Anastasia turned her weapon on Pushkin and fired once. The bullet chugged quietly out of the muzzle, destroying the computer monitor on Pushkin’s desktop. The monitor sparked, sharp pieces of debris flying everywhere, Pushkin throwing up an arm to shield his face. He lowered his arm and looked incredulous.
“What is the meaning of this? Tell me!”
“Vlad Glinkov,” Stiletto said.
“What about him?”
“Where is he?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because her next round goes through your head.”
“Then how will I answer your question?”
Anastasia fired again. This time Pushkin screamed and clumsily fell, knocking his elbows on the desktop. The bullet had crashed through his right knee, blood spattering on the wall behind him. Anastasia dragged Pushkin by his ankle out onto the middle of the floor.
The big Russian made whimpering noises into the carpet. Stiletto put a foot to his shoulder and shoved him onto his back.
“I meant the round after that,” he said.
“Why do you care about Glinkov?” Pushkin said through the pain filling his face. “Are you traitors too?”
Scott knelt beside the man. “Tell me where he is and you’ll have a chance to walk normally again. Otherwise—”
Pushkin spat at Scott, who wiped his face. Stiletto rose. “Well, I guess we’ll have to kill him.”
Anastasia grinned and lifted her weapon.
“Wait!”
Anastasia lowered her weapon.
Pushkin gasped, sweat beading on his forehead. A trickle ran down the side of his face as he looked up at Scott.
“There’s an oil refinery,” Pushkin began. He talked for two minutes, ending with, “That’s all I know.”
“He’s still alive?”
“I think so. If he isn’t they would not have consulted with me. Maybe I have an ambulance now?”
Anastasia said, “No,” and raised her weapon once more. Stiletto jumped back as the top of Pushkin’s head popped like a dropped watermelon but the cuffs of his pants and shoes couldn’t avoid the spatter of blood.
Anastasia’s face remained stoic.
Chapter Ten
ANASTASIA POWERD into traffic as Stiletto checked their back.
“There’s a lot to say for noise covering your exit,” he said. Only normal traffic was behind them, the neon flash of Pulse fading in the distance. And then—
“Make a few extra turns,” Scott said. There was one car, the make of which he couldn’t tell in the glare of the headlamps, aggressively weaving through lanes. The car closed the distance quickly.
Anastasia turned onto Leningradsky Avenue and the engine grumbled as she pressed the accelerator, weaving through cars, honking, Stiletto gripping his seat to keep from being jostled. The headlamps of the unknown car stayed with them, now only a few cars back.
“Do we have a tail?” she said.
“For sure.”
Stiletto faced forward, buckled up, and loosened the sawed-off shotgun. He placed the shotgun in his lap.
“I see them,” Anastasia said after a quick glance in the rearview.
Stiletto held his breath a moment, let it out. Not a clean getaway after all. It had been too easy up in the office, the noise of the club drowning out any sign of their activity, the crowd outside adding more cover as they made their way back to the car. But now the enemy was on their tail. There might be no avoiding a street fight.
He looked forward. Streetlights flashed; storefronts a blur. Anastasia powered through a yellow light.
“That car just turned off,” she said.
Scott looked back. There were plenty of other cars.
“They’re going to try and box us in.”
Scott lurched as Anastasia made a sharp right turn. He sat forward again.
“They can’t do that if they can’t catch up,” she said. “What’s the plan if they do?”
“Shoot our way out.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
“Do you have another idea?”
“The passages.”
“What?”
“Tunnels under the street.”
The cabin brightened as a car behind them got right on the bumper, high beams unmerciful. Scott grabbed the sawed-off with his finger resting on the trigger.
Another sharp turn onto Butyrskaya. The car sped onward, the street less crowded as the blocks turned to closed offices and warehouses. Stiletto spotted signs for the Savyolovsky railway station ahead
Anastasia let out a curse and slammed the brakes. Stiletto strained against the seatbelt. A car blasted out of an alley ahead and screeched to a stop in front of them. Anastasia threw the car into park and leaped out of the car, Stiletto behind her. Other doors opened and closed around him. Horns blared. People yelled. On his side with the greasy blacktop beneath, Stiletto aimed the sawed-off at a wheel of the car in front of them and let off a barrel. The roar shook the night. The front right tire exploded, sending shrapnel and bits of rubber everywhere. Men yelled and screamed. Stiletto rolled to his feet and ran around the front of the car. Anastasia waited near the mouth of an alley. Scott almost stopped when he heard somebody call his name. But he kept going.
Anastasia turned and started running as Scott neared. He reached the alley, looked back. Two men from both cars converged, three of them with drawn guns. The fourth man held no weapon and continued calling Scott’s name. The street lamps highlighted him perfectly.
David McNeil.
Dammit!
Scott turned and ran after Anastasia. The mafia wasn’t after them. This wasn’t related to Pushkin.
The C.I.A. had found him.
STILETTO’S BOOTS pounded the pavement as he stayed behind Anastasia, trusting her instincts to get them out of the area.
And McNeil was behind him, sent by General Ike, no doubt, to try and reel him in. He didn’t blame the General. One had to keep up appearances. It was Scott’s job to avoid capture. Nothing good would come of him being brought home and he doubted the Cabal would in any way step in.
They reached the street at the other end of the alley and kept running along the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians who expressed various levels of vitriol at being jostled by the sprinting couple. Anastasia cut across the street, Stiletto shooting a glance back as he followed. McNeil and his crew cleared the alley, but he was missing two. They were probably back in the undamaged car, trying to circle around for an interception.
Fenced-off constructions zones along the street funneled traffic into one lane. Scott felt mildly disoriented with the blaze of bright headlamps, the nighttime darkness, and the unfamiliar territory. He stayed close to Anastasia, no longer looking back. His lungs burned with the exertion. The sidewalk narrowed as part of a construction closure extended onto the sidewalk. Anastasia powered through, knocking down one or two people, Stiletto leaping over one of the fallen. She turned a corner, running into a parking lot.
Anastasia stopped and lifted a circular manhole. She shoved the cover to one side and started down the hole, Scott following, pulling the cover back in place, his fingers almost getting crunched. He started down the ladder after Anastasia, who waited on a concrete walkway.
She ducked into an alcove to open another door with a key from her pocket. The door squeaked open. Stiletto followed her. She shut the door and bolted the lock. They stood in the dark. Scott took out his cell phone and shined a light around. A narrow tunnel indeed.
“It branches off from the sewer,” she said. “We can follow it back to the streets near the safe house.”
She spoke while panting, Stiletto catching his breath as well.
“That wasn’t the mafia,” he said.
“Who were they then?”
“My people. Americans. The C.I.A.”
“Why is the C.I.A. after you?”