At All Costs (The Volya Series Book 3) Read online

  At All Costs

  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.

  At All Costs © 2022 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, as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  Visit and follow me online!

  www.jrobertkinney.com

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  Praise for The Volya Series

  Silver Falchion award winner, Best Suspense Novel of 2020 — Ring of Conspiracy, book 2 in The Volya Series

  “Ring of Conspiracy is a breakneck suspense/thriller that you won’t want to put down. Kinney deftly moves the story along in almost breathless chapters, while also taking the time to craft rich characters—who are simultaneously larger than life and totally believable—and storylines that are full of intrigue and nuance. Aptly titled, Ring of Conspiracy is full of twists, turns, and deep-rooted conspiracies that will keep the reader guessing until the very end."

  - Killer Nashville International Writers Conference

  “In Ring of Conspiracy, J. Robert Kinney ratchets up the suspense and intrigue to a new level...Set aside plenty of time. Once you start Ring of Conspiracy you won’t want to take a break."

  - Robert Whitlow, Best-Selling Author of Chosen People

  “Superb character development and realistic scene descriptions…The intricately woven and entirely plausible plot grips you from the get-go! Couldn’t put it down. Wouldn’t be surprised if Kinney becomes the next Grisham or Rosenberg!”

  Dedication

  To all who have inspired, encouraged, and continue to support me in my dreams. I couldn’t manage anything without you.

  “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal…it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub and exploit - immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.” – CS Lewis

  "In all our associations; in all our agreements let us never lose sight of this fundamental maxim — that all power was originally lodged in, and consequently is derived from, the people."

  George Mason

  “You will never know how much it has cost my generation to preserve your freedom. I hope you will make a good use of it.”

  John Adams

  Cast of Returning Characters

  From RING OF CONSPIRACY

  The Team:

  Franklin Holt – Former low-level Russian mob, now on the run

  Jacob Sloan – Former intelligence director & spy, now on the run

  Shannon Faye – Former agent under Jacob Sloan, currently in prison

  Evelyn “Eve” Chase – Freelance tech guru/hacker, in hiding

  Terrorists:

  Phoenix – Leader of Nasha Volya (NV), thought killed

  Marcus Hartwell - U.S. Congressman & Presidential hopeful, secret member of the NV

  Wildcard:

  Silas Sherman - Believed dead, Franklin's former mob partner & one-time assassin

  Franklin’s Family:

  Irving Holt – Franklin’s father

  Jeremiah, Tara, & KJ Holt – Franklin’s brother, sister-in-law, & their son

  Joanna Talbott - Franklin's ex-wife, deceased

  Table of Contents

  1. Chapter 1

  2. Chapter 2

  3. Chapter 3

  4. Chapter 4

  5. Chapter 5

  6. Chapter 6

  7. Chapter 7

  8. Chapter 8

  9. Chapter 9

  10. Chapter 10

  11. Chapter 11

  12. Chapter 12

  13. Chapter 13

  14. Chapter 14

  15. Chapter 15

  16. Chapter 16

  17. Chapter 17

  18. Chapter 18

  19. Chapter 19

  20. Chapter 20

  21. Chapter 21

  22. Chapter 22

  23. Chapter 23

  24. Chapter 24

  25. Chapter 25

  26. Chapter 26

  27. Chapter 27

  28. Chapter 28

  29. Chapter 29

  30. Chapter 30

  31. Chapter 31

  32. Chapter 32

  33. Chapter 33

  34. Chapter 34

  35. Chapter 35

  36. Chapter 36

  37. Chapter 37

  38. Chapter 38

  39. Chapter 39

  40. Chapter 40

  41. Chapter 41

  42. Chapter 42

  43. Chapter 43

  44. Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  The End

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Kinney

  Chapter 1

  March 1, 1881

  Saint Petersburg, Russia

  Near the Catherine Canal

  It was 2:10 in the afternoon and Ivan Yemelyanov was standing outside in the cold. The temperature hovered a couple degrees below freezing and a light snow dusted the crowd, leaving a thin coat covering the ground. A modest cluster of people had gathered in front of him, waiting for the royal emperor’s carriage and procession. It was due any minute.

  Tsar Alexander II was scheduled to pass by on his return trip home to the Winter Palace—the royal residence—from the equestrian academy in the center of Saint Petersburg, and his caravan always attracted curious onlookers interested in catching a glimpse of the emperor.

  The tsar, a tall, balding man in his early 60s, had ruled the nation of Russia for nearly thirty years. He’d begun his reign with the reputation as a reformer. In early years, he’d abolished serfdom, erected local governments, and loosened censorship laws. But his regime—like all authoritarian systems—had soon turned repressive and the people suffered the brunt. Civilian protests were quashed. Brutally. The tsar had become a despot and discontent was growing.

  Russia needed change. It needed political reform.

  It needed revolution.

  And that was why Ivan stood here, cold and shivering in an alleyway holding a large briefcase. Inside the briefcase hid a bomb. The explosive was simple yet heavy, five or six pounds, and designed to be thrown, hurled at a moving target. He hoped not to use it—that his co-conspirators would be successful first—but he was prepared to back them up, if necessary.

