“There’s another one!” she shouted, pointing from the top of the stairs.
Another old beast of a truck was heading toward them fast. Its tall, thin tires cut deep grooves in the snow-covered ground. A man hung out of the passenger window holding an automatic rifle. He raised the weapon and fired a long burst, and ten rounds struck the side of the aircraft, busting three of its windows. The harsh, stinging sound reverberated loudly through the air, but Hugo knew the attackers had planned well for this. They were far from the main terminals, and in this weather, the snow would dampen the sound of gunfire. It would probably take a few minutes before the control tower understood what was happening.
Hugo threw himself over the edge of the stairway, thanking his lucky stars when he landed in a snowdrift. He rolled, got to his knees, and saw Mikko. He had gone around the stairs and now squatted behind them.
Mikko pointed at him. “Do you have any weapons?”
Hugo pulled his Glock from his belt holster, and in the crook of his palm, the dark weapon became a part of him. He looked at Mikko, who nodded gravely. Both of the trucks pulled to a squealing stop ten feet from the foot of the airstairs. Hugo could only hope that Sussie and Freya had gotten back on the plane, into relative safety.
Two men jumped out of the first truck, wearing bandannas over their faces. One of them lifted a machine gun and began throwing lead. Hundreds of bullets flew around and over Mikko and Hugo; all they could do was scramble on hands and knees and hide. After an eternity of gunfire, it finally stopped and a third man jumped out of the other truck.
He put his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Get out here! Come out now and the women will live!”
Right, Hugo thought. He knew the truth when it came to guys like these—when he and Mikko were dead, Sussie and Freya would be killed too, or worse. Hugo signaled to Mikko to get ready.
He whispered, “Aim for the guy with the automatic.”
Mikko nodded, and both he and Hugo took aim and squeezed the triggers. The thick snowfall distorted the sound of the gunshots, and it looked at first like the attackers didn’t even realize they were being fired upon.
Then one man was hit in the shoulder. He spun around and fell to his knees, screaming. “Vlado! I’m hit!”
Vlado rushed over to the fallen man. “Come on, Marat, you’re okay,” he said as he pulled him up to standing. Then he shouted, “Makar, shoot them!”
Makar raised his weapon, walked toward the stairs, and started shooting. Hugo and Mikko threw themselves back behind cover as hundreds of bullets hit the surrounding steel, ripping open gaping holes in the stairs that protected them. The man was now just five meters away. Hugo looked around feverishly for a way out but saw nothing.
If he or Mikko were to move a muscle, they’d be rewarded with a bullet in the head.
*
Vlado slipped on a patch of black ice, causing Marat to fall to his knees, screaming.
Vlado swore. “Good God, Marat. Get up and shut your mouth. You’re all right!”
Marat staggered to his feet. Vlado grabbed hold of him.
“Focus. You were just grazed. You’ll live.”
Marat’s face turned ashen, his mouth like a thin line. “Okay. I’ll take them,” he said. “Where’s my weapon?”
Vlado picked up the rifle from the snowy asphalt and handed it to Marat.
“Step to the side and flank them,” Vlado instructed. “They’re under the stairs; Makar has them trapped. I’ll go this way, to the other side.”
Marat spat out blood and bared his red teeth. He grumbled, “Let’s take those bastards.”
Faraway sirens sounded through the gloomy evening, and Vlado turned toward the sound. “Goddammit,” he muttered to himself. Then he shouted, “We don’t have much time, men!”
He’d screwed up—or, actually, Marat had screwed up first. He’d opened fire too soon. Vlado had planned for them to start shooting once all the targets were on the ground, but Marat had been overzealous. Vlado shook his head; his warm vacation seemed eons away.
But he couldn’t give up now. If his client found out that he had given up, his own life would be over. So he motioned for Marat to go left as he went right.
“Makar.”
Makar stopped shooting, and a huge cloud of smoke rolled past him. The air was streaked with gunpowder.
