Millar put his arms around her, and she hugged him tight. “I’m so sorry, Maria,” he said.
“Melody is down there,” she said, her voice shaking from fear. She turned to Turner. “Oh my God, please get her out of there.”
Turner looked to Millar and said, “I’m going in for her now. See you soon.”
“I’m coming,” Moynihan said. “I know the inside better than any of you guys. I might be able to help.”
Turner nodded, and they headed back down the stairs.
Chapter 160
His ears were ringing like mad, but he and the two Russians had managed to avoid being blinded by the flashbang that had just been tossed into the hallway.
Bruce Campbell quickly snuck a look at the hallway around the recessed doorway again. This time he wasn’t forced back by an onslaught of automatic weapons fire. He saw his driver’s lifeless body sprawled out on the floor in a growing pool of blood, but no sign of the prisoner. His face soured with the thought that they had lost her.
He made eye contact with the closer of the two Russians and signaled that he was going to retreat and look after Pavel Kozlov. The soldier acknowledged and counted down from three, before whipping his weapon around the recess and opening fire toward the stairwell. Campbell quickly sprinted down the hall and turned the corner just as the magazine had emptied its final round.
Kozlov was leaning against one of the small tables with the barrel of his Makarov pistol pressed firmly into Melody Millar’s skin. The teenager had a distant look in her eyes, and Campbell shook off the inclination to feel sorry for her. “We just have her now,” he said.
More shots rang out from the hallway. The bursts were controlled, and the lack of return fire was alarming.
“You’d better head out now. I’ll hold them off with the girl,” Campbell said.
“I don’t know that I can make it out this time. They’ve surely learned from Chicago.”
Kozlov took his tablet from the desk and reviewed the camera that displayed the hallway leading to their location. “It’s not looking good, my friend. I can die proud knowing we’ve accomplished what we’ve set out to do.”
Campbell was beside himself. He’d never seen the bastard give up on anything, and now when things had gone belly-up he was ready to throw in the towel? He was seething with anger until he realized the problem. The man in front of him was fading. The gunshot wound had been sucking the life out of him and bled his resolve.
“Go. I’ve got this,” Campbell said. “You can make it out of here, and I’ll be right behind you, if I can help it.”
Kozlov smiled. “Okay. I will go. Take her and make sure you make it out behind me. Driving with my leg like this will be a bitch.”
Campbell nodded and grabbed Melody Millar. They both watched the Russian limp away and Campbell grabbed his Sig Sauer P226R from its holster and assumed the position Kozlov had left. He looked to the hallway, and did a double take when his gaze was met by The American. His heart pounded as he stared down the silencer fitted to the man’s MP7A1 and wondered whether this would be how it all ended.
“What’s the cliché? So we meet again… Is that how it goes?” Campbell said.
The American didn’t answer, and his silence brought with it the realization that Campbell had been transformed from the hunter into the hunted. He felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead which were in direct contrast to the coldness of the man’s eyes. He considered his options, subconsciously pushing his gun deeper into the flesh of the frightened teenager.
“What now?” Campbell asked as his thoughts spiraled out of control. He firmed his finger’s grip on the trigger, desperately grasping for a position of strength.
Chapter 161
Trent Turner realized that he had just cornered a wild animal. Experience told him that the man in front of him holding the gun to Melody Millar’s head was smart enough to know he was out of options. He could see the man’s confidence drip away with the sweat down his forehead. His voice had lacked confidence, but more than anything else, it was the desperation in his eyes.
“It’s over. Put the gun down and let the girl go,” Turner said, emotionless.
The words only further agitated the man.
“What, so you can kill me?” he said sarcastically. “Sure. I’ll just hand over my gun, maybe bend over and grab my ankles, if that suits you. How does that sound?” He shook his head in disgust. “How about this…?” he said, stabbing the barrel of his gun into Millar’s skin with each syllable. “You can keep your gun. Just turn the fuck around and leave. Then this will be over.”
Turner remained silent. He recognized him as the man from the park in DC and knew the gunman’s ego would also be in play.
He tightened his grip on the girl. “No?” he spat. He motioned his head in the direction his gun was pointing. “Then how about we make that wall our canvas and try a little Jackson Pollock experiment?”
Turner’s eyes narrowed.
“Blood and brain matter make a unique medium for a work of art,” the gunman said. “We can take art to the next level.” He smiled with a crazed expression on his face. “You only have one chance to get it right. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and some clumps of hair will make it to the wall too. I’ve always been a fan of modern art. How about you?”
It was painful for Turner to see the teenager having to deal with this stress. The operative knew his limits. His expertise was in killing people and vanishing. They were things for which he had an incredible talent. Trying to negotiate a hostage situation wasn’t part of his playbook, and the man in front of him was coming unraveled.
“You know it’s too late, don’t you?” the Bratva soldier said in desperation. “One of the dead guys in the other room,” he continued, “he’s the only one who could’ve stopped whatever shit they’re up to from happening.”
Those were words Turner didn’t want to hear. Unless The Shop could work some kind of miracle, he’d failed. The only upside was that he was now left with only one concern: saving the young woman in front of him.
The lack of response continued to unnerve the gunman. “So if I were to let her go, where would that leave me?” he asked.
The stone-cold face of The American gave nothing away.
“You’ll make it out of here alive,” Trent Turner finally said.
He could tell his answer didn’t sit well. This was a man who would do anything to avoid prison, and with every passing second he could see the man’s eyes processing the fact that life as he knew it was over.
At fifteen feet, Turner had no doubt that he could quickly sink several of the DM11 Penetrator rounds into the man’s head without harming the girl. He just needed an opportunity to do it before the bastard could squeeze the trigger. It was clear that his target had a short fuse — and it was burning fast. Turner remained a picture of focus, detached from any emotion Melody Millar’s despondent eyes might bring to the surface.
He first sensed it, and then he saw someone in his peripheral vision approaching from the left. He took a step back so he could have a clearer view without taking his eye off the Bratva soldier. The person’s frame was much smaller than Manion’s or Throaty’s, so he knew it had to be FBI agent Cathy Moynihan. He began to breathe slowly to reduce his heart rate, knowing there was no margin for error with Melody Millar’s life in the balance.
Turner was confident Moynihan would walk into the target’s view, based on the aggressive position he’d taken with his weapon and stance. He just needed a little luck for her to provide the distraction he needed before it was too late. He waited patiently for a flicker of movement in the killer’s crazed eyes, the momentary blip that represented the infinitesimal window of opportunity.