"His name is Viktor Markov, former Russian Spetsnaz, their special forces, and then he went FSB where his talents were secretly put to use. But the word is he killed his commanding officer barehanded in a personal dispute and fled the country. Next piece of intel we have is that he showed up in Chechnya and killed several dozen local politicians at long range."

"A sniper," Michael said.

"One of the very best," Ducky replied. "But that's not everything in his arsenal. He attended university and studied chemistry so we assume he can make a mean bomb. He also ran the decathlon and almost made the Russian Olympic team. But he's world class with a sword, hand to hand combat, you name it. A very dangerous man ... but then so are you."

"So what does this Russian killer look like?"

Ducky opened a folder and slid a photo across the table. "A lot of these Spetsnaz trained guys are human gorillas, but not Viktor. He looks perfectly normal but that belies his real strength. Runners are not bulky ... they can't be, but he's fast. Killed that commander in a heartbeat with two body blows."

The photo was fuzzy and taken at long range ... probably as close as any photographer would want to get with this man. Michael could see the short brushed hair parted on the left and an intense pair of dark eyes. A rugged and handsome face with a graceful neck, but the shirt he wore was filled with muscles.

"So the Russian government wants him for murder and now Terrance has him?" Michael asked.

"He works for the Principals which when translated into Russian denotes their word meaning Kingpins, and that they are. Terrance has access to unlimited cash and Viktor is a greedy man. He needs the money to stay alive and out of the clutches of his own government who would likely put him to death. But the Kingpins group is also a bunch of Russian outcasts with government sanctions on each and every member."

"Do we know how many of them there are and where they're located?"

"Best guess for the moment is Germany or Switzerland ... close to the source of their money. They were all wealthy men until the Soviet Union fell apart, but they saw that coming. With the new Russian State taking over they managed to steal, invest, and then move their funds out of the country. The Russian desk at the CIA seems to think there are eight of them with a net worth of trillions, but that's just a guess."

"Hard to pin them down except for the activities they sanction," Michael said.

"Money can buy a lot of anonymity, and with that kind of cash they can buy governments. Just proof that Communism was a crooked shell game and they excelled at playing it."

"You certainly have come a long way in this organization, Mr. Ducko."

Ducky smiled. "That's First Lieutenant Ducko, Sergeant Mikey. Has the Colonel said anything about name and rank?"

"Not yet ... I'm not really in this to play the Army game, you know. I should just revert to Sergeant Kellum, what does it matter?"

"The Colonel has a lot of irons in the fire at the moment and what to call you is the least of his worries. I'm glad to have you back."

"Glad to be here ... "

Saunders had put Michael in the backseat of a car right outside the restaurant and the driver whisked him off to Lewis-McCord Joint Operations Base south of Tacoma. They did not stop to pick up his things at the bed and breakfast, but Saunders said he would have someone take care of that business. By dark Michael was on an Army business jet heading for the east coast.

The transition was sudden, but then Michael knew that's how Unit 4 operated 24/7. Anytime, anywhere was their unofficial motto, they didn't have an official one because they didn't exist. Michael knew he would have to apologize to Ducky for thinking the man had betrayed him. In a fair world he would kick Saunders ass for spying on a civilian in-country, but who said the intelligence game was fair?

Unit 4 had offices in Pentagon City, an anonymous building with other defense related companies who found their proximity to the military command structure very useful ... Michael had never been there. The real base of operations and training was on a several thousand acre site outside of Quantico, Virginia, backed up to the Prince William Forest Park and the Breckinridge Reservoir.

Michael's transport had landed at Turner Field on the Quantico Marine Base and a company SUV picked him up for the thirty minute ride to the Unit 4 base. He was starved by the time he got there having eaten no dinner and only a handful of stale peanuts on the plane. Saunders had probably leveraged some general's plane before the crew could re-provision. It was ten o'clock at night when they arrived.

"This way, Sergeant," the driver said, motioning to the main doors of the administrative building.

"No, I'm going to the kitchen. You go tell whoever it is I'm supposed to meet that I'll be there if they want me."