  A cabinetmaker by trade and the oldest—by far—of the Narodnaya Volya members in today’s mission, Ivan was the alternate, the failsafe if the other two bombers failed in their execution. Of course, using these bombs at all was already a plan B. Their original plan had been a series of explosions from carefully laid dynamite in tunnels dug beneath the tsar’s usual route. But Alexander had elected to visit his cousin, the Grand Duchess Catherine, so chose a secondary route. They had Sophia Perovskaya to thank for tipping them off. A populist and revolutionist, she was a fighter, hard as steel…she’d masterminded everything.

  The Narodnaya Volya—or People’s Will—had learned from previous attempts on Alexander’s life. They’d sought to blow up a railway with mines, but missed the emperor’s train. They’d even smuggled a bomb into the Winter Palace itself via a member who worked there as a carpen
ter, but the explosion was set on a timer and, when dinner was delayed, the bomb blew before the tsar arrived. Their failures had taught them the importance of contingencies. Multiple routes. Multiple bombers.

  Suddenly, a murmur arose among the crowd. The carriage was approaching. Ivan shuffled forward, keeping a tight grip on his briefcase. He ran a shaky hand through his impeccably slicked-back locks. The convoy was larger than Ivan anticipated. In addition to the tsar’s horse-drawn carriage, seven well-dressed men on horseback rode alongside the vehicle. Cossacks, he reckoned, an ethnic group from near the Black and Caspian Seas, who received certain privileges of independent rule in exchange for military service. They were well known for their equestrian abilities. Three sleighs maneuvered behind the carriage as well, carrying the chief of police and a couple uniformed officers of the Gendarmerie, military guards with quasi-police duties. This may be more difficult than his team prepared for.

  Either way, it was time.

  The carriage traveled roughly 150 yards along the quay. Ivan saw one of his fellow members, Nikolai, emerge out of the crowd. He was Step One. Only nineteen years young, Nikolai sported long auburn hair and hailed from a sawmill family in Novgorod. A volunteer for this assignment, he carried a small explosive wrapped in a handkerchief.

  At Sophia’s signal—she had the best view—he ripped the handkerchief away and hurled the bomb.

  It was starting.

  Ivan’s pulse spiked and, despite the cold, he felt a bead of sweat drip down the side of his face. His adrenaline ran high.

  The bomb bounced once, kicked into the air, then landed again and rolled beneath the tsar’s carriage.

  After a second, an explosion erupted near the rear of the vehicle and pandemonium broke loose. The horses flanking the carriage reared on their hind legs, nostrils flaring. One man was flung from his steed and landed face down in the snow. He didn’t move. The air filled with screams and cries of terror, and people began to scatter. As the mob thinned, Ivan spotted a young boy—a peasant—lying motionless on the ground as well. Ivan’s heart dropped.

  He recognized the child as a delivery boy from a family-run butcher shop around the corner, who had surely made the trek out to catch a glimpse of the tsar. He was only twelve. A red pool grew outward from beneath his fragile body. Ominous tendrils of steam wafted upward from the warm liquid as it mixed with the cold snow, as though the body was smoking.

  The carriage was remarkably strong—probably bulletproof—but the back panel shattered and blew off in the blast, and the entire cabin capsized, toppling onto its side with a splintering crash. A large wheel sat crooked on its axle. The carriage was smashed and contorted, unable to continue its journey. That meant the tsar, alive or dead, was boxed in. This was their chance.

  Guards quickly pinned Nikolai against the iron railing along the edge of the canal. He was shouting something, but Ivan couldn’t discern his words above the din of the crowd. Ivan clutched his case with a white-knuckled grip and edged closer, fighting through the crush of panicked onlookers like a salmon swimming upstream, jostled back and forth by the current, and trying not to draw attention to himself.

  He, like many, was waiting to learn the fate of Tsar Alexander. But he didn’t have to wait long. After a minute, the door swung open, teetering precariously on a single hinge, and the tsar clambered out, shaken and wobbly, but otherwise apparently unhurt.

  He’d survived.

  The police chief quickly approached the tsar and attempted to guide him toward one of the sleighs behind the carriage, but the tsar touched a hand to the man’s arm and shook his head.

  Instead, Alexander staggered, unsteady on his feet, to the backside of the carriage, where the injured Cossack lay. Ivan was no medic, but even at this distance, he could tell the man wasn’t likely to survive his injuries. Alexander knelt beside the victim and placed a hand on his shoulder, bowing his head.

  After a few seconds, he rose with the aid of a guard’s arm and allowed the police chief to guide him to one of the sleighs to leave, but slowed once more to gaze at Nikolai, staring down the failed assassin. The two locked eyes as Nikolai hollered something unintelligible, spittle frothing and flying, but Alexander only gazed back stoically. Finally, he spoke a couple words, calling out forcefully, “Who are you?”

