alfa Group commandos.

The traitorous KGB officer wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Five, this is One, we have a problem.”