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  And he hated orange soda.

  “You could not have ordered me something else?” he complained.

  “What did I just say?” Mikhailov snapped. “We are trying to blend in. We will drink what the Americans drink.”

  “We are not in America,” Smyrnoi reminded him. “We are in Canada.”

  “For now. But we both know this will not be for long. The only question is where we choose to deploy our forces.

  “We have their location,” Smyrnoi noted. “Why not attack now?”

  “Because they are still within the city. There is too much chance of intervention from the local authorities. Our orders are to minimize collateral damage to the extent that this is possible. To avoid international entanglements.”

  “That is nonsense.” Smyrnoi sipped at his drink, making a face. “Bad enough that is soda. But soda with ice?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Mikhailov ordered. “Be grateful you are here, with me, and not in the trucks with the other men.”

  “They have decent food and drink.”

  “They do not,” Mikhailov said, “because that would be against my explicit orders. They are standing by for action, not whiling away their leisure time.”

  Smyrnoi shook his head. “Orders. We are in the field. Command is not. We should be given leave to handle matters as we see fit.”

  “We have much freedom in this regard,” Mikhailov replied. “But do not forget that we must answer for our actions on our return. We are conducting a military action of considerable scope on foreign soil. Only the urgency of the situation justifies this operation at all. Command orders that we do no more than is necessary. If that means waiting for our prey to reach a more suitable location, so be it.”

  “This is absurd,” Smyrnoi muttered. “All these troops for one man.”

  “You skirt very close to insubordination. Do not presume on our friendship too much, Egor. Remember who is in charge.”

  “You think I do not know that?” Despite his objections, Smyrnoi downed his soda, slapping the glass on the wooden table. Ice clinked. “But why not merely send you, or me, or the two of us? We have hunted and killed such men before.”

  “You read the mission brief,” Mikhailov said. “Octavios must be taken alive if possible. Should he be killed, our government’s worst nuclear secrets will become public knowledge.”

  “Nuclear? You have not spoken of this before.”

  “Nor should I,” Mikhailov declared. “I speak of it now in order to impress on you just how important it is that we succeed. I know you, Egor. You are thinking about how much easier it would be to kill this man, this Octavios, and to hell with the consequences. After all, once dead, he cannot find our secrets again, can he?”

  Smyrnoi hung his head. “You know me well, Dobry.”

  “Because I thought it, too. How could I not? It is always easier to kill a man than to take him alive. Why, one well-placed bomb and he is ashes, scattered on the wind. Difficult to hack a nation’s secrets when you are floating everywhere and nowhere. But then I spoke with a certain highly placed man in the Gosduma. He should not have told me what he did, just as I should not be telling you now.”

  “What is it, Dobry?”

  “Radiation. Specifically, Russian sources of radiation, even now spilling into the ocean. Into the air. Seeping into the earth.”

  “You speak treason.”

  “I speak truth,” Mikhailov said. “It was only just recently that work began to disassemble the sarcophagus at Chernobyl. The containment shell constructed around that was only just completed. An American company was contracted for the sarcophagus repair. Did you know that? Tens of millions of dollars the Americans will make off our shame. Off our incompetence. Our forays into nuclear power have produced disaster after disaster. Our pride, our arrogance, has led us to this.”

  “What is your point, Dobry?”

  “My point,” Mikhailov replied, taking a long swig from his glass and making a face afterward, “is that as bad as it is now, as many disasters as have been uncovered by the world, they are but a drop in the bucket. That is what the Gosduma man had to say to me. That is what I say to you now.”

  “Nuclear secrets. Part of the data dump?”

  “Not merely secrets. Failures. The kinds of failures that will not merely embarrass those we serve, and those to whom we answer, but the kinds of failures that have international implications. We must not allow these failures to come to light.”

  “My point remains, then,” Smyrnoi told him. “If we are to capture this Octavios, would not a smaller force make more sense?”

  “We can take no chances. We must have the option of overwhelming force. For, as you say, if our secrets do come to light, we must make it clear that death is the result. There will be other men like Javier Octavios. There have been men like him before—men who do not understand that some secrets must remain buried. We must dissuade them from meddling in Russia’s business in the future, showing them what happens to those who do. But only after we have made every effort to stop this information from becoming public knowledge.”

  “I understand,” Smyrnoi said. “I do not like it, but I understand.”

  “Good. There is more, however.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You ask why we do not simply capture this Octavios as if it is the simplest thing. It is not. I mentioned the Americans before because Americans are very much on my mind right now. What I am about to tell you, like the information I have just shared, is not for you to know. You did not hear it from me. You do not know it.”

  “I understand.”

  Mikhailov took his phone from his pocket. He accessed its secure mode, found the files he wanted, and then slid the device across the table.

  Smyrnoi looked down to see a photograph of a man with dark hair and a strong jaw.

  “You have not seen this man before,” Mikhailov noted. “Neither have I. But for years, word of his activities has been whispered among the intelligence community. He is a highly placed operative for the Americans. We believe CIA or possibly NSA. He has been spotted abroad, and wherever he goes, destruction and collapse follow.”

  “What is his name?”

