Limbo Man

by Blair Bancroft

  The epic battle Vee anticipated with Sergei lasted all of five minutes. Until a furious Vee phoned Daddy, who decreed that unless an American agent was present at the take-down, DHS would assume all foreigners were the enemy, and expendable.

  “After all I’ve done, you still do not trust me?” Sergei howled.

  Vee shrugged. “Would you trust Sergei Tokarev with all the ingredients for mass destruction? Besides, if I go, you are more likely to find a way out,” Vee added as she wrapped a black hijab around her head and shoulders.

  “Vee—”

  “No more.” She held up a hand. “We’re in this together. Now let’s get this show on the road.”

  Following cryptic cell phone instructions, they drove to two different contact points, both parking lots of active shopping malls, while the terrorists checked for surveillance. The third set of instructions took them to an alley behind an abandoned restaurant. This time the alley wasn’t empty. Four heavily armed men poured out of an SUV, quickly relieving them of their weapons and cell phones. The search was not a surprise, not even a major glitch. Just before exiting the plane at OIA, Vee had slipped a hand into her bra and activated her GPS locator. The time had come. They’d gone solo long enough.

  After the search, the three of them were shoved into a second SUV, driven by Massoud’s lieutenant, Navid, a wiry young man who looked hard enough to eat nails for breakfast. And, yes, Vee caught the light of Heydar’s fervor in his fine dark eyes. He was a true fanatic, not someone planning to use the bomb to blackmail himself into a multi-million-dollar payoff.

  A silent twenty-minute drive before they entered a pot-holed delivery road behind an abandoned strip mall. Massoud had better be waiting for them. Heydar’s arrest would have to wait, but Massoud was nearly as important as the bomb. Smart, dedicated and determined, he was an operative worthy of the task at hand. And future missions of a deadly nature. Vee doubted Massoud had any intention of enjoying his forty virgins for some time to come.

  Navid pulled up in front of an oversized corrugated metal door, spoke into his cell phone. The door rolled up. The SUV moved forward into what must have been the central supply room for the mall’s largest anchor store. It was starkly empty, except for two small groups of men and a delivery truck.

  Sergei Tokarev, radiating successful international arms dealer from every pore, stepped out of the car, moving forward to stand before Massoud. Arrogantly pleased with his job well done, he proffered one of the lead containers. Without so much as a nod, Massoud accepted it, handed it off to one of the men standing behind him—a middle-aged professor-type, who looked about as dangerous as Vee’s old Comparative Religions professor. Gingerly, he opened the box and scanned the contents with two different devices, while several heavily armed guards kept watch behind them. Silently, they all waited.

  “It seems authentic,” the professor pronounced at last. “The best I can say without a lab.”

  Massoud gave a curt nod. He could have been a Heydar clone, Vee thought, though maybe as much as a decade younger than the Iranian. His black curly hair was topped by a gray kufi, his beard and mustache neatly trimmed, his dark eyes not quite concealing his satisfaction that all was going as planned.

  Massoud nodded to the two guards with assault rifles standing guard on the truck. One stepped forward and opened the truck’s double rear doors. Massoud and Navid climbed in, signaling Sergei and his companions to follow. Sergei boosted Vee up, then turned to give a hand up to Mikoyan and the professor before adding himself to the crowd inside. Space was tight, due to an oversize wooden crate taking up most of the wall behind the truck’s cab. Massoud and Navid worked the crate’s two electronic locks, slowly lifted the lid, then backed away, giving their visitors room to look.

  Vee thought she was prepared. She wasn’t. She had to bite her lip to keep from gasping out loud. The bomb was smaller than she’d expected, but infinitely more frightening. An abomination that should not exist, lying there in an improvised wooden cradle, Though useless in its present state, it was still a nuclear bomb. An antique, yet it lacked only a fresh supply of U-236 to render it capable of obliterating cities, destroying thousands of lives. No wonder Sergei had spent his life chasing this one and its nine brothers. Vee could swear the balmy Florida temperature had just dropped ten degrees.

  Massoud waved an imperious hand at Kiril Mikoyan. “You! Make it work.”