The driver stood there dumbfounded as Michael walked away, and then quickly ran into the admin building. Fuck this, Michael thought, I won't talk before I eat, it's not civilized. And that's where Ducky found him ten minutes later. Of course the kitchen was closed since there was no training cycle on base at the moment, but the staff was used to the sniper teams coming in at all hours of the day and night.

Michael was in the kitchen all by himself making an omelet on the stove when Ducky walked in. The smell of chopped peppers and onions sautéing in the pan filled the air as toast browned in the industrial machine Ducky didn't even know how to operate.

"Pull up a stool," Michael yelled from the open door to the walk in refrigerator. He appeared moments later with a bowl full of eggs and a handful of cheese slices.

Ducky sat on the kitchen stool knowing full well that there was no way to stop Michael when he was on a mission. Eating was a fixation for most of the unit operatives since they suffered depravations in the field. No food, no water, no sleep ... sometimes life handed you a shitty assignment.

"You hungry?' Michael asked as he broke the eggs and scrambled them in the bowl. The cheese was crumbled into the eggs and the sautéed vegetables added before the mix was poured into the pan. Michael picked up a quart of orange juice and drank right from the bottle as the eggs cooked.

In three minutes the omelet was done and he slid it on a plate before he pulled up a stool on the other side of the counter and sat down to eat.

"They didn't feed you on the flight?" Ducky asked.

"Damn Army ... the last meal I had were two vegetarian hot dogs for lunch, and then the Colonel had to go and disrupt my plans for a nice Thai dinner."

"Thai ... oh boy, I know how much you like that food."

Michael smiled as the eggs began to disappear. "At least I got down a Singha before he ruined my dinner plans."

Ducky nodded. "He's good at that ... so you're back. What I have to say can wait until morning." Michael finished his eggs and Ducky started for the door, but then paused. "The barracks is empty, take your pick for the night, but meet me in the conference room at 0700. We need to talk."

Ducky turned back for the door when Michael set down his plate. "Ducky ... thank you."

"You don't know what I have to say so don't go thanking me just yet. See ya in the morning, Mikey." And with that he was gone. Michael cleaned up his mess, walked over to the barracks and took his old room ... now it was 0730 and Michael was about to learn what they needed to do.

"I guess it seems odd that these Kingpins would hire someone like Terrance unless they wanted an American insider," Michael said. "Knocking off a few businessmen, gay or not, doesn't seem to be much of an objective."

"Forty-three victims at last count," Ducky said.

"What? Where did you get that number?"

"Their game is international, but there seems to be a spike in shootings, suicides, and accidents all across Europe and the Middle East. Terrorism may account for a few of those deaths, but we don't think so ... they all have a common tie.

"I'll leave the operations planning to the Colonel, but in my position the statistics have been flowing across my desk. The targets have all been involved in some kind of trading business, things like oil, natural resources, finance ... and before you ask, none of them was deemed a gay killing. That strange quirk seems to be Terrance's little sideline specialty."

"I imagine the deaths have disrupted business relationships in the trading world," Michael said.

"Yes, although the objectives seem to be more political in nature. The background shows that the Russians are attempting to pour funds into right wing causes in Europe. From the neo-Nazi groups in Germany to the French National Front, and your anti-gay groups like Manif Pour Tous, they're all receiving funding while the source remains obscure.

"The Russian government is involved to some degree but it almost seems like there is a connection between the Kingpins and the leadership in Russia. Vladimir Putin is doing little to disguise his state building objectives ... the Crimea and Ukraine at the moment. And of course he's blaming us which seems to sit well with the Russian people.

"So now we have sanctions which hurt the common man in Russia by suppressing their economy. The Kingpins are not affected by this because their money is all in the west and very diversified. These killings serve both sides and we're looking for links between them. Putin must have some kind of relationship with the Kingpins."

"So the Kingpins take out key players and stir up the dust ... where is it all going?"

"I think Terrance is a large part of the puzzle ... and unfortunately many of the clues surrounding him point at you. We need to go back and analyze everything you did together," Ducky said.

"Oh boy ... I already researched the targets and ... "

"No, more than that ... deeper. We know he got your name out of our files when he was with the CIA, but how did you guys meet?"

"In D.C ... we met at a gay bar, J.R.'s on 17th Street. A lot of political people go there, staffers from Congress and the like. I had met a few friends at DuPont Circle and we walked over there for dinner. You and I had just come back from Pakistan, you remember that time."

