men sat at folding tables, three laptop computers on the tables, the canisters of HEU lined on the wooden floor, a small video camera trained on them. Twenty feet to Gates’ left, Jason Canfield was tied to a chair. The kid had dried blood around his mouth, one eye swollen shut.
Gates looked up at Borshnik and said, “We had a deal! We had an agreement!”
“So did my father with your FBI in 1951!” Borshnik roared.
“That had nothing to do with me.”
“Yes it did! Because the man who lied to my father trained you, and you lied to me about Robert Miller. You told me he died of cancer. Now I know otherwise. You denied me that retribution years ago.”
“I’m more valuable to you alive than dead.”
“You have no value. You made a mistake, said something that should only be said if the other side knows it. You understand the game, but in your haste, you told me you had been exposed. The only value you have to your government now is in making you an example. I shall save them the cost, most generous of me. Don’t you agree? Probably not, because for you, it has always been about the money.”
Borshnik pulled a roll of one hundred bills out of his pocket, shoved them between Gate’s teeth and tied the bills in his mouth using a small piece of rope like a bit and bridle for a horse. He nodded and one of his men plugged the wires into a 210 volt power outlet. The force of the electricity threw Gates back in the chair, his head slamming against the brick wall.
Gates screamed, his voice like frightened growls from a muzzled dog. His body convulsing and shaking as the electricity burned into his nervous system. Smoke coming from his wrists. His neck corded in veins and muscles. His heart pumped in erratic beats, his bladder collapsing and urine soaking his underwear.
Jason Canfield looked the other way, tears seeping from his swollen eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
Andrei Keltzin stood by a dirty window on the north side of the room, looked out and saw Mohammed Sharif’s three vehicles turning into the parking lot. He said nothing as he watched Borshnik move away from Gate’s body and speak to one of the men sitting behind the bank of laptop computers.
Keltzin stepped back from the window. “Shall I dispose of the corpse?”
Borshnik looked at Gates burned body. “I wonder what they did with my father’s body. Probably fed it to American hogs. Yes, remove it.”
Keltzin nodded, began untwisting the wires from the charred flesh. “Could Zahkar help me?”
Borshnik said, “Be quick.”
On the ground floor, Keltzin said, “We can carry him to the end of the dock and let him go in the water. It is probably deep. The body should stay down for a while before it floats. You will be back in Russia by then.”
“And you return to New York to await further instructions?”
“Yes. Let us share a cigarette first. I have some very good ones made in Pakistan.” Keltzin reached inside his jacket and pulled a knife, the movement a half second blur. He sank the knife to the hilt directly into Sorokin’s heart. The man fell like a steer in a slaughterhouse.
Keltzin turned and waved toward Mohammed Sharif’s vehicles, directing him to park on the far side of the warehouse. Sharif got out of the car, nine men following him.
“We can go though the freight elevator entrance,” Keltzin said. “I just took out one of his men. That leaves seven including Borshnik. They are on the third floor, the northeast corner of the building. Go up the steps and turn right at the top. The room will be less than twenty meters down the hall.”
Sharif gestured with his head and one of his men handed Keltzin an oversized black attache case. Keltzin lowered it to the ground and opened it. The case was filled with stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Sharif said, “We do not have time for you to count it.”
Keltzin grinned. “I trust you.”
Sharif touched his cheek and said, “That will be your last big mistake.” One of his men raised a Beretta with a silencer and shot Keltzin through the back of the head, blood and brain matter scattering across the green of the money.
Sharif looked across the river. “Our boat is approaching. Proceed upstairs. You know what to do. Today, some of us will enter paradise.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
Eric Hunter nodded his head, anxious for the caller to finish. “Thanks,” he said disconnecting.
O’Brien asked, “What do we have?”
“Cab dispatcher said his driver reported that he’d taken a customer to Pier 13 on Jacksonville’s northeast side, not far from JaxPort. It’s a warehouse area.”
O’Brien squealed the tires racing out of the parking lot, almost hitting a man unloading golf clubs from the back of a car. “Did the driver leave after he dropped off the man?” O’Brien asked.
“Dispatch doesn’t know. The driver isn’t answering his radio or his cell.”
“Which means we can’t get a description of his customer.”
“Yeah.”
“How far is this place?”
Hunter looked at the GPS. “About eight miles. Take Bay to 95, then to 105 and follow it to Hecksler. I’ll start calling for backup as soon as I get a satellite image of the area.” Hunter punched in the coordinates for the Pier 13 area and watched a satellite image appear on his hand-held screen. He zoomed in to about five-hundred feet above the buildings. “If they’re in a warehouse directly in front of the pier, we can have the snipers on the two buildings to the east and west. Maybe catch the hostiles in crossfire. Plenty of cover even for ground forces.”
O’Brien shook his head. “To catch them in crossfire is to wait for them to come out. They’ll be more cautious leaving. We don’t know if the winning bidder will come there to pick up the HEU, or if Borshnik’s men will leave it in storage for the buyers, especially if the winning bid is from overseas.”
“Could be from Mohammed Sharif’s camp. And they are somewhere in Florida.”
Hunter made a quick series of calls, creating a plan of attack with federal agents and local SWAT. “Remember, chief, there can be no sirens. Nothing but stealth, and we’re calling the shots.”
Mohammed Sharif used hand signals to direct his men as they came closer to the door. Each man carried a side weapon and held Berettas or modified AK-47 assault rifles. At the door, he reached down and carefully turned the handle. It was not locked. The Russians expected no one. Sharif pushed open the door. They stepped in, firing.
Two Russian guards died instantly. The rest returned fire. Bullets ripping through flesh, splattering blood across the gypsum walls of the old warehouse.
Jason looked in horror as a bullet hit one Russian in the throat, his body falling across Jason’s lap and tumbling to the floor, the sound of gurgling drowned by gunfire.
Two of Sharif’s men died within five seconds. But the Russians, caught off guard had nowhere to retreat. Bullets exploded the computers, ricocheting off the brick on one wall. Borshnik fired three bursts from his Makarov before a bullet caught him square in the chest, his body falling against the chair where Gates was electrocuted, water from the buckets splashing across the floor.
In less than a half minute it was over. Eight Russians lay dead. Three jihad members were dead. Sharif’s shoulder was bleeding. Heavy smoke and the smell of gunpowder, blood and death seemed trapped in the room.
Sharif looked at the HEU canisters. “Take them to the boat. We must be out of here in seven minutes.” Sharif stepped over to Jason. “Are you Canfield? Are you the son of the American hero who lost his life on the USS
