Glass shattered and sprayed everywhere, falling on my lap through the open windshield. We crashed through some kind of clothes boutique, which hadn’t opened yet, knocking down mannequin after mannequin until finally we smashed through the window on the far side of the store. Another storm of shattered glass and West swung the wheel left as we crossed the sidewalk and bounced back onto Saratovsky Proezd after the barricade, but our luck wasn’t going to hold. The cops were already in the driver’s seat, breaking up the barricade and joining the pursuit.
West pushed the van to its limit, racing up a rise to see Kuzminki Park ahead of us.
The leading police vehicles were gaining on us as we sped toward the park gates.
“If you’re going to use that thing, now’s the time,” West said, nodding at the ShAK-12.
I opened my window and leant out. West cut diagonally across the street to give me an angle and I opened fire, shooting hot lead at the tires of the pursuing vehicles. The response of automatic gunfire was deafening, and the street behind us erupted until I found my mark and took out the tires of the lead vehicles. Two vehicles veered out of control and another went into a violent spin.
I’d bought us a few vital moments’ respite while another wave of pursuers took point.
“I’m almost out of ammo,” I said. “I’m going to have to use it wisely.”
West nodded. We had a large armory but it was in the back of the van, which I couldn’t access without stopping.
We were moving fast, at least 90 m.p.h., when he steered us into the park. We smashed into the metal gates, which flew off their stone pillars.
I leant out of the window and targeted the wheels of the lead police vehicle.
More rattling and cracking of gunfire and the front tires exploded, sending it crashing into one pier and blocking the gateway.
There were people in the park but West didn’t slow. He sped along the pedestrianized driveway as they dived clear.
Behind us, I saw the massive police convoy stop and officers jump out and try to remove the smoking vehicle that was blocking the gate.
We raced along the carriageway, whizzing past specimen trees and shrubs.
“Any sign of anything?” West asked.
“I don’t know what we’re looking for,” I replied. “But I see trouble ahead.”
I pointed to more police vehicles, about a dozen of them, streaming through the gate on the far side of the park, joining the carriageway, coming toward us.
“Damn!” West said, and turned right, taking us between two venerable conifers and onto an expanse of grass. “I’m not sure we’re getting out of this.”
My heart sank. I knew what capture would mean for both of us. Valery Alekseyev was not a forgiving man.
Then I heard a low rumble, a familiar sound that made my heart soar. An Ansat light helicopter buzzed us, flying low over the van as it charted a course for the center of the lawned area.
West swerved and set the van on an intercept course.
“This is going to be close,” he said, flooring the accelerator.
The van shot forward, chewing up the ground between us and the chopper. To our left, a dozen or so police vehicles were speeding round the perimeter of the park, trying to reach us. Behind us, cops were clambering over the one that had blocked the gate and running in our direction. West was right, this would be tight.
The pilot set the helicopter down a hundred yards ahead of us, and I saw a man in a dark suit open the side door. His face was covered by a ski mask. He beckoned to us.
“Thank all that’s good and holy!” West declared.
We seemed to cover the distance in an instant. West stepped on the brakes. The van shuddered to a stop a few feet clear of the rotors. I jumped out and turned to face the oncoming cops, rifle in hand.
“Get Alekseyev,” I yelled. “I’ll cover you.”
“On it,” West shouted back as he ran to the rear doors.
I opened fire on the first police vehicles as they tried to cross the grass, slowing them down. West appeared moments later, dragging Alekseyev. I emptied my magazine, but it was no use. There were too many of them by now, a police convoy racing over the grass toward us.
I grabbed Alekseyev too and joined West in forcing the reluctant SVR director forward.
West and I hurled him into the chopper, but before I jumped aboard I asked the man in the ski mask, “Who sent you?”
I’d been stung by an impostor before.
“Erin Sebold,” he replied. “She said I should tell you the Red Man used to bake great bread.”
The roar of engines was loud now as the cops drew closer.
“All good?” West yelled above the sound of the rotors.
“All good,” I confirmed, jumping in.
He climbed aboard and the masked man gave the pilot a thumbs-up. We rose into the sky with such speed I was knocked into the seat next to Alekseyev’s.
“Enjoy your flight, Director,” I said, settling back and breathing a little more easily as a small army of angry, frustrated cops stared up at us getting away.
Alekseyev’s trademark scowl was gone. He looked smaller somehow. Broken and defeated.
Chapter 105
America had never looked so beautiful. Manhattan was gleaming in the sunshine. The chopper had delivered us to the CIA Gulfstream jet that had whisked us out of Moscow. The sleek aircraft began its descent into Teterboro Airport, New York at 2 p.m. local time. As we descended toward the city, even the East River shone like a magnificent ribbon of mercury.
Alekseyev was sitting opposite me. We had taken off his gag but cuffed his arms and legs. He had his hands on the walnut-veneer table between us. The cuffs clanked and clattered every so often as he moved his wrists. He had slept for much of the nine-hour flight, or at least pretended to.
I hadn’t needed to make any such pretense and slept soundly for the first five hours before I woke to take the second shift watching him. West slept just as soundly as I had for the remainder of the flight.
“I underestimated you, Mr. Morgan,” Alekseyev said.
They were his first words since we’d left Moscow.
“It’s a common mistake,” I responded coldly. “People only realize the truth when it’s too late.”
I leant across the aisle and gently shook West awake. He rubbed his eyes, peered out of the window and beamed when he saw New York’s distinctive skyline.
“Boy, it’s good to be home,” he declared.
“Some vacation,” I said.
“Hey, anything that gets me stateside is alright with me.”
A few minutes later we were on the ground, taxiing to our stand. When the aircraft had come to a halt, our pilot, who had introduced himself only as Bobby, emerged from the cockpit in the same black sweatpants and T-shirt he had been wearing when we boarded.
“End of the line, folks,” he said, opening the passenger door and lowering the airstairs.
I grabbed Alekseyev and marched him out. West followed. As we went down the stairs, a convoy of three Chevy Suburbans approached.
I pushed Alekseyev across the tarmac toward them. Secretary of Defense Eli Carver stepped out of the second vehicle, and his close-protection team emerged from all three vehicles to assemble around him.
Two of the team, large Secret Service agents in dark suits, stepped forward and searched Alekseyev to ensure he didn’t pose a threat to Carver. When they were satisfied, they waved us forward.
“Director Alekseyev, welcome to America,” Carver said. “We can’t tell you how grateful we are you decided to defect.”
Alekseyev snorted derisively.
“Take him,” Carver commanded, and two of his detail grabbed Alekseyev and marched him toward the rearmost Chevy.
“You’ve outdone yourself this time, Jack. A rogue Chinese and Russian network. We’ve had back-channel thanks from the Chinese Government, which isn’t something that happens very often,” Carver said. “The Russians aren’t so happy, at least not officially, but Alekseyev has made many enemies over the years, so their diplomatic protests might be for show only. Many of the higher-ups will secretly be glad he’s gone. You did good. Real good.”