Just a few yards away from his position, the aging metal of a pumpjack groaned in the breeze—the giant “horse head” box gently nodding.
There. Movement…or was it his imagination? He stopped, aiming the rifle toward the base of a derrick near the remains of the fence to the southwest.
Nothing immediately apparent. He took a deep breath to steady the gun, inhaling the grease he had smeared across his face and neck to darken his skin against the night.
A man’s head appeared cautiously, almost furtively, around the corner of the derrick.
Target sighted. Harry reached up, toggling his mike once, then twice. Alerting Han.
A body followed the head, moving forward in a crouch. A weapon held at the ready.
Harry watched as the figure sprinted from his cover toward the next derrick. Waiting, his cross-hairs still trained on the spot from which the man had emerged.
A second head appeared, and it all became perfectly clear. Bound and overwatch. One man providing cover as the other one advanced.
And there could be more. Watch and wait.
Arrogance. That summed up the expression, the look on Roger Hancock’s face in the pictures taken by Andropov’s team. The man who had ordered her father’s murder.
All of this, only to find that their perpetrator was beyond reach. The realization was bitter.
Carol clicked to advance to the next picture, glancing toward the door that led into the outer office of the trailer. The Kahr lay at her fingertips.
Wait for us, he had said. Don’t come out until I come for you.
Neither one of them had dared to speak of the other possibility. That he might never come.
It was just the two of them. The foremost man had an earpiece, but there was no indication that either of them were using comms.
Time to end this. The cross-hairs centered on the second man’s chest just as he began to move. The big rifle recoiled into Harry’s shoulder as he fired, the report echoing across the oilfield.
He fired three shots, pulling the trigger as fast as he could reacquire his sight picture. The man reeled backward, his broken body crumpling into the short grass.
And then the night erupted in fire, incoming rounds hammering the forklift. From the wrong direction.
He’d been played.
5:41 P.M.
It was…everything. Viktor shook his head, tracing his fingers over the numbers displayed onscreen. The encryption on the thumb drive had been somewhat less than formidable.
He would have to talk to Korsakov about that when he returned, the boy thought absently.
The series of figures added up to 2.3 million dollars in US currency, deposited in over ten separate offshore accounts. It didn’t represent even half the buying power that it would have three years before…but it was still an overwhelming fortune.
Why? The boy thought, staring at the screen of his laptop. Why had Korsakov given him this?
It was access to everything in the assassin’s accounts—all of it. He could withdraw at will, have the money wired anywhere in the world. All by himself, without Korsakov.
Without Korsakov. A cold fear began to gnaw at the boy’s heart, his hands trembling. And he knew. His friend wasn’t coming back. His breath began to come shallow and fast, the all-too familiar onset of a panic attack.
Gunshots off to the north penetrated the haze surrounding him, and he fought against the urge to hide. With trembling fingers, he jerked the Glock from its holster at his waist, feeling its reassuring bulk in his hand.
More gunfire. He forced his breathing to slow, blinking back tears. All the money in the world meant nothing—not without a friend. Not without the man who had saved his life.
Viktor reached for the door, stumbling out into the darkness of the night. He had to reach him.
8:44 P.M. Eastern Time
Georgetown, Washington D.C.
Christmas lights, flashing through the tinted windows of the SUV. Even with the alert levels raised and the threat of another terror attack hanging over the East Coast, people had carried on with their holiday decorations.
Years before, Kranemeyer would have attributed it to the American spirit, defiant in the face of intimidation.
Now it struck him more as the ambivalent apathy of those still asleep.
Someone inside the government is working with the terrorists, and they’re trying to make it look like Nichols is behind it.
Haskel. It made sense now, Kranemeyer thought, remembering Carter’s words. He should have seen it, even then.
They were given access.
Was this the secret that had so nearly cost Lay his life? If so, why? What was Haskel’s angle…what did he stand to gain?
Questions without answers. The throwaway phone in Kranemeyer’s breast pocket buzzed with an incoming text and he pulled it out with a gloved hand, reading the message off the screen. Thomas.
Approx forty minutes out from last known location. Will apprise when we have the package.
Two of his best, closing in on their former team leader. A man who had kidnapped and murdered an American teenager.
An innocent, no matter what his father might have done.
Where did you go wrong, Nichols? Kranemeyer mused, pondering the irony of the question. Where, indeed?
He tucked the phone back inside his pocket and pushed the door of the SUV open, stepping out onto an ice-slick sidewalk. Deniable vehicle or no, it was safest to approach his target on foot.
The alarm would be raised within the hour—people would start looking for Shapiro.
What thou doest, do thou quickly.
5:45 P.M. Pacific Time
The oilfield
Tehachapi, California
They had night-vision. At least one of them did. And he didn’t have the ammunition necessary for a prolonged firefight.
Harry spat out sand as bullets chewed up the dirt near him, lifting himself up just far enough to return fire. One, two shots.
“I could use some help over here, Sammy,” he hissed into his mike, rolling over on the ground till he was staring up at the looming pumpjack.
No response. As there hadn’t been before. If they had outflanked him so successfully, perhaps Han was already dead.
Laying in the shadow of the pump, he hit the SCAR’s magazine release, checking his remaining ammunition.
Four .308 cartridges left. A couple magazines for his Colt, but a pistol was near useless against a trained marksman with a rifle.
Rounds continued to strike around him, caroming off the solid steel of the pump.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus, to concentrate. Listening as the fire from the southwest faded away for a moment. There would be no second chances.
He rolled to one knee, acquiring a sight picture as his rifle came up. A man charging toward the pump, out in the open, his weapon weaving from side to side as he ran.
Harry pulled the trigger, the scope’s cross-hairs centering on the man’s chest. Once, twice.
The mercenary fell, throwing out a bloody hand as he hit the gravel. He tried to pull himself up, the expression of agony on his face clear even through the greenish glow of the night-vision scope.
A pair of shots came out of the night without warning, striking Harry in the side, sledgehammer blows to the ribs. A double-tap.
The SCAR dropped from his hands as he swayed, catching himself against the side of the pumpjack—his mind struggling to process what had just happened.
He looked up to see Korsakov standing there, barely five feet away, a semiautomatic pistol in his outstretched hands. “Almost good enough, Mr. Nichols. Almost.”
The vest, Harry thought, attempting to get his breath back. His assault vest must have stopped the slugs, leaving his ribs hammered from the blunt impact of the rounds. Not that it mattered, he thought, staring into the muzzle of Korsakov’s Skyph.
“Turn around.”
Harry shook his head, a bitter smile crossing his face. It hurt even
to speak, but he found himself chuckling.
“You first.” Keep him off-balance.
“They were good men—the men you killed,” Korsakov whispered, a note of sadness in the assassin’s voice. He took a step closer, placing himself between Harry and the pumpjack. “My brothers.”
“Cry me a river.”
Korsakov’s eyes narrowed, his finger tightening around the trigger. “It’s time to say goodbye, Mr. Nichols.”
Footsteps on the gravel, and Harry turned his head to see Han standing there, the UMP-45 leveled in his hands. And he knew that he was in the SEAL’s line of fire.
The assassin gestured with the barrel of his pistol. “Back away or I kill him.”
“Take the shot, Sammy,” Harry ordered. He could feel the presence of Death, as if it stood beside him—could sense his friend’s hesitation. It was a hard shot, perhaps too hard in the darkness.
And death for him might as easily come from Han’s weapon as Korsakov’s. Little matter. “Don’t let him leave here alive—just take the shot.”
There was no time, he could see that in Korsakov’s eyes. One of them was going to die.
He pitched sideways, throwing out a hand to catch himself—fire blossoming from the muzzle of the Russian’s pistol. Blinding pain tore through his body from his injured ribs as he went down into the gravel, his right hand clawing for the butt of his Colt.
Faraway, as if in a dream, he heard the staccato of Han’s H&K. Felt drops of something warm spray over his face.
Ignoring the pain shooting through his ribs, Harry rolled onto his back, aiming the Colt skyward.
Korsakov swayed above him, clutching at what remained of his throat. His legs gave out from under him and he crumpled to the gravel.
Breathing heavily, Harry pushed himself up on one knee, struggling to stand. He found his feet after a moment, standing there above the dying Russian, his cocked pistol in his hand.
The man was struggling to breathe, a bloody froth escaping his lips. Yet the defiance was still there in his eyes, visible even through the agony distorting his face. Unbowed, even in death.
Harry raised the pistol, seeing Korsakov’s face through his gunsights. “This one’s for you, David.”
The thunder of the Colt reverberated across the oilfield, and then all was silent. The silence of the grave.
8:51 P.M. Eastern Time
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
“You’re the last person I expected to see tonight, Barney.” Haskel closed the door, ushering Kranemeyer in out of the sleet. The DCS brushed the icy crystals off his trench coat, eyeing the house critically. Stairs led to a second floor and presumably bedrooms.
“We have a situation,” he announced. The best lies were the ones that clung most closely to the truth. “The Agency has been compromised.”
Surprise showed in Haskel’s eyes. “Indeed?”
A nod. “You know I wouldn’t be here if I thought I had anywhere else to turn,” Kranemeyer acknowledged bluntly. “Is your wife home?”
The FBI director shook his head. “She left this morning, took the kids with her. Driving to South Carolina to be with the grandparents for Christmas. Why don’t we go into the den?”
Haskel led the way down the hall, past a Thomas Kinkade landscape flanked by ornamental sconces.
“What’s the nature of this crisis, Barney?” he asked, opening the door to reveal a small library, leather-bound books adorning oaken shelves and several plush armchairs completing the set. A small wet bar stood at one end, a pair of stools in front and several bottles of whisky on the smooth granite of the bartop.
“We have a mole inside our government, inside the Agency,” Kranemeyer replied. “Tied to the hit on David. And I need your help exposing him.”
“Of course. Anything. Who is it?”
There was a false note of concern, almost of eagerness, in Haskel’s voice, Kranemeyer thought, confirming everything that Shapiro had told him. “Long story,” he said, inclining his head toward the bar. “And I could use a stiff drink.”
Haskel waved his hand. “Be my guest.”
5:59 P.M. Pacific Time
The oilfield
Tehachapi, California
Pain. Harry closed his eyes as Carol probed his side with her fingers. “I don’t think the ribs are broken,” she observed, her tone studiously neutral. “But the flesh is already starting to purple. You’re going to have a painful bruise.”
“No kidding,” he whispered, looking over to where his tactical vest hung over the back of the chair. Both bullets were visible, the slugs nearly buried in the plating.
He reached out for her as he stood, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “You’re going to get through this,” he breathed, ignoring the pain with an effort. “This is all going to be over soon. All of the killing, all the deception. All of it past. I want to start anew, leave all of it behind.”
“Can you?” came the quiet, piercing question, sadness in her voice. He stood there as she pulled away, the words on his very lips.
If you come with me, I can. The one thing he found himself wanting more than anything in the world. A normal life—the American dream. The strength of the desire frightened him.
And the words remained unspoken. He watched her move to the far side of the desk, cursing himself bitterly beneath his breath. He knew what to say—knew exactly what to say, but after all of the lies…
He reached for his shirt, buttoning it over his bare chest. A vague sense of misgiving entered his heart and he shrugged on the tactical vest over his head before reaching for his Colt. Han should have returned by now.
Five minutes, Harry thought, glancing at his watch. The SEAL had only gone out to the car, the sedan they had stolen from the freeway the night before. “Everything okay, Sammy?” he asked, keying his mike.
Nothing. Something was wrong, very wrong.