"Yeah, our first vacation in eight months," Ducky said.

"Terrance was sitting at the bar talking to a nice young man so I noticed them. We had dinner and after that my friends left and I saw he was still at the bar. I wasn't interested in him just in the dynamic of an older man with handsome younger guy."

Ducky sighed. "I don't imagine the game is played any differently in the gay world ... I've picked up women in bars before."

"Well I hung around until there was a place at the other end of bar and no sooner did I sit down than Terrance and the young man left. I knew they had been aware of me because we had traded glances but I never learned who they were.

"I wasn't planning anything long term since I was still in Unit 4 and didn't know where I would be the following week. And then we were sent back to Central America."

Ducky shook his head. "I would just as soon forget that fiasco."

Michael grinned. "Well I did pretty soon after we got back. But I went back to D.C. on our next break and there was Terrance sitting at the bar once again. This time he nodded and moved over to talk with me. The first thing he asked was what had happened to Robert and I told him I had no idea who the young man was. Of more concern to me was that he already knew my name.

"The conversation was light although he did mention that he worked for the government. When you say something like that in D.C. it means you won't reveal which department. Congressional staffers and civil servants are more than willing to tell you who they work for, especially in a social scene like J.R.'s. But after ten minutes Terrance begged off, said he had a meeting to attend and left. It was nine o'clock on a Saturday night ... no one has meetings at that time of day except people in the intelligence business.

"I had a feeling this was not going to turn out well and sure enough Saunders called me into his office the day I got back from leave and I was out of the Army within the week. I don't know what made me think Terrance was involved, perhaps just the timing, so I went looking for the guy."

"He was still CIA at that point," Ducky said. "I'll bet he was already working with the Kingpins ... well, of course he was ... he recruited you."

"That happened a few months later," Michael said. "I went through a period of feeling sorry for myself, being angry at the Army, and wondering what I was going to do for a living. I went home to Essex and pretended that I was on extended leave. My parents were glad to see me but I had few friends left ... I couldn't stay.

"I was twenty-seven years old and didn't know anything except how to kill someone a dozen different ways. Dismissal always leads to depression and I spent one afternoon with my old Mossberg sitting in my lap and wondering how hard it would be to put the barrel in my mouth and pull the trigger. I couldn't do that to my parents so I went back to D.C.

"It took me two weeks to find Terrance although I had the feeling he knew I was back in town. I would leave the hotel every morning and go for a ten mile run to stay in shape and of course there were others doing much the same thing...except I felt watched."

"The itch," Ducky said, quite familiar with Michael's sixth sense.

"Yeah ... and I was right. I used to run laps around the National Mall and one day there was Terrance sitting on a bench.

"You need something to do ... come work for me," was his opening line.

"And you went, just like that?" Ducky asked.

"No ... remember, I didn't know who he was," Michael said. "But I was angry at the Army and that was the beginning of the seduction. Terrance played his cards carefully ... and he had documentation, tons of documents."

"Like what?"

"Some of it was from national security meetings, Congressional inquiries, and even some redacted CIA files. The point was that the targets he had scheduled for assassination were guilty of espionage, trading secrets with the enemy. He had a whole list of insider deals these companies had made with known terrorist organizations.

"His point was that since we are a nation of laws that just going to court against these people would not stop the activity. These guys were beyond the scope of Unit 4 which cannot run missions in this country. He made it seem as if these kills would be sanctioned at the highest level if they could only have a free hand in the decision making."

"I'm sorry," Ducky said, closing the file on the table. "We're to blame in many ways ... I mean we as in the Army. You cannot train a man to do this work and then just cut him loose, even Terrance knows that and he took advantage."

"I was willing to be taken, Ducky. It all seemed so familiar at the time. The ops meetings, the planning ... it seemed like I was on some level beyond Unit 4 where I got to call the shots. Sure, I had questions about the details but Saunders never allowed us to ask why and Terrance had all the answers. I played the fool."

"I'll say it again, you were set up. Terrance didn't have to help you escape but he did ... and then I think something changed. Killing you off in that plane crash would not erase who you are, that's why they sent someone after the body to make sure you remained alive in name only."

