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  Black Ops Bundle:

  Volume 1

  Veil of Civility by Ian Graham

  Parallax View by Allan Leverone

  Black Flagged by Steven Konkoly

  Features Index

  Veil of Civility by Ian Graham

  Parallax View by Allan Leverone

  Black Flagged by Steven Konkoly

  Veil of Civility

  a Black Shuck thriller

  Ian Graham

  www.iangrahamthrillers.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Ian Matthew Graham

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted without the prior permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  To Kinley, whose birth provided the inspiration to make this project a reality and whose little life continues to inspire me every day

  Prologue I

  Late September 2004

  United States – Mexican Border

  Near Yuma, Arizona

  Juan Izek Ramirez unscrewed the cap on the two liter thermos and splashed warm water onto his face, washing away a thick layer of dirt. He took a quick sip before handing the bottle to his son, Ignacio, who did the same before turning with his father to face the twelve men behind them.

  "Señores, we are almost there," Juan said. "Now is when we must be the most careful. If you need water or a brief rest now is the time. Once we cross, we will not be able to stop until we meet your friends."

  As soon as he'd seen these men, Juan's gut feeling had been to run; something about them scared him. In the end his common sense had won out over his fear. Had he followed his gut, he'd have had to explain to the men who'd hired him why he'd run, then face the punishment, which was not a pleasant thought since he was certain they were members of one of the many cartels active in the area. Instead, he'd decided to fulfill the terms of his employment and guide the men fourteen miles across the Goldwater Bombing Range to State Route 195, just south of Yuma, Arizona. There someone would be waiting to take them on into the city, at which point Juan hoped he'd never see them again.

  His announcement was met with several throaty groans. They'd been walking for three hours, two hours east and one hour north, and now stood one hundred yards from the Mexican border with the United States of America, a trampled chain-link fence the only evidence that they were about to enter another country. With a little less than half the journey done, the men already looked ragged from the morning heat; they lowered themselves slowly to the dirt and opened canteens.

  The twelve men had left La Choya shortly after one o'clock in the morning and traveled north in a two car caravan for three hours, then in the minute town of Las Adelitas, Juan and his son had been waiting, as instructed. Their job should have been simple. They'd been hired to guide the men across the U.S. border on foot and avoid law enforcement patrols at all costs; something Juan had been doing for nearly two decades. What should have been easy money had turned into anything but as soon as he'd laid eyes on the twelve. Their pale complexions, dark features and thick accents told him that he wasn't dealing with other Mexicans or South Americans, as he was accustomed, but an ethnicity that he was unfamiliar with, one he had not yet seen crossing into the States.

  He avoided eye contact while quickly surveying the faces in front of him. Each was red from the sun that had been blazing down for just over an hour and beads of sweat rolled off their foreheads. They'd been overdressed for the journey and he'd had to tell them to leave behind much of what they'd brought. Dressed like American tourists and carrying large backpacks, they'd been a guaranteed giveaway to law enforcement. After getting them new clothes from his house they looked much better. In white T-shirts, torn blue jeans and plaid button-down shirts, most of which had been shed and tied around their waists, they looked more like the migrant crop pickers Juan would claim they were if approached. He could tell they were uncomfortable in the heat and it was taking its toll on them, but they looked healthy, no signs of heatstroke. Based on the guttural-sounding language they spoke to each other he thought they were some kind of Europeans, perhaps Slovakians or Romanians, but he wasn't sure. All he knew for sure was that they were accustomed to a much colder climate, and it showed.

  "Let us go now, señores. We must not keep your friends waiting."

  "Why must we leave so quickly?" a heavily accented voice asked. Juan wasn't sure which of the men had spoken, but the hostility in the voice made him feel cold in spite of the glaring sun.

  "Señores, if we want to make it to our destination we must avoid being seen. We must move as quickly as possible."

  Begrudgingly the twelve men got to their feet. In single file, they followed Juan and Ignacio over the battered fence and into the desert beyond. Juan had chosen to use the edge of the Goldwater Bombing Range, an expansive property owned by the U.S. Military and used for munitions testing, to cross north to the highway. As long as they were on the range they would not have to worry about the Border Patrol that had largely succeeded in closing Arizona's border. The U.S. military was responsible for the range and seldom patrolled it.

  Once over the border, the men walked at a quick pace across the desert. Juan kept a close eye on the horizon to their left. While they didn't have to worry about running directly into any border guards, they did have to worry about being seen from a distance. Scanning, his hand shading his eyes, Juan saw nothing that alarmed him; only rocky sand broken up by occasional sagebrush or cactus.

  Allowing himself to fall back towards the rear of the group, Juan let his sixteen-year-old son take the lead. At the back of the group the youngest looking of the twelve walked briskly to stay in step with the others. Although he knew better than to ask questions, Juan was curious about where they were from and this man seemed the most approachable. His face and arms were unscarred, the borrowed clothes hung loose from his thin frame and the intensity that seemed to radiate from the other eleven was absent.

  "Señor, you are okay? The journey is not too much?" Juan asked quietly.

