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

almost to a crawl, concerned the speed reduction would make her memorable to any potential witnesses, although not a soul seemed to be around for kilometers in any direction. The Lada crept forward along the rutted road and Tracie examined the parked vehicle as closely as she could from a distance, wanting to be one hundred percent certain.

The longer she looked, the more convinced she became.

It was definitely The Weasel’s.

Tracie took one last long look and then accelerated away. The roads providing access to the series of old industrial buildings were winding and narrow, and had been set up in more or less a checkerboard pattern. After leaving the factory and Lukashenko’s car behind, Tracie turned right at the first cross road and pulled her vehicle to a stop in front of another of the seemingly endless factories and warehouses, all sitting empty and forgotten.

She checked her primary Beretta and then her backup, moving quickly but efficiently. Then she unsheathed her combat knife and examined its readiness, knowing she would find its cutting/stabbing surfaces honed to a razor-sharp edge but doing it anyway.

Preparation was critical. It was also second nature.

Then Tracie was out of the car and moving, taking a direct route back toward Lukashenko by moving through a stand of trees that had been left by whoever had designed the complex decades ago.

Her plan was simple: a direct assault. She would enter the building, which presumably contained her target, from either the rear or the side.

She would move silently through the structure until locating the man.

Then she would eliminate him.

It wasn’t the best plan. In fact, it was barely a plan at all. At the very least, Tracie should take the time to surveil the factory, determine Lukashenko’s precise location inside it and, more importantly, whether he was alone or accompanied by one or more KGB operatives before taking any action that would put her in harm’s way.

But she simply could not afford to take the time to do any of that. Every minute that passed without her leaving Sevastopol and Objekt 825 far behind was a minute that brought her closer to capture, as the Soviets fanned out to search for the brazen operative who’d infiltrated their secret base, killed a soldier and recovered their stolen intelligence prize.

Capture meant interrogation and torture, pain and, eventually, death.

She slowed her approach as the structure housing Lukashenko came into view through the vegetation. She lingered at the tree line, attempting to determine the route to use to approach the building that would keep her at least somewhat concealed.

There was none.

The factory was surrounded on all four sides by a parking lot that had once been paved but was now mostly dirt-covered, with the occasional chunk of old blocky tar. Had the lot been filled with cars, Tracie thought she could have made it almost the entire way to the building while remaining unseen.

But of course there were no cars besides Lukashenko’s, and even that was on the other side of the manufacturing plant.

She picked her way through the trees until reaching a point opposite the southeastern corner of the building. Based on her brief observation of the factory, this location seemed to offer the fewest number of grimy windows through which her approach could be observed, if anyone inside the building happened to be looking out one.

Maybe.

She took a deep breath and then broke cover, not running but moving quickly. Her injured ankle throbbed with each step.

In twenty seconds, Tracie had arrived at the corner of the factory. She flattened herself against the concrete, pressing so closely to the surface that she could feel the rough material scratching her shoulders and back. Then she began edging along the side wall.

Surprisingly, most of the windows were still intact. But she’d observed a couple along the side of the building that had been smashed out and thus might offer access without requiring Tracie to expose herself too greatly.

When she reached the first of the broken windows, she eased up onto her tiptoes and peered through. The inside of the building, at least the portion she could see, was shadowy. At one time it appeared to have been a storage area, but now the room sat empty and still.

No Lukashenko.

No other KGB operatives.

Nobody at all.

Tracie had no desire to slice herself to ribbons before taking on The Weasel, so she ran her hand lightly over the rusted windowsill, checking for any jagged glass fragments that might still remain. There were none.

She placed her palms on the frame and leapt, lifting herself to a sitting position on the sill before dropping silently to the concrete floor on the other side.

She was in.

Now to locate Lukashenko and eliminate him.

34

 

June 25, 1988

11:15 a.m.

KGB interrogation facility, Sevastopol, Russia, USSR

 

Upon his arrival at the old KGB safe house, Andrei had moved immediately to the roof, where he could observe three hundred-sixty degrees around the building. It was an overcast day but warm and humid, and before long he’d found himself—again—sweaty and miserable, soaking through first his undershirt and then his dress shirt.

Still, a little sweat and misery would be well worthwhile if he could bag a CIA or MI6 operative working inside Russia. Worst case, he would remain sweaty and miserable for the rest of the day, and then if no one showed up he would find a motel nearby and shower, then drink the night away.

Best case, his career would get a major boost.

He didn’t have to wait long. He’d been on the roof barely ninety minutes when an anonymous-looking Lada chugged along the access road serving this and many other industrial relics that had been abandoned following World War II.

The car had been moving slowly to begin with, but the moment it turned the corner and