A Red Dotted Line (Mike Walton Book 2) Read online

  His body ached from head to toe. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but the steady growling of his stomach implied it had been at least twenty-four hours. His mouth was dry, and he longed for a glass of water.

  A sound to his left startled him and he involuntarily gasped, knowing he had just betrayed the fact that he was awake. He opened his eyes in time to see the same man who had choked him in Syria empty a medium-sized drum of ice-cold water over him. Powell was sure he was going into shock or having a heart attack. The effect didn’t last long but the man definitely had his attention.

  Powell looked at him. Just over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, dark skin and eyes that didn’t miss a beat, the man was built like an Olympic swimmer.

  “Welcome to Mykonos, Ambassador.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Your file says you were with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Ambassador,” the man said, walking to the windows on the other side of the bed. He opened the first curtain and sunlight entered the room, filtered by a palm tree just outside the window. “I was wondering if a little cold shower would bring back memories from your time at Depot?”

  Powell didn’t reply. It wasn’t a secret that before accepting the Canadian ambassadorship to Algeria he’d had a career with the RCMP. Depot was the training division of the RCMP. Every member of the Canadian federal police force had to go through Depot to become a fully fledged Mountie. That wasn’t a secret either.

  “No answer?” the man asked, a smile creeping onto his face. “That’s fine. I understand. Why volunteer information to someone you don’t know? I don’t blame you.”

  The man moved to the second window and opened its curtain. “Magnificent view, Mr. Ambassador. You’ll love it,.”

  “What do you want?” Powell asked, shivering. His wet clothes were plastered against his body, bringing his discomfort to another level.

  The man laughed. “No small talk for you, I see.”

  A knife magically materialized in the man’s right hand. “Fuck you!” yelled Powell, struggling against the tie wraps. They were cutting through the skin around his wrists, but he didn’t care.

  “You should be careful how you speak to a man armed with a knife, Mr. Ambassador,” said the man, tilting his head. “I’m actually quite good with one.”

  The man’s voice was calm and in some way serene, and that scared Powell to death. The man was a sociopath or he wanted Powell to think he was. Psychological warfare.

  With one quick movement of the blade, and before Powell had time to react, the man cut through the tie wraps around his ankles.

  “If you know me as well as you want me to think, you’re well aware I don’t give a shit what happens to me.” Powell tried to bluff.

  The smirk on the man’s face told Powell he wasn’t buying.

  “You don’t know me, Mr. Ambassador, so let me introduce myself. My name is Igor Votyakov.”

  The name Votyakov did ring a bell but Powell didn’t remember where he had heard it before. “What do you want?”

  “Me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Igor replied, placing the tip of his knife under Powell’s chin. “But someone else is coming here to see you, and I know that this person won’t be as pleasant as I am.”

  “I’ve been rotting in jail for the last two and a half years. I have no value. None whatsoever,” Powell said, feeling the knife would break skin if he moved an inch.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Ray,” Victor said. “I can call you Ray, right?”

  What did this guy want? What he had said was true. He’d been out of the loop for more than two years. What could he possibly know that could push someone to mount a full-scale assault only to capture him again? Again? Holy crap! Was the Sheik behind this? That would make a lot of sense.

  Powell looked into the man’s eyes and said, “We’re waiting for the Sheik, aren’t we?”

  Igor chuckled, and then replaced his knife in its sheath. “I told you not to sell yourself short, Ray.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Syria

  As tired as she was, Zima Bernbaum couldn’t sleep even if she’d wanted to. The throbbing in her right arm had intensified. She needed antibiotics and a doctor. With no pain killers or clean bandages, her hand would need amputation if it didn’t receive proper medical attention within the next twenty-four hours. Zima could have run away with the cab driver’s cell phone but she was in no shape to fight him off. Plus, it would have attracted unwanted attention. Instead, she had thanked him for his services and had walked the ten miles to the location Jonathan Sanchez had given her. At least the man had let her keep the map.