  The young man regarded him coldly for a moment, looking him up and down, his eyes moving rapidly as if he was searching for something. For a moment Juan thought he'd made a mistake. Perhaps the man was older and more experienced than he'd thought.

  "I am fine," the young man finally responded. “How much further?"

  "We will be at the edge of the road in a little less than three hours. It is not hot where you are from?"

  "No. In the Caucasus it is colder, and the sun...I have never felt it like this."

  "It is because of the sand, señor. The sun reflects off of it and makes it feel even hotter. Where is this place you speak of?"

  "The Republic of Ichkeria is in the southern part of what westerners call Russia, but it once belonged to its own people, to us, and if Allah wills, it will soon belong to us again," the man said, holding up the index finger on his right hand.

  "Enough!" boomed a voice from up ahead. The entire group stopped moving and Juan looked forward. All of the men stared at him.

  "Your job is to take us where we want to go. Not to ask questions!" a tall man with a long scar down the left side of his face yelled as he stalked towards Juan.

  "I am sorry, señor. I meant no disrespect," Juan said, his eyes lowered to the sand. He gripped his hands together to keep them from shaking as the man stared down at him. Juan could feel his hot breath on his forehead.

  "From now on you walk, not talk!" the
man yelled, then turned his attention towards the young man who Juan had been speaking with.

  "Nasil bu kadar aptal olabilir!" How could you be so stupid, he screamed and back-handed the young man, nearly knocking him to the ground. Tugging him along by the collar, he pushed him forward before turning again to stare at Juan. "Kafkasya'da size olu olacakti," You would be dead in the Caucasus, he hissed as he gently pushed Juan forward. Juan could feel the man's eyes on him, all the way to the head of the group.

  "Let us keep going then, señores," Juan said, his voice quivering. He didn't know what the man had said, but he knew it was a threat and that these were the type of men that would carry it out. He turned and started walking, mouthing a prayer as he trudged through the sand.

  Nearly three hours later Juan clasped his hand on Ignacio's shoulder as the edge of a road came into view. "State Route 195," he said, pointing. Soon he'd be rid of these awful men.

  The road before them turned sharply north and waiting in the bend was a battered passenger van, its paint scratched and chipped away. Juan and Ignacio kept a careful eye on their surroundings as they approached. When they were within fifty yards of the van they stopped.

  "Here is where we leave you, señores," Juan said. "Your ride is waiting."

  Eleven of the men brushed past him without a word, but the tall man with the scar stopped. Juan held his breath as the man stared. Two men emerged from the van and opened the side doors as the party approached. Within seconds the eleven men were inside and hidden by deeply tinted windows.

  "What are you waiting for?" one of the men next to the van yelled. He spoke the same language as the scarred man and though Juan could not understand what was being said, the message was obvious: "We need to leave now!"

  The scarred man continued to stare without a word. Juan crossed himself and the man scoffed. "You would be dead in the Caucasus," he spat as he walked away, turning briefly to kick sand at them.

  Juan watched intently as the man arrived at the van, slapped shoulders with the two drivers and disappeared into the vehicle. Moments later the van pulled onto the highway, its rear wheels churning sand and dust as it crossed from the coarse earth to the smoothly paved road. As it drove north and faded into the distance, Juan turned and looked at his son, whose face was ashen.

  Speaking their native Spanish and crossing himself again, he said, "Let us pray for the souls of the Americans those men have come to kill."

  "Yes," Ignacio responded. "Let us also ask God to forgive us for showing them the way."

  Prologue II

  Two Weeks Ago

  Ognenny Ostrov Prison – 650 miles north of Moscow

  Lake Novozero – Vologda Oblast, Russia

  Deputy Director Antonin Turov waited impatiently as the small motorboat edged ashore, its outboard motor tilted up due to the shallow water at the edge of the island. The two Federal Penitentiary Service sergeants in the boat with him pushed hard against the stony lake floor with wooden oars, trying their best to ensure their superior would not get wet as he exited. The craft grounded and Turov stepped off without a word, leaving the two subordinates with the boat as he strutted up a gravel pathway with his hands behind his back. His breath evaporated in frozen puffs as a light snow fell, dusting the top of his fur hat.

  Stopping in front of a twelve foot high chain-link gate topped with spiraled razor wire, he looked up at a thick waterproof canvas covering that concealed the clustered buildings beyond. Only a few tall spires could be seen above the fencing that surrounded the compound. A uniformed guard stood at either side of the gate, Kalashnikov rifles held at the ready across their chests.

  Fire Island, Turov thought with an amused smile as he waited for the guards to approach. The name was due to some religious fanatic who claimed to have seen a pillar of fire strike the island over five hundred years ago. At the hands of the sheep, who flocked anytime someone claimed to see an apparition or some other supposed sign from God, the island had quickly become home to a monastery. Monks had existed there for centuries until 1917 when the Bolsheviks had captured it and converted it to a prison to hold their enemies. It had remained a prison ever since and, in Turov's opinion, a prison was a much more fitting use of its nearly impenetrable medieval architecture.

  "Kto tam?" one of the guards barked in Russian as the two approached. Who's there?