  Nikolai spat some epithet.

  “Thank God, I’m untouched.” The tsar spoke slowly, pausing between each syllable. His final word seemed to catch in his throat and he launched into a coughing fit.

  It was this momentary pause to speak to Nikolai that allowed a second member of the Volya, Ignacy, to creep closer, less than ten feet behind the tsar.

  The 25-year-old was a Polish member of their organization and a mechanical engineer by trade. Curly-haired with a patchy beard he just recently attempted to grow out, Ignacy had a kind, good-natured soul, which had earned him the nickname, Kotik, or ‘Kitten.’ But he was still a revolutionary at heart. He frequently spoke of his conviction that he would “die young,” citing repeated dreams of martyrdom and death.

  Just as the tsar turned away from Nikolai, Kotik made his move. Ivan watched with wide eyes.

  “It is too soon to thank God yet!” Kotik yelled and hurled his own explosive, which landed at the feet of the tsar.

  A second explosion rocked the quay as a flash of light and concussive blast threw everyone back. Even Ivan, twenty paces away, had to brace himself to avoid being knocked to his knees.

  When he looked back, he knew this bomb had done its job. They had succeeded! There was no chance the tsar survived that. Ivan rushed forward to find Kotik. Maybe there was a chance he could help his friend escape.

  But as he neared the scene, he quickly realized that was impossible. Kotik lay unconscious and gravelly injured. His wounds were severe, his body mangled. There was no way Ivan would be able to carry him out of there.

  On impulse, Ivan turned and approached Tsar Alexander instead. Remarkably, he was the first one at the side of the Imperial Family member. It was a grim sight. Other than a gash across his forehead, his face and torso were largely intact. But his legs were crippled, nearly ripped off from the blast. Strips of ragged skin hung loosely from the joints.

  Without knowing why he did it, he tucked his bomb-filled briefcase under his arm and propped Alexander against the sleigh. Maybe it’s because he knew the emperor was dying—beyond saving, but he felt a twinge of empathy for the suffering man before him. As much as Ivan believed—knew—the country would be better without this man leading it, watching a fellow man struggle for breath pained his soul. Human nature—the very core of humanity inside him—dictated that he help comfort the man before he drifted into eternity.

  Alexander was mumbling something, so Ivan leaned in as the tsar gasped, “Take me to the palace… there… I will die.”

  Ivan didn’t reply. How could he possibly respond? So instead he simply crouched near the man, mute.

  He crept closer and knelt, resting a calloused hand on Tsar Alexander’s shoulder, but his knee pressed into something hard and he winced. He adjusted his stance and glanced down to see what rock had bruised his kneecap. But it wasn’t a rock. Something metallic had become partially buried in sludge beneath the snow.

  He pawed at it, digging until he could recognize it. A ring.

  Not just any ring, either. A royal ring.

  Alexander’s ring!

  He extricated it from where it lay and let it sit in the palm of his open hand. Large, heavy, golden…with the royal initials etched into the side. It must have fallen off the tsar’s finger in the explosion. The piece of jewelry was smeared with fresh earth and a touch of blood, but otherwise, it was pristine. It looked new… or close to it.

  All of a sudden, Ivan was seized from behind by a pair of rough hands. He instinctively closed his fingers around the ring, right before being wrenched away from the tsar. Two Cossack guards bent over Tsar Alexander in horror. They rushed to treat and lift him; after a couple minutes, the sleigh carrying
the dying emperor departed, off to the Winter Palace.

  Kotik was carried off as well, likely to a military hospital, but Ivan doubted he’d awake. His injuries were critical; he might not even outlast the tsar. Nikolai was still in custody and would certainly be interrogated, probably tortured.

  Ivan was quickly forgotten in the bedlam. But that might not last. Someone, perhaps someone important, would soon recognize him as the man who knelt over the royal leader in the immediate aftermath. There’d be questions, investigations, interrogations. So, unable to help either of his comrades, he backed away and vanished into the Saint Petersburg streets, soon out of range of the cries and chaos behind him. He couldn’t wait around to be identified and apprehended.

  The rest of the group would be pleased to hear of the successful assassination, but Nikolai’s capture and the risks it posed to them all was also important information. Ivan needed to hurry back to headquarters and warn them.

  And what was certainly coming.

  The woman was tall, in her mid-twenties, and covered in tattoos. Her orange jumpsuit was too large for her skinny frame and hung loosely; the prison only carried so many sizes and body types in stock. In her left hand, she gripped a homemade shiv, a knife constructed out of a toothbrush, filed down and sharpened into a jagged point.

  The woman swung the shiv in a wide arc, aiming for Shannon’s neck, but a raised forearm easily blocked the blow. She wasn’t able to avoid the punch as easily and the woman’s fist struck Shannon in the side with a thwack. But she quickly returned the favor, firing an elbow to the woman’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her with a grunt. Shannon followed by launching a shot to the jaw, which sent the woman stumbling backward before she dropped to a knee. That blow should have knocked her out… would have knocked out most people. But it didn’t.