“What?”
“We’re coming up behind you. Hold them in front of you and we’ll flank them.”
Makar opened fire again, and the heavy noise of the machine gun shook the surrounding air. Vlado followed suit, raising his weapon and letting off blasts from his semiautomatic. He grinned—the targets were pinned down, unable to go anywhere, like rats in a cage. Bullets continued to grind everything they touched into shards.
Someone screamed, and for a fraction of a second, Vlado believed it was over. Then something flickered past his eyebrows. A shadow slid forward into the plane’s doorway—and the shadow was carrying something big. A deep rumble shook the airstairs as whoever owned the shadow began shooting. Heavy rounds sent up small clouds of snow as they made contact with the ground, and Makar threw himself to the side. He barely missed a shot to the head, but once on the ground, got a bullet to his foot and screamed.
He froze as the realization hit him—their weapons were completely overwhelmed by this new one. He turned and looked at the woman at the top of the stairs who had the barrel of an AK-12 pointed right at him.
Makar blinked, rolled quickly to his left, aimed his weapon at her, and fired.
*
Hugo saw one of the men fall when someone above him started shooting. With snow tearing at his face and the icy cold stiffening his fingers, he knew that if he and Mikko had any kind of chance, now would be the time to act.
One of the other men rushed forward, opened fire, then threw himself back into shelter again.
Hugo cursed. This wasn’t working. They had to do something. He checked his gun—he had two rounds left.
“Mikko!”
Mikko wriggled from his curled-up position under the stairs. His face was ravaged and thin, and a trickle of blood ran along his cheek.
“How many rounds do you have left?”
“Four.”
“Open fire on my signal. We have to counter-attack. If we stay here, we die.”
Mikko didn’t answer, but Hugo saw the gleam in his eyes. He nodded.
“Now!”
They began to shoot, and the men standing in front of the stairs threw themselves down in cover. There would only be a matter of seconds before this window was gone, Hugo knew. He sprang to his feet and rushed forward; behind him, Mikko shouted something he couldn’t understand. His whole being was focused on getting to the target as quickly as possible. His legs hammered like pistons.
He slipped on black ice as he passed the stairs but grabbed the handrail and managed to keep going. He passed one of the attackers, who was lying in a large pool of blood. One of the other men stood next to him, and the third one was over beside the nearest truck. Hugo reached his hand into the front of his jacket and took hold of the rubber grip on one of the knives strapped to his chest.
In a single, sweeping motion, he pulled it out and threw it in the direction of the truck. The blade flashed in the air and then found its mark, sinking into the flesh of an exposed neck. A bubbly, bloody grimace crossed his face before he fell backward to the ground.
The other man cried out, “No!”
Still running like an express train, Hugo automatically reached in for another knife handle. Adrenaline surged through him, and he perceived everything in sharp focus. His mind was like a high-definition video recorder, taking in everything around and within him—the crackling snow, the icy wind, the heat inside his body. With a cat-like leap, he crashed into the survivor, and they tumbled together on the snow-covered ground.
The goon grinned sadistically. “You bastard. I’ll kill you!”
Hugo scrambled to his feet and noted the ground as he move
d a few steps away. “You’ve been trying to do that for the last three minutes,” he said in a low voice. “Now it’s my turn.”
During the scuffle, his opponent’s weapon had gone flying, and now he searched the ground frantically for it. There—three meters away, too far to reach. He turned toward Hugo and pulled out his own blade—a broad, brutal military knife. He took a few steps toward Hugo, but Hugo moved softly backward. Hugo had been in knife fights before; he knew the chances of survival increased greatly if you didn’t rush into anything. It was rare for a knife fight to last more than a few minutes, so it was all about avoiding mistakes.
“What’s your name?” Hugo demanded. “Why do you want to kill us?”
The man chuckled, his cheeks rosy from the cold and giving him a strange resemblance to a murderous Santa Claus. “It doesn’t matter, does it?” he snarled.
