Cocked And Loaded: A Harem Thriller by Chris Devine

Author:Chris Devine [Devine, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-05-14T22:00:00+00:00

Seven hours later, Arkady stood in a nondescript industrial area before a roll-up door. He was clad now in lightweight cut-and-slash pants and shirt under a black ballistic vest whose pattern resembled the diamonds on a turtle’s shell.

Arkady toggled a switch, which engaged motors that powered up the door to reveal a small armaments warehouse, leased via a limited liability company owned by an off-the-grid cut-out that was untraceable to, yet owned by, Viktor Bishop.

Back in the day, and all around the world, Big Army had what were known as pre-position vaults: concrete-reinforced structures containing millions in cash and all kinds of weapons and other goodies. Bishop had similar caches all up and down the East Coast and in various cities across the country. They were staging areas of sorts, and Arkady always liked to go shopping before heading out on a kill.

He was accompanied by a trio of hired guns that Bishop kept on a hefty retainer: a thick-necked Americanized Pole named Koening, the manic Cajun from a backwoods bayou named Bobby Bastille, and the tall, mixed-race man with no eyebrows whose name was Jo Jo Cawley.

Bishop had handpicked these men over the last few years for a very specific reason.

In Arkady’s country, it was common for fighters to operate in teams of four, particularly when confronting something formidable (like a tank, for instance): a grenadier, a sniper, and a general-purpose fighter to provide cover and overwatch for the others.

These three accompanied the One-Zero, the strategist, the person who orchestrated the order of battle. That was Arkady. He was the man in charge.

All of those selected by Bishop had served in law enforcement or the military or as intelligence operatives. Each possessed unique skills. Each would not hesitate to put a man, woman, or child down.

They entered and formed a line behind Arkady, giving him a wide berth. His eyes were as lifeless as lumps of coal, and they were well aware of his exploits and his lineage—even Bastille, the newest member of the team.

Arkady was Chechen, and that meant something even to the Russians over in Little Odessa and what remained of Brighton Beach. It was well known that if you hired a Chechen, they did the job, and if you planned on squaring off against one, you best be ready to tug the trigger or sink the blade in. Because if you weren’t, they would keep coming at you like some kind of goddamned revenant until death was dished out.

Arkady stood before a metal locker and pried out a machine pistol. He held it in his hands, which were welted and scarred and resembled the hide on a hog from the wrist to the elbow. Reminders of his childhood in Dagestan, when he was nearly taken in the explosion that incinerated his father. Some Wahhabi fanatic (was there any other kind?) had begun targeting the offspring of those who’d served with President Dudayev many years before. Picking them off one by one. All of the men in his family had been killed, save Arkady.

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