Chapter 20 – First Strike by Red Wolf

A slightly longer than normal read this bright Monday. So, hopefully this would chase a little bit of the Monday blue away for you, our dearest reader.

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Here wishing everyone a great start of the week and a wonderful week ahead!

Chapter 20:

At exactly seven o’clock, a grey 1973 Volkswagen Passat rolled out of a private mechanical repair workshop that hadn’t been open for around a week or two. Leaving the garage door open, the three passengers casually made a series of turns through the Moscow streets, stopping occasionally whenever a trolleybus passed by. Normally, such an old car would garner unwanted attention, however the vehicle was common in the Russian capital.

Nobody questioned an old German car leaving the city border, on a 75-minute trip to a city not known to many around the world. The only suspicious feature of the car was how slowly it was driving, as if there was a fragile container that could destroy mankind hidden within its sturdy exterior.

With Granger once again at the wheel, McCain and Nyechenko left their weapons in a pile up in the front passenger’s seat, accessible but not too obvious for the naked eye. The city was entering a heightened state of paranoia, after a massive shootout at a popular cafe district, followed by a fire at the Moscow university that very night. By now, the heavily-controlled state media was reporting about the incidents, and their perpetrators, although the criminals would be lost to the authorities. McCain felt his new burner vibrate and accepted the call.

“McCain, this is Smythe. Put us on speaker.” The agent complied, gesturing to the driver that their employer was contacting them.

© 2021 TINKERBELLSAN tinkerbellsan.wordpress.com ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Written for tinkerbellsan.wordpress.com with permission from the Author, Red Wolf. If you are not reading this from tinkerbellsan.wordpress.com, then this original novel has been posted without the permission of the author.

“This is Granger.” the driver reported, never once taking her eyes off the road.

“Granger, thank God. I’m sure you’re aware of the new airlift schedule?”

“We are.” McCain answered as they passed by a patrolling police car.

Smythe rubbed his forehead in relief.

“Good, good. Listen, are you and Nyechenko on the way to Zelenograd?”

“Yes, sir.” Granger replied.

“Excellent. I just received a report from agent Newton that the authorities are on the loose across the city. Fortunately, your new guises should fool them.”

Silent acknowledgement.

“I take it you know this as fact. Other than that, the RAF is evacuating Heathrow’s oldest terminal in order to make space for your airlift. You must arrive by 0900 hours local time, or the flight takes off. We can’t afford for the Kremlin to discover the airfield.”

“We won’t, sir.” Granger assured the diplomat. “You can count on us.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Smythe killed the call, leaving Granger, Nyechenko and McCain to covertly leave the city in silence. Little did they know that the CCTVs littered across their driving path had caught onto their license plates, and were being shown to Winter Snake’s command office just opposite the embassy.

“I have our mole’s license plate, Yuri.” the lady with glasses reported. “They will stall until you and your backup army arrives on-site.”

Gorinsky and Kamensky had decided to use the Toyota Hiace, unwilling to abandon a perfectly-running vehicle.

“Good. And make sure our mole does not kill the male spy. I want to have the pleasure of staring into his dead-cold eyes myself.” Gorinsky instructed, having taken a detour to leave the city much faster than expected. After that, he killed the call.

Time, twenty-five minutes past seven in the morning.

The journey to the airfield was bleak and cold, with frost manifesting on the windows. McCain had to make an effort not to fog up whatever remaining vision they had as the sights blurred out before him. Nyechenko remained calm and unbothered by the sight; being Russian, he had become accustomed to this. He was, in fact, texting on his phone again, this time to another supposed friend. McCain noticed this, but said nothing. He would rather keep mum than leave a bad impression that his country was full of nosey-parkers. Growing bored, he closed his eyes and took a nap.

The sound of hospital alarms. The digital rhythm of his heartbeat. He had woken up in a strange, unfamiliar setting. His mind was a blank, void of all memory and information.

Who was he?

Where did he come from?

Why was he here?

The door creaked open, and a shadow entered the room. It opened its mouth and a thin, red strand flowed into his nostrils and down his throat. He struggled as his organs began to squeeze tighter, like an invisible force was choking him mercilessly. There was no way that he would survive.

All he could do was die.

McCain woke up to the same familiar emptiness of the Russian countryside on the way to Zelenograd. Granger had peeked into her rearview and noticed her partner’s return from slumber.

“Glad you could make it, soldier.” she teased. “We’re about fifteen minutes out of the city. We’ll make a quick pit stop before taking the unbeaten track to the airfield. And then, it’s home for us.”

McCain looked at Nyechenko, who returned the gesture with a smile.

“Promise me something, friend.” the professor leaned in. “When we get to London, show me around the city. I’ve always wanted to see the London Eye and Big Ben.”

“I promise, Nyechenko.” McCain solemnly vowed.

“No need to call me that. Call me Dimitri.” Nyechenko answered happily, landing a hand on McCain’s shoulder as they continued the drive.

“I like that you two are getting along, boys. But we have a mission to complete first.” Granger answered. “Let’s arrange the tour after you get that virus cure ready for the world. And after you get that asylum status. Speaking of, you got everything you need in London?”

“Most, yes. I have a friend who will get me a place to stay.” Nyechenko cheerfully answered. “And, as previously mentioned, I can make that cure with the formulae I have, both physically and in my USB chip.”

They continued the journey, anticipating the success of a long and tiring mission.

Time, three minutes past eight in the morning.

Which was three minutes past five in the morning.

Director Hall had been rudely woken up from bed, alerted by a notification from one of her many cellphones. She rolled over to her left and checked the inbox; there was a call from the office. She took the call, disgruntled and severely annoyed.

“This is Hall.”

Silence. She returned to her previous stance, resting her left arm on her forehead as her contact droned on and on. Then, she sat upright.

“What?” she asked in shock.

More silence. She frantically rushed to her desk and opened up a computer screen.

“You can’t contact them, you say? Have you tried a separate channel?”

Silence.

“Fucking Christ!” she yelled, and killed the call in a rage. She quickly sent an email to a secure address, one that would accept emails from very few. She was one of them.

“Mole detected in Operation First Strike.” the message read. “Inform en-route RAF forces to engage in extensive security protocols.”

She pressed the entry key and watched the email get transferred to the recipient. Then, she tried to go back to bed, closing her eyes and trying to forget everything.

But she couldn’t.

Original Novel by Red Wolf

Chapter 20 – First Strike by Red Wolf

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