Ring of Conspiracy (The Volya Series Book 2) Read online

  Ring of Conspiracy

  By J. Robert Kinney

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner or are the product of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Ring of Conspiracy © 2020 Justin R. Kinney

  Cover Design © by R. Atanassova, elementi-studio.com

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the express, written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations included in articles or reviews.

  DEDICATION

  John Knox once said: “When I think of those who have influenced my life the most, I think not of the great, but of the good.”

  To the good in my life.

  ***

  “Our new Constitution is now established, everything seems to promise it will be durable; but, in this world, nothing is certain except death and taxes.”

  – Benjamin Franklin, in a letter to Jean-Baptiste Le Roy,

  November 1789

  “—far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age, but also in the one to come.”

  Ephesians 1:21 (ESV)

  CAST OF RETURNING CHARACTERS

  From SPLINTERED STATE

  ****

  The Team

  Franklin Holt – Former low-level Russian mob, now unofficial consultant with the Special Intelligence & Security Agency (SISA)

  Jacob Sloan – one of the Directors at SISA, former elite spy now on desk duty

  Shannon Faye – SISA Agent, works for Jacob Sloan

  Evelyn “Eve” Chase – Freelance tech guru/hacker

  Terrorists

  Phoenix – Mysterious leader of Nasha Volya (NV)

  Nathan Hook – former FBI, outed as NV & imprisoned

  Graham O’Brian – former FBI, outed as NV & imprisoned

  Maria Perovskaya – Member of NV, original descendant

  Franklin’s Family

  Irving Holt – Franklin’s father

  Jeremiah & Tara Holt – Franklin’s brother & step-sister

  KJ Holt – Franklin’s nephew, son of Jeremiah and Tara

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  T he first shovel load of topsoil missed the mark and landed on a brand new pair of alligator skin dress shoes. A cascade of pebbles and grime showered over their scaly leather, causing a thick layer of dust and dirt to settle on the hide.

  "Sorry boss," Abram Danko mumbled as he avoided the irritated gaze of the man wearing those shoes. He knew what the glare looked like anyway, a stern frown, wrinkled forehead, and eyes that shot daggers. Such was the normal look of their boss and Danko had been on the receiving end enough times to visualize it vividly with his eyes closed. Intensity was the only emotion the man was capable of expressing.

  "Just keep digging," the boss ordered, his abrasive voice tinged with a quiet anger. The large, burly man slowly and intentionally shook each foot rid of its unwanted coat of earth.

  Danko and his partner Ruslan Volk soon fell into a rhythm, one scraping a heavy shovel into hard-packed dirt while the other slung his payload from their slowly deepening hole. Neither spoke a word for several minutes as the pile of dirt at the side of the pit slowly rose. It felt creepy enough out here in the church graveyard without having to add the patter of awkward small talk to the mix. Eerie tendrils of moonlight glowed and sliced through the canopy of trees overhead, casting long shadows across the grass and making it difficult to see beyond an arm's length.

  Danko supposed that was for the best; it made it easier to imagine he was somewhere else—anywhere else—without the extra visual of a multitude of worn headstones reminding him they were surrounded by dead and decaying corpses. The steeple of the local parish looming overhead did no favors either; its towering presence created a deep sense of foreboding.

  Dead bodies had always given Danko the creeps. He supposed it went back to a fear of his uncle. Uncle Louis had been…eccentric and irreverent. He was known for being a little too cavalier with the coroner job entrusted to him. When Danko's mom and dad went on one of their drug-induced hallucinatory vacations, Louis would bring young Abram to the lab and perform autopsies in front of the children. The whole procedure had been scarring. Uncle Louis eventually cracked and was arrested for using one recent homicide victim as a ride-along passenger in the front seat of his '72 Chevy so he could use the carpool lane. Now, Louis was never mentioned at family gatherings—rare though they were—except for occasional whispers of how Crazy Lou was managing at Sunnydale Psychiatric downtown.

  The two had been digging for fifteen minutes or so—Danko guessed—when a dull clang rang out through the crisp night air, right as Volk slammed his shovel into the dirt. The sound brought the attention of the man above them and he cautiously made his way into the pit to examine their discovery for himself.

  "Yes, yes…this is it…" he murmured in a gravelly voice. "Keep digging. We need to get this open." Showing disregard for the same shoes he'd so carefully dusted off, he climbed out again and gestured his two "employees" back to work. The pair nervously shrugged and started digging again, but an abrupt shout startled the men and they looked up to spy a lone figure jogging towards them, dodging headstones across the grassy expanse.

  "Hey there!" a man's voice rang out through the crisp air. "What are you doing here? The cemetery is closed." The groundskeeper, a hefty man in his late 50s, was making his rounds. They'd timed their activity to avoid this scenario, but he'd arrived on the scene earlier than expected.

