Lethal: an Off-Book Novel

Chapter 44

Marcel LeBlanc ran from Southern Europe to North Africa and then
to Eastern Europe over the course of the next few weeks. Every time
he landed at a Cannon safehouse and thought he was actually safe,
that illusion was soon shattered, and yet another of his organiza-
tion’s networks fell. The damage was extensive, costly, and most
maddening of all to the French killer was the fact that one of the
people involved in his pursuit was the man that he had been con-
tracted to kill. This irony was not lost on him, however he scarcely
had time to ponder it as he tried frantically to stay one step ahead of
his pursuers.

It seemed that the whole organization was compromised, and
LeBlanc just could not believe this. In all his time as a member of
Cannon the one thing he had been most proud of was the level of se-
curity that the group manifested. Absolute, total, nothing left to
chance. They had the best of everything from electronics to person-
nel and weapons. They ruthlessly vetted employees and any suspi-
cions were quickly dealt with, believing it was better to kill one in-
nocent by mistake than risk a traitor. But now it seemed that their
security was nothing, completely thwarted. Everywhere Marcel
LeBlanc went there was betrayal waiting for him, and he didn’t
know how long it would be before he was captured, or worse.

It had taken some effort, but he was finally able to arrange for di-
rect communication with Emil DeKlirk, the Chairman and Chief Ex-
ecutive Officer of the Cannon Group. Unfortunately DeKlirk had no
comforting answers. He was just as dismayed as his top assassin. He
had watched for the past few weeks as operations that had taken
years to put in place and maintain had fallen in a matter of hours
and days. It was maddening, it was unbelievable, and it seemed to
be unstoppable.

LeBlanc told DeKlirk of his feelings of impending doom. He felt
sure that he would be captured at any minute. He wanted assistance
with disappearing, and this time for good. A completely new identity
and a safe place for him to hide where no one would look for him.

Emil DeKlirk told LeBlanc that he wasn’t sure that such a place
existed anymore. He himself had been on the move for more than a
week, fearing that the usual safe havens he used were no longer safe,
despite the fact that no one outside his close inner-circle of three
knew where he was or how he could be reached at any given time.

DeKlirk had abandoned everyone and gone out on his own. He
was in his fifties now, not as hard as he had once been, but still
tough enough, and smart. He figured that he would be safer alone
until he could figure out a way to turn things around. He still in-
tended to see the black bastard who had killed his beloved sister
dead, and even more so now because of all the havoc he had
wreaked upon the Cannon Group, Emil DeKlirk’s life’s work for the
past decade and a half. But revenge would have to wait a while
longer. He was patient, had waited for so long already. Eventually
he would get Derrick Olin, and he would kill him dead!

“I’m heading to the Ukraine,” Emil DeKlirk had communicated to
Marcel LeBlanc through an intermediary. “The only place I can

think of that might remain safe.” A contact number was also con-
tained in the message. Nothing more.

Marcel LeBlanc was in Budapest when he received it, and a short
time later a two-woman CIA team caught up with him and he nar-
rowly escaped capture yet again, this time breaking one of the fin-
gers on his left hand as he fell down a flight of stairs. But he rea-
soned that he was lucky it wasn’t his neck.

There was a small Cannon operation in a town about ninety miles
northeast of Budapest called Moskoic. A few ground transports and
one battered two-seater Russian prop plane.

LeBlanc was able to convince the pilot that he was in urgent need
of his services and price was no object. It was no object because
Marcel LeBlanc didn’t even offer, simply took a silenced Walther
PPK from the pocket of his greatcoat and placed it against the man’s
groin.

They were airborne less than thirty minutes later.
Young Martin handed Shelbee Roberts a copy of the communiqué
from DeKlirk to LeBlanc shortly after it was transmitted and cap-
tured by a specially tasked NSA satellite. She read it carefully, then
handed it to me.
I looked at her and sighed.
“The Ukraine? Nice place. What’s your operation look like there?”
“Not very good,” Shelbee Roberts admitted. “Relations between us
and the Russians have been cooling a lot lately as it appears that
Vladimir Putin is making a play for lifetime president of Russia. And
he’s been doing a lot of things in Ukraine that we and NATO are not
happy about. As a result of our objections, FSB and SVR are not as
cooperative as they once were. Not sure how they feel about the

Cannon Group, but they might not be inclined to help us even if they
don’t like them. But I can give Nic a call and see what she can do.”