  Now, she thought. Now! Go, go, go! For all the terrorists’ precautions, Homeland Security should not have had trouble following her GPS signal.

  Nothing.

  Kiril Mikoyan peered at the bomb, shook his head. “Here? You expect I work isotope under these conditions? I need lab, special safety equipment. I not suicide bomber. I do for money.”

  Amazing. Was this part of the sting? Vee wondered. A delaying tactic? Had Sergei briefed the old man?

  Or was this the unexpected that tumbled Sergei’s house of cards?

  Massoud stiffened, rounded on Sergei. “You promised. You said he would do it.”

  “I said he’d arm the bomb. I didn’t say he was willing to die of radiation poisoning. We need a lab, proper equipment—”

  “He will do it now.” Massoud pushed the old man against the side of the crate. He do fast, he live.”

  Dad, Cade, Misha . . . now would be a good time.

  Mikoyan straightened his stooped shoulders, favored Massoud with a dignified glare. “You think I old. Live long enough. Happy die killing Americans. You crazy.” His English was precise, each word chosen to penetrate the language barrier. “I do job, but not here, not now. I get much money. I go new home.” He nodded toward the isotope expert, who appeared stunned, as if he didn’t know how he’d gotten himself into such a mess. “Professor not expect die. Tokarev, wife not want die. Kiril Mikoyan not want die.” The old man crossed his arms over his chest, continuing to look Massoud straight in the eye. Vee felt a strong urge to applaud.

  With a gesture that was almost casual, Massoud swung the barrel of his AK-47 toward Vee. “Woman not want die? Fix bomb or she go first. Then Tokarev who has your money.”

  Okay, guys, this is beginning to suck. Where are you?

  Mikoyan didn’t so much as blink. “Open bomb, bad radiation. All die.”

  The way things were going, Vee could hope that was an exaggeration. DHS seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.

  “Come on, Massoud,” Sergei drawled, looking completely indifferent to the outcome of the next few minutes. “Heydar and friends won’t appreciate you killing off their favorite arms dealer. Give the old boy a safe place to work. Then take your bomb and let the four of us go. If you don’t, no one in the trade will supply Heydar ever again.”

  He’s lying, Vee thought. Money always talked. But at least Sergei’s rhetoric was taking up time.

  “We do now!” Massoud jammed the barrel of the automatic rifle so hard under Vee’s left breast that she staggered. Sergei plunged forward to steady her, wrapping his arms around her from behind, making it clear he’d take the rounds aimed at Vee.

  Tension inside the truck was so tight Vee could almost hear the air twang. Massoud seemed to vibrate, as if the slightest twitch from anyone would set his finger to the trigger. Navid was frowning—unhappy with the delay? Or worried that Massoud was losing it? The professor was so pale he looked like he might topple over at any moment. The two guards, standing outside the open rear doors, tightened their fingers around their triggers.

  Into the strained silence Sergei spoke to the old man in soft, rapid Russian

  “What you say?” Massoud demanded.

  “I told him to do it. My wife and I plan to live long and prosper.”

  The terrorist leader frowned, obviously puzzled by an expression he did not recognize.

  “Is okay,” Sergei said. “See, he does it now.”

  At a snail’s pace. As Sergei had told him.

  Tension ratcheted down a notch as Massoud stepped back, removing the gun barrel from Vee’s rib
s. He frowned at the length of time it took the old man to retrieve a Phillips screwdriver from the toolbox on the floor. Mikoyan shuffled toward the bomb cradle. Vee’s mouth went dry as he bent over the bomb.

  Massoud spoke softly to Navid in Farsi. Waving the guards aside, Navid jumped off the back of the truck and disappeared.

  Where on earth . . .?

  Through a small window between the truck body and the cab, Vee saw Navid slide into the driver’s seat. They expected the old man to work while the truck was moving?

  Insanity!

  Sergei’s sting operation was never supposed to get this far. The cavalry was supposed to charge to the rescue the moment they made certain all the players were present. And yet . . . here they were in a double enclosure—locked in a delivery van inside the rear storage room of what had once been a major chain store. From Homeland Security’s point of view, the terrorists were holding three hostages and a nuclear bomb. Not exactly an easy take-down. No wonder DHS was dragging its feet. Perhaps they planned to wait until the truck moved out . . .

