The realization struck Korsakov with the force of a bullet, and he had all he could do to refrain from swearing. His men were spread out — six with him and another six spread out across the mountain. There was no time to retreat. He turned to the men immediately flanking him, both of them armed with Soviet-era RPG-7s. “One rocket through the western wall of the cabin. One into the FBI trailer. Wait for my signal…”
“I’ve got it, Agent Altmann. We’re coming through with the satellite feed.”
About time. Klaus and Vic were already staging with the entry teams, preparing to launch their assault in the twenty-minute window they had left. “Put it up on the big screen,” was Marika’s peremptory command as she crossed the trailer to the computer tech’s side.
Another few keystrokes and it was there. A huge image of the entire mountain. It didn’t take the older woman but a moment to realize that something was wrong. There were too many thermal signatures on the mountain to be accounted for. Way too many.
A curse on her lips, Marika headed for the door of the trailer, toggling her headset as she did so.
“All teams. All teams…we have hostiles at our six. Prepare to engage.”
She hadn’t taken more than ten steps away from the trailer before a pair of rocket-propelled grenades flew from the treeline…
“Don’t try to stop me, Harry.” Carol shook her head, taking another cautious step toward the front door of the cabin.
This wasn’t working. It crossed his mind that arguing with her was a lot like arguing with the DCIA. Didn’t get you anywhere.
It was at that moment that he heard it — the low, lethal whoosh he had heard so many times, so many places. Basra. Lahore. County Armagh.
There was no time to speak, no time to argue. Harry grabbed her by the shoulders, the Kahr falling from her hands as he shoved her down behind the table. A cry escaped her lips as he landed on top, covering her with his body.
The next moment the room exploded around them…
The blast took William Russell Cole off his feet, falling backward into a snowdrift as the western wall of the cabin vanished in a pall of smoke and fire. Moments later, the chatter of automatic weapons filled the air.
Leah Petersen and her partner died instantly, the FBI sniper team taken off-guard by the man from Leningrad. Across the perimeter, agents went down as Korsakov’s men moved in.
Her ears ringing from the explosion, Marika rolled onto her back in the snow, looking back at the TOC. Or rather, what was left of it.
The trailer was in flames, dark, oily tongues of fire licking out at the falling snow. The HRT’s nerve center was gone.
She closed her eyes, cursing bitterly. So many lives lost.
None of it made any sense. Where had their assailants come from?
Bullets whistled through the air above her head as Marika rolled to her feet, drawing her service Glock from its holster at her side. This wasn’t Hollywood — the pistol was near useless in the firefight that was unfolding, but she snapped off a couple shots at the camouflaged men emerging from the treeline.
Turning, she made a crouched run for Jicha’s truck, parked twenty feet beyond the flaming TOC. She put three bullets through the window of the Silverado, shattering the glass — the HRT leader had never invested in bulletresistant glass for his personal vehicle.
Her breathing was quick and shallow by the time she reached the truck, the mountain air stabbing at her lungs with icy daggers. Getting old was no fun. She reached through the broken glass of the window and swung the door open.
There was a rifle case behind the seat and Marika pulled it out, extracting his Colt M-4 and four loaded magazines of 5.56mm. One hundred and twenty rounds. Little enough.
Taking cover behind the engine block of the Silverado, she dug a satellite phone from her pocket. If they didn’t get backup, they were all going to die.
Smoke. Flames. Noise beating like hammers against his head. Harry reached out, feeling soft flesh beneath his hand, warm fluid trickling between his fingers.
Blood. A hand descended on his shoulder and he rolled onto his back, pulling the 1911 halfway out of its holster.
Sammy. It was Sammy. He saw the SEAL’s lips move, but he couldn’t hear a thing, his ears still ringing from the force of the explosion.
Didn’t matter — he could guess. They didn’t have much time. He shook his head in an effort to clear it.
Where was Carol? He shouted her name and winced, the words echoing and reverberating within his skull.
Han pointed, and Harry followed the direction of his finger. She was right beside him, laying there facedown on the floor of the cabin. Flames licked at the roof above them, snow melting and dripping down on them in the inferno.
Blood trickled from the back of her right thigh, a thick five-inch wooden splinter protruding from the flesh. A deep wound. Ideally, they wouldn’t have moved her. There was nothing ideal about this situation.
“Take her,” he bellowed, watching Han’s face as he regained his feet. Her safety was all that mattered. Nothing else.
His rifle was gone — somewhere. No time to look for it. The SEAL caught Harry’s gestures and unslung his rifle, handing it over as he bent down to scoop Carol up in his arms.
Fighting retreat…
Help was on the way. That was the Bureau’s assurance, but Marika knew exactly how empty that assurance was. By the time the Hoover Building could mobilize reinforcements, the issue would be decided.
They’d be there in time to fill the body bags.
She pulled back the charging handle on the carbine, hearing a click as the round slid into the chamber. It was only one gun.
Deep breath — she swung herself up, leaning across the Silverado’s hood as she steadied the rifle. Five targets, clustered near the cabin. Eighty, maybe a hundred meters out. A single man, gesturing to the others.
Her finger tightened around the trigger as she centered the red dot of the scope on the white balaclava of the leader. Slow, steady.
The first burst went wild and she swore. In all her years in the Bureau, she’d never engaged targets at this range. Never done anything more than qualify. And now she was paying the price.
But it got their attention.
The bullets fanning the air around his ears were Korsakov’s first indication that the FBI agents were starting to regroup, to rally from the ambush. He caught a glimpse of a lone figure firing over the hood of a truck down the slope as he threw himself into the snow.
Focus. Don’t let it distract from the mission. There was twenty-five million dollars — just on the other side of the cabin’s door. And vengeance for Pavel’s death.
It was only one agent. “Nyet,” he whispered impatiently, putting a restraining hand on Yuri’s shoulder. “Two of you stay here, provide covering fire — the rest of you come with me.”
Yuri glanced toward the cabin door, blown nearly off its hinges by the blast — toward the inferno consuming the roof. “Da. It’s now or never.”
It was all coming back — gunfire, explosions, the swirling snow. Azerbaijan.
Samuel Han laid Carol down in the passenger cabin of the helicopter, motioning for her to lie still. They would need to remove that splinter before it caused an infection.
Azerbaijan. Han took a step back, feeling the past roll over him like a torrent. He moved toward the helicopter’s door, feeling as if the earth itself had opened at his feet. Focus. He had to remain calm. Hold the memories in check.