Page 66 of Denied Access
“Five, this is Four, affirmative. I’m moving my team south to Rue Garibaldi, over.”
Not for the first time Fyodor found himself thanking his lucky stars for Alexei. The veteran was almost always able to anticipate what Fyodor was thinking and act accordingly. Rue Garibaldi was a one-way street that intersected the southwest-northeast-running Rue Bourguiba from the south. The intersection looked more like a lazy Y canted to its side than a T. This worked to the team’s advantage. The diagonal nature of the intersection offered a blind spot to the south.
A blind spot Alexei’s assault team could use to their advantage.
“Four, this is Five, I won’t make it in time. You have execution authority. I’ll provide exfil, over.”
Though he’d wanted to help take down the target, Fyodor knew he’d made the correct decision. With Sasha out of radio contact, someone needed to grab the team’s van and provide a vehicular getaway for the assault team.
That someone was him.
“Five, this is Four, copy all. We are almost in position. I can see the bike approaching from the northeast. We—blyat!”
Fyodor stopped, waiting for Alexei to continue. His earpiece remained silent. “Four this is Five, say again, over.”
More silence.
“Four, this is Five, over.”
Nothing.
“Any station this net, this is Five, respond if you can hear me, over.”
It was not uncommon for a team member to drop off the net when conducting surveillance. Even with the low-profile radios, there were instances when an operative’s surroundings prevented them from speaking.In this scenario, the team member would usually double-click the transmit button on their radio to signify that they could hear but not respond to radio traffic.
Usually.
Even this might be forgone if the operative thought a bystander might notice the movement. Instead, the operative would either wait for the person to move or relocate themselves. But in each contingency, there was one thing a member of the Alfa Group would never do.
Curse on the radio.
“Any station this net, any station this net, this is Five, sound off, over.”
Fyodor’s stomach clenched.
Something was wrong.
The parking lot with the van was just two hundred yards away, but the distance was deceiving. To reach Alexei’s assaulters, Fyodor would have to navigate a maze of one-way streets.
That would take time.
Time that his teammates might not have.
Fyodor raced south, all thought of remaining clandestine abandoned. Alexei was a senior noncommissioned officer. He’d been on the team before Fyodor had even earned his maroon beret.
The commando did not rattle easily.
With the ocean forming a natural barrier to the east, Fyodor had arrayed his team to cover the remaining three cardinal directions that bounded the Old Harbor. Sasha had been in charge of the north, while Alexei and the two other members of the assault team were arrayed to the south. Fyodor had taken up position about two blocks to the west of the inlet. He’d arranged the team this way because the position to the north offered a clear view of the marina, and based on their previous two days running the surveillance, Volkov would probably head south from the café into Alexei’s waiting arms. The arrangement also had another benefit. Fyodor could serve as the human goalkeeper between his team and the mosque should the target decide to move west.
While not as experienced as Alexei, Fyodor had been a team leader for several years and had learned to trust his intuition. He sensed that the mosque spelled trouble and wanted to keep the takedown as far from its walled premises as possible. Now his intuition was telling him something else. Rather than follow the most direct route to Alexei’s last known position, Fyodor intended to move south on a parallel street and then approach the intersection from the west. This would take longer, but he would be useless to his teammates if choosing the more direct route meant rushing headlong into an ambush.
But that didn’t mean he was happy about added transit time.
“Any station this net, any station this net, this is Five, respond, over.”
The ensuing silence felt more ominous than before.
Abandoning further attempts at contacting his team, Fyodor concentrated on pumping his legs and arms. Now that he was farther from the more pedestrian-friendly thoroughfares, the streets were far less congested with people, but the space between adjacent buildings had all but vanished. As the city grew denser, the distinction between the sidewalk and street appeared to be up for interpretation. Parked cars sat with tires haphazardly over the curbs, while tables and chairs from cafés and coffee shops battled for supremacy with the vehicular traffic inching along the thoroughfare. Fyodor dodged a motor scooter riding against traffic, hurtled the roots of a massive palm tree sprouting from a sidewalk planter, and slid across the hood of a four-door sedan straddling the walkway.
