KOSCHEY WAS ALREADY OVER the Manhattan Bridge and heading down Flatbush Avenue toward Prospect Park.
Major cities were easy for him. In between assignments, he often spent weeks in solitary lockdown, most recently in a rented villa just outside the tiny village of Mougins on the French Riviera, usually with no more than an encrypted satellite Internet connection for company. He used that time wisely, to prepare, to explore, to compile useful lists-including lists of discreet locations to stay at, or to meet in. Even though the entire apparatus of the Russian intelligence service was at his disposal, he preferred to work alone, and for no one-not even his direct superior-to know anything more than what they told him. It was safer that way, both for him and for them.
He’d previously identified the lot next to the ice rink in Prospect Park as one of a handful of suitable locations for a meeting away from prying eyes, something that wasn’t especially easy in a place as crowded as New York City. While most of the city was increasingly covered by CCTV, the park itself had minimal coverage, and he knew where the cameras were and where they pointed.
A pained grunt came from the seat next to him. Ae-Cha was struggling against the plastic strip that bound her wrists together, but had only succeeded in gouging a layer of skin from one wrist. A trickle of blood had stained the seat beneath it.
It didn’t matter. The car wasn’t long for this world.
Neither was its passenger.
CHEWING GUM VIGOROUSLY LIKE a coach watching a final, the Sledgehammer sat in the cushy backseat of the Mercedes GL450 and checked his Desert Eagle as the black SUV pulled away into the night.
His lieutenant Petr-a thin man with a tailored suit, cowboy boots, and a mop of blond hair that failed to conceal a vivid scar running horizontally across one cheek-was behind the wheel. Two indistinguishable thugs in leather jackets were riding with them. None of the heavies sported the usual tattoos of the lower-rung bratki. They were Mirminsky’s personal entourage, all ex-Russian Army Spetsnaz, specifically veterans of some of the most brutal Special Forces incursions into Chechnya. All three of them now earned more from him in a week, and with much better perks, than they’d received from the Russian state in a year.
Mirminsky’s cell rang.
It was Ditko.
“Prospect Park,” the cop informed him. “The lot by the skating rink.”
The Sledgehammer grunted. “Keep me posted.” Then he clicked off.
He’d make sure the cop got something extra for his trouble. Mirminsky always rewarded those who helped him. It was one of the reasons he had risen so quickly. He believed in the old saying: knut i pryanik-“the whip and the gingerbread.” Only, his whip had barbs.
He directed Petr where to go, then ran his fingers over his Desert Eagle, a savage impatience rising through him.
APARO HUNG A LEFT as I grabbed the radio handset and squawked for comms.
“Do you still have them?”
After a moment, Talaoc’s crackly voice replied. “We do. We lost them for a few blocks, but we’ve caught up with them again. We’re on Ocean, still heading north.”
I glanced at Aparo and pictured a map of the city in my mind’s eye.
He asked, “Where are they going?”
“Ivan must have told them to head someplace where they can do the trade. Ae-Cha for the van. Somewhere quiet. But at this hour-could be anywhere.”
I lifted the handset back to my mouth. “All right, just hang back, but don’t lose them again. We’re about ten minutes out. Backup’s on the way too. Be advised the van might be hooking up with our shooter. Might be a hostage-exchange situation. This guy is armed and extremely dangerous.”
Talaoc took a second, then his voice came back. “Copy that.”
As I replaced the handset, Aparo shook his head. “Why do I feel real lucky to still be alive?”
I scowled into the night. At least I’d finally seen our shooter’s face, and I knew a bit more about what we were dealing with. It helped to see him. It helped demystify him and change him from a mythical monster into just another psychopath who enjoyed killing people. But I sensed something else.
“I think this could be our last chance to get him,” I told Aparo. “He gets the van and disappears, that’s it. He’s gone.”
“Let’s make sure we get him then,” Aparo said.
I just said “Yeah” and left it at that.
46
Koschey turned into the lot.
Aside from a long box hedge facing the entrance to the rink, it was completely surrounded by trees. You couldn’t even see Prospect Park Lake, which was only a couple of hundred yards southwest of the deserted expanse of concrete.
The Yukon came to a stop in the very center of the lot, then he killed the engine. It was deathly quiet, except for the intermittent calls of geese.
It wasn’t long before he saw the van. It drove into the lot and crawled toward his SUV. He could just distinguish two figures inside. It stopped about fifty yards away, with the engine still running.
Two guys climbed out. The thinner one was obviously Jonny, whom he recognized from the docks. The other guy was at least six feet tall and built like a shot-putter. He had to assume that Jonny hadn’t found the time to enlist any additional help, but regardless, he was careful to watch his lines of sight as he exited the car and dragged Ae-Cha out of the passenger seat.
His gun was aimed at her head.
Koschey felt a familiar rush, the rush that came with the culmination of a difficult assignment. The rush of victory.
In a matter of minutes he’d have the van and what it contained-technology that had so far eluded the CIA, the U.S. military, and the entire apparatus of the Soviet state. And once he had it, there was no limit to what he could-and would-do with it.
“The Deathless” would leave his indelible mark on an unsuspecting, and helpless, world.
JONNY SENSED BON’S HAND inching toward the Beretta 9mm tucked into the back of his belt and placed a restraining hand on his arm before the big man could draw the weapon.
He spoke so only Bon could hear him. “Wait till Ae-Cha’s with us. And don’t trust anything he says. I’ve been here before.”
“He’s alone,” Bon whispered. “We can take him.”
Jonny raised his hands palms-out and flicked his head for Bon to do the same. After the sound of air sucked between teeth, Bon complied.
Jonny took a couple of steps toward the Russian. “How do we do this?”
“Simple. I want the van,” Koschey yelled across the empty lot. “So we just swap cars. And don’t even think of hitting that switch.”
Jonny stiffened. As he expected, the bastard knew what the van could do.
Poor Mr. Soko. He wondered if the crazy genius was still alive.
Jonny took another step forward. “What about Ae-Cha?”
KALUTA KILLED THE CRUISER’S lights and coasted in silence right up to the edge of a low wall that ran alongside the approach to the lot.
He and Talaoc got out and crept alongside the wall, keeping low, their sidearms drawn, their comms turned down.
They paused at the edge of the wall and surveyed the scene beyond the trees.
“Reilly,” Talaoc murmured into his mike. “They’re in the lot by the ice rink. The van’s here, and an SUV too. How far out are you?”
APARO SPUN THE WHEEL and rocketed us into the park. I couldn’t say for sure, but I’d swear we were on two wheels.
“We’re in the park. What do you see?”
Talaoc said, “Two guys by the van, Asians. One of them’s big. A guy and a girl by the SUV.”