  "Merely paying respects to a friend." Their boss spoke calmly, with a hint of arrogance and a sneer on his lips. He knew the groundskeeper wasn't going drop the questions based on that flimsy excuse, especially when he spotted the growing hole they were making in his cemetery.

  "We closed at sundown, young man." The large man continued to waddle furiously towards their location. Danko and Volk watched as their boss casually repositioned his hand inside his leather jacket. He said nothing as they watched the groundskeeper advance. "What do you think you're doing?? You can't do that! I'm going to call the police!" He'd noticed the disruptive nature of their activity. He unsnapped his cell phone from a belt clip on his waist.

  "You don't want to do that." The boss took a final drag on his cigarette and tossed it to the ground with a flick of hi
s wrist, snuffing it out with the sole of his alligator shoes.

  "Digging up a grave is a felony offense." The obese groundskeeper fumbled with his phone, flipping it open with a loud click. "The police will sort this out when they get here." He never managed to finish dialing. A sudden pop sounded—echoing across the cemetery—and the large man stumbled backwards, his mouth slackened and agape. Two more pops in rapid succession and he slumped to the ground with a loud thud. He twitched once and then all movement ceased. A pink mist hung in the air where he once stood. Danko turned to see his boss with a fiery look in his eyes and a silenced MSS Vul—standard issue for KGB spies in the 1980s—gripped in the hand of his outstretched arm.

  No one uttered a sound for several long seconds as they watched him holster the fired weapon and slowly rebutton his jacket. He turned to face them, their eyes wide and their bodies frozen. He flashed a wry smile—they hadn't been told about the possibility of someone being murdered. He hadn't even elected to mention he was carrying a gun, though they probably should've guessed. But now that they understood what lengths he was willing to go to, there would be no double-crossing tonight.

  "What are you waiting for? You want someone else to come investigate the rumble from that whale hitting the ground?" The words were biting and sharp, but had the desired effect. Danko and Volk redoubled their efforts and sank their shovels into the unforgiving ground.

  It wasn't another five minutes before they uncovered their find. A long wooden box lay before them. Unremarkable, really, it was light brown and plain, with no distinguishing features. Not even the customary cross with which so many coffins in this quaint town were etched before burial. Much like its topside appearance—only an unadorned concrete headstone to mark its location—the box showed no signs to indicate the identity of the individual contained within.

  But as Danko knew, that only made it more mysterious. He'd been hired for this job without being enlightened on any details, but he was no idiot. Ever since arriving at the cemetery, he'd been piecing it together. Combining the unusual appearance of the grave at this specific church in this tiny town with the physical nature of the box, being remarkably still intact and not yet deteriorated, he felt reasonably certain whose postmortem residence they were currently disturbing.

  "Open it!" their boss commanded.

  "You want us to open it?" Volk finally spoke up, a twitch evident in his shaking voice. "That wasn't part of the deal. You just told us we had to do the digging…"

  His voice trailed off as the boss tugged back his jacket a few inches, revealing his shoulder holster. The man's right hand rested on the grip of the weapon he'd utilized minutes earlier. "I still have three rounds. How many do I need?" His meaning was clear. Volk and Danko nervously glanced at each other before turning back to the coffin.

  Both leaned over and gripped the edge of the wooden box, bracing themselves for what they knew lay inside. Counting to three, the men wrenched upward, pulling the lid with them. The stench of the stale air caused them to recoil. A cloud of dust and dirt—and God only knows what else—exploded in a poof from the previously sealed chamber, coating the two men.

  "Is it there?" Their boss, for the first time, sounded genuinely jubilant about the prospect of finding his treasure inside. Indeed, it was there, a small drawstring bag clutched beneath the crossed arms of the decedent. What exactly he wanted with such a frivolous item belonging to a dead man eluded Danko, but he wasn't being paid to speculate on motive. Volk gingerly reached into the tomb and pulled it out, holding it delicately between forefinger and thumb. He passed it upward out of the grave to his superior, who looked giddy as he grabbed the dusty, odorous item. He pointed at a metal briefcase laid next to the hole.

  "Payment is in there, in full," the man remarked. Then, he spun on his heels and, without glancing behind him, he disappeared into the night. Right as he did, the clock in the church steeple rang out.

  It was midnight.

  Chapter 2

  T he quiet purr of her black motorcycle died as Shannon Faye pulled into a shadowy spot at a side entrance to the park—tucked along one side of the gravel lot, near the trees—and killed the engine. But she didn't dismount. Not yet. Instead, she took a minute to survey her surroundings.

  It was nearly 2:30 in the morning and the night was dark, almost an inky blackness, which made it hard to see very far. The one streetlight, marking the entrance to the parking lot, had burned out. Some ambient light from downtown peeked over the treetops, but very little settled down the steep grade to the lot.