  “No one knows for sure,” Mikhailov said. “No doubt he uses fake identifications. Some reports have him posing as an agent of the United States Justice Department. ‘Posing’ being the operative word.

  “Nothing this man does has to do with American jurisprudence. He is an international agent provocateur. We believe he means to interrogate Octavios and then murder him. The interrogation will be, most likely, to extract from the prisoner any information that might involve the Americans. The United States will take steps to insulate itself from the public outing of that data, once they know precisely what it is. Then they will take great pleasure in killing Octavios so the information hurts the United States’ rivals.”

  “We must stop this man, then,” Smyrnoi said. “He must not be allowed to capture Octavios—”

  “You do not understand,” Mikhailov interjected. “The Canadians gave this American custody of the prisoner. They are traveling together even now, probably to a black site in the US. From there, they will spirit Octavios out of the country. Rendition, it is called. He will be tortured so that he gives up what he knows.”

  “But if this American already has Octavios...”

  “We think the Americans are trying to create plausible deniability,” Mikhailov elaborated. “They take custody of the prisoner, and one of their most effective, most ruthless agents is given the job of minding the man while transporting him to the United States. They cannot think we would believe that story. But Americans are famous for their gall.”

  “What else do we know of the American operative?”

  “Only that he is extremely dangerous. Command believes the US government uses him for the most d
ifficult tasks. For example, if a regime change was needed, the Americans would send him in to destroy the existing government.”

  “There is proof of this?”

  “Of course not. Such a man does not leave behind evidence. We believe he murders all witnesses. This is why it is so difficult to find decent intelligence on him. Command refers to him as ‘the Warlock.’ It is as good a name as any.”

  “If we could neutralize this Warlock...even capture him...”

  “Tempting,” Mikhailov conceded. “But surely such a man would eat cyanide before being captured, would he not? We can expect him to fight us to his last breath, regardless. Such are the stories of his exploits.”

  “You believe these?”

  “I am...unsure,” he told his second in command. “For many years it has been whispered that the Americans, or perhaps the Canadians, or even NATO in general, has access to special forces unknown to the rest of the world. Secret operatives who are called on to kill or neutralize those who trouble the West. I have not put much stock in these before, Egor. But then, I had not seen pictures of the Warlock before, either. This was taken by our scouts outside the Canadian facility where we thought Octavios might be held. We were wise to put it under surveillance.”

  “Could the Americans know we are tracking Octavios?”

  “They might. And they might not. We can assume nothing. All we can do is act on the tracking data while it is available.” Mikhailov finished his soda. “Make sure the men rotate in for meals and refreshment in shifts. This waiting does none of us any good, but until our opportunity presents itself—” He stopped suddenly. His phone was vibrating. Smyrnoi slid it back across the table and Mikhailov picked it up.

  “What is it?”

  “The automated notification,” his comrade said. “Octavios and the Warlock are on the move again. We must prepare to intercept them.”

  “Then there will be no time for more of these sodas,” Smyrnoi said with a smile. “What a terrible shame.”

  Mikhailov laughed at that. “Come on. We must get to the trucks.”

  Several large SUVs were parked in the lot. They contained the Russian forces, disguised as a tour group. Twenty-Four Seven-One Tours was stenciled on the side of each vehicle. The company, nonsensical name and all, did not exist except as an entry in a log somewhere on the internet. It would pass casual examination, which was all that was required.

  As was his habit, Smyrnoi kept his head moving from side to side, surveying the crowds around them. The Canadians, like the Americans, repulsed him. They were soft, given to flights of fancy, and far too worried about their own comfort for his liking.

  “Wait,” Smyrnoi said suddenly.

  Mikhailov stopped and turned to his second-in-command. “What is it, Egor?”

  “Do not turn.” Smyrnoi took his phone from his pocket, a Chinese model issued to him for this mission, and held it up to his leader. “Nod as if I am showing you something on the phone,” he said. “Behind you, at the eight-o’clock position, is a man I recognize. His face was part of the intelligence briefing for the mission. He is watching us.”

  “And this man is?” Mikhailov asked.

  Smyrnoi accessed his phone for real, now, swiping through encrypted dossiers until he found what he wanted. The picture was of a swarthy man with a dark mustache, chiseled beard and steeply pointed chin. Close-cropped black hair framed a craggy face. The dossier labeled this man Farhad Dabiri. He was a notorious Iranian contract killer, an assassin for hire. When he was not hiring out his skills to the international market, he was known to enjoy considerable business for his own government.

  “Tell me, Egor,” Mikhailov said, still nodding as if they were having a friendly conversation. “If you were a lone assassin from a pauper nation with dreams of conquest, how would you find the most wanted man within thousands of miles?”

  “I would act as the hyena,” Smyrnoi replied. “I would find a larger predator, one likely to lead me to my prey. I would trail him until I, in my cowardice, were certain of my ability to steal what I wanted.”

  “Just so. How great is your faith in our ability to remain unnoticed in Canada? Or for our own government’s activities to go unnoticed in the wider intelligence community?”

  “Not very,” Smyrnoi admitted. “Secrets are impossible to keep. They always come out.”