I thought a minute and then told her to hang on.
“I might have something,” I said, reaching for one of the scram-
bled phones.
The person I needed to speak to was not readily available, but I
told the man who answered the phone that I would wait, insisting
that the specified person would be most displeased if my call were
not treated as urgent.
Ten minutes later I was put through.
“Well, Derrick Olin,” said a husky female voice in English twinged
with just a hint of a Slavic accent. “The time has passed very long
since we have spoken, tovarish.”
“Yes, it has, Lyudmila,” I replied. “It certainly has.”

Chapter 45

Kyiv, Ukraine

When the Soviet Union ceased to be in the early 1990s, many very
powerful people found themselves without a regular paycheck. The
country was falling apart, people were starving, and crime was on
the rampage as the Russian Mafya became more and more power-
ful. In fact, the criminal underworld soon became the largest em-
ployer in the one-time communist hydra.

One of the chief recruiting grounds for the Mafya was among the
ranks of the security services, the defunct KGB and the still func-
tioning GRU. It was from the former organization that a rather
charismatic and brilliant senior counterintelligence officer by the
name of Oleg Kalugin rose to prominence within Mafya ranks in a
very short time. Before KGB was disbanded in 1991, Kalugin had
risen to a very senior position within the Second Chief Directorate,
becoming head of Q-Directorate, responsible for Counterterrorism
and Subversion from within the borders of the USSR. By the time of
the collapse of the USSR and the KGB, Kalugin was a major general.
During his time at KGB he had amassed a great deal of information
about senior politicians and other officials that became very benefi-
cial to him in his new career with the Mafya. Soon Kalugin was one
of the most feared and powerful bosses in Russia.

However, when one rises to the top there are always people look-
ing for a way to unseat them, especially in the criminal world. Turf
wars were inevitable, as well as significant losses both professional

and personal. In the end Kalugin was left with no family and only a
handful of loyal operatives that he felt he could actually trust. And
one of those operatives had betrayed him, nearly delivered him into
the hands of a bitter enemy. But the former KGB general found an
unexpected piece of luck, a young woman that he had only taken on
a few months earlier. A former GRU lieutenant by the name of
Lyudmila Irena Kochanko. She saved his life.

Lyudmila intervened in the ambush and rescued Kalugin, getting
him out of Moscow and to the Ukraine where she was born and still
had strong ties. Over the course of the next several weeks Kalugin
was provided shelter and a place from which he could direct his
counterattack. In the end the former KGB man was victorious, and
he emerged from the feud with more power and respect, and a new
right-hand.

From that time forward Lyudmila Kochanko had been at Oleg
Kalugin’s side, always in his confidence, always watching out for
him. When Kalugin decided to leave Mother Russia, Lyudi followed
him, first into the international arms game based in Southern Eu-
rope and the Mediterranean, and then later into semi-retirement in
South Florida. Officially, they no longer had any ties to organized
crime anywhere, but unofficially…

And they were both friends of mine. Kind of. Lyudmila more so
than her boss. Therefore, I called her when I needed help getting
into the Ukraine.

Thanks to some contacts that the former GRU officer still main-
tained in her native land, a small team of CIA operatives was able to
gain covert entry into the country on a brutally cold Saturday night
about a week after Emil DeKlirk sent the communiqué to Marcel
LeBlanc. Among the team were Shelbee Roberts and yours truly. Je-

sus, was I actually a CIA operative now? How the hell had that hap-
pened?

In all my years working for Uncle Sam, Russia and the other re-
publics of the former Soviet Union were areas that I had never vis-
ited, although I had wanted to. Now I had the opportunity, but un-
fortunately this was not going to be a sightseeing tour. For all in-
tents and purposes I was in this country illegally with a team of for-
eign spies who had come to do some damage. If we were caught I
didn’t think it likely that the Russians or the Ukrainians would be
too happy with us. Least of all the Mafya and its cohorts in the Can-
non Group.

Lyudi had arranged for a safehouse in the Borispol District of
Kyiv. It was quiet, not much activity. We would probably be safe for
a short time, but sooner rather than later, someone would notice
strangers—especially a black guy with a shaved head—and the alarm
would be raised. We needed to get on with the job at hand before
that happened.

