Rudy Pagano shot a disgusted look at his friend and looked back to the road. “What was that all about?” he asked in his heavy New York accent.
“Don’t worry about it, okay?” Jake Sanders said, clearly annoyed.
“Culder gave you the order to take her out. What the hell happened?”
“Look, man, she’s FBI.” Sanders stiffened. “There’s no fucking way I’m going to kill someone who’s just trying to do the right thing.”
“Jesus. So that’s it,” Pagano said in an inquisitive tone. “You want to bang her.” He laughed. “I should have put her out of your misery. I’d have been doing her a favor!”
“Yeah, right. Like you’re some prize.”
Pagano shot him a probing glance. “It ain’t gonna happen. You realize that, don’t you?” His tone had an uncomfortable finality. “She’s as good as dead. She knows too much.”
“That’s my problem, all right?” Sanders poked Pagano in the arm with his index finger. “I don’t need a fuckin’ preacher. And if you hear anything about it going down, you tell me. Got that?”
They had been working on the HVT Squad together since its inception, and for two years prior to that on the FBI TacOps team. The two men had developed a strong bond over the years, and it ran deeper than their loyalty to the FBI director.
“She’s really got you worked up. Did you already tap that shit? Man, you dog.” Pagano couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that he was half serious. “I didn’t think you had it in you. A regular Prince Charming we’ve got here.”
Sanders exhaled loudly and shot a disapproving look at his friend. “Do me a favor and shut the fuck up.”
Pagano shook his head in disgust. “Look, Jake. We’ve been friends for a long time, so I’m going to give it to you straight. If it’s not you, then he’ll have someone else take care of it.” He thumped Sanders on the chest with the back of his fist as if it would knock some sense into him. “You know that. You should’ve just saved yourself the shit storm this is going to cause.”
“Whatever,” Sanders snapped.
“I’m serious. Culder isn’t bad if he likes you, but this is bound to piss him off. If you don’t take care of it, it’s going to come back and bite you in the ass.”
“All right, all right, I get it. I fucking hear you. This conversation is over.” Sanders fired an angry look at Pagano and said, “I’ll deal with Culder, don’t you fucking worry.”
Pagano was starting to worry. “Man, did you hit your head on something?” He looked over at Sanders and could instantly tell the comment had struck a nerve.
“That’s right,” he spat.
“What?”
“Our buddy in the back there.” He motioned with his thumb to the back of the truck. “He knocked the shit out of me.” He turned to Pagano and said, “She saved my ass.”
His friend could tell by the tone of his voice that he was serious.
“Un-fucking-real.” Pagano shook his head and smiled. “Good to know Wonder Woman has stayed hot after all these years.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Sanders exhaled in relief after getting that off his chest. “I’d be in one of those bags if it wasn’t for her.”
“Got it.” Pagano turned and shot him a grave look. “You’re still trying to bang her. You can’t bullshit me.”
The two men burst out laughing.
“Prick,” Sanders said. “Where are we heading?”
“The airport. We’ll pick up Culder tomorrow when he’s ready and head to Chicago.” He glanced at his friend and then back to the road. “Oh, and make sure I have my phone ready when you tell him the news about your girlfriend.”
“What?” Sanders asked, confused.
Pagano put on a big smile and said, “I want to take a picture of the look on his face.”
“Fuck you.”
Chapter 73
The sound of the grandiose doorbell echoed through the mansion’s cavernous hallways. Yuri Khrushchev had been expecting his guest. Normally the house staff would take care of tending to the door, but today was a special day, and he wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. Everyone had been dismissed for the weekend so he could celebrate the occasion without distraction. For him, this marked the beginning of a new Soviet era. It was the culmination of decades of careful planning and preparation.
This was their time. A combination of technological breakthroughs and economic circumstance had presented the perfect opportunity to strike. In one crippling blow, they would destabilize the United States. The journey back to power was almost complete.
Khrushchev pulled the ornate wooden door open, and Andrei Tinkov stood before him. Tinkov’s chauffeur was just beyond, waiting patiently next to a royal blue Rolls-Royce Phantom limousine. The exquisite yet beastly machine was less imposing on the cobblestones of the massive circular driveway than when driving through the streets of Moscow.
“Andrei,” Khrushchev said in his booming voice. He vigorously shook his visitor’s hand. “Come in, come in,” he continued, leading his guest inside.
Tinkov smiled. “Thank you, Yuri. I apologize, but I cannot stay long.”
“Yes, I know. You have a flight to Lisbon. That is what I wish to discuss.”
Tinkov furrowed his brow in anticipation and followed his friend down a long hallway into a large study with wood-paneled walls.
“You have something you wish for me to bring up at the meeting?”
“It is time, my good friend,” Khrushchev said with equal parts enthusiasm and concern.
“Oh?” Tinkov didn’t look surprised. He looked up and admired the blue skies that were visible through the long line of rectangular skylights. He exhaled and said, “After all these years.”
“Pavel almost has everything ready, but I wanted you to be the first to hear my decision to move forward. It is time to strike. Time for the motherland to rise once again, but we need your help.”
“Of course,” Tinkov said, nodding his head. “We’ve been waiting for this day to arrive for a long time.”
“We know where everything is kept, but I need you to move forward with the plan at the meeting,” Khrushchev explained. “That way, no suspicions will be raised. It will be too late by the time they realize what has happened.”
The communists had always kept a working plan to take down America, and it was one that evolved with the times.
“Are you sure it is possible for us to succeed?” Tinkov questioned. “If the United States survives this, I fear we will not.”
“Yes,” he said emphatically. “By the end of the week, the country will be in complete and utter chaos.” He smiled at his friend. “The devastation will send them back to the Stone Age. We will soon have our power and our revenge.”
Khrushchev walked over to the bar and reached for two glasses before picking up a bottle. The drink he selected represented a time that was a distant memory for both of them. He chose a bottle of the Soviet Union’s traditional Zelyonaya Marka vodka. Tinkov’s chin inclined as his friend poured them each a measure.
Khrushchev creased his brow, and his eyes darkened. “I told the president to refuse to attend next week’s G8 summit in Camp David,” he said. “He can’t be on American soil when this goes down. It would be too risky.”
“Yes, I saw that the news wasn’t taken lightly by the American president.”
Khrushchev handed Tinkov his glass of vodka. “So be it.” He raised his glass. “To Mother Russia.”
Tinkov nodded and followed suit. “Yes, Yuri, to Mother Russia!”
They both swallowed their drinks and their wince gave way to smiles.
“Make this happen, Andrei.”
“I will.” Tinkov paused for a moment and corrected himself. “We will.”