Agent Recruit - A Max Thorne Spy Thriller: Max Thorne Spy Thriller, #2

​Thank you

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from the best-selling Max Thorne Series.

The Story

What price would you pay to learn the truth?

Russian FSB Agent Max Thorne is recovering from a daring assignment in the United States, which led to shocking discoveries about his mysterious past. As he begins the search to put together the missing pieces, Max learns that the elusive truth is buried deep under decades of secrecy, betrayal, and deception involving the CIA and KGB.

Barely able to stay one step ahead of powerful forces set on protecting those secrets at all costs, Max is determined to do the right thing. But what price will Max have to pay to learn the bittersweet truth, and can he protect the ones he loves?

Join Max as he faces the darkness that is the secret service the only way he knows how ... head on.

​AGENT RECRUIT

MAX THORNE SERIES

BOOK TWO

ETHAN JONES

​Table of Contents

Front Page

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Epilogue

Bonus - Short Story

Bonus - Chapter One: Agent Assassin Book Three

Important Note

Copyright

Chapter One

Lisbon

Capital of Portugal

Fear glinted darkly for a split second in the handcuffed man’s bloodied face, then it vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. The man blinked away a drop of blood that had trickled down from a gash on his forehead. He puffed up his bruised chest and looked at the two thugs looming over him. Go on. Hit me again. You hit like a girl.

The taller of the two men, to whom the detainee had shouted, shook his head with true regret. Why don’t you listen? You’re being too hard on yourself—unnecessarily so, if I might add… He spoke in English with a hint of a British accent, although he was a Russian, born and bred in Moscow. He was about forty years old, with a shaved head and a cobra tattoo slithering across the knuckles of his right hand. The Russian kept his voice calm and neutral, with barely a hint of menace.

The other man—short and pudgy, and who worked well with his knife—leaned closer to the detainee and lifted his head with the tip of his nine-inch-long serrated blade. Look, why do you cause so much pain to yourself, huh? He spoke in Russian, since both he and the detainee were also Russians. The man you’re trying to protect, he couldn’t care less about you. He’s out there, enjoying the pleasures of this fabulous city. The short man pointed toward the window at Lisbon’s city lights flickering in the distance. He walked behind the detainee tied to the wooden chair in the middle of their second-story hotel room and tapped his hand with the blade of the knife. And you are here, ready to bleed and to die for that man who has forgotten you. I don’t understand this. Do you, Fyodor?

The tall man named Fyodor shook his head. I don’t get it, either, but perhaps we’re looking at this from the wrong angle. He’s obviously tough, and I’m afraid we won’t be able to break him. He’d rather die than tell us his boss’s whereabouts. He’s loyal, stupidly loyal, no doubt about it. Fyodor walked closer to the handcuffed man and crouched, so that he was at the man’s eye level. But perhaps your wife, maybe she’d know—

Leave my wife out of this. She has no business—

Of course she does, Fyodor said. She drives your Mercedes, uses your money for her shopping in Paris and Barcelona, vacations with you across Europe … If she shares in your pleasures, she must share in your pain… Right, Avros? he said to the short man.

It’s only fair, Avros said.

The detainee shook his head. No, no, she … she doesn’t know anything. I … I kept her out of my business affairs, precisely to spare her the pain.

Well, you’ve done a poor job.

Like you’re doing here, Fyodor said. "Now, before we continue our … our little conversation, here’s something I want you to understand. Whether you talk or not, your boss, Zlobin, will think you sold him out so that you could save your worthless life. Your best option, no, your only option is to tell us, right now, where he’s hiding."

The detainee seemed to contemplate his answer for a long moment.

Avros tapped his knife blade on his fist. We’re not getting any younger here…

The detainee gulped hard and let out a deep sigh. I’m dead either way…

Fyodor nodded. That might be true, but you’ll die a good man, knowing you’re protecting your wife.

No, Zlobin will go after her.

If you tell us where he is, we can get to him—

You can’t. Zlobin is too powerful for thugs like you…

Fyodor’s lips drew back. Thugs like us? Why the insult? We’ve been very professional in everything we’ve done so far. We picked you up without any problems. You’ve disappeared for over four hours, and there are no police anywhere near here. Do you hear anything? he asked Avros.

He shook his head. No, I don’t, and no one is coming to save him.

Right. We’ve been clear in our demands, and we haven’t changed our minds, or our approach. It’s a combination of tactics to make you speak, combining the physical with the psychological—

It’s not working. The detainee grinned.

Oh, I think it is. I already see a crack in your determination. Fyodor’s small black eyes gave the detainee a piercing gaze. What I said earlier about you being tough and unbreakable … I didn’t really mean it. It was a ploy, to make you drop your guard.

The detainee’s frown creased his forehead, but only for a moment. He shook his head and said, You’re the fool, if you think I fell for—

His words were cut off by loud banging on the door. Police! This is the police. Open up! a man’s strong voice said in Portuguese, then in English, and more banging followed.

