Collateral (Tier One #6)

Warehouse Along the Dnieper River

Kiev, Ukraine

September 21

2045 Local Time

“I’ll do it,” Gavriil said, speaking up for the first time during the heated debate. The comment immediately silenced the chatter in the room and all eyes went to him.

Viktor Skorapporsky, the outspoken rising star of Ultra, fixed him with a hard glare. “This is not a democracy. Who said you could talk?”

Gavriil smiled, though he didn’t let the men see it. He had them right where he wanted them—where he needed them. They didn’t know he was Zeta Prime of Russian Spetsgruppa Zeta. They didn’t know he was a master manipulator and killer of men—a weapon of anarchy honed by Russia’s greatest spymaster over many years. To these men, he was simply Artem, his backstory part of a carefully crafted NOC designed to make him into one of them—an angry, testosterone-fueled fascist. He found slipping into legends like this one as easy as shrugging on a coat. He liked wearing masks and had trouble imagining a life where he was constrained by having to occupy a single identity in perpetuity.

As Artem, he would fulfill a role none of these men had the skill or courage to execute, and he would do it without turning the hierarchy on its head . . . or at least not completely. Some of these Ukrainian militiamen had seen combat, but none of them had operated at his level, not even close. His combat skills were something that would earn him envy and respect, but how and when he made this reveal was critical.

Gavriil got to his feet, puffed out his chest, and met the other young man’s gaze with unflinching eyes. “First of all, I don’t need your fucking permission to talk. And second, if you’re all going to be a bunch of pussies about it, then let me do it.”

“You better watch your mouth, Artem,” the big Ukrainian hothead said, calling Gavriil by his legend’s name, “or you’re going to find my fist in it.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Gavriil taunted.

True to form, Skorapporsky took the bait, balling his right fist and letting it fly. Gavriil leisurely sidestepped the jab, deflecting it downward with a modest flip of his forearm. He drove his fist into the big Ukrainian’s right kidney. Skorapporsky grunted, arched his back, and dropped to a knee. Face contorted with rage, he tried to get up but hesitated, clutching his side.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Gavriil said, extending his right hand to the other man.

“Shit, yes,” said the bested Ukrainian, coughing and laughing at the same time. He clasped Gavriil’s hand and let himself be pulled to his feet.

“At least we both get to keep our teeth,” Gavriil said with a make-nice smile, “but if you start pissing blood, I recommend going to the hospital.”

“To move and hit like that, you must be a boxer,” Skorapporsky said, collecting himself in front of the group of soldier-activists.

“I confess, I’ve spent many hours in the ring,” Gavriil said, and it was not a lie . . . but it was not the whole truth either.

Flashbulb memories from his indoctrination and training at Zeta’s Bright Falcon compound in Vyborg played in his mind: bare-knuckle boxing after being waterboarded, Krav Maga matches after days of sleep deprivation, knife fighting after hypothermia conditioning in Vyborg Bay . . . and so on and so on. This had been the method and madness of Zeta’s sadistic taskmaster-in-chief Arkady Zhukov: stress the body and mind of his recruits to the breaking point, then make them fight. To become a Zeta, Gavriil had faced down death and brutality on more occasions than he cared to remember and had emerged victorious. Today’s test was nothing for him, but it was a test he had to pass nonetheless to achieve his strategic objective.

Everywhere, no matter the country, culture, or company, hierarchy reigned supreme. Even in so-called “flat” organizations, the proverbial pecking order was the secret sauce that drove all decision-making. Tasking flows downhill—everyone understood that and jockeyed for position accordingly. From the day he’d joined Ultra, Gavriil had worked diligently to understand the power hierarchy of Ukraine’s most vocal, violent, and fastest-growing ultrarightist group. Like in most fractious organizations, political thuggery was the modus operandi. The biggest dog in the room called the shots, and in this gathering of a dozen angry young men, Skorapporsky was that big dog. But one defiant kidney punch later, Gavriil had suddenly called Skorapporsky’s alpha status into question.

“Listen, Artem, you recently joined our movement. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but all of us here have been fighting on the front in Donbas for years . . . all of us except for you,” Skorapporsky said, putting a thoughtful hand on Gavriil’s shoulder. “The decision who fires the missile is not a matter of who has the most courage or enthusiasm. It is a question of tactical competency. We have one chance at this—one chance, that’s all.”

