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As Dragov waited across the street from the entrance to Pescadero State Hospital, the morning sun cast long shadows across the quiet road. The street was lined with typical American cars, parked haphazardly as if their owners had rushed inside.
Shortly after 11:00 a.m., the main gates of Pescadero swung open with a creak, revealing a convoy of vehicles emerging onto the street. The cars were nondescript, blending into the traffic with their faded paint and worn exteriors. They turned onto Ocean Avenue, the name of the street outside Pescadero, and began their journey. Dragov, in a hired car parked nearby, followed discreetly behind the convoy, keeping a safe distance to avoid arousing suspicion. Reed-Henry's information had proven accurate; the convoy consisted of a nondescript van flanked by two unmarked patrol cars. The vehicles moved with purpose but without drawing undue attention, maintaining a discreet distance from one another. As Dragov trailed behind, he spotted the decoy vehicle—a similarly nondescript van—keeping pace with the convoy but veering off at strategic intervals to divert any potential attention. It was a well-coordinated operation, designed to ensure the smooth transit of their precious cargo without attracting unwanted scrutiny.
There was no shrieking of sirens. The convoy moved within speed limits, keeping a low profile, not wanting to attract any more attention to their movements than could be helped. Once clear of the Harborview city limits, yellow warning lights spun on the roofs of the unmarked cop cars.
As Dragov pursued the convoy on the Pacific Coast Highway, the winding road hugged the rugged coastline, offering glimpses of the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean on one side and towering cliffs on the other. The convoy moved swiftly, the unmarked cop cars maintaining positions ahead and behind the nondescript van in the center. The unmarked cop cars strategically positioned themselves—one leading the convoy, the other trailing behind—ensuring they could swiftly respond to any potential threats while maintaining a discreet presence. Meanwhile, the unmarked van, carrying the precious cargo, remained at the heart of the convoy, shielded from prying eyes. Despite the convoy's careful coordination, its presence disrupted the flow of traffic along the Pacific Coast Highway. Drivers slowed down, their curiosity piqued by the unusual procession of vehicles, creating a temporary bottleneck on the scenic route.
As Dragov and the convoy journeyed onward, they passed by quaint coastal towns, expansive fields dotted with grazing cattle, and dense forests clinging to the hillsides. The landscape shifted seamlessly from serene seaside vistas to lush greenery, offering fleeting glimpses of the natural beauty that enveloped them. Yet amid this picturesque backdrop, Dragov remained focused on his mission.
Dragov and the convoy arrived in Los Angeles in the late afternoon, just as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. As they navigated the bustling streets of the city, they encountered the notorious traffic snarls that plagued Los Angeles, with cars backed up for blocks at busy intersections and freeway entrances. As they made their way through the city, they passed over iconic bridges such as the Sixth Street Viaduct and the historic Sixth Street Bridge, which spans over the Los Angeles River. The convoy's route takes them through diverse neighborhoods, from the bustling downtown district with its towering skyscrapers to the scenic hillsides of Hollywood. As they approached their destination, Dragov caught glimpses of familiar landmarks—the iconic Hollywood sign perched high above the city, and the distinctive cylindrical tower of the Capitol Records building standing tall against the skyline. Undeterred by the traffic and distractions, he pressed on, determined to keep pace with the convoy until they finally reached their destination: Cedar Sinai Hospital. With his senses heightened and his focus unwavering, Dragov drove on until the convoy came to a stop outside the hospital, marking the end of their journey and the beginning of Dragov's next phase of surveillance and planning.
As Dragov stopped his car outside Cedars Sinai Hospital, he took in the sight of the sprawling medical complex, its modern facade rising like Mt. Olympus against the backdrop of the L.A. skyline. The hospital appeared well-maintained and bustling with activity, with medical staff and visitors moving purposefully in and out of the entrance. However, he noticed something unusual as the convoy arrived. Instead of pulling up to the front entrance, the vehicles veered off toward a less conspicuous side entrance. Dragov's suspicions were aroused as he observed the convoy's destination, wondering why they would choose to bypass the main entrance.
