Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9), Allan Leverone [books to read for 13 year olds txt] 📗

“That is a shame,” he said dryly.

“Get out of the car and then take five steps backward, facing me the entire time.”

He did as instructed and while he was backing away, Tracie slid across the front seat. She plucked her backpack from behind the driver’s seat and then stepped onto the pavement. She flicked her gun barrel in the direction of the car’s rear door. “Get in.”

“But you just told me to get out.”

“Yes, so I could be sure you would not go for my gun as I was climbing out of the car. Now I’m telling you to get back in.”

Before he could comply, a vehicle rounded the corner traveling toward them from the north.

The vehicle was a Jeep.

A Soviet military Jeep.

A patrol Jeep.

28

June 25, 1988

8:25 a.m.

Access road north of Objekt 825, Russia, USSR

Dammit.

Tracie jammed her weapon into her waistband, fearing the motion of lifting it and placing it in her shoulder rig would make what she was doing obvious to the sentry patrolling in the Jeep. She then pulled her blazer over the weapon, hoping to keep it covered unless—until—she needed it.

She feared this was going to end bloody.

Through her teeth she hissed at Morozov, “Say whatever you need to say to get rid of this sentry. If you are not successful you will both die.”

There was no time for the commander to respond, as the Jeep was almost upon them. It slowed to a stop, kicking up eddies of dust that drifted lazily above the dry, sandy pavement.

For a moment nothing happened, and then the sentry climbed down from his Jeep. He stood next to the idling vehicle and said, “What is going on here?”

Morozov’s back was to the sentry; he had already turned to face his car in response to Tracie’s instructions. It was clear the young soldier hadn’t yet recognized his commanding officer, but before Tracie could answer his question, that changed.

The kid took a step forward and said, “Commander Morozov?” The tone of his voice was incredulous, like he couldn’t quite believe his CO was standing with some unknown woman next to his car on the side of the road. “Have you broken down, Sir?”

Morozov turned slowly to face the sentry, his posture rigid, fearful, as if he expected Tracie to cut him down in a hail of bullets at any moment. “Everything is fine here,” he said softly. “You may continue your patrol.”

“But…is there something wrong with your car? Why are you standing in the middle of the road?”

“We are fine,” Morozov repeated. “I am ordering you to continue your patrol.”

“What is going on here?” the soldier repeated. He took another step and moved his right hand to the butt of his holstered weapon.

“You heard your commanding officer,” Tracie said, lifting her own hand slowly toward her waist. “Continue your patrol. We are occupied with a matter that does not concern you.”

“Something is wrong,” the soldier answered, unsnapping his holster and beginning to lift his weapon. “And I am not going anywhere until I find out—”

Tracie reached under her jacket and drew her weapon, her hand a blur. Before he could finish speaking—or bring his gun to bear—she’d begun firing, drowning out his words in the roar of gunfire.

He staggered backward, slamming into the side of his Jeep and squeezing his trigger once reflexively. The gun then fell straight down, and a half-second later so did the sentry, the front of his uniform shirt already soaked with blood.

Tracie spun, moving before the soldier’s body had even hit the ground, remaining in a shooter’s crouch as she trained her weapon on Morozov.

He raised his hands defensively. “Do not shoot! Do not shoot! I did what you asked, please do not shoot!”

She was breathing heavily, adrenaline racing through her, but her gun remained steady in her hands. “I know you did,” she said. “That is the only reason you’re still breathing.”

In the space of maybe ninety seconds, the situation had gone from manageable to dire. This was a lightly traveled access road, but who knew how long it would be before another patrol came along, or a delivery truck, or a civilian out for a joyride? A Soviet soldier was leaking blood onto the road next to his Jeep. There would be no way to hide that, not without at least thirty minutes of cleanup.

Tracie doubted she had thirty minutes. She may not have thirty seconds.

“Face your car and put your hands on the roof. Spread them apart and do not move,” she barked. Morozov complied instantly.

The moment his hands touched the roof of his car Tracie was moving, hurrying to the downed soldier. She picked up his weapon and tossed it as far into the woods as she could manage, then bent and checked for a pulse, knowing what she would find but doing it anyway.

He was dead, exactly as she’d known he would be. Up close, he looked young. Eighteen, maybe twenty. Blood continued to leak out of him, but that would be changing soon. No heart pumping, no blood flowing.

“Goddammit,” she cursed.

Time was ticking, and crouching next to a dead Russian kid wasn’t getting her any closer to mission completion.

Or survival.

She gave a long look in both directions, grateful for no more traffic. Yet.

She pushed to her feet and returned to Morozov’s car. He cringed at the sound of her approach.

“Get in the back seat,” she said.

Morozov looked back at her, glancing nervously between her face and the gun and back to her face. Then he grimaced and did as he was told, opening the rear door and sliding into the seat, facing forward.

She shook her head. “Not like that. I want you face down across the