“We still have the tag on LeBlanc?” Shelbee Roberts asked Martin
as she leaned over the back of his chair, her left hand casually placed
on his shoulder.

“Yes, ma’am,” the young CIA man said. “Signal is still strong. Kind
of amazed he hasn’t figured it out yet. But I guess he hasn’t had the
time to fully consider everything while he’s been running.”

“Which is why we’ve been keeping the pressure up, driving him,
not giving him time to think and wonder how it is we keep finding
him, and wrecking Cannon operations.”

Shelbee Roberts stood up and turned to me. I was sitting on a
small sofa in the corner of the command post that had been set up

in the back of the safehouse. She walked over and stared down at
me.

“You look tired.”
“I am tired,” I told her. “We’ve been at this for weeks, traveling all
over the fucking planet. I’m tired, I’m cold, and I miss home.”
Shelbee Roberts continued to stand and stare, placing her hands
on her rather nicely rounded hips.
“For me home is wherever I am on any given day,” she said reflec-
tively. “No particular place, no particular time.”
I gazed at her for a few moments, nodding absently.
“I know that feeling,” I told her. “Had it for years, lived that way
for years. And I was happy then. But then things changed for me,
and for the better. Now I do have a place I call home.”
“And a person you care about,” she said.
“Yes,” I responded after a brief pause. “I do. And I miss her most
of all.”
Shelbee Roberts nodded.
“And you’ll get to see her soon, I promise. Just one more thing to
do.”
“One more for you,” I said. “A different mission for me.”
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m here to stop the flow of lethal
hardware to terrorists in Afghanistan. You’re here for Emil DeK-
lirk.”
“Correct,” I said.
“Just as long as our objectives don’t conflict, I see no problem.
DeKlirk is important, he’s the brains behind Cannon, but he is not
absolutely essential. However, I must be sure that the supply net-
work is based here before I can allow you to act. Everything we have
indicates that it is, even your Russian Mafya friend seems to confirm

this. But I must be sure, Derrick. We have to stop those weapons
from getting into Afghanistan and killing more of our troops. Other-
wise it may not be possible for us to get the upper hand there and
defeat the insurgents and terrorists.”

I decided it was best not to get into a policy argument with her.
My personal opinion was that the U.S. would never get the upper
hand there, had already lost the war, but today was not a time for
that conversation. And with a person like Shelbee Roberts, a dedi-
cated shadow soldier, it was pointless anyway.

I nodded but said nothing.
She stared at me for another few moments and then turned to go
back over to where Martin sat at his laptop.

Chapter 46

Two nights later Marcel LeBlanc had direct contact with Emil DeK-
lirk. It was by encrypted mobile phone, and during the course of the
call, DeKlirk made it clear to the French assassin that they would
not actually be meeting. LeBlanc was angry, sounding as if he were
on the verge of having a breakdown, and DeKlirk shouted at him,
telling him to get control of himself. He was still alive and now in a
place that was sure to offer excellent protection and cover for a
while, at least until Cannon could regroup and take the fight to their
enemies. DeKlirk assured LeBlanc that they could not be tracked to
the Ukraine, and even if they could, they would be well protected by
the local criminal syndicates because Cannon had been supplying
them with weapons and shipping services for years. This did not re-
ally calm LeBlanc down, but he seemed to accept what he was being
told. The call ended after that.

We were all in the command post listening to the call in real-time.
The NSA has some pretty amazing (and scary) technology these
days. And because of it, not much remains secret, not even when
discussed on supposedly secure phones. Kind of neat, and kind of
unnerving. But at least today it’s working for a good cause. Mine.

Shelbee Roberts removed her headphones and turned to Martin.
“Send them in now,” she instructed.

Martin nodded, reaching for his own encrypted mobile phone. A
few moments later he was issuing the “go” code to the two opera-
tives who had been watching over Marcel LeBlanc since yesterday.
Their job was to move in and dispose of him now that he had served
his purpose.

With that task completed, Shelbee Roberts turned to me.
“We know where he is,” she said. “What say the two of us go and
pay him a visit?”
I stood up.
“Why not?” I said.
And we left.

