Russia’s president sat back with a hooded expression. Snipping off loose ends like Kurakin was easy. Arriving at a final solution for dangerous men like McLanahan and Farrell and their master, Martindale, was going to take a great deal more work.
President Stacy Anne Barbeau glared at the image of her Russian counterpart, Gennadiy Gryzlov. Over their secure video link, he seemed utterly unfazed by her undisguised anger. In fact, if anything, she realized with mounting fury, he looked remarkably pleased with himself.
“You look unwell, Madam President,” he said coolly, before she could start in on him. “Have you consulted your doctors?”
Barbeau felt her teeth grind together. Of course she looked “unwell,” she thought bitterly. No amount of makeup could disguise the bags under her eyes or the haggard, haunted expression she wore almost constantly these days. With the revelation that the Russians were really responsible for terrorist attacks she’d so vehemently blamed on the Poles and their Iron Wolf Squadron allies, her days in power were numbered. Every poll, every focus group, every high-priced consultant’s report came to the same, inexorable conclusion. Politically, she was a dead woman walking. She was going to lose the November election. The only open question right now was by how wide a margin — and how many congressmen and senators of her own party she would take down with her.
“I’m just fine,” she lied. “Which is more than anyone will be able to say for you in the not-too-distant future, you arrogant son of a bitch.”
Gryzlov raised an eyebrow challengingly. “Is that a threat, Madam President?”
“What else would it be?” Barbeau snapped. “What the hell made you think you could launch a covert war against the United States and stroll away unscathed?”
“Me?” he said with a cold, dismissive laugh. “Have you forgotten the precedents you set yourself? Long ago, you washed your hands of any responsibility for the actions of Scion’s Iron Wolf mercenaries, remember? You practically got down on your knees and begged me to absolve you of their sins against my country. And I agreed.” He smiled thinly. “Why then should I take any blame for the actions of a few criminal ex-soldiers who acted without any authorization from my government?”
For a moment, Barbeau could only stare at Gryzlov, flabbergasted by his sheer gall. “You can’t seriously believe anyone will believe that crock of shit?” she demanded at last. “Who are you going to claim paid this General Kurakin and his men? The Chinese? Some criminal syndicate? Little green men from Mars?”
Gryzlov shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Life is full of mysteries.” His gaze turned even colder. “In one way at least, Madam President, my government has proved itself more cognizant of its obligations under international law than yours. You claimed to be powerless against the depredations of Martindale’s Scion. Russia is not so weak or negligent. The deaths of the criminal Kurakin and his closest associates prove that.” He showed his teeth. “So you see, justice in my country is swift… and certain.”
“Knocking a few pawns off the board won’t cut it, this time,” Barbeau retorted.
“Will it not?” Gryzlov said lazily. Abruptly, he leaned forward. “Don’t waste any more of my time with paper threats, Madam President. We both know you don’t have the stomach for real war. And even if you did, who will follow you into the abyss? You have no allies. No friends. Your own Congress would impeach you, if only to save its own skin.”
Barbeau saw red for a moment. Oh, for a knife and just a couple minutes alone with this bastard, she thought darkly, clenching her fists below her desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Luke Cohen starting to get up from his chair. Impatiently, she waved him back down. At last, she breathed out, regaining a small measure of self-control. “You really think you’ve won something here, Gennadiy?” she retorted. “Because from where I’m sitting, you look like a loser.”
He only smiled.
“You think I’m wrong?” Barbeau continued cuttingly. “Well, I hope you enjoy reaping what you’ve just sowed. Come January, you’re going to face a new American president, someone who’s openly hostile to you and your ambitions. A president allied with Martindale and Sky Masters… and”—she swallowed a curse—“with McLanahan.”
For the first time, she saw Gryzlov look uneasy. “I do not fear any of them,” he said quickly.
“Then you’re a moron,” she said flatly. “Because you damned well should be afraid.” Before he could reply, she broke the connection and sat back breathing hard.
Finally, Barbeau turned to Cohen and Rauch. Both men had been listening in on the call. “Did you hear Gryzlov gloating? There’s no doubt about it. That son of a bitch is guilty as hell.”
“And free as a bird,” Rauch pointed out bluntly. “Because he’s right. Unless we’re willing to declare war over this, there’s not much we can do… at least in the short term.”
Barbeau snorted. “The short term is all I’ve got, Dr. Rauch.”
“True enough,” he agreed. “Fortunately, this nation’s long-term interests and security don’t depend on any single person — most especially not on you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I like your tone very much, Ed.” She scowled at him. “I suggest you leave the half-assed political commentary at the door next time.”
“There won’t be a next time, Madam President,” Rauch said calmly. He stood up, pulled a letter from his jacket pocket, and put it on her desk.
Barbeau stared down at it. “What the hell is that?”
“My resignation,” he said. “Effective immediately.”
She looked at him with cold contempt. “So you’re just another rat leaving the sinking ship, Dr. Rauch?”
“No, Madam President,” Rauch replied with equal contempt. “In this case, the only rats here are the ones who’re staying.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the Oval Office — leaving Stacy Anne Barbeau speechless behind him.
Epilogue
Major Nadia Rozek loped alone along the wide, windswept stretch of sandy beach. She gritted her teeth against the icy cold, dug into the loose sand, and kept going — striving to master her new prosthetic running blades. They were the last piece of the challenge she’d been wrestling with ever since the surgeons at Fort Sam Hood amputated both of her mangled legs below the knee.
Weeks of agonizing hospitalization in the United States had been followed by months of painful and exhausting rehabilitation at home in Poland. She’d already relearned to walk using other, more conventional prosthetic legs. Now she was determined to prove that she was not a helpless cripple to be thanked for her service, awarded a pension, and then gently set aside. Men like Douglas Bader, the World War II RAF fighter ace, had already shown that double amputees could fly and fight in the air. Her task was to convince her superiors that she was fit to serve, even without her legs, as an active-duty officer in Poland’s special forces.
And so every day, in all kinds of weather, she ran up and down this long, empty stretch of beach — rebuilding her strength, her stamina, her agility, and her speed. Already, she was beating the personal records she’d set with two real legs.
But she always ran alone.
Nadia ducked her head and sprinted across the sand, trying to focus on what was just in front of her… and not on what might lie in her future. Since she was a child, she’d only really been afraid of one thing — the chance that she might live out her life as a solitary being, alone and loveless. For years, the comradeship of her fellow soldiers had filled the void… though only imperfectly. Then she’d met Brad McLanahan, and it was as though a new sun had risen in her world, bringing with it a glorious feeling of warmth and growth and joy.