  "Zam nachalnika Antonin Turov," the director responded sharply, "pozvol'te mne proiti!" Deputy Director Antonin Turov, let me through!

  The guards took in the uniformed man in front of them and snapped to attention before responding, "Yes, sir!"

  "Open the gate," one of the guards yelled up to the watchtowers positioned on either side of the entrance.

  A buzzing alarm filled the air as pneumatic gears ground and the gate began to separate in the middle. Turov stepped inside the compound and was met by two more guards who had been sitting inside a tiny shack beside one of the watchtowers. A thick plume of white smoke poured from the shack's tin chimney and the air smelled of burning wood.

  "I am Lieutenant Rostislav Kutzow. How may we help you, comrade deputy director?" the commanding guard announced as he approached and stood at attention. Behind Turov, the gate screeched closed.

  Turov drew his thick frame up and squared his shoulders. "Take me to the warden."

  "Yes, sir," the lieutenant said, saluting before he turned and marched toward the grouping of non-descript two story buildings, painted white to camouflage them against the surrounding area. All evidence of the facility's former pious use had been erased by nearly one hundred years spent housing the motherland's worst criminals. Traitors, defectors, spies and Nazis had all been imprisoned here and most had died within these walls, their remains buried in shallow graves on neighboring islands. Since the last years of the twentieth century the facility, referred to in Russian as pyatak, had housed only those prisoners whose crimes had earned them a death sentence.

  Once someone was committed to Fire Island they did not leave, not even after their sentence had been carried out. Instead of their remains being returned to relatives, their bodies were burned in an incinerator along with the facility's trash. But that would change tonight. For the price of one million euros, Antonin Turov, one of six Deputy Directors of Russia's Federal Penitentiary Service, had arranged for a prisoner to exit the facility and disappear into the wilderness beyond.

  As the lieutenant ahead of him unhooked a set of keys from his belt and approached a heavy metal door, the sound of it being unlocked from within surprised him. Moments later a stern looking man in a neatly pressed uniform emerged. The lieutenant snapped to attention and saluted without a word, staying completely still as the man looked him up and down before moving his gaze to Turov. A knowing look crossed his face and he gave the director a curt nod. He was the prison's warden and his assistance had only cost twenty five thousand euros.

  "Colonel Vitaly Kupchenko, I presume?" Turov asked.

  "Get lost," the warden barked at the lieutenant, who was on the move before his superior's breath had evaporated in the frigid air. "Yes. I am he," he said to Turov, before he turned back towards the metal door and disappeared inside.

  Turov decided to let the warden's lack of proper recognition of his superior slide for the moment and followed him into the prison.

  Once he was inside the warden slammed the door shut and locked it. Water ran from Turov's eyes immediately as the smell overwhelmed him. A mixture of what he could only imagine was feces, urine and human decay assaulted his nostrils. He removed his fur hat and held it to his face to avoid being sick, the smell of his sweaty head preferable to the stench of the prison. The warden seemed unfazed. He walked ahead of Turov and led him deeper into the prison.

  The floor was unfinished wood and creaked bitterly as the two heavy-set men passed over it. The walls were constructed of a rough plaster, painted green on the bottom half and white on the top, although it had obviously been many years since it had been properly maintained. In many places bare w
ood was visible, the plaster chipped away. Turov imagined the bare spots could easily have been caused by the heads of inmates being struck against the wall; brutality was commonplace throughout the Russian prison system, especially this far from Moscow's oversight.

  "I must admit, comrade director, that I had second thoughts when you told me who it was that you wanted. I cannot imagine anyone having a use for this animal," the warden said, as they passed through another metal door, the slam as the warden closed it behind them echoing along the empty corridor.

  "I have no use for him. Most likely he will be hunted like wild game, but that is not your concern."

  "Yes, sir," the warden replied and handed Turov a thin olive green folder.

  From there they walked in silence, twisting and turning through the prison corridors. On either side of them were white metal doors that marked the entrances to cells. Each door had a three inch by six inch slot through which prisoners would put their hands to be handcuffed, all now closed for the night. Occasionally they passed a larger open room where bored guards sat watching fuzzy television sets no bigger than Turov's open palm. The guards all stood suddenly and saluted as they passed.

  After descending a switchback of a staircase that led into the facility's basement and walking another one hundred yards Turov could feel the heat from the incinerator, hear the constant roar coming from the end of the corridor. The warden approached a white door, unlocked the hand slide and barked an order. "Get up, filth! You have an appointment!"

  Seconds later a pair of hands appeared through the slide and the warden removed a set of handcuffs from his belt, ratcheting them around the man's wrists before unlocking the heavy door and pulling it open. From the darkness within the cell a skinny man with a dark complexion emerged. He appeared to be hairless and was wearing a black and gray striped jumpsuit and matching hat that sat atop his bald head. Looking him up and down, Turov was surprised that someone would pay so much for his freedom, but his instructions had been clear. The mysterious, disembodied voice he had come to know as Levent Kahraman wanted the Chechen child killer, Ruslan Baktayev.