Chapter 47

Emil DeKlirk was staying in a safehouse in the Likhnevka District,
about twenty-eight miles east of Borispol. Under better conditions
we probably would have made the drive in little more than half an
hour. But the roads were terrible, the weather was worse, and the
vehicle we had was piss poor. The journey took a grueling two
hours. By the time we arrived at our destination, Shelbee Roberts
and I were both battered and bruised.

“Think I’d rather spend time in an interrogation cell at Gitmo,”
she quipped after pulling to a stop in front of a warehouse around
the corner from DeKlirk’s location.

“Knowing you,” I said, “you’d probably have your interrogators
crying uncle in a matter of minutes.”

She grinned at me, then pulled on her hat and gloves and we got
out of the truck. It was late evening and dark and very cold so both
of us were bundled up. There weren’t many people around so we
probably wouldn’t have to worry about being spotted as outsiders. I
didn’t speak the language and couldn’t even fake being Russian or
Ukrainian, however something told me that Shelbee Roberts could
probably do both. Still, best not to test that assumption if we didn’t
have to.

After receiving a position fix on DeKlirk’s location, the CIA had
tasked an NSA satellite to do a real-time recon of the area surround-

ing his safehouse. Everything was picked up in the crystal clear
high-resolution feed. While we were enroute, young Martin had
downloaded the feed to Shelbee Roberts’ secure Blackberry and we
had studied the layout. Now, as we walked through the actual
streets, everything was reasonably familiar to us.

Recon showed only a three person security team outside the safe-
house. We separated and moved to take them out first. I took the
one on the southeast corner and Shelbee Roberts took the ones on
the north and west sides. When we regrouped she held a set of keys
in her left hand.

“Hopefully one of these will let us inside,” she whispered. “Other-
wise we might have to make some noise.”

I took a deep breath, released it slowly.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s find out.”

Chapter 48

There was a fourth security man on the inside, actually a woman.
Russian, very attractive Slavic features. After Shelbee Roberts found
the right key and unlocked the door, I entered first, a silenced auto-
matic held low in my right hand.

I was just entering the front room from the entry corridor when
the Russian woman came in from the kitchen carrying a cup of tea.
When she saw me she dropped the teacup and reached for the
Makarov on her left hip.

My right hand snapped up to my waist and I fired without hesita-
tion. Two rounds, both connecting with the woman’s stomach and
sending her stumbling into the wall on her right. She was still reach-
ing for the weapon in her holster as she started to slide down to the
floor, her dark eyes registering more shock than pain. Shelbee
Roberts stepped around me and fired a single bullet into the
woman’s forehead, a wide red spray erupting against the wall.

“I know you’re used to a .45, Derrick,” she whispered. “But for
covert work smaller calibers are better. You have to make sure to
shoot them in the more vital areas, like the head.”

I thought I might be sick, and didn’t know why. Not the first dead
body I’ve seen. Not the first person I’ve shot. Not the first woman
I’ve shot. But this scene bothered me. Maybe it was Shelbee Roberts
that was bothering me. Or maybe the work.

No time to ponder…
Movement in another room. We both went to opposite walls and
held our breaths. More sounds from the back of the house.
Shelbee Roberts signaled me with her hand, then I nodded.
She went first. I followed closely, checking our rear just in case
there was another security operative that we had missed.
The noise was coming from the last room in back, a bedroom. The
door was slightly ajar and Shelbee Roberts paused to peek through
the crack. A few moments later she glanced at me and nodded.
I took in a slow, deep breath, released it even slower, and then
closed my eyes.
When I opened them again Shelbee Roberts had moved to the op-
posite wall, her face completely blank.
I raised my weapon and moved in front of the door, kicking it
open and going in fast…

Chapter 49

The noise we had heard from the front room was some sort of exer-
cise contraption. It appeared to be some kind of stationary climbing
device and was mounted against one wall of the bedroom.

When I kicked the door open, Emil DeKlirk had been right in the
middle of a workout, both arms and legs strapped into the device.
As soon as the door burst open, the South African’s head snapped
around. I’m not sure if he recognized me right away, but he knew
trouble when he saw it.

There was a frantic effort to free himself from the climber, but he
knew it was useless. Still, he tried anyway.