“Well, yeah—it does for me. This is the third time I’ve been to Russia, and it’s the third time someone has tried to kill me here.”
“So, ‘welcome back’ is appropriate then, I guess.”
“Thanks. But the other times, I knew the name of the people who wanted me dead. I don’t know now.”
The man pulled back his lips in a shark-like smile. “My name is Vlado.”
“Nice to meet you, Vlado. My name is Hugo.”
They started to circle each other, looking for openings, some weaknesses to exploit. Vlado made a couple of moves, but Hugo waved them off easily. Hugo took a step forward but slipped on a dark patch of ice. Vlado saw his chance. He thrust his knife forward.
Hugo slid aside deftly, having fooled the thug. When Vlado’s arm came within reach, he shoved his knife into it. He’d severed an artery, and blood gushed from the wound in a torrent. Vlado shouted in panic and dropped to his knees. The knife in his hand clattered to the ground, and Hugo kicked it away.
“Give up. I don’t want to kill you.”
Vlado grumbled something Hugo couldn’t hear. A fraction of a second later, jolly old Saint Nick lunged forward—but Hugo anticipated the move. He slammed Vlado in the head with his fist, and the thug fell unconscious the ground.
*
Mikko approached Hugo. Vlado lay there in front of them, dead.
“Why were they trying to kill us?” Mikko asked, his subdued voice betraying his weariness.
Hugo shrugged. “I wasn’t able to get an answer out of him on that. They look like hired killers to me, guns for hire. Brutal types.”
“But who knows we’re here?”
“Obviously, someone who has the money and power to hire a team of killers in a matter of hours.”
Freya and Sussie appeared in the aircraft doorway and came down to them. Sussie was pale, but Freya’s eyes were on fire. Hugo had seen that look before; some people were energized by using weapons.
Sussie pulled a cell phone out of her jacket pocket. “Hello?”
She was silent for a few seconds and then answered in Russian—a language Hugo didn’t know. She ended the call and explained to the group, “That was our ride—he’s on his way. He’ll be here in a minute.”
Mikko tilted his head. The sound of sirens came closer. “Sounds like the police are on their way too.”
Freya hugged the weapon she was holding to her chest. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s collect our stuff so we’re ready to leave as soon as our ride gets here.”
Mikko nodded. “Agreed.”
They worked quickly, lugging their gear off the plane. The airplane was full of bullet holes—Hugo suspected this would be a major scandal in tomorrow’s newspaper. He could see tomorrow’s headlines: Shots Fired at International Airport.
A minute later, a white van peeled in front of the plane. A young man jumped out and rushed around the front.
“Sussie?”
Hugo pointed at her, and she jogged up to the driver. After they’d exchanged a few words, he nodded and Sussie spun around.
“All right, move it! Let’s get going!”
The group grabbed their equipment and loaded it into the van. As they pulled the side door closed, they could see flashing blue lights approaching. The white van roared, leaving the chaos behind.
12
Dr. Markov Tupolev’s heart pounded as he opened the door and went into the other room. The woman who was strapped to the cot did not move. Her face was pale and sweaty, yet still beautiful. Markov felt a surge of excitement as he walked closer to her. He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed, and she jerked in her sleep anxiously.
“Anna? Are you awake?”
Anna opened an eye and tried to raise her arm, but it only lifted halfway before the handcuffs halted her movement.
“Anna, it’s me. Markov. Do you recognize me?”
Anna stared at him, eyes narrowed, and moistened her cracked lips. “Yes, I think so.”
“Good, Anna, very good.”
“Where am I?”
Markov did not respond but turned around and walked to the far wall, where a set of four monitors was lined up on a long desk. He studied the various graphs that displayed Anna’s vitals. Everything looked okay—blood pressure was perhaps a tad low, but that wouldn’t affect the experiment. He walked over to Anna again. She was more awake now, staring at him.
