“Fortunes of war, Sergei. Don’t ask me to regret his death.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. But if you think that taking Andropov hostage is going to make me stand down, that’s a decision you need to rethink.”
“Hostage?” the voice on the other end of the phone demanded incredulously. “He’s not a hostage. Question is…do you know the type of traitor you’ve been working for?”
“I don’t understand,” Korsakov retorted, motioning with his free hand for Viktor to hand him the laptop. There — on the screen, the message from Yuri. Twenty minutes out.
“Your buddy Andropov — he’s been doing deals with the hajjis. An alliance with The Base to launch an attack against this country.”
The base. Al-Qaeda. The ex-Spetsnaz assassin swore, his mind racing as he struggled to process the information. If it were true…
“None of that changes what is between us,” he said finally. “I will deal with Andropov when I see him.”
“I don’t think you will,” the voice replied, a cold certainty in its tone. He could hear the slide of a pistol being racked back. “See you on the other side, Sergei.”
And the phone went dead.
Harry dropped the phone to the bloodstained carpet of the study, smashing the screen beneath a booted foot.
During the entire conversation, the oligarch had remained stone-faced, silent. Nothing left to bargain with.
Of no further value.
Holding the Colt in one hand, he reached forward, using his combat knife to slice through the restraints holding Andropov against the chair. “Get up.”
As he took a step back, the oligarch struggled to his feet, rubbing his wrists to restore circulation. “Well, you’ve done it now, haven’t you?” Andropov asked, a bitter smile playing at his lips.
“Welcome to the end of the road, Valentin.” The Colt came up in Harry’s hand — the long black suppressor aimed straight at Andropov’s head. “On your knees.”
“Nyet,” Andropov replied, seeming to summon up some measure of defiance from deep within himself. “If I’m going to die, I’ll die on my feet. And if you’re going to kill me, you’ll have to look me in the eye.”
Harry traded glances with Vasiliev, shrugging. “Have it your way.”
His finger took up the slack, the big Colt recoiling back into his hand. Blood and fire…
Chapter 21
“It’s done,” Harry announced, sweeping back into the kitchen with Vasiliev at his heels. He deposited the thumb drive beside Carol’s computer. “We have our evidence.”
She didn’t respond, her eyes focused intently on the screen in front of her.
“Andropov?” He looked up at the sound of Han’s voice to see the former SEAL enter the room from the other side, the SCAR slung over his shoulder.
“Dead,” Harry replied. “What’s going on?”
Carol entered a few rapid keystrokes, her eyes widening as a window opened on-screen. “We have a problem. You were ID’d.”
He looked at the alert indicated by her cursor. It was an all points bulletin — for him — giving the address of the Andropov estate.
Who are you? Had it been surprise he had seen in the deputy’s eyes…or recognition? Had he seen it and chosen to ignore it, knowing the alternative was the unthinkable? Killing a cop…
No time to find answers to those questions. Not now. “What’s their ETA?”
“The nearest car? Eight minutes out.”
“Pack everything up,” Harry ordered, his words clipped. “We have to be out of here before they seal off the block. Sammy, help Carol move things out to the van. Alexei and I will get our guest ready for transport.”
He turned, motioning for Vasiliev to follow him as he moved down the long hallway toward the master bathroom, their footsteps thudding against the bare, stripped floor.
The Coleman was flickering, the flame sending long shadows glancing off the tiled walls as it ran low of fuel. An eerie sight.
Pyotr’s head came up at the sound of their entrance, his blindfolded eyes endeavoring in vain to seek them out.
Harry pulled his combat knife from its sheath, slashing through the zip ties that pinned the boy’s legs to the chair.
“What are you planning to do with him?” Carol’s voice. He looked up to see her standing in the doorway, a haunted look in her eyes.
“We’ll take him with us — drop him once we’re out of the state. It will take them hours to find him. Now, get ready.”
“I’ll do it, tovarisch,” Vasiliev interjected. “I can drive around for a few hours and throw the hounds off the scent. It’s past time we were parting company.”
Harry hesitated for a long moment, glancing from Carol to the Russian. His mind screaming danger. He knew what Vasiliev was planning, knew it as certainly as if the words had been spoken.
Pyotr is part of the contract.
Do it, a voice admonished from the dark shadows of his mind. She’ll never be the wiser.
He didn’t know. Not really. That was what plausible deniability was all about, the ability to redefine the line between truth and deceit.
To make “truth” what you wanted it to be.
“No,” he said finally, his throat dry as he spoke the words, staring Vasiliev full in the face. “No, you won’t.”
The knife still in his hand, he turned his back on the Russian, bending down to cut through the ties securing Pyotr’s wrists to the chair.
He heard Carol scream a warning, the thunderous report of a pistol battering his eardrums. Warm, viscous liquid spattered against his face and clothing.
Death walked among them, he realized, thinking for a moment that it was his own. Not this time.
His ears ringing, Harry rose from behind Pyotr’s corpse, his movements slow — as if in a dream. His eyes fell upon Vasiliev across the room, the pistol still leveled in the Russian’s hand. A faint whisp of hot white smoke curling from the barrel of the Grach.
“I’m sorry, Harry,” Vasiliev said, a smile crossing his face. “But the Kremlin was insistent. Father and son.”
Something snapped. Harry launched himself across the blood-drenched tile floor, the Colt coming out of its holster as he did so. He saw Vasiliev’s finger tighten around the trigger, expected him to fire. Expected Death to come for him as well.
He hit the Russian at a full run, slamming the older man against the wall of the bathroom — knocking the wind from his body. The Grach clattered to the tiles.
“He was off-limits,” he hissed, his fingers entwined in Vasiliev’s collar. “He was innocent.”
“Innocent?” The Russian laughed. “And who decides that? Men. Men just like you and I, Harry…the men who send us out to play God. We’re both of us the same.”
No. That wasn’t true. He grimaced as if in pain, shoving the muzzle of the Colt into the soft flesh beneath Vasiliev’s chin. “This ends now, Alexei. All the men you’ve killed over the years — no more. It ends tonight.”
There was a look of resignation in the Russian’s eyes. The weary look of a man at the end of a long journey. No more laughter.
“Tell Anya that I loved her. You’ll do that, won’t you?” he asked, struggling to breathe, the gun restricting his airflow.
Anya. The face from the photograph flickered back through Harry’s mind. Vasiliev’s wife, her eyes haunting him. Those eyes full of love. Love for the man before him.