The dog swayed sideways, sprawling across the grass. His companion turned, a snarl escaping his lips as he recognized the new threat in Vasiliev.
The Russian’s first shot caught the dog in the flank, a splotch of red appearing against the fur as he sprung toward him.
Not enough.
Vasiliev rose as the dog charged, firing the Ruger offhand, emptying the magazine as his right hand stole toward the Grach at his hip, jerking it from its holster.
Last resort.
Eight rounds and the dog’s body crashed against his legs, quivering in its death throes as the Ruger’s slide locked back on an empty magazine.
It was only then, as Vasiliev stared down at the blood staining his pants, that he realized he’d been holding his breath ever since the dog charged.
He inserted a fresh magazine, putting one final round through the Volkodav’s head before looking up to find Harry waving him in.
This night had only begun.
Overhead, the lights glowed once again, browning tremulously as the electricity surged back on, the massive generator straining to provide every last ounce of power consumed by the mansion. With a nod to Maxim, Andropov walked to the window, staring out at his neighbors.
Most of them were still in the dark, or operating under only partial power. Wealth had its privileges. Even his dogs had ceased their barking — whatever had startled them apparently having passed.
“Go check on Stacy, will you?” the oligarch said idly, tobacco smoke drifting from between his lips as he gestured to his security chief. “Tell her to put on something nice and be ready for me later.”
“Are they in?” Han took his eyes off the SCAR’s scope, looking back to where Carol stood.
He shook his head. “Impossible to say. The lights are back on — there’s no sign of an alarm being raised. No way to check in with them, either.”
Using the equipment Vasiliev had provided, Carol had been able to jam the cellphone network and shut down radio comms for a mile radius. A must for an assault of this sort, but it came with a downside: the equipment wasn’t sophisticated enough to allow their own channel to get through without bringing everything back on-line. If Andropov was deaf and dumb, so were they.
The former SEAL lowered his cheek to the buttstock of the rifle, Harry’s words running unbidden through his mind. A memory of an operation in the Egyptian desert. Years before.
“There’s times when prayer is the only commlink that stays up.”
“What did you say?” Carol asked from behind her computer, startling him with the realization that he had spoken aloud.
He hesitated…it had been so long. Years. “I said, ‘Pray’.”
Darkness. A low noise, voices — maybe from a TV, maybe not. The kitchen leading off the patio had been empty.
Vasiliev at his shoulder, Harry led the way forward down the hallway toward the light streaming from an open door. The plush carpet muffled their footfalls.
The voices were coming from a huge plasma TV mounted on the far wall as Harry came around the edge of the door. It was a soccer game, the excited voice of the sports announcer coming clearly through the speakers. A single man on the sofa, his face turned away from them as he watched the players. Alone.
There was a large bowl of potato chips on the endtable, right beside a Glock.
Threat. The UMP-45 came up in Harry’s hands, iron sights centering on the man’s temple. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked back to see Vasiliev shaking his head, a finger pressed to his lips.
The Russian took a step around him — into the room — his eyes betraying no hint of emotion as he squeezed the trigger of the suppressed Ruger. A small ragged hole appeared just back of the target’s ear and he swayed, his outstretched hand striking the table as he went down.
“Never make a sound you don’t have to,” Vasiliev announced, looking for all the world like a hunter surveying his kill as he stood over the corpse. The Ruger was far quieter than even Harry’s submachine gun, but it had been a risk. “Room clear.”
Harry glanced down at the red stain spreading over the fabric of sofa and nodded.
No time to second-guess the decision — even as he stood there, a voice called from out in the hall. “Sasha?”
Vasiliev swore under his breath, dropping to one knee by the corpse, his pistol aimed at the doorway. Waiting.
The man that appeared in the doorway was dressed simply, jeans and a t-shirt. There was a gun on his hip and with the knife in his hand he was peeling an apple.
He saw Vasiliev — saw the gun, his mouth opening in a perfect “O” of surprise. And those were the last things he ever saw.
No signal. The oligarch stared at his phone in a mixture of astonishment and disgust. The blackout couldn’t possibly have taken down the entire cellphone network, could it?
Maybe it was just his phone. Maxim could try to reach Vegas. He picked up the encrypted radio handset on his desk, keying the mike.
Static. Nothing but static. They had never failed him before. A sudden feeling of dread clutched at his throat, punctuated by a muted thud from outside the room.
A body falling.
He pulled open the center drawer of his desk, his gaze falling on the small Walther stashed there.
“Don’t even think it.” Andropov’s head came up, his fingers trembling as his eyes focused in on the masked figure standing in the door of his study. Ice-cold blue eyes staring forth from the holes in a balaclava ski mask, lips curled upward in an inhuman smile.
The Heckler & Koch submachine gun in his hands was aimed at Andropov’s head.
Stall. Buy time. The oligarch glanced at the dead radio, his foot creeping toward the silent alarm switch. “W-what do you want?”
“Many things,” Harry replied in fluent Russian, centering the iron sights of his UMP-45 between the Russian’s eyes. “Mostly answers.”
Behind him, Vasiliev entered the room, weapon drawn. Five of Andropov’ bodyguards were dead — eight more remained somewhere around the estate.
If their estimate was correct.
“Who paid you to facilitate the assassination of David Lay?” Harry demanded, circling Andropov like a predatory cat.
“I have no idea what you are talking about.” The oligarch’s voice was too confident — too sure of himself. As if he knew something they didn’t. “You’ll never leave here alive,” he continued. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I rather think we will.” Holding the buttstock of the UMP-45 tight against his shoulder, Harry pulled his phone out of his pocket with his left hand, thrusting it toward Andropov. A picture of a bound and wide-eyed Pyotr filled up the screen. “We have your son.”
To his surprise, Andropov began to chuckle, his shoulders shaking in a paroxysm of laughter. “That bastard.”
Harry exchanged glances with Vasiliev. Somehow, somewhere along the way, they’d made a misstep. And they were losing control of the situation. Andropov took in their look and laughed. “Oh, I’m not disparaging Pyotr — I meant that in the purest sense of the word.”
“What are you saying?”
“Pyotr…is not my son.” The oligarch smiled. “A bastard, as I say. His mother…well, she was unfaithful to me. Perhaps you even know how it feels to receive such knowledge? As it happened, Pyotr was two months old when she was killed in a car accident. Brakes failed.”