Bennings felt cold, very cold, in the brisk Moscow air of an early spring morning. He knew he could kill Travkin, and maybe the blond guy before he’d be shot down dead by the goons. Fair enough.
Travkin took a small, slow step forward, with his arms out to his sides. “A lot of blood was tragically shed tonight. With Viktor Popov’s untimely passing, we could easily be persuaded to wipe the slate clean. With you and your government.”
“You’re Mikhail Travkin, Popov’s nephew.”
“Correct.”
Kit’s eyes panned from Mikhail to Dennis. He quickly calculated the brand-new dynamic that equaled the new leaders of Popov’s kingdom. Business was business, after all. “You were the number-two guy, but now you’re number one.” He looked at Dennis. “And you’re the new number two.”
“Correct again.”
“Did either of you have anything to do with what happened to my mother and sister?”
“Quite the contrary. We were against involving you at all, Major Bennings. My uncle was his own worst enemy and would not listen to reason.”
“Where is my sister?”
“You haven’t heard?” asked Dennis surprised. “She was rescued by police detectives in Las Vegas.”
Kit was unable to hide the look of hope that crossed his face. Could it be true?
“Both of her captors were killed,” said Dennis.
“Friends of yours?” asked Kit pointedly.
“You know how it is. Sometimes you have to work with people you don’t really like.”
“May I?” asked Travkin, gesturing that he wanted to reach into his pocket.
Kit nodded his assent, and Travkin produced a smartphone. His fingers flew like hyped-up digits on the touch screen. He then slowly bent down, placed the smartphone on the ground, and kicked it over to Bennings.
Pain ripped through his torso as Kit slowly, carefully stooped down and picked up the phone. Sweat dripped from his chin as his head spun. It was all he could do, it took every last ounce of his strength and mental capacity to stand up and hold the phone at eye level so he could glance at the screen showing the Los Angeles Times online news story about Staci, while still keeping his sight picture on Travkin’s chest.
He lowered the phone.
“Looks like the slate is already clean.”
“And your government?”
“I’m sure they’re anxious to close the book on this whole episode. I won’t advise them otherwise.”
Bennings looked at the two men for a long moment. Who would make the first move?
Travkin gestured, and the goons lowered their guns. They backed away from Yulana and Kala and moved toward a waiting limo.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Smiling, Dennis put away his pistol. He and Travkin crossed to the limousine, got in, and drove away.
Yulana ran to Kit while she held Kala. Bennings holstered his weapon and started to collapse, when she grabbed him and held him upright.
“Can you drive, Mrs. Bennings?” he said, barely audible.
“With pleasure, my husband.”
CHAPTER 55
DCI John Stout had to eat it. Not only was the loss of Herb Sinclair a gut punch to CIA’s SAD operational capabilities in Russia, but his man had been a traitor. In addition to the Sinclair fiasco, the magnitude of the economic and intelligence disaster that had been avoided put a lot of juice from Wall Street and D.C. into Kit Bennings’s corner, so neither the national security adviser, the secretary of the army, nor Stout and his CIA could touch Bennings and his merry band of marauders. And the president had personally ordered Stout to attend the secret ceremony now unfolding at a nondescript government office on K Street.
Kit Bennings, Yulana and Kala Petkova, Buzz Van Wyke, Angel Perez, Jen Huffman, Staci Bennings, and Detectives Bobby Chan and Ron Franklin also attended, in addition to Secretary of Defense Bartok and Secretary of State Margarite Padilla.
Bennings’s uniform looked slightly bulky from all the bandages he was wearing underneath it.
Since Buzz Van Wyke was a CIA contract employee, John Stout presented him with the Intelligence Medal of Merit, one of the higher awards the agency can give. But Buzz knew that due to the politics of the affair, his days of contract employment for the CIA were over… at least as long as Stout was DCI.
Angel Perez and Jen Huffman, both active-duty military members of the Activity, were awarded army Distinguished Service Medals, promoted one rank, and issued 100 percent permanent disability retirements, effective immediately. Of course, there was nothing wrong with either of them; this was the government’s way of nicely getting rid of them while at the same time giving them some financial largesse.
Newly promoted Lt. Col. Kitman Bennings was also awarded a handful of medals, including the Homeland Security Distinguished Service Medal. And he was also to be medically retired from the army. Tomorrow. Like with Perez and Huffman, the discharge would be honorable and there would be a substantial financial payout. They were all being “fired” under the best possible terms, but they were still being fired.
The earlier words of the president’s chief of staff, Donna Ibrahim, had been utterly prescient as to how to handle the whole affair.
“They’d be pinning an inmate number on you if you hadn’t come through. You know that, don’t you?” asked Padilla softly as she pinned a State Department medal onto Kit’s uniform.
“I think there’s more honor among the thieves in the prison system than the thieves here in D.C.,” said Kit with a straight face.
Padilla looked shocked for a moment, then said, “I think you’re probably right.” She straightened the medal, then looked him in the eye. “You were right about some other things, too. I was very angry with those things you said to me on the phone. But the more I thought about it… Let’s just say that in life, teachers can be found in unlikely places at inconvenient times. You taught me something important, and I won’t forget it.”
Kit smiled. He extended his hand, but instead, Padilla embraced him in a hug and gave him the kind of pats on the back you give someone for a job well done.
Kit saluted and turned away from Padilla. He drilled his eyes into the CIA director’s. Bennings understood very well that going rogue could not be tolerated by the government, but the punishment didn’t have to include assassination. Or jail time for Buzz, Angel, and Jen, as Stout had requested. Kit’s friends were elite special operators, and simply losing their careers was a terribly harsh punishment. Kit knew that a man like Stout would continue to secretly wield his enormous power to exact vengeance on him and the others… unless the DCI was put in check. Which is why Bennings crossed to the director and extended his hand.
As a politician, Stout extended his hand expecting a handshake; as a man who had killed many with his bare hands, Kit locked the DCI into a painful grasp, causing Stout to wince.
“Nineteen twenty-one Third Street, Arlington, unit three-two-two. She’s only twenty-three, and those kinds of extramarital affairs don’t track well with the president’s female supporters.”
“What are you—?”
“Don’t deny it, Stout. I have evidence. And I’m not even mentioning the secret bank accounts overseas. ‘The nation’s top spy’? Yeah, right. You’re just a party hatchet man good at covering up a lot of dirty laundry. Send any more shooters after me, and I will reduce you to a dung stain. Pull the slightest crap against me, my team, or my family… well, you get the idea.”
Bennings gave an extra hard squeeze to Stout’s hand, creating the distinct sound of bones snapping, as Stout’s knees buckled and the man let out a cry of pain. He released the DCI with a shove and then crossed over to his group.