The Sledgehammer meant business.
He gave me a bleak smile. “You’re not going anywhere.”
The soldiers continued to cover us while the blond walked out toward the van, no doubt to cripple it, too.
I swung my gun up so it was squarely aimed at Mirminsky’s head.
“We’ll take your car then,” I said. “Move aside.”
The blond stopped and turned as Mirminsky raised his hands. “Or what? You’re going to shoot me, an unarmed civilian? You’re going to shoot us all? Come on. Stop being stupid. Give him to me and walk away. Let me do to him what you know you can’t do.”
We were cornered. With seriously limited options.
Then Ivan finally spoke up.
He hissed something in Russian at Mirminsky, and though I couldn’t understand any of it, it sounded nasty and ominous. Mirminsky spat something back at him, uncowed.
The thought that maybe I should just let the Sledgehammer have Ivan and walk away crossed my mind. But I couldn’t do it.
“Yuri, think about what you’re doing. We’ll make your life hell.”
Mirminsky smiled. “Well, this last week hasn’t exactly been one big party for me, has it? And I have some very expensive lawyers who are really worth every penny.” His smile morphed into a dead-serious glare. “Okay, enough of this. What’s it going to be?”
Crunch time.
I studied their relative positions, then glanced over at Ivan. He was standing stock-still, his face expressionless.
Aparo looked over at me. We knew each other well enough to know what the other thought. We should out-bluff them, wait for backup, and take them all in. We had two cops huddled close by, probably unsure about what was going on and debating what move to make and when to make it. Backup had to be very close by now. But until they got here and gave us an undeniable advantage, I wasn’t keen on triggering a shoot-out. I didn’t want to lose more lives over that scumbag.
Mirminsky read me and nodded at the blond, who sauntered over to where I was holding Ivan. He stared down at Ivan haughtily. Then just as he reached us, three shots came out of nowhere and tore through the night.
I don’t know where two of them ended up, but the blond was hit from behind and folded to the ground, pulling Ivan down with him.
All eyes turned to the source of the shots, which was an indistinct shape a hundred yards away, up on its knees, handgun in a two-handed grip.
Jonny.
Teetering at the very edge of life.
The next minute was over in seconds.
One of Mirminsky’s soldiers fired two bursts at the young Korean, cutting him down-and the patrol car chose that exact moment to charge onto the lot.
Aparo and I both hit the ground, Aparo taking down the closest of Mirminsky’s goons as he rolled.
The cops exited the squad car, guns out, yelling at the other shooter to lie on the ground. He ignored them and unleashed furious bursts in their direction, hitting one of them in the shoulder. The cops dived for cover behind their vehicle as they fired back.
I looked over to where Ivan had been just a couple of seconds earlier, but he’d vanished.
I fired several shots at the second goon as he ducked for cover behind the Mercedes. None of them found their mark. Within seconds he popped out from behind the big SUV and unloaded most of a clip, first at me, then at the cruiser, peppering its grille with multiple hits and punching out its headlights.
Still pinned behind Aparo’s car, I heard the van’s engine churn to life. I glanced out to see the vehicle lurching forward.
Ivan. Had to be.
Mirminsky turned and fired several rounds into the van, but none hit the driver-and with the surviving goon still pinning us down under carefully timed bursts of fire, I could only watch as the van charged forward, headed straight for Mirminsky.
It hit him full force and swallowed him up under its front wheels like a vacuum cleaner. After about ten yards, the body broke loose and the van’s rear wheels bumped over it with a sickening squelch.
I aimed at the rear tires and emptied my clip to no avail as the van careened out of the lot and disappeared between the trees.
I couldn’t let him escape like that, but we were still taking heat from the fourth shooter.
“Go after the van, we’ll cover you” I shouted to the cops.
And with a big “Go!” I rose from behind my cover and unloaded a clip at the SUV, with Aparo doing the same-only for us to be gutted by the sound of a starter motor in severe distress.
The cruiser’s engine had taken one hit too many.
“Call backup,” I hollered, roiling with frustration. “Get them to seal off the park.”
Then I turned toward the shooter who was still huddled behind the Mercedes. I was desperate to get my hands on the SUV. As far as I could tell, it still looked operational, and it was the only way I could go after the van.
“Game’s over!” I yelled out to him. “It’s all over. You understand me? Throw down your weapon and come out with your hands up.”
It took him a tense minute to do so. A minute that felt like forever. Because by the time he finally chucked his weapon aside and came out with his arms up, it was pointless to go after the van.
We’d lost him.
Again.
And this time, we’d let him take exactly what he came for.
49
Koschey checked outside the warehouse, made sure all was quiet, and locked the door.
He wandered across the large space, headed for the small office, deep in thought.
He knew he’d almost lost it all during his excursion to recover the van, but the thought didn’t bother him. It was a risk he always carried. Especially on assignments like this one, where uncertainties couldn’t be avoided and he had to make quick decisions without the benefit of advance planning. But that was part of what had made his legend: the fact that he could improvise better than most, and that somehow, he always came out ahead. This night had been a major test of that skill, a test he’d come through again with no more than a bruise or two. He’d learn from it, add it to the large repertoire of experience he’d inevitably draw from at some point in the future. More important, he now had everything he needed: Sokolov-Shislenko-and the van.
He checked on his captive. Sokolov was still firmly cuffed in place and asleep, the latter courtesy of the SP-117. Koschey knew the scientist wouldn’t be coming out of it soon, although it was a process he could accelerate with some smelling salts. But he didn’t need to do it just yet. While he didn’t have too much time to waste, not with the kind of resources that must have been allocated to tracking him down, he had to get himself a new ride before waking up Sokolov.
He didn’t have his SUV anymore, and the van was certainly too hot to use again.
He also needed to think. He already had a plan, one he’d started formulating as soon as he understood what he was dealing with, one that became much more immediate and irresistible after hearing Sokolov’s revelations.
He needed to refine it, put it through the wringer, make sure it stacked up.
The event was soon-perhaps too soon. It had stood out from the list of major American events that the Center always kept track of. High-target-value events. But even if it was too soon-only a day away-it was the perfect venue for what he was planning. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. Besides, he couldn’t hang around much longer. He was on enemy territory, and he needed to act quickly, before the net tightened in around him.
He needed to contact the key players-the backers, and the patsies-all of whom he knew, all of whom he also knew had the appetite and the means for what he envisaged. Then he’d put the plan in motion and he’d rock the world in a way that would never be forgotten, before disappearing to a comfortable outpost while waiting for the next opportunity to strike, the next occasion for him to flex his newfound muscle and lift himself even further up the podium of history.