Katazin knew he had to act quickly.
Walsh held the gun steady as he watched Serge look at him in shock when both bullets struck him in the sternum. He thought about bursting into the living room and then considered the grenade that Alena was holding and the fact that the older Russian with a scar would’ve been alerted that Walsh had his pistol.
His decision was made for him when there was a tremendous crash from the far end of the apartment and he heard someone shout, “FBI, nobody move.”
Walsh wasted no time twisting and racing through the bedroom, then ducking behind the bed, out of sight. He didn’t want to risk hurting an FBI agent or vice versa. He could just catch a glimpse of men in black fatigues racing in a straight line toward the living room. He kept low and crept up the edge of the bed to snatch his phone off the pillow and tuck it in his front pocket.
He listened to the commotion in the front room.
This was the worst position Katazin could have found himself in. The FBI agents in black fatigues raised their small MP-5 machine guns and froze at the sight of Alena standing in the middle of the room with her hands raised. Katazin didn’t know if they realized she was holding a grenade in her left hand.
He swallowed once, took aim, then put a single 9 mm bullet into the back of the girl’s head. She crumpled to the ground as if she’d fainted, and he could hear the grenade clearly strike the wooden floor. The FBI agents standing at the door didn’t react instantly.
Katazin ducked behind the kitchen counter and slid next to the dishwasher as he heard the deafening blast of the grenade, then felt the flash of heat throughout the apartment.
He didn’t even take a look at the carnage he had just caused. Katazin sprang to his feet, turned, and burst through the tiny utility door. The blast and ensuing chaos had created a brief opportunity to slip outside into the crowd of locals milling about, trying to see what was happening.
Katazin hurried down the street to his BMW without anyone questioning him. He now felt like he owed Derek Walsh on a personal level for all the trouble and stress he had caused. The former marine had done his best to screw up Katazin’s plans, and he was sick of it.
30
Derek Walsh had experienced grenade blasts in training and once in real-life combat. The concussion of the explosion tended to travel along the path of least resistance. Doorways were a particularly bad place to stand. But having a solid wall and a bed between him and the blast made it nothing more than a very, very loud noise. The floor shook, and he could see the flash and felt the rush of heat, but he was not injured or even particularly dazed.
But he did recognize that the blast might have killed FBI agents and, more likely, the woman he thought was his girlfriend. Now smoke started to drift through the apartment, and he could smell something burning. He looked over his shoulder at the window he planned to jump through in just a second. It was his hope there was a fire escape, but he was prepared to make a leap to the ground rather than stay and face whoever was left after the grenade blast.
Walsh stood from behind the bed, careful to keep the gun pointed at the ground. As soon as he stood, he saw that one of the FBI agents had been blown through the outer room and into the bedroom and lay moaning on the ground. His ballistic helmet was twisted at an odd angle, and his body sprawled on the hard wooden floor.
Walsh turned and looked at the window but knew he couldn’t leave yet. He stuck the gun in his waistband and bounded to the wounded man. He focused on the man because he knew he didn’t want to see what had happened to Alena in the other room. His combat first aid training came right back to him, and he removed the man’s helmet and saw that he was about the same age as Walsh, with hair longer than the typical military recruit’s. On the left side of his neck a piece of shrapnel or perhaps the frame of the door had left a four-inch gaping wound; blood was pooling on the ground beneath his head.
Walsh looked around for an instant, then grabbed the pillow off the bed and slipped off the cover. He folded it three times and then put direct pressure on the man’s neck. It was then that he looked up and noticed two others lying on the ground in the other room. They both seemed semiconscious and were moaning, but they were both moving slightly as well. That was a good sign.
Walsh called out to them, “Hang on, fellas. Help is coming.” In fact, he had no idea who was coming. The Russian with the scar could step around the corner and start shooting at any moment. He blocked it all out of his mind while he concentrated on this man’s injuries.
The FBI agent tried to speak, but Walsh told him to keep quiet and still. He could feel the man’s heartbeat. It was starting to fade, and that caused Walsh to panic a little. Then he heard voices in the main room. First, it was a man’s deep voice that said, “Holy shit.” Then a woman’s voice called out, “Doug?” Then the woman said to someone, “Check the kitchen. Our guys are in the other room.”
Walsh could hear a commotion and footsteps as he continued to put pressure on the young FBI agent’s wound. Then a head popped around the corner from the main room. Walsh glanced up and immediately recognized Tonya Stratford.
She said, “What the—”
Walsh barked an order. “Get over here. I need help, quick.” The FBI agent rushed toward him as someone else came through the door to help the other two injured men. Walsh edged to the side and said, “I need you to hold this tight to his throat. Is someone calling for fire rescue?”
As she moved to get into position to hold the blood-soaked pillowcase to the wound, Agent Stratford said, “We called. Paramedics should be here in a few minutes.”
Now Walsh changed position and loosened the man’s ballistic vest carrier to check for other wounds. He lifted the man’s shirt and found one gash in his abdomen that wasn’t serious. The stress of the event was starting to catch up to him, and the adrenaline was dumping from his system. He said, “How’d you find me?”
Agent Stratford concentrated on stopping the bleeding but said, “I had surveillance on the apartment after you gave me Blattkoff’s name. When you didn’t show at Times Square, I got a call you were seen being escorted in here, and we made a quick plan.”
Just then another head popped around the corner, surveying the injured man. Then he noticed Walsh and said, “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe the shit you cause, smart guy.”
Walsh looked up to see agent Stratford’s partner, Frank Martin, raise his service pistol and aim it at him. The guy apparently still held a grudge for Walsh giving him the slip on Wall Street.
Fannie was exhausted by the time she made it to her apartment in Stuttgart. It was the middle of the night, and the streets were absolutely silent. But she had been on the phone constantly since she’d landed, and there were already three men waiting for her when she arrived. These were trusted men who’d helped her with several major projects and never looked down on her for being a woman.
Almost as soon as she walked in the door and got settled at her kitchen table with the others, one of the men said, “Where’s Amir?”
“Helping the Russians.”
“When will he be back?”
“Later. You know how the Iranians are. They want to make sure they back every possible player in a conflict so they always look like they’re winning. We see it in Syria. We even see it with the Islamic State. They don’t want to be left out completely. So Amir will help the Russians until it’s time to not help the Russians anymore.” That seemed to satisfy everyone. She looked across at a middle-aged, heavyset bald man. “Were you able to put together what I asked for?”