Kozlov looked at the remaining pair of Russians and commanded what Campbell thought might be the same thing in his native tongue to make sure they understood. They both responded with a curt nod.
“I want to take one of the girls with us,” Campbell said.
Kozlov nodded his approval, so Campbell looked at Maria Soller and said, “You. You’re coming with us.”
Her skin went from flush to pale as Campbell approached, grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her toward him. He grabbed a roll of duct tape from the small table next to him and tore off a piece before forcing it over her mouth. He looked to Kozlov.
“Where are they?” he said.
The Russian looked down at the display and back to Campbell. “Three of them have just come in the door and are clearing the first floor. They will soon make their way down the stairs.”
Campbell nodded and signaled for the soldiers and his driver to follow him.
“Wait,” Kozlov said.
Campbell turned to him.
“The FBI woman has just come in the front door as well,” Kozlov confirmed. “She is armed.”
As they worked their way down the hallway, Campbell grew concerned with how his human shield might slow his response time. With a man like The American on the prowl, every fraction of a second would be crucial. He wasn’t ready to become another statistic.
“Here,” he said to his driver. “Keep her in front of you and do what I say.”
The driver nodded and grabbed hold of the girl with his lanky arm.
The men carefully worked their way down the hall at Campbell’s direction, using recessed doorways for cover when it was possible and Soller as a human shield when it wasn’t. Campbell quickly jumped to the front and stopped them fifteen feet short of the only stairwell that led upstairs. The men listened for any sign of the operatives approaching. He was leery of the loud noises coming from the level above. The men they were up against were professionals, and he knew he couldn’t lose sight of that. Every second that ticked by served to whittle away their advantage, so he motioned for one of the Russians to advance.
As the Bratva soldier moved forward, he grabbed Campbell’s driver by the shoulder with his massive hand. The soldier had been around long enough to know that the operatives hunting them down would need to consider whom they were shooting before squeezing the trigger. That gave them a significant advantage that he planned to exploit with the girl.
His AK-74 remained trained on the opening to the stairwell as they began to close in. The former Spetsnaz soldier moved like a great cat stalking its prey, which was in stark contrast with the nervous pair he directed beside him.
He stopped and held up his hand. It was clear that he had heard something — or it was one of those times when an experienced operative knew something was about to happen.
Chapter 159
Every step he took was as deliberate as it was silent. He timed his movement with the noises from above, sounds that were designed to seem random unless you knew the count. Trent Turner found himself in a position a covert operative tried to avoid at all cost. Getting in a fight was always a last resort. In his line of work, it was something that only happened when you couldn’t take the enemy out in one fell swoop. They had taken all the advantage they could with the element of surprise, and now they were left to rely on their experience, and no Island Industries operative would bet against another.
He descended the staircase, and the musty smell from the basement grew stronger. His eyes were trained like a laser on the entrance to the stairwell, the sight of his Heckler & Koch MP7A1 framed and ready to inflict damage. When he neared the bottom, he keyed a button on his comms to silently acknowledge he had arrived at his position to Brendan Manion and Throaty. He waited a few seconds and checked that Manion had started down the first flight of stairs.
His next move would be suicide without cover fire. Turner gave his friend a hand signal to let him know he was ready and grabbed a flashbang from his tactical jacket. He stole a quick glance at Manion, who returned it with a nod.
Turner crept closer to the opening. The FBI agent had said that it led to a long hallway where they could access the area she had been held. He pulled the pin and quickly tossed the cylindrical container through the opening, making sure it landed at the angle that would provide him with the most protection. He heard shuffling sounds just before the device erupted into a concussive thud and blinding flash.
The operative turned the corner with the determination of a moth headed into the flame, while Manion quickly closed in from behind. Turner spotted five individuals along the hallway when he turned the corner. All but two were in motion. He lined up his sight with the forehead of the lanky, disoriented Tango he recognized from the park in Washington, DC as he squeezed the trigger. The others had moved too quickly for him to take a shot, so he sprinted toward the dead man as he fell, hoping to snatch up Maria Soller before the remaining men went on the offensive. Their keen reflexes told him this wasn’t the first time they’d seen action.
He latched onto her shoulder and started to pull. She began to panic, and he decided it was because the blast had taken both her hearing and sight away.
“I’m with Etzy,” Turner yelled in her ear.
Soller stopped struggling and began to move in the direction he was pulling her. The familiar rat-tat-tat of AK-74s erupted from behind and burrowed pockmarks on the walls and floor around him. He shoved Soller into the stairwell before turning with his weapon to help Manion silence the deadly barrage of fire.
Turner turned to his friend and said, “Keep them pinned down. I’m going to get her out of here. I’ll be back before you can say blueberry pie.”
Manion couldn’t help but laugh at the Pulp Fiction reference. “Don’t wake the gimp up,” he replied with a sideways glance.
Turner ushered Soller up the stairs and met Throaty and Cathy Moynihan at the top. He motioned for them to follow him to the exit. He planted his palms firmly on her shoulders and gave her a reassuring look.
“Maria, I need your help. Can I ask you a few questions?”
She nodded and began to cry. “They’ve got Melody,” she said. “You have to get her out of there.”
“That’s the plan, but I need you to think — I mean really think hard about what I’m about to ask you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“How many of them are down there?” He met her eyes as she tried to remember.
“The guy that was holding me, is he…?”
“Don’t count him,” Turner said.
“The older man killed two of them. I think there are four of them down there now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Okay, good. What can you tell me about them? Let’s start with the older man.”
“His leg is hurt. He wasn’t looking very good. He’s got an accent. I’m not sure, but I think he might be Russian.”
Turner nodded in confirmation. “And the others? Anything in particular about them?”
“They’re all pretty big and mean looking. One of them is an American, and the other two have an accent.”
“The same kind of accent that the old man has?”
She nodded.
“Okay, you’ve done really well. Really well considering everything you’ve been through. Thank you.” Turner looked to Throaty and said, “Keep her, Etzy, and Victoria safe. Brendan and I can handle the rest of them. Make sure they don’t surprise us like they did in Chicago.”
Turner noticed Etzy Millar running toward them, and motioned for Maria to turn around.