Fatal Orbit

by Tom Grace

  Tao kicked the door shut and moved to Kilkenny’s side. “How is he?”

  “Not good. See anything out there?”

  Tao shook her head. “Nada.”

  Kilkenny looked around the workroom. “They’ll be coming for us. We need a weapon.”

  “Rifle,” Zadkine rasped weakly, pointing toward the back wall. “In cabinet.”

  “Take him,” Kilkenny said.

  Tao eased her arms under Zadkine’s head and shoulders as Kilkenny pulled free. He grabbed a maul from the workbench and, with a single swing, tore the padlock and hasp from the cabinet door. Inside he found an old leather rifle case, which he pulled out and set on the floor. The case contained a World War II-era Tokarev SVT40.

  “I just hope this antique still works,” Kilkenny grumbled.

  He lifted the semiautomatic rifle from the case and quickly familiarized himself with it. The restored rifle looked factory-new; only the character dings in the wood stock hinted at a long history of combat. Kilkenny loaded the ten-round magazine, slipped it into place, and chambered a round.

  Unger made a wide circle around the dacha, pistol held with both hands in front of him. Clearing the far side, he saw Stefan and Jurg sidling against the outbuilding, cautiously approaching the door.

  Fucking Russian idiots, he fumed.

  He’d planned to use the fire to draw Kilkenny, Tao, and Zadkine out into the open, into a killing zone. Instead, his men had attacked at the first sign of movement, losing the element of surprise while allowing their prey to find defensive cover. They had no idea what that old engineer might have in there.

  Slipping into the woods, Unger moved quickly to the rear of the outbuilding. The ground there sloped steeply away from the structure, so much so that through the windows he could only see the ceiling inside. He noticed the windows were open, but just a few, and the foliage beneath them showed no sign of recent damage.

  At least nobody has escaped.

  Stefan ducked and quickly moved beneath the shattered window to the hinge side of the door. Fragments of broken glass crunched beneath his rubber-soled shoes. Flanking the door, he nodded to his partner. Jurg spun out from the wall, raised his leg and drove his foot into the door stile. The old wood splintered and gave way.

  Kilkenny heard the grinding crackle of glass and aimed the Tokarev at the door. A flicker of shadowy movement, then the door shuddered and flew open. The man leading the assault dropped low, sweeping his weapon left while his partner stood over him searching to the right. Kilkenny squeezed off two rounds, striking the lead man just above his eyes. Then the sixty-year-old rifle jammed. The second man in the doorway drew a bead on him and two shots ran out.

  Kilkenny saw the muzzle flash, but felt nothing. The man in the doorway toppled sideways as if struck by an invisible force.

  “Nolan?” Tao called out.

  “I’m fine,” Kilkenny replied, not quite believing it himself.

  “Scheisse!” Unger hissed through clenched teeth when he heard the door being forced, followed by four distinct pops.

  Jurg and Stefan were armed with suppressed pistols identical to the one he carried, so what he’d heard must have been directed at them.

  Moving more quickly than before, he looped back the way he’d come, keeping a careful eye on the outbuilding.

  Zadkine slumped in Tao’s arms, his breathing almost imperceptible. He was dying.

  The bodies of the two dead men lay heaped in the doorway. Neither moved at all. Cautiously, Kilkenny approached the opening. Within his limited field of vision, he saw no one else outside. The low roar of the fire consuming Zadkine’s home was the only sound to be heard. Bright yellow-orange flames filled all the windows, and a thick column of black smoke rose into the sky.

  Kilkenny palmed one of the dead men’s pistols, discarded the suppressor and slipped the weapon into his waistband. Then he collected the other. A hasty search of the two men provided additional clips for both weapons. Kilkenny retreated from the door and moved to the corner where Tao cradled Zadkine.

  “I don’t think he has much time,” Tao said softly.

  “I know.” Kilkenny handed her a pistol and one of the clips. “Here. I’ll recon and see if I can find our driver that guy just saved our lives. If it’s clear out there, we’ll be back with the car.”

  Tao accepted the weapon with a nod and Kilkenny slipped out the door.