"What are you getting at?" Michael asked.

"They wanted your identity, your fingerprints on the smoking gun for their next caper. Then they could blame a trained assassin from the United States for what they are about to do."

"What is it ... what do you know ... and how did you find out?"

"We're still looking for facts and so far it's only supposition, but Saunders agrees with me. I think the Kingpins are going to assassinate someone big. It could be the president of a major country, a prime minister or even the King of Saudi Arabia."

"Someone big enough to start a war with us," Michael said. "I suppose Vladimir Putin isn't on the list if he's their buddy."

Ducky smiled. "What makes you think that? Their objective is chaos and something that affects a nation's economy. Russia has big oil and Putin certainly runs that business. They want someone to blame us ... "

"Blame me, you mean," Michael said. "So you didn't answer the question ... how do you know all this?"

"Need to know," Ducky said.

"And if you don't tell me my participation is virtually useless. But since you already know how they plan to involve me my guess is that you have someone inside Terrance's organization."

Ducky nodded. "I'll have to ask Saunders if I can tell you."

Whatever was going on in Unit 4 it was now inundated with information from sources around the globe. Although the base was not in a formal training cycle the barracks was soon filled with quiet young men and women who were there to sort and assess the information flow.

The odd man on base was Michael who had entirely too much time on his hands and so he returned to the obstacle course just to wear himself out. Unit 4 had an incredible arsenal of weapons and with this Viktor in mind Michael chose to work only with Russian made equipment.

He could not get his hands on Viktor but he did have the chance to learn every weapon the Russian trained assassin might use. It stood to reason that if he was sent across borders that he would not be armed with anything made in the good old U.S of A.

Special Forces in Russia used a variety of assault weapons but they were always the expensive makes and models not available to the common soldier. Viktor would have access to the very best and on his visit to the armory Michael kept that in mind.

The AN-94 was the newest model assault rife that superseded the old AK series. 30 rounds, standard caliber, but issued only to special units because of the cost. The armory had another rifle, the AS-Val. Larger caliber and a built in noise suppression, but why bother if the user was going to spray bullets everywhere.

The Dragunov was the field hardy sniper rifle of choice for the Russian military. Viktor would be very familiar with this weapon, but it was old school, built for the Soviet Union forces of the 1960's. It had a range of almost 1300 meters, nearly 1500 yards, with a fat armor piercing round. The weapon was anything but subtle so Michael rejected that for Viktor's arsenal.

Penetration was an important factor since many targets were enclosed behind glass and metal, the bulletproof cars of today's leadership. Michael looked at the rack of rifles and hefted the Dragunov SVDK. Range was effective to 600 meters, but with a 9.3 x 64mm round it was a beautiful sniper's tool. Viktor would want one of these and so Michael carried it out to the range.

The range master was a Master Sergeant with a lot of years behind him so he knew every sniper in Unit 4. He eyed the SVDK but knew better than to ask what Michael wanted.

"You picked a heavy hitter," the Sergeant said.

"Got anything armored out there today?"

"There's an old personnel carrier they dragged in from the Marine base. It has some bomb damage but most of the shell's armor is still in place."

"That will do ... I just want to see how much penetration I get with this thing."

The Sergeant nodded. "Lane 4 ... the APC is out at 500 yards."

"Thanks," Michael said, hefting the rifle and sliding a pair of ear protectors around his neck.

Lane 4 consisted of a wooden shack that contained a spotter scope, a carpeted firing step and the requisite stack of sand bags. It was set up for snipers with several apertures in the walls that gave a limited view of the target lane. Michael didn't need this fancy setup but most snipers liked shooting from a hidden position.

The SVDK had a ten shot clip which added considerable weight to the fifteen pound rifle, add the scope and this was a pretty heavy weapon. The scope was a 3-10x which gave the shooter a full close up of a target at 600 yards. Michael left the tripod folded along the barrel and instead laid the rifle on the sandbags and took a prone position behind it.

This was a well-designed weapon, smooth to the touch and comfortable with no sharp angles. All the adjustments were accessible with minimal movement, although it probably had quite a kick. Michael had used everything in the Army arsenal from the M40 standard issue sniper arms to the heavy duty Barrett M98.

