He had.
The right fork plowed through the Sorento’s windshield, severing the driver’s screaming face in half, just above the bridge of his nose. The section chief in the passenger seat ducked at the last second; the right fork harmlessly sheared the headrest off his seat but nearly speared the man behind him.
The forklift slammed into the SUV with a shuddering crash that rattled Paul’s teeth and nearly snapped his neck as he gunned the motor again, powering up the lift and raising the Sorento by the roof until it smashed against the tunnel ceiling, pinning it there.
The three surviving Koreans shouted as they kicked open their doors and tumbled several feet onto the wet pavement below while Paul scrambled out of the left side of the cab. He pointed his Makarov forward and took aim at the section chief, sprawled on the pavement, his ankles broken, raising his weapon. But Paul fired first and put two rounds in the man’s skull, killing him instantly.
The two surviving Koreans fired back. Bullets ricocheted off the tunnel walls and spanged against the forklift.
Something punched Paul in the ribs. He touched his side. His hand was bloody.
The agent behind the dead driver had dropped to his knees and was trying to pass unnoticed around the far side of the forklift. Paul saw the top of his head through the cab and fired through the glass but missed. He turned and ran around the back side of the forklift where the Korean had appeared, gun up. The Korean’s weapon fired twice at close range, tearing into Paul’s shoulder, shredding muscle and shattering bone. Paul’s hand dropped the gun. But the pain turned to rage. He charged forward with a shout, thrusting his good left hand into the Korean’s throat, crushing his windpipe with his bandaged fingers and smashing his skull against the wall in a spray of blood.
Gunshots exploded from the back of the tunnel. Paul lifted the Korean and held him like a shield as he charged back into the tunnel toward the gunfire. Bullets thudded against the corpse as Paul lunged forward. But copper-jacketed rounds chopped into his shins like a fire ax until his legs collapsed beneath him. He tumbled to the asphalt with his shattered cargo.
Paul rolled over onto his back in time to see the gaping black muzzle of a pistol in his face, and the final, deafening flash—
The surviving Korean spat on Paul’s corpse, then holstered his pistol. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and wiped the bloody gore off his face. His ears rang from the gunfight, the sound magnified in the tunnel. He could hardly think. He walked to the edge of the tunnel and lit a cigarette to clear his head, staring at the empty road and the endless rain.
Now what?
No car, no cell signal, and the other two spies were nowhere to be seen. He’d failed the mission.
His life was over.
He turned around and stood over the corpse of the fat American, a single bullet hole in the center of his forehead. He flicked the cigarette away and knelt down close to the body, examining the face.
The Korean shook his head, haunted by the dead man’s smile.
74
Rhodes shut the burner phone and tossed it on his desk. Zvezdev hadn’t picked up in two days. The fat bastard was hanging him out to dry.
Rhodes pulled the Kimber .380 from his wall safe and checked the magazine, then set it carefully on his desk next to the phone. He pulled out his legal passport, and a counterfeit one he’d purchased a week ago, just in case the whole thing went sideways. You don’t have a plan until you have a plan to escape, his father had taught him. Of course, that was in regard to fieldwork, but it was proving damn useful today.
It suddenly occurred to him that he wouldn’t see his son grow up — at least, not for the next several years. But then again, his own father had been absent for most of his childhood, and he’d made out all right. Fatherhood, like most things in life, was overrated. The little nipper would be just fine.
His wife? Well, a pretty girl for sure, but just another piece of ass. He was glad to be getting rid of her — for as little as she put out, she ran up a lot of bills. A twinge of guilt crept across his conscience. She’d have to file for bankruptcy, of course, and would undoubtedly lose the house. She might even have to get a job, poor thing. He couldn’t pay child support, let alone alimony. His bank accounts were drained, his trust fund depleted, and all of the offshore money he’d invested in his bet against Dalfan stock was gone now.
And in an hour, he would be, too.
But then again, she was screwing her Pilates instructor. A smile crept across his face as he imagined her shock when she finally figured out that he had fled the country and left her holding the bag.
Rhodes startled as the library door swung open. He turned around.
“Jack? What are you doing here — my God, son. What happened to you?”
Jack Ryan, Jr., stepped up to Rhodes’s desk, his battered face as grim as death. His left forearm was in a cast, and his hands were badly bruised and scraped.
“Surprised, Senator?”
“I thought you were in Singapore.”
“I was. So was Paul.”
Rhodes glanced over Jack’s broad shoulder. “Where is he?”
“Dead.”
Rhodes blanched. “Dead?”
“Don’t play games, Wes. You called me and warned me he was in ‘hot water,’ remember?”
Rhodes had, in fact, forgotten that he’d called Jack in a panic. Stupid. He took the measure of his merciless eyes. No point in lying to him now.
Rhodes fell into his chair behind his desk, and stared out of the wide bay window across the snow-covered lawn. “I really didn’t mean for that to happen.” Rhodes’s imperious voice faded to a whisper.
“He took out three North Korean RGB agents single-handedly, saving my ass, and Lian’s.”
Rhodes sat up. “North Koreans?”
“You should know. You sent them.”
Rhodes shook his head. “No. I didn’t send anybody.”
“At least one of us made it back.”
“Thank God, Jack. I couldn’t bear the thought—”
“Just tell me one thing. Why in the hell would you want to crash the world economy?”
Rhodes scowled in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”
“The USB drive?”
“It was a software program to crash Dalfan stock. I was using it to place a bet against it and cash in.” The light turned on in Rhodes’s eyes. “At least, that’s what I was told.”
“Bullshit. But even if you’re not lying, you got Paul killed to turn a dirty buck.”
“I swear I didn’t mean to.” Rhodes’s face darkened. “Did Paul ever tell you how he and I knew each other?”
“No.”
“Take a seat. I’d like to tell you.”
“You don’t have the time.”
“Please. For Paul’s sake. I want you to know the kind of man he was.”
“Make it quick.”
“Paul and I were together in Sofia, Bulgaria, back in the eighties. We both worked for the Company.”
“I gathered as much.”
“I was on the fast track — born and bred for it, right? Well, I was posted in Berlin until I got busted out of that assignment and demoted to Sofia—”
“Busted for what?”
“The ambassador’s wife.” Rhodes couldn’t suppress a smile. “At his home. In flagrante delicto.”
Asshole, Jack thought. “You need to finish this.”
“So instead of getting fired outright, I was posted to Sofia — a nod to my father, who was still a man of some influence back then. I was warned that it was my one and only chance to redeem myself — a way to work my way back up from the minor leagues. Truth was, I was never really that good at field craft — especially at recruiting local talent — and I was under a lot of pressure to succeed. The one Bulgarian source I managed to develop was a man in the CSS—”