As the convoy came to a halt, Dragov counted at least four police cars positioned strategically around the perimeter, their presence indicating the seriousness of the situation. Additionally, he observed several hospital security personnel stationed nearby, ready to assist with the transfer of Mischa Barton. To his surprise, Barton's face was covered with a black hood, obscuring her features from view. This precautionary measure suggested that the authorities were keen to maintain secrecy and prevent any unauthorized individuals from identifying or intercepting her. Despite the heightened security at Cedars Sinai, he couldn't help but compare it to Pescadero Hospital. While both facilities were well-guarded, Cedars Sinai lacked the fortress-like appearance and oppressive atmosphere of its counterpart back in Harborview. Reed-Henry's assertion about the nearby children's hospital proved correct, further highlighting the significance of Mischa Barton's transfer and the need for utmost caution in Dragov's approach.
As Dragov retraced the route between Pescadero in Harborview and Cedars Sinai in Los Angeles, he meticulously observed his surroundings, keenly noting any advantages or insights that might aid him in his mission. Along the Pacific Coast Highway, the road wound its way through picturesque coastal landscapes, offering occasional glimpses of the sparkling ocean beyond. Dragov carefully studied the layout of the highway, noting its curves, inclines, and potential bottlenecks that could slow down a pursuing convoy or provide cover for an ambush. He observed the traffic patterns, the density of vehicles, and the presence of law enforcement patrols, assessing the level of security and potential obstacles he might encounter. He took note of the exits and entrances along the highway, mentally mapping out potential escape routes and rendezvous points. He observed the urban centers and small towns that lined the route, considering their proximity to the highway and the potential for support or interference from local authorities. Dragov also scanned the landscape for natural features that could be exploited to his advantage, such as wooded areas, hills, or other terrain that might provide cover or concealment. With each passing mile, Dragov's understanding of the route deepened, as did his appreciation for the challenges it presented. He knew that success would require careful planning, quick thinking, and a willingness to adapt to changing circumstances.
As Dragov continued his reconnaissance along the route between Pescadero and Cedars Sinai, he stumbled upon what appeared to be a promising discovery. Turning off the main highway onto a narrow dirt road, he found himself winding through a dense thicket of trees, the foliage closing in around him as if to shield the road from prying eyes above. Overhead, the canopy formed a natural tunnel, filtering the sunlight and casting dappled shadows across the forest floor. As he drove deeper into the woods, Dragov crossed several small bridges that spanned a winding river, its waters glistening in the sunlight as they flowed lazily beneath him. The bridges, though weathered by time and neglect, appeared sturdy enough to support the weight of his vehicle, offering a reliable means of passage across the river's meandering course.
Emerging from the forest, Dragov found himself in a deserted town on the highway's outskirts. Weather-worn and abandoned buildings stood as silent sentinels to a bygone era, their faded facades bearing witness to the passage of time. Despite the desolation, there was an eerie sense of life lingering in the air, as if the spirits of the past still haunted the empty streets and dilapidated structures. This deserted town lay on the eastern side of the highway, its forgotten existence hidden from view by the dense foliage that lined the roadside. For Dragov, it represented a potential advantage in his mission, offering a secluded refuge where he could regroup and plan his next move away from prying eyes and unwanted attention. With cautious optimism, he explored the town, his senses alert to any signs of danger or opportunity that might lay hidden within its abandoned confines.
As Dragov stepped out of his car and began to explore the ghost town, he found himself walking along a crumbling road, its surface cracked and overgrown with weeds. The once bustling thoroughfare now lay silent and deserted, the only sound the whisper of the wind as it rustled through the decaying remnants of buildings long since abandoned. Moving cautiously through the deserted streets, Dragov's keen eyes scanned his surroundings, taking in the crumbling facades of forgotten storefronts and the empty shells of dilapidated homes. The air hung heavy with the weight of history, the echoes of past lives lingering in the quiet stillness of the abandoned town.