The weapon of choice for high end American snipers was the Barrett M95. The "nuke option" as the guys in sniper school called it. It was the best choice if you didn't have to carry the damn thing any great distance. It weighed almost 25 pounds without scope and .50 caliber ammunition. It could blow a hole through a concrete wall and kill what was behind it.

But it was a bolt action rifle and the clip carried only five rounds ... it took patience to use it properly. Michael liked the weapon and had made several kills with one, but then he had a spotter and didn't have to lug it twenty miles. The SVDK could not match the penetration power of a single M95 round, but the Russian weapon could fire multiple rounds in a row and rarely jammed.

Through the scope Michael could see that the APC was pretty chewed up. The Marine flyboys probably had fun doing their bomb runs on a real target. The rear of the vehicle was all torn up but there were some spots on the sides that looked untouched. A heavy armor plated car with bulletproof windows could not match this kind of strength but it would be interesting to see what the SVDK round could do to the side of the APC.

The Russian rifle took a cartridge nearly three inches long while the Barrett .50 cartridge was an inch longer. The difference would be in the recoil which made an unskilled sniper lose his target in the scope. The shooter was expected to kill with one shot, but that didn't always work out. Targets moved, especially if something spooked them...or they were drunk.

Michael and Ducky had been assigned to take out a murderous rebel leader in Central America. The U.S. supported these guys one moment and then tried to kill them the next ... Michael thought of it as the schizophrenic approach to foreign policy. But this guy was a psycho according to the Intel and he had to go.

The terrain was mountainous with places so steep that any regular forces would find it difficult to engage the enemy. At least there would be no long crawl in a ghillie suit, just a long descent from the drop off point and down the slopes to the insurgent's village.

In the jungle a single shot would be hard to trace back to the source and so a sniper might be able to shoot from distance if he could see the target. The topographic maps they had showed the village was surrounded with dense foliage which made the insurgents feel protected from air strikes and massed troop movements. Ducky was sure they would have to close in to several hundred yards.

You sneak in, shoot, and then you escape ... or that was how it was supposed to go. Killing the leader would bring the hounds from hell searching the jungle for the assassin so they would have to run. Not that Michael minded leaving the Barrett rifle behind ... he didn't pay for it. But it was a point of honor to return from a mission with your weapon, except it wasn't always possible.

The whole approach downhill Michael knew he could never carry the rifle back up if they had to make tracks in a hurry. The village was in a cleared area beside a small river and the topo map showed the mountain they were on was across the water. They were halfway down the slope when Michael looked to his right and saw the geological change in the ground.

There in the midst of the tangled vines and heavily treed slope was a large outcropping of rock sticking up out of the vegetation. It was worth a look and so they shifted their angle of travel towards it. They had crossed trails here and there on the way down, but they still had to chop away many of nature's obstructions.

The outcropping presented an area of flat ground covered in old bird droppings and nesting material so they approached cautiously. It would not do to startle a whole flock of birds and alert any sentries in the surrounding jungle. The river and the village could not be more than a thousand yards away.

Before crawling across the open rock they both cut leafy vines and wrapped their heads and shoulders to eliminate the human silhouette, and then it was time to go see if this site would be of any use. The face of the outcropping dropped away into the jungle along the river a hundred feet below, and there across the open space was a clear view of the village.

They retreated back into the trees for a pow-wow. It stood to reason that since this place had such an open view of the village that there should be some kind of guard stationed up here, but they saw nothing. Did the insurgents really think they were that secure? Ducky scouted the length of the outcropping and found no signs of human trespass.

Michael cut more vines and began to build a low blind they could hide behind. They pushed it forward and lay on the open rock looking down at the village. The houses were constructed of scrap materials and mud bricks, most of which probably came by boat down the river or was made on the site. The roofing materials were native to the area which probably gave them camouflage from aerial surveillance, not that the local government had much in the way of airplanes.

U.S. forces would use infrared in an area like this, detecting heat signatures from bodies and cooking fires so camouflage didn't work. But now they would have to lie and wait to see if they could pick out the leader. Michael studied a central campfire pit in the middle of the village through his scope, the laser rangefinder telling him it was seven hundred and forty yards distant ... he could do that, a piece of cake with the Barrett.

