Bennett ducked, waited a beat, then popped up and fired back.
Skidding right, Hamid regained control just in time to avoid smashing headlong into a Russian battle tank.
“Take the second left,” Bennett shouted as they came off the bridge.
Hamid’s mountain-driving skills were coming in handy after all.
The city suddenly erupted with the sounds of sirens. The entire FSB force knew they were here and were mobilizing to take them down.
And now, air-raid sirens began to wail as well.
Hamid took a hard left, though the skid marks were leaving a trail that wouldn’t be hard to follow.
He looked back to see how many were on their tail. For the moment, he could hear only the pursuing sirens. Bennett grabbed the radio.
“This is Unit 225, we are inbound for Petrovsky Center. Request immediate assistance. We have—”
From out of nowhere a black Mercedes broadsided Hamid, putting the car into a 360-degree spin and sending Bennett smashing into the passenger window.
Dazed and bleeding, Bennett saw an FSB agent rushing toward the car, firing wildly. Glass flew everywhere. Blood gushed from Bennett’s head. He fished around on the floor of the backseat for his Beretta.
“Hamid, get down!” Bennett screamed as more rounds pierced their car.
With Hamid out of the way, Bennett fired five rounds through what was left of the front windshield. Two hit their mark. He pivoted hard and saw another agent coming from his right side, reaching for his weapon.
Bennett emptied his entire magazine until the man collapsed to the ground. The sirens were getting closer.
“Hamid, we need to move,” Bennett said, ejecting one magazine and loading another. There was no response.
“Hamid, let’s go; let’s go!”
Still Bennett heard nothing. He looked up to find Hamid slumped against the steering wheel. He reached for Hamid’s pulse. There was none.
“Unit 225, this is N.P. Center standing by. Where are you?”
It was McCoy on the radio, but Hamid was dead, and the entire police force of Moscow was bearing down on him.
Bennett checked Hamid’s pulse again, just to be sure, but it was over.
As he closed Hamid’s eyes and said a final rushed good-bye, he choked down the rage rising within him. Bennett scrambled over the front seat, grabbed Hamid’s Beretta and his wedding ring, exited the passenger-side door, and raced to the running Mercedes.
The front grill was smashed in, but it would do. He slammed the door behind him, gunned the engine, and rammed past the police cruiser.
“Unit 225, this is N.P. Center — repeat — standing by. Where are you?”
Erin’s voice startled Bennett until he realized that the FSB was, for the moment at least, using the same frequency. But he had no time to respond. He had both hands on the wheel and was weaving through side streets and back alleys to get to the apartment building in which he’d spent so much time as a child.
He still had no idea how she’d gotten there or why, but as he drove up to the back entrance he flipped his lights on and off and suddenly saw her bolt from the door and race to the car. He reached over and pushed the door open, and before he knew it she was in his arms, sobbing and kissing him.
The roar of a helicopter emerged overhead.
CRACK, CRACK, CRACK.
Someone was firing at them. Gasping for air, Bennett reluctantly pulled away.
“Miss me?” He smiled through blood and tears.
“Of course — now drive!”
63
Their chopper was waiting.
Gogolov and Jibril raced to the helipad and climbed in, with Zyuganov right behind them.
“All set, Commander?” Gogolov shouted to the pilot over the roar of the rotors.
“Yes, Your Excellency. Clear skies ahead.”
“Good, let’s do it.”
The Israelis had not yet launched, but they would. That gave them a thirty-minute head start in which to leave Moscow behind and reach their nuclear-blast-proof command center deep inside the Ural Mountain range. From there Gogolov could watch the final devastation of the Jews on large-screen monitors and in full color.
He could hardly wait.
“Mr. Prime Minister, all systems are go.”
So this is it, thought Mordechai.
The bunker was silent. Every eye was glued to the computer screens, where telemetry and tracking data updated in real time. There were only twelve minutes to impact. If Israel was going to launch a counterstrike, it had to be now.
But Doron said nothing.
“We can only launch on your command, sir,” said Defense Minister Modine.
Still no reaction. Doron just stared at the trajectory of the inbound ICBM and shook his head.
“Sir?” Modine asked again. “We need a decision.”
Every eye was now on him. Six million Jews were about to be incinerated. He had every right to retaliate. Indeed, it was his responsibility.
So why wasn’t he giving the order?
Darkness completely engulfed Moscow.
Bennett hit his high beams and slammed the pedal to the floor. They were racing through Moscow with tracer bullets blowing out their windows and aiming for their tires. Bennett cruised through a side street and headed for the embassy. How safe they’d be he had no idea, but he didn’t know what else to do.
“Jon, look out!” McCoy screamed.
As they came around a corner, a Russian battle tank sat two hundred yards ahead. Its turret shifted. The 125 mm smooth-bore cannon aimed right for them, and a second later they saw the tank rock back.
“He fired — break left, break left.”
The embassy option was out.
Bennett took a hard left and smashed through a bus stop as 50-caliber rounds tore up the road behind them. He was driving as fast as he could while trying to maintain some measure of control. They had no hope of U.S. assistance and no plan B.
They also had no margin for error. The Moscow police and FSB were systematically cutting off all possible escape routes out of the city. And even if they could break free, cars and trucks filled with fleeing Muscovites jammed every major thoroughfare.
As they blew through another red light, they narrowly missed being broadsided by two police cruisers, both of which now opened fire.
Bennett hit the brakes and spun the car to the right. They spilled out onto Tverskaya Boulevard, and Bennett gunned the engine.
For the moment, they had no options to either side. Red Square was dead ahead. Perhaps they could make it to the river. It was a long shot, but…
McCoy’s satellite phone rang. It was Mordechai.
“Erin, where are you?” the old man shouted.
“I’m with Jon, but we’ve got a little situation here.”
“You’ve got to get out of Moscow now.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she shot back.
“No, no, you don’t understand. Gogolov just launched—”
But the call suddenly went dead.
“Sir, we have a problem.”
With Gogolov on the phone with his generals, Jibril leaned forward.
“What is it, Commander?” Jibril shouted, barely able to hear himself.
The pilot pointed to the helicopter’s radar display. “Sir, storm intensity on this radar system is displayed in four colors against this black background. That green to our south is light rainfall. The yellow represents a mild storm to our north. This red patch indicates heavy thunderstorms coming in behind us.”
“What is the dark purple section straight ahead?” Jibril asked.