Fyodor pulled his compact HK MP7 submachine gun from his thigh holster. Door, he said to Avros. I’m getting us out.

Fyodor flicked the fire selector lever to automatic and turned his body toward the window. He fired a few rounds, and, while the glass was still falling onto the carpet, he jumped through the window.

Avros had also readied his HK MP7. He turned it toward the door, then aimed higher, at the ceiling, so that he would miss the police officers, before he let off a long burst.

He stepped closer to the detainee. They’re not going to save you. I will … if you tell me where he is…

Bullets pierced the door, sending slivers through the room, but Avros and the handcuffed man were not hit.

The detainee began to shake his head. No—

With a quick flick of his wrist, Avros sliced the handcuffed man’s throat. His head fell forward, and blood trickled onto the floor.

As more bullets flew around the room, Avros jumped through the window. He landed harder than he had expected on the roof of their black van, and felt a sharp pain cut through his right ankle. Fyodor had parked their vehicle underneath the hotel room window in case they needed to make a swift getaway like this.

But the police were waiting for them.

As he rolled onto the windshield, bullets thumped against the side of the windowless van. Fyodor was kneeling near the back and firing at unseen targets. A couple of white-and-blue police sedans with flashing lights were near the parking lot entrance, maybe thirty yards away.

Avros glanced at his ankle and winced in pain as he crouched near the front wheel of the van.

Fyodor didn’t see it, so he said, Get inside. I’ll cover.

Avros nodded. He opened the driver’s door, but before he could climb in, a burst of bullets shattered the windshield. A round whizzed so close to Avros’s head that he thought it grazed him. He slid back onto the street. Can’t get in. Police firing from all directions.

Fyodor gestured with his hand behind them, toward the alley. Run.

Avros leaned against the van to climb to his feet. He bit his lip to quench the pain shooting from the sprained ankle, then bolted as fast as he could through the parking lot. He used the other cars for cover and didn’t fire. That didn’t stop the police officers from taking aim at him. Some of their bullets struck a Jeep to Avros’s left. He ducked and slowed down, because of the excruciating agony.

It was just for a moment, but a moment too long.

A bullet caught him on the right side of his back. It felt like he was hit with a sledgehammer. The power of the bullet spun him around, but he didn’t fall right away. He was able to remain on his feet for a couple of seconds, long enough to see Fyodor rushing toward him.

Other bullets struck the asphalt as Avros’s knees folded underneath his body weight. He groaned as he dropped down hard but managed to not bang his head. The fall made his wound worse, and he began to go into hemorrhagic shock, because of the blood loss. What did the bullet hit? One of the large arteries?

Fyodor leaned over him for just an instant, then he turned his submachine gun and fired a long volley. He then glanced at Avros, whose mouth was full of blood. Fyodor pulled Avros slowly in between two parked cars and placed his hand on Avros’s carotid artery on the side of his neck. Fyodor held his fingers there for about five seconds, then gave Avros a sad look. You’re dying…

Avros took a couple of shallow breaths and began to shake his head. No, no, I won’t … Help me, take me—

I can’t. They’ll catch us both.

Don’t leave me here.

Fyodor placed the HK MP7 in Avros’s right hand. You fought well. Now, die well…

Avros returned a look of pain and disappointment. Blood came out of the corner of his lips as he said, I will. Go, go, go.

Fyodor nodded, then gave his teammate a pat on the shoulder. Sorry, buddy…

He slid between the vehicles and came to the side of the parking lot. He looked behind, but he saw no silhouettes positioned around or darting among the police cars or from the opposite direction. No muzzle flashes, although he heard a gun blast behind him. Avros’s last stand…

Fyodor dashed along the sidewalk. If he made it around the corner, he could put enough distance between himself and the police officers. Then, he could steal a car, or enter one of the houses, or…

The bullet that slammed into his lower back cut off his thoughts. The impact of the bullet pushed him forward. The submachine gun fell out of his hand as Fyodor leaned for balance against the wall. The corner was just four steps away. He took one step, slowly and painfully, then all power left his body, as if someone had completely drained it out. Fyodor folded against the wall and dropped onto the sidewalk.

Rushed, heavy footsteps came toward him, and Fyodor raised his head. It felt heavy, and the hard strain on his neck sent jolts of pain throughout his shivering body. He groped for his weapon, but he couldn’t feel it or see it in the dark. So he let out a loud curse and heaved a deep sigh as he glanced at the silhouette of a police officer running toward him.

The helmet-wearing officer raised his night-vision goggles and leaned over Fyodor. Shhhhh, it’s alright. Breathe, just breathe… He spoke in Portuguese in a loud voice, to make sure every one of the few men gathered across the street, about thirty yards away, could hear him.

Fyodor’s weary face formed a tiny grin. I … did nothing wrong. Arrest … arrest me, he said in a weak voice between shallow breaths.

The officer shook his head. We’re way past that, he whispered in Russian as he leaned over Fyodor. Tell me who sent you, and you will live.

Fyodor’s eyes doubled in size in horror, as he realized the gravity of his situation. You’re not the Lisbon police?