  If the excruciating pain in her hand wasn’t enough, the weather had taken a turn for the worse and a cold front had swept over the area. Zima would give a week’s salary to have clothing appropriate for the near-freezing temperature she was now experiencing. Make it a month’s salary. Twice fighter jets screamed overhead. Flashes of light lit the sky to the north as they dropped their ordnance, pounding everything below. Where the hell did Jonathan send me? No way a helicopter will land anywhere close to here. She glanced at her watch. It had taken her just under four hours to cover the distance. The map indicated she was in Deir Qanun, a small village about six miles east of the Lebanese border. There were no streetlights, for which she was grateful. A weapon would have been nice, though. The buildings around her were decrepit and no light came from the windows. With the exception of a couple of dogs barking at each other, the village was dead. Or so it seemed. She continued walking toward the end of the narrow street. The map showed an open field at the end of it.

  Zima shivered. She didn’t like being stuck in Syria. Was leaving her job at the Canadian Security Intelligence Service the right choice? She was starting to doubt it. Being cold, hungry and in pain wasn’t helping. Her right index was gone, and there was a good chance she’d lose her hand if help didn’t materialize soon. Zima studied the map, hoping to find a sheltered spot where she could observe the field without dying from exposure to the cold. But the moon wasn’t bright enough. She was in the process of folding the map when she felt a presence behind her. She froze instantly.

  “Raise your hands slowly over your head and interlock your fingers. Do it now,” someone whispered in Arabic. The voice was clearly masculine and belonged to someone used to being in control. “Do not turn around.”

  If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead. So just do as you’re told and wait for an opportunity. It never crossed her mind to feign ignorance. She obeyed.

  “I’ve been watching you for the last ten minutes. I know you’re by yourself,” the man said, keeping his voice low. “So there’s no reason for you to lie. I’m sure you’ve realized that if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already and we wouldn’t be chatting. I’ve risked a lot to be here, so I’ll ask you this once, and only once. If I don’t like your answer, or if I think you’re lying, my voice will be the last thing you’ll ever hear. Nod if you understand.”

  Zima nodded. The man was a professional. He wasn’t too close behind her. She’d have no chance of disarming him before he shot her.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Zima,” she replied without hesitation.

  “Good,” replied the man. “I’m glad you said that. “Who’s Charles Mapother?”

  Oh shit. How could she answer the question without giving away too much?

  “I hope he’s the man who sent you here,” Zima said. “That’s all I’ll tell you, so if that isn’t enough, just shoot me and be done with it.”

  “Turn around,” the man ordered.

  Had she passed? The man standing in front of her was well over six feet tall with a medium build. He was dressed in dark clothes and wore night-vision goggles.

  “Name’s Eitan,” the man said. “Follow me, and stay close. The streets aren’t as empty as they look.”

&nb
sp; “You’re here for me,” Zima said, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

  “The chopper is about six hundred meters this way,” Eitan said in English, pointing toward the field. “We landed thirty minutes ago and I know government troops are heading our way. And I wouldn’t be surprised if ISIS had a few men here as well. Those bastards are everywhere.”

  Zima was now able to identify Eitan’s accent. “You’re Israeli,” she said.

  “Just keep your mouth shut and watch our six, will you?” he said, transitioning from his pistol to something that looked like an MP-5. “Let’s go.”

  Eitan was walking rapidly, the barrel of his weapon flashing left and right, looking for threats she couldn’t see. She checked behind her and rammed into Eitan who had stopped walking.

  “Watch your step, goddam it,” he hissed. “Two men approaching our position. Fifty meters. We can’t cross.”

  They were at a crossroad. Half-destroyed buildings occupied the four corners. They looked uninhabited but you never knew where snipers could hide. Zima felt like a sitting duck and wished they could get moving.

  “Thirty meters,” Eitan said.