Men, women, and children wandered among the housing units pursuing the normal events of village life. Most of the men were armed with automatic rifles which could shoot back these seven hundred yards but not accurately.

"Some kind of event seems planned," Michael told Ducky.

"They have prisoners," Ducky had replied.

Two government soldiers were tied to the trees on the far side of that central fire pit. Michael watched as the villagers who passed by spit at them and laughed. These two guys were doomed to die and there was nothing he could do about it. The afternoon waned and the celebration started, that's when Michael saw the leader emerge from a dwelling and take a seat beside the fire pit.

They had only seen a bad photo of this guy but he was easy to recognize. The rebels wore ragged looking camo while their commander wore a plain tan colored uniform, complete with shoulder boards and lots of stars to denote his supreme rank. A major idiot, Michael thought, but thanks for making my job easier.

The gloom of evening came early to the village as the sun dropped behind the mountains so the villagers built up this large fire. Food was served and bottles of liquor appeared, but nothing was given to the prisoners. So far this would be an easy shot, but it would be loud and attract a lot of attention.

The rebel leader stood up to give some sort of speech and harangue the troops, probably about how great and glorious their cause. He held a bottle in one hand and drank from it during his speech. With his encouragement several women approached the prisoners and cut away their clothing with short sharp knives ... and Michael knew what was coming next.

"Let's do this," he said to Ducky. "I don't want to watch the torture."

Ducky packed up their gear leaving Michael to settle down behind his scope and zero in on the leader ... then the shots rang out. The speech had ended and the troops were pretty riled up, firing their rifles in the air and whooping it up.

Michael had just zeroed in when the man leapt to his feet and started dancing around the fire. Sit down, asshole, Michael thought, but for nearly twenty minutes the man just danced and drank. Michael kept following him with the scope, afraid to fire and miss. If this had been a deer he would have taken the shot, but then deer didn't shoot back. Finally the leader sat back down in a drunken stupor. Michael put a .50 round in the middle of his chest ... and nothing happened.

The gunfire continued, the bottles made their rounds, and the leader just sat in his chair like the bullet which had torn a sizeable hole in his chest never happened. Ducky started laughing and Michael sighed. There would be no pursuit, at least not for a while, so he packed up the Barrett and they started the return climb without haste. Michael wondered how long it would take for the drunken villagers to realize their leader was dead ... probably not until after they had skinned the prisoners.

Michael settled the Russian sniper rifle down on the sand bags and took a look through the scope. The butt of the rifle was settled against his shoulder as he cocked his head to one side to peer through the scope and settle the reticle image on the side of the APC. He was almost looking forward to the kick.

He squeezed off a round and felt the rifle slam back against his shoulder. Not bad at all, and he could almost feel the gas operated bolt cycle while chambering a fresh round. The first armor piercing bullet had hit the APC an inch to the left of his chosen spot, but that was him and not the rifle. But the bullet had not penetrated either, so he pulled off another round and a third.

Finally there was a hole punched through the armor plate. An AP round from the Barrett would probably have gone through on the first shot, but then the bolt would have to be manually cycled and a second shot would have been difficult on a moving target. He liked the SVDK and just hoped no one ever pointed one at him.

The door to the sniper shack opened and Ducky stuck his head in. "Good shooting. I bet myself that you'd like that weapon."

"Shoots like our M40 but with a bigger punch," Michael said.

"Agreed ... now come on, I have someone for you to meet."

"Oh?"

"Saunders said to tell you everything ... since your life may depend on it."

Michael picked up the brass of his spent cartridges and hefted the rifle. "The Colonel getting soft in his old age?" He asked.

"No ... but since you already know this guy it just seemed like a good idea to let you know how he plays on our team."

Ducky said nothing more as they walked back to the armory and turned in the weapon. Michael told the Sergeant just to set it aside, he would be back to clean it after Ducky finished his briefing. The man's eyebrows went up in surprise, but then Michael was always glad to clean his weapons after firing them.

They walked back to the administration building and Michael followed Ducky to his office. The door was open and a familiar face sat behind an open desk. What a surprise.

"Robert ... ?"

On to Chapter Seven

Back to Chapter Five

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"No Reason to Kill" Copyright © Chris James. All rights reserved.
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