It's amidst this eerie silence that Dragov made his startling discovery—a rowboat nestled amidst a field of tall weeds and overgrown grass. Approaching the boat, he found it weather-beaten and worn, its paint peeling and its wood weathered by years of exposure to the elements. Inside the boat rested a large crate, its contents hidden from view by the darkness within. With cautious curiosity, Dragov managed to pry open the crate, revealing its contents to be none other than the deadliest and most accurate German gun of WWII—the infamous MG42. Known for its rapid rate of fire and unparalleled accuracy, the MG42 stood as a testament to German engineering prowess, its lethal capabilities unmatched even by modern standards. As Dragov examined the weapon, he couldn't help but wonder if it could be rehabilitated, repurposed for his mission. The thought of wielding such a formidable instrument of destruction filled him with a sense of grim determination, as he contemplated the possibilities that lay ahead.
Leaving the weapons where they lay, Dragov continued his exploration, climbing a gentle slope that led to a cemetery overlooking the ghost town. The graveyard was a solemn and somber place, its weather-worn tombstones standing as silent sentinels amidst the overgrown grass and scattered wildflowers. As he walked among the graves, he read the inscriptions carved into the weathered stone—names of famous Old West gunslingers, U.S. cavalrymen who fell in battle against the Apaches, and other pioneers and settlers who met their end on the unforgiving frontier. Each marker told a story of bravery and sacrifice, their faded inscriptions bearing witness to lives cut short in the pursuit of a dream. There was a cluster of smaller tombstones, their size and simplicity standing in stark contrast to the larger markers nearby. These were the graves of orphaned children, their inscriptions simple but poignant—names and dates, a testament to lives lost before they had barely begun. As he read the names of these forgotten children, Dragov felt a pang of sadness wash over him, a reminder of the harsh realities of life on the frontier.
As Dragov explored the abandoned streets and crumbling buildings of the forgotten town, known as Silverwood, he couldn't help but feel drawn to its secrets—the untold stories waiting to be discovered. Amidst the haunting echoes of his past, the town's history intrigued him, its name revealed through a weathered sign at the edge of the main street. With each step, he memorized the layout of the cemetery, committing its pathways and tombstones to memory before returning to his car. Once back behind the wheel, Dragov consulted his map, tracing the route to Silverwood's strategic position overlooking the highway. Realizing its potential as a vantage point from which to interfere with the convoy coming from Pescadero to Cedars Sinai Hospital, he set his jaw in determination, his mind already racing with plans and possibilities. Yet as he drove away, he knew that Silverwood's secrets would linger in his thoughts, a reminder of the mysteries that lurk beneath the surface of the world.
As Dragov traced several other potential routes that the state police could choose, he carefully analyzed each one for its advantages and vulnerabilities. While the route that bypassed Silverwood might indeed be the shortest and most direct path, Dragov realized that it might not necessarily be the safest or most strategic choice. Instead, he considered whether this route would expose Mischa Barton to the least amount of vulnerability during transit, minimizing the time she spent in potential danger. Furthermore, Dragov acknowledged that this route is likely the one that law enforcement would prioritize in an emergency, as it offered the fastest access to medical facilities and resources. Understanding the importance of anticipating every possible scenario, Dragov meticulously evaluated each route, weighing the risks and benefits to ensure that he was prepared to intercept the convoy and execute his plan with precision and efficiency.
After returning to his hotel room in Harborview, Dragov meticulously reviewed the sketch he'd made of the area he'd just visited, including Silverwood. As he studied the various routes, he discarded one that, while potentially faster, exposed Mischa Barton to unacceptable risks due to its lack of cover and increased visibility. Instead, he concluded that the cemetery is the most suitable place to operate, given its strategic vantage point and concealed position.
However, Dragov grappled with the dilemma presented by the German machine guns he found. While their efficiency was renowned, he recognized the need for more modern weapons to ensure success and minimize the risk of detection. He acknowledged that while the German guns could provide a significant advantage, they also came with limitations, particularly in terms of range and firepower.
