Page 44 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

F YODOR’S stomach clenched.

Every operation experienced problems. This was to be expected.

But problems came in a range of severities.

The next transmission would determine if this kind of problem was the natural by-product of operational friction or the mission-ending variety.

Fyodor hoped for the former. He’d already spent enough time in this African shithole.

A second passed.

Then two.

During a kinetic operation, a handful of seconds could be an eternity, but Sasha should have returned to the airwaves by now.

“Five, this is One,” Fyodor said, turning his back to the gaggle of women passing by on the opposite side of the street, “please elaborate.”

“Five, this is One, sorry. I’m on the move.”

The heavy breathing that accompanied the transmission suggested that this wasn’t just a simple reposition.

Sasha was running.

“Five, this is One, the target just hopped into the back of a three-wheeled passenger bike. They’re moving southwest toward Rue Bourguiba, over.”

Fyodor tried to make sense of what he was hearing. They’d been conducting surveillance on the target for the past two days, and he’d never ridden a bike anywhere. For trips beyond the city’s limits, he drove a shabby Yugo.

Otherwise, he walked.

Why the change in routine now?

Pushing this concern aside, Fyodor pulled a city map from his back pocket and unfolded it as he thought through how to best position his team.

His plan to interdict the target on the western side of the Old Harbor wasn’t without risk.

The narrow streets and dim alleys worked to the commandos’ advantage, but the entrance to a popular mosque sat just over two hundred yards west as the crow flew from the waterfront.

The next call to prayer was still several hours away, but the structure served as a focal point for the community.

Congregants came and went all day long, and Fyodor wanted to avoid potential witnesses if possible.

Viewed from this angle, the new development might be helpful. If the target turned left on Rue Bourguiba, he would be moving east, away from the mosque and toward the ocean. Fyodor traced the route on his map with his index finger and found what he was looking for.

“One, this is Five,” Fyodor said. “Did he turn right or left onto Bourguiba? East or west? Over.”

“Five, this is One, west. He’s—”

A burst of static interrupted the transmission. Fyodor waited for his sniper to resume speaking, but the radio remained silent. “One, this is Five, you broke up. Say again, over.”

Nothing.

“One, this is Five, do you read me?”

Silence.

Fyodor frowned.

The team’s low-profile radios’ transmission range was limited to line of sight.

As such, the commandos had weathered several communications blackouts while moving through denser areas of the city over the last several days.

While he would have preferred to confirm the target’s current location with Sasha, he had the information he needed.

“Four, this is Five, have you been monitoring One’s transmissions?”

“Five, this is Four, affirmative. I’m moving my team south to Rue Garibaldi, over.”

Not for the first time Fyodor found himself thanking his lucky stars for Alexei.

The veteran was almost always able to anticipate what Fyodor was thinking and act accordingly.

Rue Garibaldi was a one-way street that intersected the southwest-northeast-running Rue Bourguiba from the south.

The intersection looked more like a lazy Y canted to its side than a T.

This worked to the team’s advantage. The diagonal nature of the intersection offered a blind spot to the south.

A blind spot Alexei’s assault team could use to their advantage.

“Four, this is Five, I won’t make it in time. You have execution authority. I’ll provide exfil, over.”

Though he’d wanted to help take down the target, Fyodor knew he’d made the correct decision. With Sasha out of radio contact, someone needed to grab the team’s van and provide a vehicular getaway for the assault team.

That someone was him.

“Five, this is Four, copy all. We are almost in position. I can see the bike approaching from the northeast. We— blyat !”

Fyodor stopped, waiting for Alexei to continue. His earpiece remained silent. “Four this is Five, say again, over.”

More silence.

“Four, this is Five, over.”

Nothing.

“Any station this net, this is Five, respond if you can hear me, over.”

It was not uncommon for a team member to drop off the net when conducting surveillance.

Even with the low-profile radios, there were instances when an operative’s surroundings prevented them from speaking.

In this scenario, the team member would usually double-click the transmit button on their radio to signify that they could hear but not respond to radio traffic.