  Unger watched as Kilkenny stepped over the bodies of the dead Russians. He was now armed with one of their pistols, which he held expertly in a modified Weaver stance. Out in the open, Kilkenny dashed from tree to tree, quickly covering the distance between the outbuilding and the embassy car. Unger moved closer to the forest edge, cautiously paralleling Kilkenny’s movements.

  Peng remained motionless, his breathing slow and calm. The man he had first encountered following Kilkenny in London was passing just a few feet away, stalking his prey yet unaware of Peng’s eyes watching from beneath the broad-spread boughs of pine.

  What the hell? Kilkenny thought.

  Their driver was dead, the young man’s face marred by a single shot fired at point-blank range. Whoever had done this had caught the young man unaware, a bloodstained paperback still in his hands.

  If it wasn’t you, then who just rode in like the cavalry and saved my butt?

  Kilkenny pushed the swirl of questions to the back of his mind and focused on what he needed to do right now. Standing by the damaged embassy car, he did a three-sixty sweep for any sign that the two dead men weren’t here alone. He saw nothing but trees. Keeping his attention on the woods, Kilkenny reached through the car’s open window and patted the driver’s jacket. He found a cell phone in the man’s right breast pocket.

  “Nikita,” Unger said softly into a hand-held radio. “Bring the car.”

  “Da,” the driver replied.

  Kilkenny heard the crunch of gravel and dropped into a crouch beside the embassy car. Through the trees, he saw the dark shape of an automobile moving up the drive. He caught a flutter of movement in the woods to his left. He turned, his eyes tracking with the Stechkin’s sight, and found a target—a dark-haired man zigzagging through the trees, his weapon drawn, racing toward the driveway. Kilkenny squeezed the trigger and the pistol bucked in his hands—a brass casing spiraled in the air, arcing toward the ground.

  The shot flew wide, gouging the side of a birch. As Kilkenny adjusted his aim, the man fired back. Two rounds thumped into the rear of the embassy car, shattering the taillight just inches from Kilkenny’s head. As he ducked behind the car, he heard the distinct crack of a pistol firing from the opposite side of the clearing.

  The first two shots drilled into the bole of an ancient pine to Unger’s left, an impossible shot from Kilkenny’s position behind the embassy car. Unger shifted his gaze and saw a muzzle flare for a third time, just inside the far edge of the woods, and heard the report. It felt as if someone had reached out from behind, planted a meat hook into his left shoulder, and yanked back hard. The bullet struck just below the collarbone and chipped his shoulder blade on its way out. The wound burned and his arm went completely numb. Unger grunted loudly; the pain was blinding.

  Regaining his balance, Unger aimed at where the fire had come from, but saw no one. His eyes began to water and he could feel his outstretched arm quivering—early signs of shock. A single thought managed to surface through the mental confusion: Kilkenny!

  He saw a shadowy bulge in the sloping curve of the trunk, possibly the top of a man’s head. If their positions were reversed, Unger knew that he would seize any lull in an opponent’s attack as an opportunity to take control of the fight. Defensively, Unger shot at the embassy car. The rear window exploded into pebbled fragments. Nikita was almost up to the loop at the end of the driveway. He ran toward the dark-gray Mercedes, squeezing shots off to cover his escape.

  The roaring house fire washed out what little noise the suppressed weapon made, but the sound of bullets shattering glass and punching hol
es through the sheet metal of the embassy car kept the shooter’s intentions in the forefront of Kilkenny’s mind. Pebbles of safety glass rained over him like the jackpot from a pachinko machine. The dark-haired man was firing at a steady rate, just enough to keep Kilkenny pinned down.

  As the Mercedes rounded the last bend in driveway, the driver slowed, but showed no sign of stopping. Five more shots fired in rapid succession hammered into the trunk and rear bumper. Kilkenny heard a car door slam, then two more rounds ripped into the embassy car as the Mercedes sped past and back down the drive. He took aim at the fleeing car but, through the trees, could find no target. A few seconds later, the car disappeared from view.