As he contemplated the plan forming in his mind, Dragov realized that the weakest point lay in the California authorities' vulnerability when Mischa Barton was taken out of Pescadero. Despite the challenges and uncertainties, he felt a surge of determination and anticipation, knowing that he was on the cusp of executing a daring and potentially game-changing operation.
A small two-way radio receiver lying beside his desk squawked to life. He picked it up and pushed the button.
"Dragov," he said.
"Hey man," Zoltan's voice came through clearly; he was probably in an opposite room in the same street. "There's a tail on you. Look outside the street in a doorway about four blocks down."
Dragov opened the corner of the curtain and looked out. It was a formality; Zoltan was a professional. He wouldn't make a mistake. Dragov saw the tail, a man of average height with a lean, athletic build, wearing a dark trench coat that flapped lightly in the breeze. He was one of Kazakov's street soldiers who harassed him on the first occasion. Dragov guessed that there would be another man in a car somewhere further back, keeping warm, and probably someone else watching from a window in a building across the street. He was almost glad they'd come. He went back to the radio.
"Zoltan," he said, "there's a chance they may decide to kill me this time without bothering to pick me up. I want to make my move first."
"O.K.," Zoltan replied. "Lead them onto the street, take them to the place I told you about off Twilight Terrace. Follow the route I showed you and you'll find yourself in a courtyard amongst some buildings. Lead them in there and just keep out of the way, I'll do the rest."
"Zoltan," Dragov said, teeth clenched, "if I lead them in you be there, I'll do the rest."
The voice on the other end of the radio chuckled. It was an unstable sound that gave the listener no confidence.
"Dragov," Zoltan murmured, "you are my brother."
Dragov turned off the receiver.492Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJDcE3u1NNl
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Dragov lay on his bed in the darkened room with the glow from the street lights on the ceiling. He waited three hours. He blanked out his mind and stared at the wall, not feeling the cold that was creeping into his bones. When he knew that he had allowed enough time for Zoltan to move into position he rose from his bed and checked his weapon, loading and reloading the magazine and spare. He wanted to call up Zoltan to make sure he was there; now the time had come, and it was taking all his courage to go down into the streets.
Dragov shrugged on his overcoat, put the receiver in his pocket, and closed the door. He felt a clinically empty room behind him. There was nothing in it, no photographs, no letters, nothing that could be used to trace his identity.
There was a mist, a haze that hung in the air beneath the street lights. Away from the bright neon lights of Twilight Terrace, Harborview was a faceless, stark, sinister town in the middle of nowhere.
Kazakov's men shadowed Dragov in the familiar pincer pattern. One man in front, one behind, one following in a car, and this time, to ensure they took no chances, a fourth man moving parallel to him on the other side of the street. Dragov did not attempt to get to his car because he knew he'd never make it. Instead, he led them across Lakeside Drive heading for the Barrio Esperanza. In the first quarter of an hour, his nerves twisted and his back had crawled waiting for a bullet.
When nothing happened he knew that they were waiting for instructions. They had probably sent for Kazakov. He quickened his pace. The tags closed the distance between them, letting him walk but keeping him boxed in. The new housing development of soulless high-rise apartments gave way to some crumbling five- and six-story buildings, dark alleyways, and empty lots of the Barrio Esperanza.
Dragov had been walking for almost two hours now. He knew the feeling of being exposed to his enemies. He was nearing the end of the hunt: the tension made him tired, it was an effort to keep his brain clear, to keep thinking. The tags, if they had been leading him, could not have forced him into a more decrepit, ill-lit, lawless area of Harborview. They knew he was far from any kind of help and he was relying upon this making them overconfident. Dragov was staking everything on Zoltan, that he was lying up faceless and quiet as the dust somewhere. God help the men he was going to kill, for Dragov knew he was a good killer, the best, as long as his mind hadn't snapped.