  The lot sat empty, save for a solitary dark Mustang parked on the far side of the lot, but she knew the park wasn't. Cars were conspicuous and the people she was here to observe wouldn't risk being spotted because a passerby got curious about their expensive vehicle. No doubt they'd found other transportation here before trekking deeper into the park to avoid being seen or heard.

  She listened for a minute for any sounds of human activity, but hearing none, Shannon dismounted from her bike and pulled off her helmet, flicking her hair over her shoulder. The recently-dyed long locks, a rich dark nougat, were pulled back in a severe ponytail.

  With her engine killed and helmet removed, she cocked her head to one side and listened again. A single bird screeched from a nearby tree. Some species of owl, she supposed. Almost instinctively, she ran a hand through her hair. There'd been occasional stories of Barred Owls attacking runners in this area, with one theory being that they mistook women's ponytails for an animal of prey, probably squirrels. But after a few seconds and no appearance of a dive-bombing bird, talons outstretched in attack-mode, she smirked and figured she was safe.

  No other noise penetrated the blackness, giving the night an eerie feeling. It was as quiet as she'd ever heard the park. Most nights, you'd hear a hint of music and clamor emanating outward from Dupont Circle, a popular nightlife scene with college students, or from one of the few universities in the area, but tonight there was nothing. A drizzle hanging in the air probably kept everyone indoors, she mused, and university students weren't due to return to campus from summer vacation for another week.

  She softly laid her helmet on the seat of her bike, patted her pocket to ensure her camera was safely secured, and began to hike into a wooded area just off the parking lot, in the direction of the Taft Bridge with its famous lion guardians at either end. You couldn't catch a glimpse of the giant leonine statues from so far below where she hiked, but they were one of her favorite parts of the District.

  She'd always found something familiar and majestic about lions in the muted way they carried their power. They didn't flout their power, prancing around, but presented themselves regally; no one would dare to mess with a full-grown lion. No wonder they were called 'Kings of the Jungle.'

  Shannon moved slowly and deliberately, tracking the main path about twenty feet to her right, until she passed beneath the towering arches of the bridge's concrete supports.

  It had been roughly six months since she'd helped stop a terrorist attack at the Lincoln Memorial. A century-old Russian anarchist group—long-believed extinct—had re-emerged with a new name, Nasha Volya, a new globalized brand of ideology, and seriously strengthened connections in influential places. Attacks had taken place, simultaneously, in cities around the globe, including several in the United States. And not all had been foiled, like the one in Washington had.

  A lot had changed since then. A couple high-profile targets had been captured. An FBI Director, Graham O'Brian rotted in a federal prison cell, though his agent, Nathan Hook, had escaped during a prisoner transfer a few months ago. Even one Senator had been outed as a sympathizer and deposed. Three others were being investigated. And countless other government officials were under suspicion.

  But it was costly. One of the FBI's best, Agent Joanna Talbott, had lost her life at the Lincoln Memorial that day, gunned down by Hook, her traitorous partner. Several others died at the Rayburn Congressional Building attack. One of the local masterminds,
a mysterious woman known only as Phoenix, had vanished into the wind without so much as a trace. And a heavy cloud of doubt and cynicism hung over the whole industry.

  Life in the intelligence business was challenging now as well, more so than normal; virtually no one could be trusted.

  Not your boss.

  Not your employee.

  Not your coworker.

  After the events of that weekend, Director Sloan—his life-saving actions had prevented dozens of casualties—had personally vetted the others in their new inner circle. The only ones she felt comfortable trusting anymore.

  Director Sloan was a legend, both in and out of the intelligence community. His undercover work decades before for the top-secret Midnighters was oft-rumored about, but he'd privately confided to her that his exploits abroad were even wilder than the stories. Now a bit older, and quite a bit rounder, he'd worked his way up the ladder and still cut an imposing figure as a desk-bound Director at the Special Intelligence and Security Agency, SISA. He'd seen—and done—more than anyone and he'd rather die than allow some new group to unravel his life's work. But his job running a federal agency meant he needed to be careful. He still ran in powerful circles, both domestically and abroad. Even now, he was meeting with other intel heads in Budapest to discuss a potential cooperative counter-terrorism initiative. He wasn't due back for a few days.

  Other than the two of them, there were three more on the team.

  First was Franklin Holt. Unlike her, he wasn't an agent; he'd even spent time as a member of a local Russian mafia before cleaning up his act and writing a fictionalized memoir. The now-deceased Agent Talbott had been his ex-wife—estranged, but they'd been in the process of mending fences—so he had a personal stake in fighting. He was a bit of a wild card due to his shaky past and troubles with alcohol, but his motivation was revenge, so lack of trust wasn't an issue. He had a family to worry about though, an ex-military father who fought in Vietnam, a brother and sister-in-law, and their young son. The brother, a local D.C. professor named Jeremiah, had proven useful with research, but Franklin refused to involve his family any further than that and Shannon didn't blame him. Not after what he'd been through already.