The officer grinned. And you’re not a genius. Last time I’m asking: Who is your boss?

Fyodor returned the grin. You’re not going to kill me. You need me.

We don’t. We’ll extract the truth from your friend you left back there to die…

Fyodor gave the officer a confused look. What? No, his wound was—

Treatable, if he gets to a hospital in ten minutes, which he will.

Fyodor began to shake his head, but the pain was unbearable.

The officer said, He will tell us everything we need. We have convincing means, as you well know. The officer put his hands around Fyodor’s neck. This is from Zlobin. This will happen to anyone that comes for him.

No, no, don’t … I’ll talk … I’ll tell you—

Too late. He clamped his hands tighter around Fyodor’s throat.

He tried to fight back, but there was no strength left in his body. He could barely lift his arms off the sidewalk.

A couple of the men began to run toward the officer, but he shouted at them, Stay back. I’ve got him. I’m trying to revive him. Call an ambulance.

Fyodor struggled for breath, feeling his lungs tightening. He could no longer control his arms, but his legs were twitching almost involuntarily. The world began to spin around and turn blurry and dark, and then Fyodor saw nothing at all.

​Chapter Two

Victoria Tower Gardens

London, United Kingdom

FSB operative Maximillian Thornichinovich, or Max Thorne—as everyone had started to call him after the fateful detainee-transfer operation four weeks ago in the United States—glanced through his black aviator shades at the silver Range Rover SUV that was parking slowly on the curve, a few feet away from the park’s black wrought-iron gate. He turned slightly to the side, so that he could hide the fact he was talking into the mike clipped to the side of his collar, and said, Ava, do you see this?

Got visual, she replied. Looks like he’s here.

Avelina Alexandrova, or Ava, as Max and her friends called her, was sitting on a bench thirty yards away from Max and closer to the gate. She was pretending to read on her phone, while keeping a close eye on their expected guest.

Max drew in a deep breath, then turned his head toward the man sitting on another bench. This one was closer to the Thames River and the square Victoria Tower. This was the tallest tower in the Palace of Westminster—stabbing at the sky at three hundred and twenty-five feet high—and was the namesake of the park. The man was an ex-KGB agent, stationed in East Berlin during the Cold War years. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the man worked for other Russian intelligence agencies, until he retired. Then, he had emigrated to the United States, and that’s when trouble had started. For him, as well as for Max, because they were connected. In fact, the ex-KGB agent was Valery Volkov, Max’s father, a fact he had only learned quite recently.

Max felt the adrenaline pumping hard and fast through his body. His senses were on overdrive, and he had started to become more aware of his surroundings. He saw everything around him but paid particular attention to two young black men in their late twenties who had arrived about ten minutes ago and were kicking a soccer ball on the grass.

Another suspect was a red-headed woman in her late thirties, with her hair in a pixie cut, sitting on a bench to his left. She was wearing earbuds and was typing on her phone. Max couldn’t help but connect the woman to the men, although he had nothing but a hunch. His three years in the FSB, Russia’s internal intelligence agency, as a transporter, a transport and escort agent for high-risk operations, had taught Max that there were no coincidences.

He had brought his suspicions to Ava, his associate, who had dismissed them. Max had felt uncomfortable but had accepted her decision. Ava had been working with Volkov for a long time and was more experienced than Max in covert operations.

He turned around and looked at the man they had been expecting. He was Jeremy Taylor, a former operative with the SIS, the British Secret Intelligence Service. Taylor was an old contact of Volkov’s, from the good old days when it was clear who the enemy was. Nowadays, in a world filled with shifting alliances, one went to bed with terrorists at night, only to wake up the next morning to be praised as a great peacemaker.

Taylor was dressed in a long black wool coat that came down almost to his knees. He was wearing a black tweed cap and black-rimmed bifocals and had a newspaper in his left hand. A younger man, who was clearly his guard and probably his driver as well, followed a few steps behind. His head turned methodically and almost mechanically, as if it were on a swivel, while he took in all the surroundings. When Taylor was about ten yards away from Max, the ex-SIS agent made a small hand gesture. The guard stopped and stood next to the nearest bench.

Max made eye contact with Taylor and gave him an almost imperceptible head nod. It was the signal that all was clear, and he could proceed to meet with Volkov.

Taylor moved the newspaper to his other hand. That was his signal that the Range Rover hadn’t been followed, and no one else knew about their meeting.

Max followed behind Taylor. Max didn’t like this old-school, smoke-and-mirrors tradecraft. But Volkov was old school, very old school. These tricks had kept him alive for ever so long, in the face of almost unbeatable odds and despite countless numbers of foes who wanted him dead. ​He had defeated his enemies, and he was going to do so again, this time with Max’s and Ava’s help.

When Taylor came to the bench, he removed his cap and brushed back his wavy hair. He had something of a comb-over, but it didn’t look too bad. He sat next to Volkov, who turned slightly and offered Taylor his hand. "Good to see you, my