  A loud speaker roared. “This is Homeland Security. You are surrounded. Come out now!”

  Chapter 26

  Somehow—in spite of all the times she’d lectured herself about realities of her job—Vee had never really believed she was expendable. To Arkadi Petrovski maybe, but not to Jack Frost. She was Daddy’s little girl . . .

  Guess not. The needs of the many . . .

  The truck’s engine roared to life. Navid threw it into reverse, ramming straight through the roll-up door, knocking an SUV into an armored personnel carrier, which did a one-eighty into the communications van. Men in full SWAT gear dove for cover. Sniper bullets whined from the roof. Navid spun the wheel, floored it again, shoving a second SUV out of the way. Seeing a clear path down the alley, he braked, shifting from reverse to first. MP-5 fire cut in as the SWAT team recovered from their leaps to safety.

  Sergei, anticipating trouble, was the first to crawl out from under the pile of bodies thrown to the floor by the initial impact. Scrambling through intertwined arms and legs, he found Vee, dragged her toward the rear doors, which were swinging wildly. As Navid shifted gears, with a hurried “Remember I love you,” Sergei threw Vee out.

  The asphalt came up fast. She lay curled up on the pavement, eyes squeezed shut in pain, fighting to get her breath back, waiting for her head to stop whirling. Around her, chaos reigned. Shouts, running feet, flashing lights. Gunfire. Still crumpled in a heap, Vee opened her eyes to the sight of the truck careening down the alley with three terrorists, the old man, the bomb, and Sergei.

  Hands grabbed Vee, pulling her to her feet. “Come on, chère,” Cade urged. “Our car’s not totaled. We can catch them.”

  “Not possible,” Misha declared as they darted their heavy SUV through Orlando’s early evening traffic, trying to keep the delivery truck in sight. “Even if Mikoyan was willing, they can’t arm a nuke at high speed.”

  “If they don’t give a damn for safety?” Cade challenged.

  “I don’t think Massoud plans to die,” Vee offered.

  “Better than what he’ll get if he lives,” Cade growled.

  “The old man wants his money,” Vee countered. “His house in Canada.”

  “The old man’s dream just shattered,” Misha pointed out. “Faced with no choice, he will remember the glory days of his youth, the pride of the Soviet Union. He will wish to strike a blow for the days that once were. He will, I think, be quite willing to vaporize himself along with America’s best-known playground.”

  “Shit!” Vee breathed. Cade groaned.

  Misha calmly returned to broadcasting their location on Cade’s cell phone. Vee wasn’t about to mention that her GPS locator had been broadcasting loud and clear ever since they left the hotel. So where was everybody? Not even an Orange County patrol car in sight.

  The truck plunged under an underpass, hung a hard left up a ramp to I-4. West. The three major theme parks were only a few minutes ahead.

  “They’re almost to Universal,” Vee gasped. “We can’t wait.”

  “Trust me,” Misha said, “the bomb will not go off. Seryozha will die before he’d let them arm it.”

  “Exactly,” Vee said. “If we don’t take the truck first, Sergei is dead. Either he’s executed by Massoud or the SWAT team disintegrates the truck in a hail of bullets. Remember, they also got the lecture about the bomb being a dud until it’s armed. But at the moment we’re the only ones close enough to catch them. And besides,” she added softly, facing the ultimate reality, “it’s possible Seryozha is already dead and Mikoyan’s going for the glory, as you said. We don’t have an option. We have to figure worst case.”

  “At this speed . . .” Cade said, trailing into silence.

  Vee drew a shuddering breath. “Sergei expects us to stop them.”

  Slowly, Misha nodded. “I agree. Sergei would want it so.”

  There were four traffic lanes speeding west on I-4, plus extra lanes leading to the many exits. Cade drove the fifteen hundred-pound Suburban like a superfast tank, scattering everything in his way, dodging in and out of traffic, ignoring indignant honks and one-finger salutes. The delivery truck was going flat-out in the left lane, but was no match for the heavy SUV. Cade rammed his way into the lane to the truck’s right, two car lengths back from the truck’s right rear fender.