  Kilkenny popped open the trunk and retrieved a government-issue first-aid kit. As he ran back to the outbuilding, he spotted a man near the forest edge tracking him with a pistol. Unlike the others, this man was Asian, and though he had a clear shot he showed no sign of taking it. Kilkenny stopped and kept his hands out in the open. The Asian gave a curt nod, then turned and quickly disappeared into the woods.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Here,” Kilkenny said, handing Tao the embassy driver’s cell phone and the first-aid kit from the car. “Do what you can for him and call for help.”

  Tao found the sterile dressings and pressed them down on Zadkine’s wounds. The man was ashen and unconscious. “What’s happening?”

  “Looks like we were hit by a four-man team, but I think we’re safe here for the moment,” Kilkenny replied. “Our guardian angel gets credit for an assist with those two by the door, but the others are heading down the road. Both cars out there are useless.”

  “Guardian angel? What are you talking about?”

  “I only got a brief look at the guy, but we owe him our lives. Funny thing about him, though, I kind of got the impression he’s not one of ours.”

  As he spoke, he opened the large hanging door at the front of the outbuilding and rolled the Harley outside. Kilkenny took a quick glance around the workroom—no helmet or goggles. He slipped on his Oakley sunglasses and, trying to recall Zadkine’s brief review of the motorcycle’s idiosyncrasies, turned the ignition and stomped down on the starter.

  The engine sputtered but failed to catch. Retard the spark when starting, he remembered Zadkine saying. Kilkenny did, and the War Hog’s 740cc-knucklehead engine ignited, a throaty rumble reverberating from the tailpipes. Kilkenny pressed down on the clutch, shifted into first gear and pointed the Harley toward the road.

  On their way in, Kilkenny had noticed that the country roads near Zadkine’s dacha were in rough shape—the winters here were easily as brutal as those in Michigan. The suspension-mounted saddle on the WLA dampened some of the shock, but the worst of the potholes still jarred his spine.

  Kilkenny twisted the throttle, pushing the Harley as he grew accustomed to its ride. The War Hog was a different animal entirely from the crotch rockets many of his buddies in the service rode. As he shifted into third, his right arm rigidly holding the handlebar steady, a rut caught the front wheel and jerked it to the side. The sudden change in direction caused the bike’s tail to slew left. Kilkenny stood up in the saddle, grabbed both handgrips and righted the War Hog.

  Suicide shift is right, Kilkenny thought, thankful he hadn’t dumped the bike.

  After fleeing the dacha, the Mercedes slowed to a pace more appropriate for the rough condition of the road. The cloud of road dust kicked up by the car’s tires obscured the view behind like a mud-brown fog.

  Unger had stripped off his jacket and was using it as a compress on his shoulder wound. The jarring bumps in the road multiplied the throbbing pain he felt.

  “How much farther to the main road?” Unger asked.

  “Little more than a kilometer,” the driver replied. “Do you want me to drive faster?”

  Just then, the car bottomed out against a deep rut, Unger groaned, his whole body shaken.

  “Nyet. Just get there without beating me to death in the process.”

  Designed for abusive battlefield conditions, the War Hog fared better on the country road than the Mercedes sedan. Kilkenny rode motocross-style, standing high in the saddle, using his arms and legs as shock absorbers. He slowed when he encountered a thickening cloud of dust in the road. The dried particles of earth stuck to his sweat-soaked skin and clothes, covering him with a layer of grit. Kilkenny couldn’t hear the Mercedes over the Harley’s signature rumble, but knew it had to be just ahead.

  “Someone is coming up behind us,” Nikita said. In the mirrors he saw nothing, but the rising sound of an approaching motorcycle was unmistakable.

  Unger heard the low rumble of the flathead engine, but glancing back, he saw only dust.

  In the thickening cloud, Kilkenny saw the shadowy form of the escaping Mercedes. The car was in the center of the narrow road, jockeying right and left to avoid the most jarring potholes.

  Kilkenny moved to the right side of the road and closed the distance. The dust-covered rear quarter panel of the sedan became clearly visible. He steadied himself on the Harley and, left-handed, pulled the pistol from his waistband. A slight twist on the throttle pushed the motorcycle up alongside the car.

  “The fool is trying to pass us,” Nikita grumbled.