  “So they do,” Mikhailov agreed. “So they do. Do you have your favorite knife, Egor?”

  “Always,” his subordinate replied. He carried a British-made Fairbairn-Sykes combat dagger tucked in his waistband at his right side. The weapon was a prize seized in battle many years ago—a battle that, to this day, had never officially occurred. Such were the ways of the shadow warriors who did their nations’ dirty work.

  “Come on, let’s get this tour on track!” Mikhailov said loudly. Then, more quietly, instructed Smyrnoi, “Circle around him. Flank him in the crowd. I will move in that direction, pretending I am looking for something. He will see me facing his direction and he will move, eager to avoid detection. That will bring him to you. Put your knife to this coward, put your arm around him like an old friend, and bring him to me. We will find an isolated spot and we will interrogate him. Perhaps we can learn how he acquired us.”

  Smyrnoi took in the fleet of SUVs that stood out in the parking lot like sore thumbs. “Perhaps it is more obvious than we thought it would be.”

  “Regardless.”

  “Understood.” As instructed, Smyrnoi began to work his way through the throng of pedestrians. Toronto was a busy city, and this was a busy block. People were everywhere. No doubt this Dabiri thought the crowd would be enough to cover him. Now he was going to learn a painful lesson for that belief.

  Do not make eye contact, Smyrnoi cautioned himself. Do not let him know you are coming for him. Do not—

  He looked up. As fate would have it, Dabiri locked eyes with Smyrnoi from across the street. A flash of recognition crossed the Iranian killer’s face.

  Of course, Smyrnoi acknowledged. He has seen my picture, too.

  Dabiri turned and, without hurrying, began to walk up the block as Smyrnoi crossed the street. Mikhailov, seeing what was happening, followed. The two Russians began pursuing the Iranian at a brisk walk, each of them trying to hurry without looking as if they were doing so.

  Foot traffic thinned out as they moved farther up the block. Dabiri, who knew he was being followed, started to run. The two Russians broke into a run, as well.

  “Stop him,” Mikhailov ordered.

  “Should I shoot him?” Smyrnoi queried, running.

  “Not here! Just catch him!”

  Dabiri ducked into an alley. The two Russians were hot on his tail, but at the end of the alley, the Iranian broke right again, then apparently took another turn ahead. Mikhailov and Smyrnoi lost him at the end of the next block, unable to determine which way he’d run.

  Smyrnoi swore. “Where has he gone?”

  Mikhailov put his hands on his thighs, breathing heavily. “It does not matter. Somehow, I think we will see him again.”

  “When we do, I will put my knife in him,” Smyrnoi vowed. “Or a bullet.”

  “Whatever is fastest,” his commander said. “Come. We must get to the trucks and move to pursue Octavios and the Warlock. They are what matters, not this hyena.” He looked down. “Put your knife away, damn you, before we are seen.”

  Smyrnoi realized he was holding the wicked, double-edged British dagger. He tucked it back in its sheath in his waistband. “I am sorry, Dobry.”

  “Do not be,” Mikhailov replied. “Those instincts are what keep us alive. Against a man like the Warlock, we will need every advantage.”

  “You are making more of this American than is possible,” Smyrnoi said. “He is one man. One man can be killed. Very easily.”

  “I would like to think so. I would truly like to th
ink so.”

  Chapter Six

  South of Toronto

  Bolan exited the highway and pulled into the parking lot of a chain diner. They had passed many eateries like this. Making a mental note to get coffee before they left, the soldier pulled around to the rear of the restaurant, near the dumpsters. He kept a sharp eye out for closed-circuit television cameras. Too many places were wiring their trash for surveillance these days. It was an attempt to stop people from dumping unauthorized refuse. At this moment, Bolan didn’t want any spectators.

  “You take me to the nicest places, Cooper,” Octavios commented. “I suppose I should be grateful that my seat is not covered in blood and glass.”

  “It might yet be,” Bolan said. “Get out of the car.” He stopped the Malibu, turned it off and took the keys. It was possible—and probably likely, come to think of it—that Octavios knew how to hotwire a car. That would take a little time, though. Pocketing the keys was precaution enough for the moment. Walking around to the passenger side, he opened the door. Octavios looked up at him.

  “You seem more unpleasant than usual, at the moment.”

  “I said,” Bolan growled, “get out.” He grabbed the Greek, pulled him out of the car and then pushed him up against the hood of the Malibu. “Assume the position,” he said. “Hands on the hood. Spread your legs.” He kicked Octavios’s legs apart. “Come on, Javier. You’ve been searched before. You take a swing at me and I’ll plant your face in that hood.”

  “You seem awfully quick to assume violence.”

  “Stop playing games,” Bolan snapped. “My patience has limits. Hand over whatever you’re carrying.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “A transmitter. A homing beacon. Whatever it is you’re hauling around that has enabled everyone and their grandmother to track us.”

  “You Americans have such a charming way with words,” Octavios quipped. He sighed. Reaching down his pants, he produced a small device barely bigger than a Bluetooth headset. He placed it on the hood of the car. “Will you stop manhandling me now?”