It took all Gavriil’s willpower to suppress a smile. Skorapporsky believed himself the architect of this afternoon’s operation, but the idea had not been his. Gavriil had mentioned the idea to Sacha, who had told his brother, Josef, who then predictably suggested it to Skorapporsky. Josef followed Skorapporsky around like a pup, and Gavriil had correctly anticipated how the events would play out.

Now it was time for the masterstroke.

Gavriil put his hand on Skorapporsky’s shoulder, mirroring the Ukrainian’s patronizing posture, and said, “The FGM-148 Javelin is a fire-and-forget, ultraportable antiarmor missile system. Unlike other weapons in its class, the Javelin uses an automated infrared guidance system that locks the target’s image into memory, allowing the missile to track and follow the target during flight. The missile’s guidance unit performs calculations in real time to determine what trajectory is best—either direct horizontal action or a top-down attack. The Javelin has a ninety-four percent target-engagement reliability rate and a novel ‘soft launch’ rocket propulsion design to minimize backblast and visible launch signature. The carry weight is twenty-two kilos and the F variant we smuggled from the front has a fragmentation warhead that makes it ideal for attacking soft targets.”

“Well, it appears you’ve done your homework, Artem,” the Ukrainian said with an irritated smile. He released his grip from Gavriil’s shoulder and stepped away to pontificate. “But these are just words you memorized from the internet. The real question is, have you fired a Javelin?”

“No . . . have you? Has anyone in this room fired a Javelin?” When no one spoke, Gavriil said, “None of us fired this weapon because the Americans only sent them to Ukraine two months ago. But I have fired a Russian Kornet-E as well as a FIM-92 Stinger. I imagine this makes me the most qualified person here to fire the Javelin.”

“Where did you do these things?” Skorapporsky demanded. “What army did you serve with?”

“I don’t talk about such details,” Gavriil said. “All that matters is that I am the most qualified man for the job.”

“You’re a Russian, aren’t you?” Skorapporsky’s voice oozed with accusation and suspicion.

Gavriil ran the calculus in his head and shifted into empathy-inducing confession mode. “My father is Russian, yes, but my mother is Ukrainian. I was born in Kiev but taken by my father to be schooled and trained in Russia. I was Spetsnaz. They sent me to Crimea . . .” He let the words hang in the air for effect. “I did not want to be there. I was so angry to be there, helping Russia steal a piece of my homeland. After that, I decided I could no longer serve in the Russian army. But once you’re Spetsnaz, they don’t let you go.”

“What did you do?” sensitive Josef asked, taking the bait just like Gavriil knew he would.

“I had to do some bad things . . . things I will not talk about here. But it’s okay, because now I’m finally home. Now, I’m finally able to use my Russian military training for a purpose—to help build a strong Ukraine that can stand up to Russia and America. We don’t need anybody telling us what to do. We don’t need anybody trying to control our land. When Zinovenko was elected, I thought he would stand up to Petrov. I thought he would fight for Ukraine, but he has ceded control of the Donbas to the separatists. This cannot be allowed to stand. In six months’ time, Petrov will annex the region and call it Russia. Then he will push east and pursue his Novorossiya fantasy. He’ll claim all of Donetsk, swallowing Mariupol, then push east into Kherson and Nikolayev, and he won’t stop until he’s claimed Odessa and annexed all of southern Ukraine. It is time for a second Maidan Revolution. The first one did not go far enough, and I’m ready to lead the fight.”

His fiery speech earned him a moment of stunned silence followed by shouts and whoops from half a dozen of the members. With a single punch and an improvised speech, he’d ascended the hierarchy and wrested control of the operation from Skorapporsky.

“All right, Artem, you can fire the missile,” the big Ukrainian said, recognizing that granting this concession was the only way for him to retain the illusion of control.

Gavriil nodded, accepting the other man’s authority rather than pushing to dethrone him entirely.

“I appreciate the honor, but know my only motivation is victory—well, that and getting to kill the bastards who would sell off our country piece by piece and divide our people. Your plan is brilliant, Viktor, and I wish only to do my part to see it succeed.”

Leading Ultra was not his mission objective. Making sure the Javelin missile was fired on time, on target—that was all that mattered.

Skorapporsky extended his hand to Gavriil, who shook it while meeting the Ukrainian’s gaze. In that moment, the two men made a wordless pact.

I’m still in charge here . . . you better not fuck this up.

Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.

“We have our rocketman,” Skorapporsky said, turning back to address the room. “Now I need volunteers to round out the assassination team.”

Every hand in the room shot up.

Gavriil smiled.

His mission—for Mother Russia—was certain to be a success.