He suspected they’d last about as long as the meticulously arranged bookshelves.
Thirteen
The moment he hit the ground in Vilnius the following afternoon, Arthur’s gut told him something was wrong. The city was beautiful in the fading autumn sunlight, full of the sort of old world charm and sprawling districts that attracted tourists in droves, but as he made his way to the outskirts of town and deeper into the industrial complex, he remained on high alert. The closer he came to the warehouse Sruoga was utilizing for his drug cartel operation, the more of his men he picked out, half a dozen scattered around the surrounding blocks. The security surrounding the building itself was discreet but obvious, seemingly more interested in regulating the traffic in and out of the premises than simply keeping passersby away.
“S,” he inquired, tucked into an alleyway overlooking the main entrance to Sruoga’s warehouse.
“I’m with you,” came the immediate reply. “One guard posted at the northern entrance, and one at the southern. There’s a fire door two hundred yards ahead of you on the east side of the building. I can disable the alarm.”
“Do you have eyes inside of the building?”
“Limited,” Syler replied, staccato quick rhythm of his keyboard coming through clearly over the line. “I count five men on the main floor in addition to the exterior guards, two of them posted at the entrance to the basement. Open floor plan, minimal cover. No sign of the students or Sruoga on tape, but there aren’t any cameras in the basement to verify activity down there.”
“Do we know for sure they’re in there?”
“Sruoga was seen entering the premises an hour ago. The women haven’t been seen in several days and are assumed to be held hostage in the lower level. Primary concern is securing safe return of the civilians; capturing Sruoga is secondary.”
“Understood.” Arthur slipped out of the alleyway, making his way to the side entrance as the sky turned dark, another shadow in the advancing night. “I’m in position.” His body tensed as he drew his gun, hand hovering over the door handle.
“First guard directly to your front as you enter, second and third will be at your four o’clock. The entrance to the basement is at your ten,” Syler paused. “Security is disabled. On my mark—”Arthur breathed in low and steady, listening as his handler counted down from three, exhaling on the last mark. “Go!”
Arthur slammed the door open, firing off his first round dead center of mass and turning to the other two men before the first body hit the floor. Their shouts of alarm were drowned out by two more bullets in rapid succession.
“Basement door guards are approaching, weapons drawn.” Arthur grunted his acknowledgment, spinning to his ten o’clock as he slipped behind a steel support beam, return fire from the guards pinging off the metal.
“Sounds like more than two.” He popped off three more rounds, grazing one of the guards in the shoulder before ducking back behind the beam and palming the stun grenade in his pocket, a rain of bullets punctuating his statement.
“Four now. You’ve drawn the attention of the outer guards. Might I suggest a flash bang?”
Arthur spat out the pin, rolling the grenade towards the rapidly encroaching guards and ducking back behind the beam. “Way ahead of you.” The explosion ricocheted, room bursting into light even behind his closed eyes. He counted to three, then threw himself from behind the beam, advancing as he fired. The two men to his front fell. Of the remaining two, one of the guards had scattered to the right, the other to his left, and both were firing wildly in the confusion.
He tucked and rolled behind a table as crossfire came from both sides, one of the guards grazed by the friendly fire of his blinded companion but not down for the count. He palmed another flash bang, pulled the pin, and threw it under the table, eyes shutting at the last second. Another explosion of light flooded the world beyond his eyelids and he felt the vibrations of bullets pinging randomly off of the metal table he crouched behind.
“On your eight,” came Syler’s voice. Arthur settled his breath and rose fluidly from his crouch, two more rounds silencing the last of the main floor guards as he headed for the locked basement door at a run. He heard the clatter of footsteps coming up the stairway, counting two more men shouting in Polish. He tugged roughly on the handle, but it didn’t budge, locked from the inside.
“What’s the radius on the cuffs?” he asked, tapping one against his tie pin, settling it against the handle and watching as the stone in it glowed red, armed.
“Fifteen feet, shrapnel heavy. Cover on your four o’clock, twenty feet.” He spun and dropped behind the beam, dropping his spent magazine and reloading as he went, before triggering the ignition on the pin. The door exploded inwards with a deafening bang, debris hitting the men behind it. Without breaking stride down the stairs, he met both guards with two neat bullets to the center of the chest.
Arthur came to a dead stop at the base of the steps, weapon drawn on Sruoga. In the dim light of the room, the man stood behind a flipped table, packages of fentanyl-laced heroin still spilling to the floor in a wave. He held a gun to the head of a terrified young woman. Between one breath and the next, Arthur fired, bullet landing left of center in Sruoga’s forehead, his body and the screaming woman dropping to the floor.
Arthur stood still, breathing heavily, the room eerily silent but for the sobbing woman. “Dufault, report,” his handler called.
Arthur stepped around the table, taking in the scene. “Guards neutralized. Target eliminated.” He removed his jacket, kneeling next to the distraught woman, covering her gently. “Special Agent Dufault. Tell