  The man was in full control. He’s done this before. “Give me your pistol,” she said. Their backs were against the wall of a building.

  “Just sit tight and stay quiet,” he said. “I’ve got this.”

  Zima couldn’t believe this. She was dealing with a freaking misogynist. She shook her head. What an asshole.

  Two seconds later, she watched him pivot and get on one knee. While half his body remained behind cover, he peeked around the corner and fired four rounds. Two double taps. “We’re clear. Let’s move.”

  They dashed across the street. They were almost halfway when she heard the all-too-familiar sound of AK-47 assault rifles opening up on full-auto from their left. Rounds flew over them. Tracers brightened the night as Eitan screamed for her to continue toward the field.

  As soon as they reached cover, Eitan stopped running and signaled her to keep going. She didn’t listen and took position next to him. “Give me your fucking pistol,” she yelled over the sound of his weapon. Eitan continued firing, pumping round after round at targets she couldn’t see. When his weapon clicked empty, he took cover behind the wall and changed magazines.

  “Start the engines,” she heard him say through his comm system. “We’re being engaged by at least half a dozen troops.”

  “Your pistol?” she repeated, as he was about to re-engage.

  “No way,” he said. “You’re my mission. Go to the chopper now.”

  Zima was done listening to him. As he turned to fire, she grabbed the pistol from his leg holster. He either didn’t care or was too busy engaging his targets because he didn’t say anything. She waited by his side and tried to take his place when it was time for him to reload again. But he wouldn’t let her. He grabbed her shoulders and slammed her back against the concrete wall where they had taken cover. “I’m here to buy you some time. Don’t be a fool. I’ll follow you.”

  Without another word, Zima sprinted toward the field, cursing the man’s machismo. She could hear the engines of the helicopter powering up and she hoped Eitan had advised whoever was in the helicopter that there was a friendly approaching. She’d know soon enough.

  The firefight behind her reached a new crescendo. Eitan was now firing on full-auto, as if he was being overrun and aiming didn’t matter anymore. She wanted to go back, but to what end? Her foot hit a rock and she fell forward, the pistol flying out of her hand. A powerful pair of hands lifted her off the ground. A man dressed like Eitan was standing by her side. He fired a few shots toward the village before pushing her toward the helicopter. The wind of the rotor made the ground shake under her feet as she climbed in. She recognized it as a modified Bell 206.

  The man squeezed himself in and ordered the pilot to take off. “What about Eitan?” she asked as the helicopter lifted off the ground. The soldier ripped off his night-vision goggles and shook his head. “You’d better be worth it. Eitan was one of the best we had.”

  A profound sadness enveloped her. She had caused this. Oh my God, this loss is on me. Again. If only Eitan had let her help. Why do men always feel they have to protect me? As the wind rushed through the open doors of the helicopter, she fought the tears she knew were coming as her mind raced back to Edmonton. Six months ago, she had helped stop a terror attack that would have devastated the Canadian gas industry and the United States’ strategic oil supply. Shane, a Royal Canadian Mounted Police swat member, had given his life so she could live. She had sworn that wouldn’t happen again. She had joined the IMSI because she had thought she could make a bigger difference. And now this. Another white knight had fallen because of her. Whatever she did, it was never good enough.

  “Welcome to Israel,” the soldier next to her said ten minutes later. He handed her four pills and a bottle of water. “Painkillers. For your hand.”

  “Thanks,” Zima said, popping all four pills into her mouth.

  “We’ll be in Haifa in no time.”

  “I don’t know what else to say.”

  “There’s nothing to say,” the soldier said. “We all do our part. We did ours. Now you do yours.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Moscow, Russia

  Mike Walton’s phone chirped. He picked it up from the passenger’s seat.

  “The navigation system tells me I’m two minutes away,” he said. “Anything I should know?”

  “The safe house isn’t really a safe house, Mike,” Mapother said. “The place belongs to my brother.”