He walked through the arcade leading from the Exxon station, down a grubby street with garbage in the gutters. On either side of him were passages leading into the buildings, open doors, narrow, dark, filthy stairways, inner courtyards with the plaster broken away and the brick crumbling. He passed garish graffiti on the bleak walls of the empty lots, weird scribbles spray-painted on the stop signs, Mexicans in leather jackets playing cards in the small, steamy-windowed cantinas.
Dragov turned off Sierra Vista Street. Zoltan had chosen the killing ground and Dragov had no choice but to follow his instructions. The tags were getting worried now, wondering what he was up to. They feared they could lose him in the crowded tenements. The driver of the car was probably radioing urgently for instructions and the rest of the tags had drawn so close to him now that they were almost breathing down his neck. One of the tags caught Dragov's eye. He reached into his trenchcoat and took out the plastic bag that he had nearly asphyxiated him with on the last occasion. He held it up so that Dragov could see it and grinned at him. He was confident that his victim had no way of escape and he was gloating over what was coming.
"Soon," he called out across the street, showing Dragov the plastic bag. "Very soon."
Dragov guessed that Kazakov had been letting him walk to see if he would lead them anywhere but was now running out of patience. Dragov glanced up, saw the almost obliterated number 16 on a building, and turned in through the open doors, along a pitch-black passage that led to an inner courtyard. The squalor of the Barrio Esperanza was not so evident on the streets, which the town's sanitation department worked hard to keep clean, but inside the sprawling overcrowded ghetto buildings, where the 90,000 Mexican migrants of Harborview, California lived twelve to a room. Banked-up snow and rubbish lay in the courtyard and the buildings. He was trapped now; there was no way out except through the passage.
Dragov took out the radio. He saw the shadow of one of the tags blend into the wall opposite him.
"Zoltan," he whispered, "they're coming through the passage now, can you see them?"
There was no answer.
"Zoltan," Dragov whispered again fiercely, "can you see them, they're almost onto me!"
Still, there was no answer. Dragov looked despairingly up at the windows in the buildings above him, then he drew his gun.
All 3 tags were in the courtyard now. They had fanned out, using the shadows against the walls for cover, and were moving towards him. Dragov was too vulnerable in his position by the stairway. He vaulted over the rail and scrambled up the steps, trying to make for the open doorway, but he slipped on the ice and fell, cracking his head, and sliding back down the steps. He heard the sound of a gun being cocked behind him and then came 3 rifle shots. The reports followed one after the other so fast they sounded like one, but the noise from the tenement buildings almost drowned the outburst. Dragov got shakily to his feet, looked for his gun, and picked it up.
Someone opened a window above him, looked out, and quickly closed it again, not wanting to get involved. All three tags were lying on the ground. Dragov walked up to one and kicked him over with his boot. The bullet had gone straight through, leaving a neat blue hole in his forehead and smashing out through the back of his skull. Dragov checked there was no life in the others, then he reached into his pocket and took out the receiver, shook it to see if it was still working, and pressed the button.
"Zoltan, you bastard," he whispered furiously. "Why did you let me think I was alone, why didn't you answer me?"
"You know I don't talk when I'm working," Zoltan replied, his husky voice elated after the kill. "It breaks my concentration."
Dragov saw something stir behind a darkened window two stories up. He thought it was Zoltan jeering at him, but he couldn't be sure among the shadows. He walked out of the courtyard and back through the passage. The car was parked across the street; the driver was expecting the other tags. He had no time to move before Dragov wrenched open the door and dragged him out. He spun the driver around, spread him over the bonnet, kicked his legs apart so that he had to use his hands to keep his balance, and seized his gun.
"Your friends are dead," Dragov said. "And the only reason that you're going to live is because I want to get a message to Kakazov. Tell him I want to talk to him, tell him to be at that number." Dragov pushed a piece of paper into the driver's pocket. "At eight tomorrow night. I'll phone him there."
Dragov watched the driver speed away. He took out his radio. "Zoltan," he said. "It's set for tomorrow night. Ask Étienne Dubois to hire some Mexican friends of his and make it look good."492Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIauhGswokg
