by Rob Sinclair
‘Something was happening in Moscow,’ he said. ‘Something that got a number of people killed. I’m pretty sure the CIA didn’t come into this to help Logan. They wanted Grainger – I’m certain of that. But what were they offering in return?’
‘Maybe it was Logan.’
Winter raised an eyebrow. ‘Mackie would never have allowed that. He wouldn’t have given up on Logan to score points with the CIA.’
Winter wanted to believe his own words, but then he’d been asking the same question himself. If Logan had been the other part of the deal – a swap, his life for Grainger’s – then just who had sold him out? Winter certainly wasn’t aware of Mackie having done so.
‘I’ll get on the next flight to Moscow,’ Evans said. ‘Whatever’s happening, I’ve got more chance of uncovering it if I’m on the ground.’
‘Of course. You do that. It’s a start at least,’ said Winter. ‘But I don’t think you’ll find the answers there.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Logan isn’t in Moscow. If I were to bet, I’d say he’s not even in Russia anymore. Wherever he is, you need to follow him.’
‘Do you know where he’d go?’
‘No. But you have to find him. And quickly. Get to him before the CIA or the FSB do. Because Logan is one of the only people who knows what’s really happening here. And unless we find him first, we may never find out the reason Mackie was killed.’
Chapter 5
Volgograd Oblast, Russia
Logan stared into the distance, squinting his eyes as though it would help him make out the dark road ahead. They were travelling on a single track lit only by the headlights of the car and the dim moonlight reflecting off the snow on the pine trees and in large mounds at the side of the road.
Traffic was sparse and they had gone for miles at a time without seeing another vehicle. Every time a car approached in the opposite direction, both of them would hold their breath, the tension in the car rising to bursting point as they waited for an attack to come. So far, every car had simply disappeared into the blackness behind them.
‘Where will we go?’ Grainger asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Logan responded, not taking his eyes off the darkness in front. ‘We have to get out of Russia first.’
‘Is there anywhere safe we can go? Anybody or anywhere in Russia you know that you could take us to?’
‘Right now, I don’t think there’s anyone, anywhere I could trust.’
‘There must be someone.’
Logan had been racking his brain for hours. He’d been on missions to Russia before. To many of the surrounding countries too. Along the way, he’d worked with various people: a small number of other JIA agents, with double agents, informants. But there was no one he’d become close to, or stayed in contact with. That just wasn’t the way the JIA worked, and it certainly wasn’t the way Logan worked.
But he knew he needed help. They were being hunted on multiple fronts. Following his escape from his prison cell in Siberia, Logan had been tricked into luring Mackie to his death. He’d been set up for murder. Someone had betrayed him and there was no one left he could trust, it seemed. Not long after Mackie had been killed, the JIA had stripped Logan of his identity, his possessions. Now, neither he nor Grainger had anything in the world except the clothes they were wearing, the car, the gun stashed in Logan’s waistband and the wallets he’d stolen from the bodies of the dead CIA agents outside Grainger’s apartment. What they had was enough to keep them safe and on the run for a few days if they kept their heads low and stayed in the shadows. But then what?
A thought struck Logan, a saying that had come to mind when he’d first learned of the deal the FSB and the CIA had struck to kill Grainger: the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
He didn’t need to find someone he could trust. All he needed was someone who was willing to work against his enemies.
And in his time, he’d certainly come across a few people who fitted that criteria.
Logan looked down. The fuel indicator on the car was edging closer and closer to empty. They had no map, no GPS, but Logan knew they were still bearing south because of the position of the moon and stars he glimpsed every now and then through the thin clouds. There were also sporadic road signs that gave the names of larger towns many hundreds of miles in the distance. Volgograd – one of the largest cities in Russia and the site of famous battles during World War Two when it was known as Stalingrad – was a little under two hundred miles away.
Logan didn’t want to go there, but he knew that as long as they were closing the distance to the city, then they were still heading south, away from Moscow and edging closer to the border. But there couldn’t have been more than fifty miles left in the tank. So when they spotted a sign indicating a petrol station a mile further ahead, Logan was both relieved and suddenly filled with tension.
‘We have to stop here,’ Grainger said. ‘We’ll not make it to another one.’
‘I know,’ Logan said. ‘Let’s just hope it’s still open.’
The time was just short of two in the morning. Given how quiet the road was, Logan thought it likely that the place would be shut. As it was, the service station was positioned just off a junction with a larger carriageway running overhead and so was open twenty-four hours a day. Despite its proximity to the other road, it was just a solitary petrol station with a small, plain building – no shops or other amenities like you would find on a major motorway. Logan was pleased about that.
He drove the car up to one of the pumps and turned off the engine, then opened the door and stepped out into the bitter night. A blast of cold air smacked against his face and he shivered as he looked up at the pump’s display. When the numbers were set to zero, he began to fill up. By the time the tank was full, he was shivering vigorously. He put the nozzle back onto the stand and walked toward the building, where he could see a solitary worker standing on the other side of the window.
Inside, Logan grabbed some refreshments before heading to the teller. Behind the desk, both detailed road maps and GPS units were for sale. The maps would be cheaper but they only covered certain parts of Russia. And he wasn’t planning on staying much longer.
‘How much is the GPS?’ Logan asked in Russian, which he could speak fluently, albeit with a slight accent that would tell any native that Logan wasn’t.
The man turned and pointed to the three choices in turn, giving Logan a brief description as to why one was more expensive than the other. It was the mid-priced one that Logan wanted. The one that had the most extensive pre-loaded maps. But he wasn’t sure the paltry cash he had would stretch.
He took out everything he had and began to count out the notes onto the teller’s desk. By the time he got down to coins, he was still two hundred roubles short. He’d hoped the cash he had would last a few days. He was hungry and thirsty, but he knew over the coming days the GPS unit would be more valuable than snack food. And he would just have to hope that the full tank of petrol would take them at least over the border, because they wouldn’t get the chance to fill up again before then unless they came across more money.
In the end, Logan put back some of the food and settled the balance with the teller, leaving the shop with less than a hundred roubles in his pocket.
As he approached the car, Grainger wound down her window, a questioning look on her face. Logan didn’t say anything, just dumped the goods down onto her lap through the open window.
‘Take a look back where we came from,’ Grainger said, peering into the wing mirror next to her, her warm breath clouding around her face as she spoke.
Logan didn’t respond. He continued around to the front of the car, eyes fixed down the dark, unlit road. His hand was on the door when he spotted a glint in the distance. He stood still, searching the darkness. He spotted it again when a large truck thundered past on the overhead carriageway behind him, its wide beams catching and reflecting off the distant metallic object.
He looked through
the car window at Grainger, who nodded at him.
It was just as she’d said it would be.
And that was why he’d already guessed what the object was when the bright white headlights of the vehicle were turned on and the growling engine of the four-by-four was brought to life.
Logan stood motionless, waiting, calculating, as the vehicle, fifty yards in the distance, lurched away from where it had been hidden, heading toward him.
When it was caught in the light of the petrol forecourt, Logan wasn’t at all surprised to see what type of vehicle it was: a gleaming, black BMW X5. The exact same type of vehicle that Lena and her men had driven to the exchange with the CIA in Moscow.
Logan knew even before the car came to a screeching halt just five yards from him, the front passenger opening his door, gun in hand, pointed toward Logan, that the occupants had been tailing them. And that they were from the FSB.
Chapter 6
‘I don’t think they’ll make a move straight away,’ Grainger had said some hours earlier. ‘They’ll wait to see what we do.’
She’d explained to Logan that the Russians had planted a tracking chip in her right shoulder. Having felt around inside his jumper, she’d found a similar lump on his shoulder too. They had both been tagged by the FSB.
‘They did it the first day I arrived in Russia,’ Grainger said entirely casually, the emotion and sadness she’d expressed earlier replaced with a steely determination. ‘Lena said it was for my own protection. So they’d know where I was even if the Americans tried to take me away.’
‘Yeah, she’s full of kindness that one,’ Logan said.
He was surprised he hadn’t found the chip in his shoulder before, but then he had been held captive by the Russians for three months. For much of that, his mind had been distant and detached from his body. The chip could have been planted in him at countless points during his ordeal without his being any the wiser.
‘Why didn’t you tell me at the apartment?’ Logan had asked. ‘We could have removed the chips then.’
‘I wasn’t sure we’d have time. I saw the look on your face. I knew we had to leave immediately.’
She was right, but the answer wasn’t quite good enough.
‘Then why not tell me as soon as we were away from there?’ Logan asked.
‘I wanted to wait and see what their response would be.’
Logan frowned, perturbed that she seemed so nonchalant about the whole thing.
‘And was their response what you expected?’
‘Absolutely. They’re tailing us – I have no doubt about that. Remember, if what you told me is right, it’s not the Russians who want me dead. It’s the CIA. So perhaps the FSB still think I, or even both of us, have value to them. Or maybe they just want to see what we’ll do next.’
Logan mulled over her words. Despite his wariness, it made sense. The fact the FSB agents hadn’t shown themselves spoke volumes. Maybe they were simply awaiting a command to kill from their superiors. But more likely they were stalking, waiting for an opportune moment to recapture their prey. Killing Grainger was of no benefit to them – nor was them killing him, for that matter, now that he was a wanted man himself – unless revenge was the only thing on their minds. They wanted both of them back under their control.
‘We should just cut the chips out and be done with it,’ Logan said. ‘It would only take a few minutes.’
‘You want to run forever?’
‘No. I want to stand and fight. But on my terms. Right now, it wouldn’t be an even fight. We don’t know where they are, how many of them there are.’
‘Then I say we lure them in. Let them think they’ve won the race.’
Logan considered the idea. ‘They’ll have weapons. Money. IDs,’ he said.
‘My thoughts exactly.’
He had forgotten just how savvy Grainger could be. She was an experienced agent after all. At a moment when most people would be panicking about how to lose the tail, wanting to run as fast and as far as they could, she was plotting a way to tackle the hunters in order to strengthen their own hand.
‘Okay, we’ll have to stop soon anyway,’ Logan said. ‘Whenever we see the next petrol station, I’ll make myself busy and you keep a lookout for them. As long as we’re on the move, it’s unlikely that anything will happen. When we stop, they may take the opportunity to confront us. Much easier for them to do it then than tackle a moving target.’
‘Unless their only interest is in tailing us. To see where we’re going and what we’ll do.’
‘Maybe. But they won’t do that forever. And there’s only one way to find out.’
Logan reached down.
‘You have this,’ he said, handing Grainger his gun. ‘I want them to think they’ve caught us by surprise. You keep that in the car, out of view.’
And that was why when the man stepped out of the black BMW, weapon drawn, Logan didn’t panic. He stood and waited.
Logan didn’t recognise the man at all. He was dressed in a thick black overcoat and shiny black boots, a hollow look on his hard and weathered face, the hand pointing the handgun unwavering.
A moment later, the rear door opened and a woman stepped out, gun in hand. Logan didn’t recognise her either. The steely, calculating look in her eyes reminded him of Lena, though with her pointed features she wasn’t nearly as attractive.
As she moved aside to shut the door, Logan managed a glimpse inside the vehicle. There were no other occupants in the rear. So a total of three people to contend with. The driver was the only one not yet joining the party.
‘Put your hands in the air,’ the man said in heavily accented English. ‘Then slowly move down onto your knees.’
Logan did as he was told. He was pretty confident these people didn’t want to kill him here. But he didn’t want to test that theory. Nor did he want to risk them shooting him in the leg or somewhere else non-fatal.
The woman began to move forward.
‘Is she in there?’ she said to Logan.
‘Who?’ Logan said.
‘Angela Grainger.’ The woman gave Logan a stern look. ‘She belongs to us now. Is she in the car?’
Her words sent a cascade of thoughts through Logan’s mind. Grainger was still of value to them – that was clear. Maybe the Russians thought they could do another deal for her life with the Americans. But what about Logan? Was he simply expendable? Maybe the fact he had caused them so much trouble already had brought them to that conclusion.
‘Yes. She is,’ Logan said.
The woman took another two paces forward, craning her neck to try to get a view into the front of the car. The man was also moving forward, toward Logan.
‘Miss Grainger,’ the woman said, not shouting but louder than before, ‘please come out of the vehicle.’
There was no movement from within the car.
‘Do it now or I’ll shoot your companion,’ the man shouted.
He was now just three steps from Logan.
The lady took one more step toward the car and then a gunshot rang out, loud and clear, the sound travelling and echoing off the mass of concrete of the raised highway behind where Logan was kneeling.
Logan didn’t need to look to see what had happened. But the man pointing the gun at him did. That was his fatal mistake.
Logan leaped up and, using his momentum, thrust a knee hard and fast into the man’s groin. The man recoiled, shouting out in surprise and pain. Logan grabbed the man’s gun arm and twisted it around. He thrust it down at the same time as hauling up his other knee, crashing the man’s arm down against his thigh and snapping both the radius and the ulna.
The man screamed and reflexively released his grip on the gun. Logan grabbed it, turned it around and fired three quick shots, each hitting the man in his chest only an inch apart in a neat cluster.
As the body was still falling to the ground, Logan heard screeching tyres and looked up to see the BMW reversing, swinging around to head back where it had come f
rom. Clearly the driver didn’t fancy his chances on his own.
Logan quickly readjusted his aim as the driver righted the car and it began to veer away. Before he got the chance to fire, another two gunshots blasted. Logan looked on as one of the vehicle’s back tyres exploded, shards of rubber flying into the air. The car careened left and right, the driver unable to keep it under control. It plunged through a mound of snow, which burst into the air, then came to a crashing halt in a ditch at the side of the road.
Logan looked over and saw Grainger, standing up out of the car, gun resting on its roof. A few feet away lay the body of the woman, entirely motionless. There was a black hole, seeping blood, where her left eye used to be and where the bullet from Grainger’s gun had penetrated her brain.
‘You take the left side, I’ll take the right,’ Grainger said, moving her gun off the roof. Crouching down, she moved toward the stricken vehicle.
Without saying a word, Logan immediately followed suit, moving out toward the left to come around the BMW on the driver’s side. As he approached the crumpled heap, steam rising from the bonnet, he saw the driver’s door was already open.
His first thought was that the driver may have already bailed out and was either running or hiding. As he moved closer, though, he saw the man’s arm hanging down, flailing around by his leg, which was trapped in the crumpled footwell.
Logan kept his gun out as he moved right up to the man. When Logan reached him, the man turned his head to face him.
The airbag had deployed in the collision and was draped over the man’s waist. He had a gash on the side of his head from which a thick trail of blood was working its way down his face. It looked as though he had cracked it against the side of the car at impact, the airbag ultimately providing little protection.
The man was alert but panting heavily. He looked to be in pain. Logan stared past him and spotted Grainger through the passenger side window. She opened the door, gun held out toward the man.
‘Are you armed?’ Logan asked him.
