Kill Switch (9780062135285) Read Online Free
Author: Grant James; Blackwood Rollins
oblivious to the snow blanketing the exposed portions of his black-Âand-Âtan fur. Covering the remainder of his compact body and camouflaged to match his coat, he wore a K9 Storm tactical vest, waterproofed and Kevlar reinforced. Hidden in the webbing of Kaneâs collar were a thumbnail-Âsized wireless transmitter and a night-Âvision camera, allowing the two to be in constant visual and audio contact with each other.
Tucker returned his full attention to his surroundings.
It was early in Vladivostok, not yet dawn, so the docks were quiet, with only the occasional laborer shuffling through the gloom. Still, he did his best to keep a low profile, trying to blend into the background: just another dockworker.
At least , I hope I look the part.
He was in his late twenties, taller than average, with slightly shaggy blond hair. He further masked his muscular physique under a thick woolen coat and hid the hardness of his eyes beneath the furred brim of a Russian ushanka, or trapperâs hat.
He gave Kane a thumb stroke on the top of the head and got a single wag of his tail in response.
A far cry from home , eh , Kane?
Then again, if you took away the ocean, Vladivostok wasnât much different from where heâd spent the first seventeen years of his life: the small town of Rolla, North Dakota, near the border with Canada. If anyplace in the United States could give Siberia a run for its money, it was there.
As a kid, he had spent his summers canoeing Willow Lake and hiking the North Woods. In winter, it was cross-Âcountry skiing, snowshoeing, and ice fishing. But life wasnât as perfect as that postcard image made it seem. His parentsâÂtwo schoolteachersâÂhad been killed by a drunk driver when he was three, leaving him in the care of his paternal grandfather, who had a heart attack while shoveling snow one hard winter. Afterward, with no other immediate surviving relatives, heâd been dumped into foster care at thirteen, where he stayed until he petitioned for early emancipation and joined the armed serÂvices at seventeen.
He pushed those darker years away, down deep.
No wonder I like dogs better than Âpeople .
He brought his focus back to the business at hand.
In this case: assassination.
He studied the docks.
From where would the threat come? And in what form ?
Against his advice, his principalâÂthe Russian billionaire and industrialist Bogdan FedoseevâÂhad scheduled this early-morning visit to the port. For weeks there had been rumors of the dockworkers attempting to unionize, and Fedoseev had agreed to meet with the leaders, hoping to quash his employees into submission. If that tension wasnât enough of a threat, Tucker suspected a fair number of the workers were also Vladikavkaz Separatists, political terrorists whose main victims were the prominent capitalists in the Russian Far East, making Bogdan Fedoseev a high-Âvalue target.
Tucker cared little about politics, but he knew understanding the social landscape came with the jobâÂas was knowing the physical landscape.
He checked his watch. Fedoseev was due to arrive in three hours. By then, Tucker needed to know every nook and cranny of this place.
He looked down at Kane. âWhat do you say, pal? Ready to work?â
In answer, Kane stood and did a full-Âbody shake. Snow billowed off his fur, and the wind whipped it away.
Tucker started walking, with Kane trotting alongside him.
9:54 A.M.
By midmorning, Tucker had located six of the eight workers he suspected of being Vladikavkazists. The remaining two had called in sick that morning, something neither had done before.
Standing in a warehouse doorway, he studied the docks. The port was fully alive now, with forklifts moving here and there, cranes swinging containers onto outbound ships, all accompanied by a cacophony of hammering, grinding, and shouted orders.
Tucker pulled out his phone and scrolled through his
Tucker returned his full attention to his surroundings.
It was early in Vladivostok, not yet dawn, so the docks were quiet, with only the occasional laborer shuffling through the gloom. Still, he did his best to keep a low profile, trying to blend into the background: just another dockworker.
At least , I hope I look the part.
He was in his late twenties, taller than average, with slightly shaggy blond hair. He further masked his muscular physique under a thick woolen coat and hid the hardness of his eyes beneath the furred brim of a Russian ushanka, or trapperâs hat.
He gave Kane a thumb stroke on the top of the head and got a single wag of his tail in response.
A far cry from home , eh , Kane?
Then again, if you took away the ocean, Vladivostok wasnât much different from where heâd spent the first seventeen years of his life: the small town of Rolla, North Dakota, near the border with Canada. If anyplace in the United States could give Siberia a run for its money, it was there.
As a kid, he had spent his summers canoeing Willow Lake and hiking the North Woods. In winter, it was cross-Âcountry skiing, snowshoeing, and ice fishing. But life wasnât as perfect as that postcard image made it seem. His parentsâÂtwo schoolteachersâÂhad been killed by a drunk driver when he was three, leaving him in the care of his paternal grandfather, who had a heart attack while shoveling snow one hard winter. Afterward, with no other immediate surviving relatives, heâd been dumped into foster care at thirteen, where he stayed until he petitioned for early emancipation and joined the armed serÂvices at seventeen.
He pushed those darker years away, down deep.
No wonder I like dogs better than Âpeople .
He brought his focus back to the business at hand.
In this case: assassination.
He studied the docks.
From where would the threat come? And in what form ?
Against his advice, his principalâÂthe Russian billionaire and industrialist Bogdan FedoseevâÂhad scheduled this early-morning visit to the port. For weeks there had been rumors of the dockworkers attempting to unionize, and Fedoseev had agreed to meet with the leaders, hoping to quash his employees into submission. If that tension wasnât enough of a threat, Tucker suspected a fair number of the workers were also Vladikavkaz Separatists, political terrorists whose main victims were the prominent capitalists in the Russian Far East, making Bogdan Fedoseev a high-Âvalue target.
Tucker cared little about politics, but he knew understanding the social landscape came with the jobâÂas was knowing the physical landscape.
He checked his watch. Fedoseev was due to arrive in three hours. By then, Tucker needed to know every nook and cranny of this place.
He looked down at Kane. âWhat do you say, pal? Ready to work?â
In answer, Kane stood and did a full-Âbody shake. Snow billowed off his fur, and the wind whipped it away.
Tucker started walking, with Kane trotting alongside him.
9:54 A.M.
By midmorning, Tucker had located six of the eight workers he suspected of being Vladikavkazists. The remaining two had called in sick that morning, something neither had done before.
Standing in a warehouse doorway, he studied the docks. The port was fully alive now, with forklifts moving here and there, cranes swinging containers onto outbound ships, all accompanied by a cacophony of hammering, grinding, and shouted orders.
Tucker pulled out his phone and scrolled through his
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