  Holy shit! “Please tell me your brother isn’t there,” Mike said. He had never met Mapother’s brother, a man named Frank.

  “Don’t worry, he isn’t,” Mapother replied. “The building has a secured underground garage with a private elevator leading directly to my brother’s penthouse.”

  Mapother gave him the codes for the garage and elevator before adding, “Try to keep the place clean, Mike.”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I learn something useful,” Mike said.

  The condo tower was located in Tverskaya, one of Moscow’s most sought-after neighborhoods. Tverskaya Street was the equivalent of New York City’s 5th Avenue, where luxurious hotels, high-end fashion stores and expensive restaurants lined up the illuminated sidewalks. Not the best place to conduct an enhanced interrogation, but at least Mike would be able to hide the SUV. Mike turned into the ramp leading to the underground parking lot and punched in the code for the automatic door. Once in, he looked for the parking spot assigned to the penthouse and squeezed the G-Class between a yellow Ferrari Italia and a superb Jaguar F-Type.

  I guess this is where Russia’s one percent lives.

  Mike knew Mapother’s father had hit it big with his international import-export business. When he died, he left his empire to his two sons, Charles and Frank. Charles decided to join the FBI but Frank, already a vice president of the company, stepped into his father’s shoes and brought the business to new heights. Charles Mapother sold his shares to his brother and never looked back. Mike didn’t think Frank would approve of what was about to happen in his posh apartment but he didn’t have all the facts.

  Mike opened the door, careful not to bump it against the Jaguar’s side, and looked for surveillance cameras. There were at least two. He would ask Support Two to take care of them and their feeds. He walked to the rear passenger side door and looked through the window to make sure his prisoner was still unconscious. He had moaned a lot during the trip but Mike hadn’t seen him open his eyes. Mike feared he had hit him too hard and caused some kind of brain injury. He couldn’t care less if the man died, but first he had to talk. He opened the door and dragged the man out of the vehicle by his belt. Just as he was about to pull the man out, the Russian kicked him just above the knee and Mike was pushed
back against the half-closed SUV door. The door banged against the side of the Ferrari, leaving a deep dent. The kick didn’t have much force behind it and Mike blocked the second one by grabbing the Russian’s ankle. He twisted it until he heard the Russian yell in pain. Mike held the position for a moment then decided to continue with the rotation. He felt the creak of the cartilage, pushed to breaking point.

  The Russian screamed for him to stop but Mike pushed through until the ankle popped. The man felt silent. Oh shit! Mike dragged him out of the SUV and checked for a pulse. The Russian still had one. He had simply passed out from the pain. Mike closed the door of the SUV, picked up the Russian and placed him over his shoulders. He couldn’t help but wonder how much it would cost to fix the Ferrari.

  There were six elevators in the foyer but only one with an electronic keypad. Mike entered the eight-digit number Mapother had given him. The low hum of the elevator mechanism told him the code had worked. The doors slid open and Mike entered the tight space. With the Russian on his shoulders, the space felt cramped, and he thought about the time he and Lisa got stuck in a similar-sized elevator during a leisure trip in Rome. It had taken over two hours for the fire brigade to pull them out. The Russian had peed in his pants—he could tell by the warm, smelly liquid sponging his coat and wetting his skin—but Mike managed a smile at the thought of what he and Lisa had used the time for while stuck in the elevator. Next time he spoke to Mapother or Sanchez, he’d ask for a more specific update on his wife’s whereabouts.

  The doors opened to a luxurious foyer. A marble-tiled hallway led to a spacious living room with a killer view of the Kremlin. Mike reckoned he was probably one of the most wanted men in Russia, and the fact that he was so close to the Kremlin sent a chill down his spine. He dropped the Russian on the swanky carpet and went to the kitchen to look for something to secure his prisoner. He found a roll of electrical tape and went back to the living room, only to find the Russian crawling toward the entrance.