THE RUSSIAN’S GREED
AVENGINGANGEL
SEVENDEADLY SINS SERIES
BOOK#2
CAPDANIELS
** USA **
ALSOBY CAP DANIELS
The Chase Fulton Novels
Book One: The Opening Chase
Book Two: The Broken Chase
Book Three: The Stronger Chase
Book Four: The Unending Chase
Book Five: The Distant Chase
Book Six: The Entangled Chase
Book Seven: The Devil’s Chase
Book Eight: The Angel’s Chase
Book Nine: The Forgotten Chase
Book Ten: The Emerald Chase
Book Eleven: The Polar Chase
Book Twelve: The Burning Chase
Book Thirteen: The Poison Chase
Book Fourteen: TheBitter Chase
The Avenging Angel – Seven Deadly Sins Series
Book One: The Russian’s Pride
Book Two: The Russian’s Greed
Book Three: The Russian’s Gluttony (Autumn 2021)
Stand-Alone Novels
We Were Brave
Novellas
I Am Gypsy
The Chase Is On
The Russian’s Greed
Avenging Angel
Seven Deadly Sins Book #2
Cap Daniels
Thisis a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, historical events,and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or havebeen used fictitiously. Although many locations such as marinas,airports, hotels, restaurants, etc. used in this work actually exist,they are used fictitiously and may have been relocated, exaggerated,or otherwise modified by creative license for the purpose of thiswork. Although many characters are based on personalities, physicalattributes, skills, or intellect of actual individuals, all of thecharacters in this work are products of the author’s imaginationexcept those used for historical significance.
Published by:
** USA **
Allrights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced ortransmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,including information storage and retrieval systems without writtenpermission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quotebrief passages in a review.
13Digit ISBN: 978-1-951021-22-1
Libraryof Congress Control Number: 2021907293
Copyright© 2021 Cap Daniels – All Rights Reserved
CoverDesign: German Creative
Printedin the United States of America
“Earth provides enough to satisfy every man's needs, but notevery man's greed.”
―MahatmaGandhi
THE RUSSIAN’S GREED
Zhadnost'Russkikh
CAPDANIELS
1
ZAPAKHDYMA
(SMELL THE SMOKE)
March 2004
Anastasia "Anya"Burinkova gripped the brushed nickel handle of the heavy wooden door,raising the handle and silently moving the door through its arc.Providing the precisely measured amount of lifting force on the door,she kept the tell-tale creaks of the hinges from alarming anyonebeyond the temporary barricade.
She’d learned andmemorized the sound over the previous six days of her confinement.She could tell who’d opened the door by the tone of the cryinghinges. Those in a hurry brought a high-pitched squeal, while thepeople who moved through their appointed tasks with patience causedthe creaking to sound like light, repeating clicks. The pneumaticcloser attached at the top of the doorframe hissed like the sound ofa sleeping child’s breath and was punctuated by the awful clang ofthe bolt striking the jamb. The sounds were etched into her memorylike the words of an old favorite song.
When Anya opened thedoor slower than anyone else, the hinges gave no hint of discomfortand offered only silence through the arc. The former Russian assassinpeered through the narrow opening down the seemingly endless hallway,but her vision was not the chosen sense; instead, she held her breathand allowed her ears to listen for movement in the dimly litcorridor. Like the unique sounds of the hinges, she’d learned thesubtle differences between the footfalls of the eleven women andseven men who rotated through shifts, day after day, in the placewhere minutes passed like hours and hours like weeks.
The meticulous planninghad occupied her mind while her body recovered from the injuriesinflicted aboard a luxurious yacht at the hands of a Russian mafiaboss in Miami. He’d gained the upper hand after slipping anodorless, tasteless sedative into the hot tea that had become part ofher routine.
Her mind drifted backto a time when she’d admonished Chase Fulton, an American covertoperative, for always drinking from the same cup. Routines breedpredictability, and predictability leads to vulnerability. That’sexactly what Leo, the Russian mafia boss, used to disorient her justminutes before he’d shoved her into a mirrored wall so violentlythat she’d suffered lacerations to her neck, head, and shoulder.The cosmetic surgeon promised only minor, hardly noticeable scarring.
Anya’s naturalEastern European beauty was a tool she learned to use to its fullestadvantage. The early skills were cultivated and developed at theSparrow School just outside Moscow, but she’d mastered the skillson the streets as an officer of the Sluzhba vneshney razvedkiRossiyskoy Federatsii, officially dubbed The Foreign IntelligenceService of the Russian Federation. The SVR rose from the ashes of theformer KGB after the fall of the Soviet Union, but the intelligenceservices of the world believed there was little difference betweenthe modern agency and the Cold War–era beast.
Just as she expected,the hallway was empty and the lights were dimmed. Confident she couldmake the requisite sixteen strides to the stairwell without beingseen, she stepped into the corridor and applied just enough pressureto the door to avoid the hiss of the closer and the knock of the boltstriking the jamb. She moved precisely as she’d been taught,allowing the outside of her feet to strike the ground first and thenrolling onto the balls and toes.
Reaching the metal doorto the stairwell, she meticulously pressed the panic bar and listenedas the metal bar sank into its frame. Avoiding the metallic clangwould be impossible, but with motions barely above a snail’s pace,she could mitigate the sound. Once through the door, she scanned thehallway again and eased the door back into place without beingnoticed.
Taking the stairs twoat a time, she reached the landing on the roof of the building. Toher delight, the door to the roof was propped ajar with a small blockof wood keeping it from closing—a sign that her target was indeedon the roof.
The door swung silentlyas she stepped through and onto the flat roof. Instantly, her nosefilled with the smell of a cigarette—the same smell she’ddetected on the skin and clothing of the man who did the tasks theregistered nurses would not.
She stepped from behindan enormous air conditioning unit and watched David, the LPN clad inblue scrubs, exhale a long plume of white smoke into the night skyover the Walter Reed Military Medical Center at Naval SupportActivity Bethesda, just north of Washington, D.C. She’d assumed hewould see and hear her coming, but the sounds of the night masked herstealthy approach.
“Could I get one ofthose?” she said.
David jumped and shothis eyes toward
