Ben Blake hit a button. “We hope,” he muttered beneath his breath.
Hayden felt a rush of anger but ignored it. The “chance meeting” was all they had. Other than that, it was all random, indiscriminate. These murders had been orchestrated by a single man or organization. It stood to reason that it wasn’t just chance.
A picture of Senator James Turner came up first. Mike Stevens sighed. “Well, I can sure put this to rest straight away. I ain’t never met that guy. Not even by accident.”
Mano Kinimaka leaned forward. “How do you know? Do you think when Nicole Kidman hits Wal-Mart, she goes out dressed like she was in Titanic?”
Stevens and Lauren stared. Even Dahl looked confused. “Was she even in Titanic?”
Hayden took a hold of it before it degenerated any more. “What Mano’s trying to say — badly — is that you and Turner may have crossed paths without even knowing it. Just give it a chance.”
Stevens nodded. A list of Turner’s movements appeared on screen. “I sure done some o’ those places,” the truck driver spoke up. “Washington. Maine. Baltimore. New York.”
Now Lauren Fox sat straighter. “Me too, I guess. New York. Boston, Atlantic City and Washington in the last three months.”
“I done A.C. too.”
The monitor continued to flow, flicking pages like a book, now having gone past the intended victims and on to the unintended casualties of all the shootings. When the picture of the Senators aide — Audrey Smalls — flicked by the truck driver jumped so hard he banged his knee.
“Wait,” he spluttered. “I sure as hell know her.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Drake and Romero hit the streets of Moscow at 4 a.m., January, 26. Without being the safest city in the world, Moscow was, at least, safer and more accommodating to the two Westerners than, say, North Korea or even China.
Still running on adrenalin and travelling light and fast out of necessity, Drake and Romero barely had time to breathe before a pair of aloof and restrained CIA agents slipped them guns, money and credentials along the Koltsevaya metro line that encircles Moscow. A quick trip to a hotel room, a nap, and they were ready to travel into one of Moscow’s most notorious districts — Vykhino — an area in the industrial south east with a high crime rate and the dubious honor of being situated close to Lyubertsy — the area whose residents used to control and intimidate the entire city.
“We take everything with us,” Drake said. “No stopping now until Germany. It’s essential we hit that place whilst they’re still unsure what’s happening. Agreed?”
“We have to take out the Russians first.” Romero coughed. “Let’s focus on one enemy at a time.”
“Done it before.” Drake hefted his pack. “Do it again.”
“You mean Kovalenko, don’t you? The Blood King?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Don’t be a dick. Half the army still thinks he’s a legend and that the whole Bermuda Triangle, Hawaii, thing was made up. Nothing but propaganda surrounding these tombs.”
Drake shook his head. “The government has a lot to answer for. Let me put it this way — if a civilized government knew it had cocked up, maybe overlooked a terrible criminal who took many innocent lives and almost started his own war, would they broadcast his existence or let it die down into legend?”
“Point taken.”
“So let’s go.”
Moscow was just starting to wake up. A wan light bled from the cloud-strewn skies, casting a faint illumination across the sprawling city. Drake and Romero took the Metro to Ryazansky Prospekt, the closest point to the address they’d been given. But this was a bad neighborhood. Not even the bravest tourists came here. Once outside they quickly located a vehicle and promptly stole it.
Now mobile, they wouldn’t stand out from the crowd.
Drake gripped the wheel as they crawled by the address they’d been given. His eyes met Romero’s. This was different. Here was something that resembled a Russian timber yard, a merchant of sorts, complete with tall, wide racks, a counter sales cabin and an extensive warehouse.
“Easy access,” Romero noted.
“Maybe,” Drake mused, looking in vain for CCTV stanchions. “Or if they know were coming…”
“Death trap.”
“There’s too much in motion to back out now.” Drake thought about Mai and Smyth, fates unknown, and about Alicia on her way to Luxembourg. He thought about Hayden and her difficult investigation back in D.C. The men and women still being held captive on that island.
The marines who had died on the airplane. The pilot. And so many more.
“So far…we haven’t stopped,” he said. “And it’s served us well. We’ve still a long way to go so…fuck it.”
He swerved the car, revved the accelerator, and tore toward the shabby gates. Metal shrieked as they smashed apart, bolts and hinges sent skimming across the roughly concreted yard. The car crashed through. Part of the left hand gate caught on its luggage-rack, flapping to and fro and scraping across the trunk.
Drake blasted toward the main cabin.
Hayden stared at the truck driver. “You know Audrey Smalls?” Could it be coincidence?
“Yep. Lovely woman. I met her at the Desert Palms hotel in Atlantic City. She didn’t mention what she did for a living I can’t believe she’s dead.”
“Wait.” Now Lauren sat rigid. “The Desert Palms? That’s where I stayed. Bit ritzy for an ordinary trucker though. No offense.”
“Well, offense taken. So fuck right off, lady. The place offers a discount to regulars like me. ”
“She’s no lady…” Ben must have agreed with the trucker, but Hayden held up a hand that immediately stopped his flow.
“The Desert Palms.” She stabbed a button, progressing the information at a fast pace until Walter Clarke’s schedule came up. A tremor of delight shot through her.
“Our insurance salesman did his east coast run that week too.” She pointed though she didn’t have to. “Stayed at the Desert Palms on January 10. He was victim number two.”
“Dunno when it was,” Stevens said. “Sounds good. And yes, I remember Walter too. Tell me, is the next victim a bank clerk named Michelle Baker? She used to visit A.C. once a year for a big casino blowout.”
Hayden stared, dumbfounded.
The truck driver looked sad. “I think I know what this is all about.”
Drake skidded the car to a sudden halt. The swinging gate gained momentum and flew from the top of the car, hitting the cabin doors with a loud bang and breaking windows. Glass shattered and cascaded to the gravel-strewn ground as Drake and Romero jumped out of the car, leaving the doors open and the engine running. Drake prepped his gun, a PKM variant Kalashnikov, 7.62 caliber, modernized for light use. Not the best weapon, but not bad at short notice.
He hit the steps, Romero at his side, and kicked the door hard. It buckled immediately, locked from the inside. Another kick and it flew open.
A man was running at him, bloody wood saw held high.
“Fuck me.” Romero breathed.
Drake blew him away with a quick burst. His body shot backward, slamming against a jam-packed rack of shelving. Screwdrivers and packets of nails rained down nosily. Hammers, tape measures and boxes of screws hit the floor and landed on the dead man. Drake hurried through an open archway into the back of the cabin. Three short rows of desks faced him. Beyond them was a big office, its walls oddly papered with what looked like old maps and diagrams.