“You need to relax. We have a long flight tomorrow.”
“I can’t relax.”
“What do I need to do to calm you down?”
“Promise the coup will be a success. That Russia will be free.”
“You’re still giving a speech,” she said. “Undress me and we’ll go to bed.”
SIYANA REMOVED the stethoscope from the wall.
The couple hadn’t talked much after their return, but apparently, the night’s work was successful enough that they were extra horny. Pathetic. A disgrace to Russia all around. The last thing she’d heard after a lot of muffled words and short grunts was Zubarev on the phone, asking for a seven a.m. wake-up call.
Siyana picked up the phone and asked for a six a.m. wake-up call. She occupied the neighboring hotel room, the little red dress draped over a chair, wearing a white bathrobe. The room had been arranged via a connection on the staff who was the nephew of one of her boss’s captains.
Siyana had been one of the top killers for the Bratva crime family in Moscow. A run-in with some Bulgarian gangsters ended with a price on her head. Siyana’s boss sent her to connections in New York City, under the control of Shishkin Pavlovitch, and she’d quickly cemented her reputation in the new land while waiting for the chronically lazy Bulgarian thugs to forget about her. Sometimes she found her gunsights on targets like Zubarev. Not criminals or rivals, but enemies of the Motherland. Pavlovitch had a close relationship with Vladimir Putin; whenever Putin needed any wet work done, he often reached out around the world to Pavlovitch and people like him. Putin couldn’t very well send official agents on such matters because he had a reputation as a statesman to maintain, one most of the world bought, especially a large portion of the American population, who thought him an example of masculine leadership.
The fools.
She put the stethoscope away in a tote bag and decided to hit the sack. She slept with one light on.
Siyana rinsed her mouth with water, stowed her toothbrush in the tote bag, and hopped in the shower. She left the room around a quarter after six dressed in jeans, T-shirt, jacket and running shoes.
The lobby was quiet, only staff hanging around getting started for the morning. The lobby restaurant had just opened as well. Fresh coffee wafted through the room and she was tempted to get a cup to go, but the job came first. If the Zubarevs woke up early and made it downstairs while she was pouring the milk, the whole operation would be in jeopardy.
Siyana stepped out into the crisp morning air. Clouds still hung in the sky. On the opposite side of the wide parking lot, full of cars, was the freeway. There wasn’t much traffic at this hour but the rumble of cars drowned out any other noise. She couldn’t even hear birds chirping.
She crossed the parking lot, ignoring her car, and climbed into the passenger seat of a white panel van scrubbed of identifying labels. She tossed her tote bag in the back of the van.
A hulk of a man sat behind the wheel. He handed her a Starbucks from the console cup holder.
“You’re a lifesaver, Boris.”
The big man grunted and took a drink from his own cup.
Siyana sipped her coffee and placed it back in the holder. She enjoyed the warming sensation in her belly as the coffee went down her throat. Under the seat, she found an Uzi submachine gun with the stock folded. She bent over to keep the weapon out of sight and checked the load. Full mag, chamber empty. She placed the weapon on the floor and rested her right foot atop it. Back to the coffee. Boris kept his eyes on the front of the hotel. She watched too, glancing at the Zubarev’s nearby rental from time to time.
The rental was a new Chevy Impala, but the souped-up van could more than keep up despite its extra weight. The suspension had been tuned and the engine’s power boosted as well. Boris, an expert driver, could whip the van around like a six-figure sports car.
Siyana’s coffee was half gone when Zubarev and his wife crossed the lot to the Impala. Zubarev carried their suitcases and loaded them into the trunk. He held the passenger door for his wife and climbed behind the wheel. Such a gentleman. Such a waste of good Russian stock. Siyana wished the man was on the right side of Motherland politics. He was smart and articulate. But for reasons she could not understand, he had chosen to become an enemy.
The Impala started and drove out of the parking lot.
Boris fired up the van and followed.
“We’ll hit them on the freeway,” Siyana said.
They followed a two-lane frontage road parallel to the freeway, made a right at a light, and increased speed on the on-ramp. Zubarev stayed in the slow lane despite the light traffic.
Boris merged behind a semi, the van’s engine purring, Siyana placing the Uzi on her lap. She locked back the bolt. Two miles to an interchange that would take them east toward the airport. When the semi took the next exit, leaving a gap between the van and Impala, Siyana told Boris to speed up and change lanes. She powered down her window. Cold air rushed into the van. The hairs on her neck stood with the sudden chill.
The chill was soon replaced by butterflies of excitement in her belly. Her breathing slowed, her chest rising and falling as she breathed deep through her mouth. Her lips were wet.
A sign for the upcoming interchange flashed by. Boris gave the van a splash of power and came up on the Impala’s rear quarter on the driver’s side.
“Hurry,” he said.
But Siyana didn’t hear him. She was in her zone, focused on the target. She didn’t even unbuckle her belt as she stretched the Uzi through the window, aimed downward, and squeezed the trigger.
Flame flashed from the muzzle, the buzz-saw sound of the fully automatic submachine gun echoing through the van. The rear glass of the Impala shattered, the roof shredding as the hot nine-millimeter slugs ripped through, a shift in Siyana’s aim bringing the final fusillade of lead to the back of the driver’s seat. Blood splashed against the windshield. Boris floored the pedal, the van rocketing away. He weaved around other cars, quickly swinging back into the right lane to make the interchange. The sharp clover-leaf turn made the suspension squeal but the van held, and soon they were heading east, in more traffic, quickly taking the first exit they came to.
Siyana jammed the Uzi back under the seat as Boris slowed for city street traffic.
ZUBAREV SAW the Uzi too late.
He yelled something as Valeriya screamed, the bullets punching through the back of the car. Val’s scream stopped short, Zubarev snapping his eyes to her. The side of her face was gone, torn away, pieces of her on the dash and upholstery, her blood on him, he realized, as he absently looked forward again. And then the bullets ripped into his back, the stabbing pain sending electric bolts through his entire body. His hands slipped from the wheel, and as his vision faded. The car jolted as it left the road, heading for a cluster of trees on the shoulder. The trees caved in the front with a crunch of metal and shattering glass.
Chapter Two
Moscow
THE BUZZING finally stirred Anastasia Dubinina from sleep.
She groggily reached for the phone on her nightstand and pressed a button. The vibration stopped. She tapped in her passcode and the screen lit up. A text message. Short. Frightening.
Zubarevs killed in New York. Wait for orders.
Anastasia hopped out of bed in a panic. She paced the floor of the dark room, letting out a sharp gasp, suddenly petrified by the open window before her. It let in the night air to keep the room cool, and she’d left the drapes half-open as well. She hurried around the other side of the bed and dropped to the floor. Her window was almost level with the roof of the building across the street. Was there a sniper waiting for her there?