I moved around to the other side of the bed and took a hold of the
back of his sweat-drenched T-shirt, yanking him off the machine
and roughly tossing him onto the bed.

He hit hard and rolled off onto the floor, coming up in a reflexive
crouch. Shelbee Roberts stood in the doorway with her silenced pis-
tol casually pointed at him, her face blank.

“Well, Emil,” I said, stepping around the bed slowly. “After all
these years, we meet again. Who would have thought it would be in
a place like this?”

The seething hatred in the man was barely contained. If looks
could kill…

“You son of bitch!” he spat. “You fucking murderer!”

“Murderer?” I said casually. “I’m a murderer? Please, you’re a
death dealer. You kill thousands all over the world every day. And
let us not forget all the people you killed back when you and your
nutty sister were still running around loose in South Africa.”

DeKlirk’s eyes became enraged and he took a step toward me.
“Don’t you dare talk about my sister like that you kaffir!”
“Motherfucker, I’ll talk about her any goddamned way I please.
That crazy bitch tried to kill me. I’m not sorry she didn’t succeed ei-
ther. Only wish we had taken you out back then too. Then none of
this shit would be necessary now.”
DeKlirk was trembling with rage, and he lost his senses, charging
me.
I was ready for this, pivoted to the left and drove my right knee
into his groin as he came. He stopped and doubled over and I
brought the bottom of my left fist down on the back of his neck,
sending him sprawling onto the carpet.
Shelbee Roberts moved into the room then, her weapon covering
DeKlirk.
“Remember our deal, Derrick,” she whispered. “I need to talk to
him first.”
DeKlirk pushed up on his knees and raised his head. His eyes
were on fire.
“I will kill you, Derrick Olin!” he spat. “I will kill you and every-
thing you love. Everyone you love. I will see them all in hell. I swear
it!”
I took a deep breath, nodded slowly, then shoved Shelbee Roberts
out of the way and shot Emil DeKlirk right between the eyes at
pointblank range.
“Like hell you will,” I said to the corpse on the floor.

Shelbee Roberts was furious as she stared at me, her weapon
down by her side. She glanced down at Emil DeKlirk, then back at
me. I watched her carefully. I had every intention of walking out of
here alive, so if it even appeared as if…

Shelbee Roberts suddenly shoved her pistol into the waistband of
her pants and covered it with her coat. One more disdainful glance
at me, then the very unhappy spook turned and walked out of the
room.

Oh well…

Chapter 50

Birmingham, Alabama

Traci squeezed off the last of her shots and I stood watching as a
perfect grouping appeared in the center of the target fifteen feet
downrange. When the slide locked back on her subcompact Glock
pistol, she removed the magazine and turned toward me, grinning.

“Now how was that?” she said, walking over to the table in back of
the range, setting her pistol and spent magazine down and then re-
moving her ear protectors.

“Pretty good,” I told her. “For a girl.”
Traci’s eyes flared and she grabbed the front of my T-shirt.
“I’ll show you a girl,” she said, then pulled my mouth to hers, kiss-
ing me fiercely.
I put my arms around her and held her close.
“Actually I prefer women,” I told her.
“Funny,” she said. “I knew that already.”
We kissed again.
“So, do you want to make a wager?” she said. “Best score gets one
hour of whatever she or he wants?”
I smiled, still holding her close to my body.
“A whole hour, huh?” I said. “Sounds like fun. Sure you can han-
dle that when you lose?”
Traci grinned at me.
“And who says I’m gonna lose?” she said.
“Me,” I said, releasing her. “And when I win, oh my…”

Traci grinned again.
“I’m gonna kick your ass, Mr. Olin,” she said defiantly, reaching
for her headphones.
I pulled mine on as well, pointedly staring into her eyes.
“And when I win,” I told her. “I’m going to lick yours. First…”
Traci giggled and shook her head.
Then she picked up her weapon and followed me out onto the
range.

[a] From the Off-Book, Derrick Olin, The Lost Years set.
[b] From the Off-Book, Derrick Olin, The Lost Years set.
[c] Writing as Leo Croix.
[d] Writing as Leo Croix.
[v] Sensitive Compartmented Information.
[vi] Disbanded French internal security and intelligence service. Suc‐
ceeded by the DCRI and now known as DGSI.
[vii] See Compulsive by Stellen Qxz.