“Hands where we can see them,” Campbell yelled as the car came to a stop.
The occupants complied, carefully raising their hands into view.
“Driver,” Campbell continued, “slowly reach down and turn off the car. Take the keys out of the ignition, and throw them over here to me.”
Victoria Eden moved with deliberation — slower than Campbell would have liked — but not slow enough for him to bark his frustration.
“Now reach down to the door handle on the outside of the car and slowly open the door.” Campbell waved his Heckler & Koch for emphasis and said, “I want all of you to exit the car from this door. And I need to see your hands. Do you understand?”
All three of the passengers nodded, then crept out of the vehicle one by one.
“I want you to lock your hands behind your heads, turn around, and back up slowly until I say stop.” Nothing happened. “Now!” Campbell barked.
His impatience turned into doubt as he studied the faces of the three people lined up in front of him. The muted crack of a gun confirmed what he had sensed, and he instinctively dove for cover behind a column at the entrance to the building. Shards of brick lashed out at his face. He eyed the pockmarks they left in their wake.
The burst of gunfire had been effective. He noted the pool of blood welling where he once stood and looked to the lifeless body of the sniper hanging precariously from the tree stand. Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. Two of the four men outside were now dead, and it appeared the would-be prisoners had made a break for the woods. One of the Russians, the one with the stained teeth, had made it to the car amidst the flurry of gunfire. He signaled that he had one of the attackers pinned and was clearly waiting for the target to present itself again, this time for the kill.
Bruce Campbell knew by their weapons and controlled bursts that this couldn’t be the police, and he doubted the FBI could have gotten a SWAT team there so quickly. They had used the advantage of surprise well, and the only way to regain control of the situation was to be aggressive. He was contemplating his next move when the door to the compound flew open. The Bratva soldier was cut down before he could take two full steps. That left four men he thought he could count on in a fight. At this point he had only heard two distinct enemy weapons fire.
Chapter 157
It was pitch black, and they had stopped moving. Trent Turner listened intently to the man’s voice and tried to make out what was being said. He was rocked side to side slowly several times and sensed things would begin to unfold as the first cracks of gunfire broke the silence. He remained still, waiting for his cue. He shifted to improve his position, knowing they needed to move quickly in order to have a chance at stopping the Russians. Another short burst of gunfire was followed by a familiar voice in his earpiece.
“Somewhere a village is missing an idiot,” Brendan Manion said quietly into the comms. “Three Tangos down. Throaty nailed the birdcage, and I’ve installed two door mats on the front porch, over.”
Turner wouldn’t have known his friend had just chopped down the Russian who had mindlessly sprinted out the front door, but his imagination elaborated on the radio commentary and brought a sly smile. With the information the FBI agent had provided on their numbers, they still had plenty of work left to do.
“One of their guys has me pinned down,” Throaty grumbled. “Finger, he’s at your twelve last I saw. I’m at seven o’clock, and Caretaker is at your five. Caretaker, let Finger know when to pop the weasel, or I’ll be a clump of Swiss cheese the next time you see me. I’m behind a tree stump, over.”
“Caretaker copies that, Throaty. I don’t have a shot, repeat, do not have a shot on the Tango by the car. The Tango by the front door has me cut off, over,” Manion explained.
Trent could now sense the Russian crouched down in front of the Audi preparing to make his move on Throaty. He heard him yell in accented English, “Cover me.”
“You’ll have to work fast, Finger,” Manion said. “He only has a few steps before he’s on top of our man.”
Turner could hear the tension in his voice, and the truth of the matter was sinking in. Missing the Russian at the front of the car now looked to have been a fatal mistake. He knew the only thing going in Throaty’s favor was the morning sun burning brightly in the sky just behind him.
“Wait for my mark,” Manion added. “I’ll cover the porch, over.”
“Roger that, over,” Turner said quietly.
There was an anxious silence.
“Go, go, go,” Manion shot into the comms.
Trent Turner pushed up on the trunk of the Audi — and it wouldn’t open. He tried again amidst the sounds of automatic gunfire — and still no luck. He worked quickly on the release, knowing Throaty’s life was in the balance.
“Finger, go!” he heard Manion yell again when the first cracks of daylight pierced the trunk. His eyes adjusted to the bright light as he leveled his weapon to the eight-o’clock position he had anticipated for his target. It took him a split second to process the scene. He looked down at a scowl-faced Russian fumbling to turn his weapon toward the source of his fall, his yellow teeth looking more like fangs.
Turner recognized the long legs and torso extending from underneath the car. They belonged to Victoria Eden. He reflexively hammered two rounds into the Russian just before the violinist had slid into the soldier’s sights. He helped her from beneath the car and into a crouched position.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she said with a mix of amusement and fear.
“You owe me dinner,” Turner said.
She shook her head and motioned toward Throaty’s position. “No, he owes us both dinner.”
Turner smiled and relayed the news. “Throaty, it looks like you’ve got an angel. Tango down, over.”
She snuck him a quick kiss on the lips and Turner smiled, surprised.
He saw Throaty’s head peek around the stump and then heard him say, “Roger that. Let’s move in before they get too comfy inside, over.”
“Looks like the Tango by the front door headed inside,” Turner said into the comms as Throaty sprinted across to their position behind the car. “I’ll take the lead,” Trent continued, “Keep your eyes on. After Chicago, who knows what sort of tunnels and passages they have here to circle back around on us, over.”
Chapter 158
Bruce Campbell shot down the stairway in search of the Bratva leader. He reached the room where they held the prisoners and saw that only the bodies of the dead hackers and their two laptops were left inside, so he continued farther down the hallway. At the end, in an open-area rectangular room near the underground exit, he was greeted by the two remaining soldiers, his driver, Pavel Kozlov, and the two prisoners. The space had several small tables around the walls, and once he had taken a couple of steps into the room, he could see the recessed hallway that led to the exit.
“They’re coming in fast, Pavel,” Campbell said.
The Russian looked down at the device that displayed the video-camera feeds and back to his man. “How the hell did The American make it out of Chicago?”
Campbell could sense the hatred in his voice, and could see his condition was worsening from the gunshot wound.
The Russian looked each of his men in the eye and said, “We were successful with the cyber-attack. That is what was most important, but there is one thing more I ask of you. I want that American dead before you leave this building. No exceptions.”