The one with the pockmarked face pointed to a first-floor window. “There.”
They watched curiously as the window rocked back and forth, its rusty metal hinges screaming out in protest.
Chapter 110
He pumped the window back and forth vigorously on its hinges. Trent Turner heard a series of noises in the theater outside the bathroom as he worked to force an opening large enough to fit through. First there was a sliding sound, and then the sound of metal crashing, followed by gasps from the crowd. Whatever it was that made the noise, he was thankful knowing the FBI agents should have made it into the bathroom by now. That was a confrontation he wanted to avoid if at all possible. He gave the window one last heave, and it belted out its final wail in surrender.
He had made just enough room to squeeze through. He pushed himself into a handstand from the top of the bathroom’s heat register and thrust himself legs first out the window. He slowed his fall using his elbows and hands and landed softly on the concrete. The operative stood and spun 180 degrees from his crouched position. The three men standing in front of him looked confused. He recognized one of them. He was part of Pavel Kozlov’s security detail.
The Russians looked stunned to see The American standing in front of them. These men were well trained, so Turner’s best option was to introduce more confusion. He flicked his left thumb toward the window behind him and waved his other hand in front of his nose.
“You do not want to go in there,” he said in a deadpan tone. He forced a smile. “It’s absolutely brutal.”
Two of the men looked at each other, and he reached for his pocket. It was too late. The third man had already begun his charge. The operative quickly moved forward and sidestepped, causing the linebacker-sized Bratva man to miss. He threw an elbow into his spine to send him crashing into the brick wall.
Everything turned to slow motion as he addressed the others. They charged him simultaneously with crazed looks in their eyes. He waited until the last moment again and stepped forward. When they reached for his arms, he extended his fists and delivered a leopard punch to their throats. Instead of instinctively reaching toward the pain, both Russians tightened their grips on his arms.
That was exactly what Trent Turner had expected as he quickly stepped out of his tuxedo jacket. In a single motion he turned and channeled all of his energy into his feet with two perfectly timed blows. His initial strike landed on the back of the first man’s neck, and the second connected with the other Bratva soldier’s chin. Both men crumpled to the ground.
By the time his feet had gained solid footing, it was too late. The bull of a man he had dispatched with first was almost on top of him and was carrying incredible momentum. The Russian drove Turner the width of the alley and slammed him mercilessly into the brick wall on the other side. The wind had been knocked out of him, so his next actions were purely defensive.
The attacker delivered two more shots to his midsection as Turner struggled for air. He used his hands and elbows to fend off the blows. Every time the operative connected, it felt like he was assaulting a rock. He felt another angry blow to his midsection before he lost his balance and fell to the ground.
His vision was tunneled as he tried desperately to fill his lungs with air. He felt like a turtle that had been flipped onto its back. The Russian stood above him with steely eyes looking ready to deliver a finishing blow, but he suddenly turned away. Turner focused on breathing and tried desperately to regain his composure. He sat up and watched as the Bratva soldier brutalized the FBI agent who was stuck in the frame of the bathroom window. When the first shot was fired, he saw the big man drop to the ground.
Trent Turner slowly rose to his feet as the violence unfolded in front of him. Survival mode kicked in when the remaining Russians drew their weapons. They were still distracted by the assault from the window, so he sprinted down the alley toward Michigan Avenue. He decided the park would be as good a place as any to disappear. When he reached the street, he saw that the theater had already begun to clear out in a panic. Yellow cabs were already lined up along the curb.
He made a quick right to get out of the line of fire from the alley when someone called out to him.
“Hey, kiddo,” a man shouted.
Turner recognized the voice, and it caught him by surprise. The cab drove alongside him as he ran down the street.
The man stuck his head out the window. “Hop on in,” he said with a big smile.
Turner returned the smile and said, “Uncle Jack?”
The operative slowed to a stop alongside the cab and glanced behind him to make sure the men hadn’t come after him. He looked down and brushed away some of the drywall dust from his black pants and then shook his head at his uncle.
“What the hell happened to you, kid? You look like shit.”
“Long story,” Trent said. “Good thing the tux is a rental.” He smiled and hopped into the back of the cab. “What are you doing here?”
Jack Turner offered him a shit-eating grin. “Bailing your ass out. What else?”
“Shit, no way. What?” He was still a little dazed from the beating he had been given. What should have been obvious was now abundantly clear.
“You’d have had some company in the can if it wasn’t for yours truly,” he added matter-of-factly.
“Heckler?” The fact that his Uncle Jack was his handler threw him off. “I guess I should have known it was you with a call sign like that.” He shook his head and feigned disappointment. “Safe to say you’ve watched Top Gun too many times.”
“Cut me some slack. At my age it’s hard to find good work.” He shrugged. “Addy said he needed a babysitter for a problem child. How else am I supposed to afford my Viagra addiction and daily dose of Geritol?”
They shared a quick laugh, and Trent got down to business.
“Is he okay?” he asked, referring to Island Industries’ boss, Addy Simpson. “You know, with what’s happened?”
“I’m sorry about Ryan, Trent,” Jack said in a solemn voice. “Addy understands. Let’s just leave it at that.” He looked out the window and then back to Trent. “He knows it was something you had to do, but don’t pull that shit again.” He shook his head. “It won’t fly.”
Trent nodded. “I know.”
“Good.”
“We need to get back to my hotel,” Trent said. He tapped on the Plexiglas that separated them from the driver. “Please drop us off at the next block.” He looked to his uncle. “I just ran into three of Kozlov’s men in the alley. I planted a tracking device on one of them. Hopefully, the guy didn’t get shot up too bad, and they’ll head home soon.”
Chapter 111
The door swung open quickly and banged against the wall. The three women wore masks of fear as the former Spetsnaz soldiers stomped into the room. Maria Soller had barely managed to stash her iPhone away in time, but FBI agent Cathy Moynihan was still worried about the plug for the charger that was dangling precariously from the wall.
“What’s going on in here?” the man with the utility jacket yelled.
No one answered. He looked to each of the prisoners deliberately, his gaze ending on Soller. Her eyes were still moist with tears, so she quickly wiped them away with her sleeve. His glare intensified.
“What’s going on?” he growled.
She didn’t respond. He was visibly angry at her refusal to speak. Moynihan tensed up as she watched him consider his next move.
Then one of the other men spoke. He motioned to Melody Millar. “She was together with this one,” he barked in Russian. “We could teach her a lesson.” He smiled in a way that suggested he was undressing her in his mind, which bared his crooked yellow teeth. “She is cute and young.”