“Shut up!” Maggie hissed. “What’s going on? What do you have planned? Are you behind the East German revolt? Spill it, Rose, or so help me, I’ll—”
Mrs. Stevens actually shoved Maggie backward. “You’ll what? Go ahead. Do it. Go ahead and turn me into a puppet or give me a heart attack or make me love you. Whatever you do, it’s fake. It’s not real. And don’t think for a minute that I haven’t accounted for this. Anything you drag out of me, it’s already worthless. You can’t stop what’s coming. Nobody can. I’m too smart for that and you know it! So go ahead. DO IT!”
Maggie stared hard and long at Mrs. Stevens, who was beginning to tear up. As much as she wanted to plunge her former friend into the worst sort of nervous breakdown, she knew it would be useless. There was no doubt Rose Stevens had planned for every single possible contingency, including capture and interrogation by Maggie. And there was no point in drawing it out any longer.
“Goodbye, Rose,” Maggie said quietly. “Take care of yourself. Next time we see each other, it’s not going to go well. I promise.”
Maggie walked back out into the lobby and stalked off toward Beria’s box. The lights were dimming, and the performance was about to begin; she took the empty chair right next to his.
“Well?” Beria asked.
Maggie swiped a hand across her face to wipe away the surprising tears that had formed. “They’re planning something. I think we need to get to Lubyanka as soon as possible.”
“What are they planning?” Beria demanded. “Who was that woman?”
“Nobody,” Maggie said. “A minor go-between with very little field experience. But because she’s here, that means everyone else is very busy right about now. Which means we need to go.”
Beria turned to her, anger in his eyes. “This is all you have? For all your abilities?”
Maggie just shrugged. “There was no time. But I do know that they lost two of their people in Korea. You may want to get in touch with the Chinese, see if they have them. It’s Calvin Hooks and Richard Yamato. I told you about them.”
That softened him up a bit. “Yes, they are powerful Champions indeed,” Beria said. “Good. We’ll exit after the opening number. Have Boris get the car and bring it to the service entrance. We don’t want to make a scene leaving.”
Ekaterina watched from the top of the Bolshoi Theater as her brother — her poor brother! — got into the limousine and began to drive to the back of the building. Another car followed; those would be the rest of Beria’s security men. Ekaterina’s radio already buzzed with chatter — the First Deputy Premier was leaving to go back to Lubyanka. Full security. Back entrance. All units on alert.
She turned off her radio and slid over to the side of the building where the service entrance was located. From above, she watched as the two cars settled into position.
Why did it have to be Boris? she pleaded with whoever would listen. But she got no response, so she waited for the right moment to get to work.
The second car pulled to a complete stop. She would have five seconds before the armed men inside got out.
The drop from the top of the building took three.
Ekaterina landed right on top of the black sedan, puncturing the metal hood and crushing the engine block under her feet. She lifted the rest of the car — with four shouting men inside — and hurled it back down the street. It traveled thirty-five yards and landed on its roof. The men inside were no longer shouting.
“Ekaterina!”
She turned to see her brother with a pistol pointed at her, his face anguished. She never wanted this confrontation, but knew when she arrived in Russia that it was possible. She knew she was going to hate it, but this was what she had chosen now.
“Hello, brother,” she said quietly. “I am sorry they have not found a way to fix you yet.”
The anguish turned to rage. “You traitor!” he shouted, his gun hand trembling. “How could you! You’ve betrayed our country! Our family! Me!”
“Beria betrayed us!” she shouted back. “He left us in Kazakhstan to die in fire! He says we are all his children, but we are disposable to him! You know this!”
The gun barked, and Ekaterina tensed. The bullet struck her in the shoulder, piercing her skin before bouncing off her muscles and down onto the pavement. The result hurt like a burn from a hot pan, but it was bearable. Boris’s eyes grew wide — this was something he didn’t know about her Enhancement. Even in the Soviet Union, nobody had thought to shoot a child to see if she survived, super-strength or not. She wasn’t even a hundred percent sure it would happen, but was glad it did.
“You had better run, brother.”
With a single leap, Ekaterina vaulted over her brother and onto Beria’s limousine. She began tearing it apart with abandon, steel and glass flying everywhere. She let out a scream — and it felt good to let it all out. By the time she threw the engine block through the wall of the Bolshoi, she felt a whole lot better.
She turned to find Boris just staring at her, numbly, his mouth agape.
“Come with me,” she said, pleading. “We can help. Get you out of here. We can have Cal heal you again, make you as you were. Please, big brother. Come with me!”
The service entrance burst open, and Maggie and Beria ran out into the alley, stopping suddenly when confronted with the wreckage of their cars and men.
“You!” Beria shouted. He raised his hand, and a gout of flame erupted toward Ekaterina.
Bullets were one thing, but flame — that would really hurt.
With a mighty leap, Ekaterina jumped four stories onto the building across from the Bolshoi and began running, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Boris was fast, but she knew he couldn’t run up the sides of buildings, and she changed direction a number of times to throw him off her trail as she headed to the next rendezvous point. Only then did she allow herself to cry — but only for a moment. There was still work to be done.
It had taken twenty minutes for a new limousine to come fetch Beria and Maggie, during which time the First Deputy Premier raged at Illyanov and commandeered a radio from a policeman to begin barking orders to secure the Lubyanka and the safe houses where his Champions of the Proletariat were hidden. Maggie knew it was a sure sign of his panic that he’d even mentioned the safe houses over a radio. Thankfully, he didn’t broadcast any locations.
Now in the car on the way to his office, Beria laid into her — and used a null generator to keep her from calming him down. “This is happening now, in Moscow! An attack on me! You said this was not in your plans!”
“And it wasn’t, Comrade,” Maggie replied calmly. “But I told you those plans might change. They are willing to give their lives to ensure you do not take Comrade Stalin’s place. So they expose themselves.”
“But we still do not know where they are!” Beria shouted. “I will have that woman with Beam arrested! And you, Dubinsky, you will go to work on this woman immediately and make her tell me what they will do next, do you hear me?”
Maggie grimaced as she felt a surprising, unnerving pang of sadness. “Of course, Comrade Beria. But first we must secure our fellow Champions.”
“We will do more than that,” Beria said. “We must move up the timetable. When we return to the office, we will start gathering. The rest of the Politburo will see this as weakness. We must strike, now, before they decide to come for us. We must—”
Beria was interrupted by the sound of an explosion, and a bright red light flared a couple blocks ahead of the car.
The Lubyanka.
Illyanov pulled over to the side of the road by Lubyanka Square, well away from the building. The third-floor corner office — Beria’s office — was now in flames, the facade crumbling to the ground even as they scrambled out of the car and looked on in horror.