Usually.

Even this might be forgone if the operative thought a bystander might notice the movement. Instead, the operative would either wait for the person to move or relocate themselves. But in each contingency, there was one thing a member of the Alfa Group would never do.

Curse on the radio.

“Any station this net, any station this net, this is Five, sound off, over.”

Fyodor’s stomach clenched.

Something was wrong.

The parking lot with the van was just two hundred yards away, but the distance was deceiving. To reach Alexei’s assaulters, Fyodor would have to navigate a maze of one-way streets.

That would take time.

Time that his teammates might not have.

Fyodor raced south, all thought of remaining clandestine abandoned. Alexei was a senior noncommissioned officer. He’d been on the team before Fyodor had even earned his maroon beret.

The commando did not rattle easily.

With the ocean forming a natural barrier to the east, Fyodor had arrayed his team to cover the remaining three cardinal directions that bounded the Old Harbor.

Sasha had been in charge of the north, while Alexei and the two other members of the assault team were arrayed to the south.

Fyodor had taken up position about two blocks to the west of the inlet.

He’d arranged the team this way because the position to the north offered a clear view of the marina, and based on their previous two days running the surveillance, Volkov would probably head south from the café into Alexei’s waiting arms. The arrangement also had another benefit.

Fyodor could serve as the human goalkeeper between his team and the mosque should the target decide to move west.

While not as experienced as Alexei, Fyodor had been a team leader for several years and had learned to trust his intuition.

He sensed that the mosque spelled trouble and wanted to keep the takedown as far from its walled premises as possible.

Now his intuition was telling him something else.

Rather than follow the most direct route to Alexei’s last known position, Fyodor intended to move south on a parallel street and then approach the intersection from the west. This would take longer, but he would be useless to his teammates if choosing the more direct route meant rushing headlong into an ambush.

But that didn’t mean he was happy about added transit time.

“Any station this net, any station this net, this is Five, respond, over.”

The ensuing silence felt more ominous than before.

Abandoning further attempts at contacting his team, Fyodor concentrated on pumping his legs and arms. Now that he was farther from the more pedestrian-friendly thoroughfares, the streets were far less congested with people, but the space between adjacent buildings had all but vanished.

As the city grew denser, the distinction between the sidewalk and street appeared to be up for interpretation.

Parked cars sat with tires haphazardly over the curbs, while tables and chairs from cafés and coffee shops battled for supremacy with the vehicular traffic inching along the thoroughfare.

Fyodor dodged a motor scooter riding against traffic, hurtled the roots of a massive palm tree sprouting from a sidewalk planter, and slid across the hood of a four-door sedan straddling the walkway.

The driver let loose a stream of angry Arabic, but Fyodor paid the man no mind.

He was entirely focused on the intersection of Rue Bourguiba just ahead.

With a burst of speed, Fyodor turned right and barreled down the street.

He dodged a man seated on a four-legged stool and ignored a throng of shouting children.

A cluster of silky oak trees to the right marked the Y-intersection between Rue Bourguiba and Rue Garibaldi.

The tiny bit of cover would allow Fyodor to peer around the corner against the flood of one-way traffic to try to determine what had befallen his men.

He halted his headlong rush.

The clump of trees created a perfect hide site.

A trio of empty folding chairs sat in the shade offered by the green canopy and the adjacent video-game store was already closed for the evening.

He drew the Makarov pistol from the concealed holster at the small of his back and held the weapon along his right leg to shield it from onlookers.

He thought about screwing on the suppressor concealed in his left pocket but didn’t.

Threading the metal cylinder onto the pistol’s muzzle might attract attention.

Instead, Fyodor concentrated on calming his breathing as he formulated a plan.

Alexei and his team had been approaching the intersection from the south, or right, in anticipation of intercepting the target traveling west down Rue Bourguiba.

Since Fyodor could see no sign of the target or his men, it stood to reason that whatever had befallen them had occurred on Rue Garibaldi to his right.

With this in mind, he decided to take a peek down the one-way street while using the trees as cover.