  Universal and Sea World coming up, DisneyWorld a scant few miles ahead.

  Collateral damage, Vee thought. If they rammed the truck, it was going to go out of control, cross the median, rocket into four lanes of traffic heading east. Not to mention what would happen to the Suburban and its passengers.

  The needs of the many . . . Mr. Spock’s words flashed through her mind, mouthed with his last breath as he slid down behind a panel of glass, fatally poisoned by radiation.

  Her next vision—a mushroom cloud blooming over Orlando’s west side.

  Now. They had to do it now before a parade of cars jumped into the lane in front of them, cutting them off from the truck. “Take it out,” Vee said.

  Cade dropped back, allowing room to gather momentum. The driver behind shot by on the right, horn blaring. Her old partner had the training, Vee knew, but only car to car. Not Suburban versus delivery truck.

  Collateral damage. They were willingly risking their necks to stop a damned nuke, but how many innocent people would they take with them? Better than the thousands who would die if they didn’t wreck the truck before Mikoyan armed the bomb.

  Cade floored it, shooting forward, the SUV’s front bumper connecting hard with just the right spot on the truck. The delivery truck fish-tailed, shot across the median. Navid overcorrected. The truck jerked, did a three-sixty through four lanes of eastbound traffic to the tune of squealing brakes, blaring horns, terrified screams, and the resounding crunch of metal on metal.

  One of the crashes was the Suburban being rear-ended by a pick-up truck. Vee caught a glimpse of the delivery truck on its side in the drainage ditch, wheels slowly spinning in the air, before her world went black.

  She was beginning to hate hospitals, Vee thought, as she opened her eyes to find Cade sitting by her bed. Bad things happened here.

  Like where was Seryozha?

  On second thought, the hospital still existed. All was quiet, humming along at a hospital’s steady pace. So the bomb hadn’t gone off. Thank You, thank You!

  But what about Seryozha?

  “Everything’s okay,” Cade assured her. “You’ve got a couple of broken ribs, a hard knock on the head, but that’s it. Massoud and the professor didn’t fare so well. The bomb may not have gone off, but it made a hell of a flying missile. Got both of them. Mikoyan’s in bad shape, but he’s a tough old bird. He may make it. Navid’s going to live to go to trial.” Cade gave her a broad atta-girl smile. “We got ’em all. The truck, the men at the warehouse. We’re heros, chère.”

  “Seryozha?” Vee demanded. “What aren’t you telling me?”

&n
bsp; Cade made a face, squirmed in his chair, enough to send her heart plunging to her toes.

  Seryozha, if you’re dead, I’m never going to forgive you.

  “Three goons died in the warehouse, the SWAT team took casualties, but no deaths.”

  Relief, raw and searing. “And?” Vee demanded.

  “He’s not dead, Vee. The last time I saw him, he was limping, a bit bloody, maybe had a dislocated shoulder—but for him, what’s another knock or two?”

  “The last time you saw him?” Vee’s blue eyes pinned Cade to the chair.

  “Yeah, well . . .” He made a face. “Misha went all Russian, produced some major tough guys at the crash only five minutes after the first ambulance. There was a hell of a lot of confusion and, well . . . they took him.”

  Vee gaped. “Took him?”

  Cade looked as apologetic as she’d ever seen him. “He’s gone, Vee. On his way back to Russia. The Zhukov family looks after its own.”

  Gone. She’d been prepared for dead. Well, almost. But gone. With nothing more than a whispered, “Remember I love you.”

  If he’d meant it, he’d be sitting where Cade was sitting. Or he’d be in the hospital, flat on his back, waiting for her to come to him.

  “You’re sure?” Vee breathed.

  “I’m sure. An EMT was checking me out, but I saw the whole thing go down. Misha pulling Sergei out of the truck, the Russian goombahs moving in—could have been Petrovski’s guys. Into a limo and off they went, straight to OIA.”

  “How do you know?”

  Cade sighed. “Because I called the office and had them check on it. Charter flight, Orlando to Moscow. Took off shortly after seven.”