“Stay here,” he ordered, shooting her a look. “And keep your head down. I’ll be back.”
He reached for the door, bringing the Colt up as he exited the office trailer. Stepping into the night.
Nothing. Everything was still, barely a whisper of wind stirring through the bones of long-deserted industry. “Sammy?”
Gooseflesh rose along the skin of his arms as he sprinted across the gravel toward the nearest cover. A fear that perhaps he was too late.
Voices. He could hear someone speaking. Rising from his crouch, he moved among the pallets of abandoned equipment until he could see the pumpjack where Korsakov had died.
Threat. It was that, and yet something more. Han stared into the muzzle of a Glock, watching tears run down the face of the boy holding it. Tears of anger and grief.
“You don’t want to die,” Han warned, keeping his hands well away from his sides. From his own gun. “Not like this.”
The boy seemed to waver, the Glock’s barrel trembling as he extended it in one hand. Indecision.
It was good, Han thought. He could talk him down, could talk him into lowering the gun. He wouldn’t need to kill him—no one else needed to die.
What was life, without a friend? Viktor glanced down at Korsakov’s broken body, at the once-kind eyes now lifeless. He scarcely even heard the man’s lies.
Lies, the story of his short life. Everyone had lied to him, everyone except Korsakov. They had lied to him when his parents had died, leaving him an orphan at ten. Come along, there’s a nice home waiting.
He could still remember the first time, the drugged stupor—a man’s hands sliding along his young body. A demon’s voice at his ear and again, the lies. This won’t hurt.
Countless lies. He choked on a sob, remembering his friend’s last words. “I’ll be back soon, Vitya. Don’t worry.”
Had even that been a lie? No, no, it couldn’t have been. He stared down the barrel of his Glock at Korsakov’s killer, watching his face, his lips moving. “Just give me the gun—no one needs to get hurt.”
More lies. A scream of impotent fury escaped
his lips, his left hand coming up to support the Glock, his mind consumed with a single purpose. Kill.
Dimly, as if through the haze of a dream, he heard an explosion to his left, felt a pair of bullets rip into him.
Falling. He hit the ground hard, his hand reaching out in an attempt to pull himself up. His side felt suddenly warm, his movements sluggish. Ever weaker.
Then darkness closed over him and he never felt anything…ever again.
“He wasn’t going to give me the gun…was he?” Han asked as Harry emerged from the shadows.
“No—no he wasn’t, Sammy,” came his friend’s reply. Without a word, Harry stooped down, prying the Glock from the boy’s lifeless hand.
He had known it, the SEAL thought, forcing his breathing to slow—the knowledge frightening him even more than how close he had come to death. In the face of everything that he knew, all of his old training, he had wanted to believe that he could talk the boy down. Emotion overruling the cold realization of what he had to do.
You’ve been out of the field too long.
And sooner or later, it was going to kill him, he thought—looking over to where Harry stood, a dark, forboding form in the pale moonlight. Him…or someone else.
9:00 P.M. Eastern Time
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
“To the confusion of America’s enemies,” Haskel said with a smile, taking the tumbler of whisky from Kranemeyer’s hand.
The irony. The DCS favored him with a dispassionate smile, raising his own glass in salute. “I’ll drink to that.”
He took a slow sip, watching as the FBI director drained his glass. “You know, Eric—I’ve heard it said that the ritual of touching glasses in a toast came about so that, as liquor splashed from one to another, both parties could be assured that the drink wasn’t poisoned. Or that could just be an old wives’ tale, of course.”
Haskel chuckled. “I suppose it’s nice to know that paranoia isn’t a product of our modern age.” A puzzled frown furrowed his brow as he glanced over, taking in Kranemeyer’s coat, gloves. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable, Barney.”
“They say that even the paranoid have enemies, Eric,” Kranemeyer announced, setting his glass on the endtable with a gloved hand. His eyes locked with Haskel’s. “Why did you do it?”
Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 44