  Unger opened his eyes and looked out his window as Kilkenny pulled up with a pistol pointed right at him.

  “Krake!” Unger cursed.

  Unger grabbed the steering wheel and pulled it to the right. The passenger window touched the barrel of Kilkenny’s pistol just as it flared. The shot punched high through the glass and struck Nikita in the meat of his left thigh. He growled and pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  Kilkenny dropped the pistol and fought to keep the War Hog upright. Dozens of tiny stones strafed him and the motorcycle, projectiles thrown back by the sedan’s rapid escape. His Oakleys took several sharp bits of gravel that otherwise might have blinded him.

  After a brief struggle, Kilkenny regained control of the Harley and resumed his pursuit. He stifled the persistent cough in his throat and rode on through the particle-laden cloud.

  Visibility improved just a few yards onto the paved roadway. Ahead, the gray sedan was speeding away. Kilkenny revved the War Hog to full throttle, squeezing every ounce of power he could from the rebuilt engine. The knucklehead gave all that it had, but it had been built for strength, not speed, and topped out at sixty-five miles per hour.

  Kilkenny wove dangerously through the steadily increasing traffic, but the race between the Mercedes and the Harley was a mismatch. After only a few miles on Outer Ring Road surrounding Moscow, he lost sight of the dusty gray sedan. Unfortunately, even in the free-for-all of Russian highways, the sight an ancient Red Army motorcycle slaloming recklessly through traffic was more than enough to attract the attention of the State Traffic Police.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  A uniformed officer retrieved Kilkenny from the lockup, where he’d spent the past few hours in the company of several drunks, and escorted him to an interview room. The man stood by the door and motioned for Kilkenny to enter.

  The room was dimly lit, the walls bare of ornament and in need of a fresh coat of paint, the floor covered with dingy sheet vinyl. Kilkenny sat in one of four wooden chairs placed around a metal table. The table was bolted to the floor.

  Ten minutes later, the door opened and admitted a squat bull of a man with black wiry hair and a bushy eyebrow that crossed his forehead in a thick, uninterrupted line. The man barked an order at the officer standing guard by the door. Very quickly, the man removed the restraints from Kilkenny’s wrists and ankles and retreated from the room. Kilkenny smiled warmly at the director of the FSB.

  “Nolan Seanovich, so good to see you again,” the man said.

  “And you as well, Igor Sergeevich.”

  Igor Sergeevich Fydorov turned one of the chairs around and straddled it, resting his arms on the back.

  “First you come to Moscow to deal with a criminal oligarch, t
hen a corrupt general, and now we find you playing cowboy on our highways.” Fydorov sighed. “You made our evening news, no mention of your name or nationality, of course.”

  “I’m sure Jackson Barnett will appreciate that.”

  “He did. And you were smart to keep your mouth shut while you were in here. Delicate business is best handled through appropriate channels.”

  “What’s the word on Zadkine?”

  “Dead, I’m afraid. With immediate attention, he might have survived. By the time the ambulance arrived …” Fydorov’s voice trailed off with a shrug. “Your associate, Miss Tao, is fine and waiting for you at the U.S. Embassy.”

  “Good.”

  “I must admit, I’m a little puzzled by this whole affair and I’m beginning to think that, maybe, our mutual friend Barnett has been somewhat less than forthcoming about the purpose of your visit to Moscow.”

  “Oh, what has he told you?”

  “That you wished to discuss an incident that occurred during the deorbit of Mir with the man in charge of that operation.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Ah, but not why. Would you care to offer any theory you may have as to why someone would want you, your associate, and this apparently harmless retiree dead?”

  “I have no idea. Roxanne and I are looking into what happened to Liberty. We’d heard something similar happened when Mir came down and just wanted to compare notes with Zadkine.”

  “That’s what Barnett told me.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  The left half of Fydorov’s unibrow curled upward. “I have been in the intelligence business long enough to know that a bit of the truth can often be a better cover story than an outright lie. I have no doubt that you are investigating possible causes for what happened to your shuttle, but I remind you that Russia also lost a man up there. We, too, are very interested in what happened.”