“Where am I? Why am I here?”
Markov’s voice was smooth. “But Anna, don’t you remember what happened? You fell. You hit your head.”
Anna blinked, trying to remember. “Fell? Where did I fall?”
“Out there. On the stairs. You fell and hit your head. You were unconscious for quite a while. You don’t remember anything?”
She shook her head and mumbled, “No. I don’t remember that at all.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now. Just lie here and rest a bit longer, and everything will be fine.”
Anna raised her other arm, but it too got stuck halfway. She jerked it, and the handcuffs rattled against the metal frame of the bed. Panic crept into her voice.
“Why am I strapped in? Let me go—now!”
Markov shivered with pleasure. “Not yet, Anna. Not yet. You were a little violent before. Now, don’t let that upset you—that kind of thing can happen when a person experiences head trauma. The restraints are for your security as much as mine. When you’re better, we’ll remove them. I promise.”
Anna continued to twitch. Markov went to the table, picked up a flat, square object, and went back to her.
“Here. This will help you relax.”
“I don’t want anything. Let me go.”
Markov opened the packaging of a small patch, and before Anna could say anything, he stuck it on her shoulder. The effect was immediate. Her eyelids became heavy, and he studied her while his special quazepam copolymer disbursed into Anna’s bloodstream.
“That’s good, Anna. Very good.”
There was a knock at the door. He whirled around.
“Yes?”
Abram’s muted voice replied, “It’s Ilya, the guard. He says you need to come up.”
“I don’t have time right now.”
“He says it’s important. It’s something about the computer program that handles rooftop security.”
Markov gave an exasperated sigh. “Christ. Okay. Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”
He laid a hand on Anna’s right breast and squeezed. “I’ll be right back.” Then he disappeared from the room.
*
Markov shoved the door open. Ilya flinched but quickly regained his composure.
“I’m sorry to have to interfere with your work.”
Markov’s good mood had evaporated. “Yes, why are you bothering me? What’s so important?”
Ilya flexed his jaw. “Look at this,” he said. He approached one of the big screens hanging on the wall, and Markov followed.
“What?”
“Here. Look. There’s a hole along one edge of the fence.” Ilya pointed to the thin, red line that marked the border of the villa’s property.
“Go on
.”
“We don’t know where it came from, but it wasn’t there earlier today. It just showed up. We’re thinking someone might have tried to break in.”
Ilya fell silent. Markov glared at him.
“Are you serious? You called me down here for that?”
Ilya’s face flushed. “I’m sorry if I went too far, sir, but I’d rather be safe than risk a break-in.”
Markov hissed, “You idiot! I have more important things to do than this. Just fix the damn hole!”
Ilya cringed. ‘Yes, of course, Doctor.” He hurried to the door and opened it. As Markov stormed past him, Ilya put a hand on his shoulder. Markov shrugged it off and kept going. He disappeared down the hall, heading back down to the basement.
*
Goddamn idiot, Markov thought as he sank into the chair in front of his desk. He didn’t have time for this kind of incompetence. Not now. There was too much at stake.
“Abram,” he called to his assistant across the room. “Is everything ready?”
Abram scanned the monitors, his thick mop of dark, coarse hair sitting like a helmet on top of his head.
“Yes,” he answered after a few minutes had passed. “Everything looks good. Green across the board.”
“Excellent. Continue with the next phase.”
Abram activated the controls next to the screens, and two metal arms descended from the ceiling above Anna in the next room. Markov rose and stood by the long, high window in the wall that separated his office from the experiment room. Anna didn’t move as the metal arms neared her body, but the moment one of them touched her, she jerked.
Markov breathed faster. This was only the third time he’d conducted a complete experiment, an experiment that went all the way, regardless of the outcome. It was both illegal and unethical to test on humans like this. If he were caught, it would be a devastating scandal. But he was lucky—he had contacts in the military who not only protected him, but supported him, and generously at that.
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