Behind Enemy Lines

by R. J. Patterson

  Black identified a position near the back that provided him with cover as well as a clean shot of the entrance. He crouched low and waited for the sound of anyone venturing toward him. It took less than a minute before Yuri Smolov approached the doorway.

  He eased his hat into the opening. On the wall behind him, a perfect silhouette was cast, triggering Black to squeeze off a couple rounds. He blasted the hat, sending it flying in the air.

  “Bravo, Mr. Black,” Smolov said, his Russian accent strong. “You just wasted two shots. What do you think is going to happen when I have more shots than you do?”

  Black snatched a football off a nearby shelf and launched the pigskin at the Russian spy. But instead of getting a snarky reply, Black watched Smolov somersault into the room before scrambling behind a crate in the corner nearest to the door.

  Needing to draw Smolov’s fire, Black located a prop leaning against the wall. It was the silhouette of a man, the wooden base attached to a set of wheels. Black gave it a shove, sending it flying out into the middle of the room. Smolov sat up and fired three shots at the board before figuring out it wasn’t Black.

  “You’re one shot behind,” Black said. “What’s going to happen when you run out?”

  For the next couple minutes, the two men traded shots. Black was convinced he could take out Smolov in the shadows, but that task proved more difficult than the Firestorm operative ever imagined possible.

  Eventually, by Black’s count, he had the lone remaining bullet.

  “You think you’re just going to walk up and shoot me?” Smolov said after a moment of silence. “What if I have another magazine ready to reload?”

  “If that were true, you wouldn’t be cowering behind some boxes.”

  “Mr. Black, do you know how much time SVR training concentrates on the art of throwing a knife?”

  Black wasn’t interested in having a conversation. He only wanted to drag Smolov’s body onto the Kennedy Center stage to exonerate himself. It would be showy and probably a scene that would live forever on the Internet, but Black didn’t care. He just wanted to prove wrong everyone who doubted his innocence.

  Just as Black wondered if this fight was going to devolve into a standoff, he watched Smolov dart out of the room. Black chased after the Russian and took the final shot when he tried to unlock the door at the end of the hall.

  The shot coerced Smolov to dive to the ground. Seconds later, he stood with bravado and glared at Black.

  “They’re in here, aren’t they?” Smolov said, as much telling as he was asking. He took a few steps back and kicked down the door. He’d barely made it inside before Black leaped onto the Russian from behind, sending both men crashing to the floor.

  Black stole a peek at the two presidents as they huddled in the corner.

  “Get outta here, Mr. President,” Black said. “You especially, President Petrenko.”

  But neither man moved, both apparently mesmerized by the fight unfolding in front of them, both likely scared they might be attacked on their way out of the room.

  “Go now,” Black urged again.

  Just as Petrenko made a move toward the exit, Smolov lunged toward the Ukranian leader with a knife. Petrenko jumped back, narrowly avoiding a swipe from the blade.

  “I’ll finish you in a minute,” Smolov said, sneering at Petrenko.

  Black called Smolov, motioning for him to fight. “Leave the unarmed alone. Come fight a real man.”

  Smolov’s nostrils flared as he glowered at Black. “You Americans always go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  Black edged closer to the Russian and ignored the comment. When Black feigned a lunge forward, Smolov drew back, making the mistake of leaving his hand exposed. Pouncing on the opportunity, Black kicked Smolov’s hand and knocked the knife free. It clattered on the ground, skidding into the corner behind Smolov.

  He glanced at the blade over his shoulder and walked backward toward it. As he bent down to pick it up, Black broke into an all-out sprint. He pinned Smolov against the wall behind him, preventing him from reaching the handle. Smolov writhed in an attempt to escape, twisting and turning but to no avail.

  Black flipped Smolov over and put him in a sleeper hold.

  With the threat momentarily secured, Black scrambled to his feet and started to search for something to tie up Smolov’s hands and feet before calling the authorities and reporting the events that had unfolded.

  “Finally,” Black said with a sigh as he looked at Michaels, “we’ll get some answers about what was really going on and who was involved.”

  But Black didn’t see Petrenko, who had scooped the knife up off the ground. By the time Black turned around, Petrenko was savagely attacking the Russian spy. Black tried to stop the Ukrainian president, but he wasn’t interested in interrogating the SVR agent.

  After thirty seconds, Black pleaded with Petrenko to stop. “It’s over, sir. He’s not coming back to life. You’ve made sure of that.”

  Black glanced down at the concrete floor and noticed a thick stream of blood rapidly approaching his hand.

  “Vasyl, why did you do that?” Michaels asked. “He’s so much more valuable to us alive than dead.”

  “The only good Russian is a dead Russian,” Petrenko said. “Besides, I’d never believe a word out of his mouth anyway.”

  Down the hall, the sound of boots stormed toward them. While Black was dreading that thunderous noise just a half-hour earlier, he welcomed it now. He wouldn’t have to fight any more. It was over.

  “Mr. President, are you all right?” one of the Secret Service agents asked as he entered the room.

  He glanced at Petrenko. “I am now, thanks to my friend, President Petrenko. He killed one attacker and staved off another with a knife.”

  The agent shot a quick look at Black. “What do you want us to do with Mr. Black? I’m sure you’re aware that he’s a fugitive.”

  Michaels nodded. “Arrest him. This man tried to kill me. Hopefully he’ll rot in prison for what he did.”

  “But Mr. President—” Black pleaded.

  Michaels waved dismissively at Black then nodded knowingly at one of the Secret Service agents. The man grabbed Black and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him.

  “You can’t do this to me,” Black said. “I just saved your life.”

  “No one will believe you, kid,” Michaels said. “Thank goodness for Mr. Petrenko. Otherwise, we might all be dead except for you.”

  Black resisted the hands that clamped down on him, keeping him in place while the agents handcuffed him and escorted him toward the steps.

  “You’re making a mistake, you know,” Black said as he walked away. “If I hadn’t tried to warn you tonight about Yuri Smolov, you’d probably be dead right now.”

  Michaels didn’t say a word, unwilling to even respond to Black’s accusations.

  “He’s lying,” Black said. “You gotta know that.”

  But the men who’d apprehended Black remained stoic, unmoved by his emotional pleas for help.

  “Save it, pal,” one of the men said. “They’re going to put you in a hole. And you’re going to stay there for a very long time.”

  CHAPTER 38

  WHEN THE LIGHTS in the auditorium came back on, Tatiana was on stage, wielding her knife, searching in every direction for the two presidents who had vanished in the darkness. She turned to the left and then to the right, looking for a way out. Anna Tara was the only other person on stage, and she held out her hands in a posture of surrender. Unsure of what to do next, Tatiana dropped the knife and ran toward the wings. Before she disappeared behind the curtains, she glanced over her shoulder where she’d seen her father. He was gone.

  Two men in suits collapsed on her, wrapping her up and taking her into custody.

  “What are you doing to me?” Tatiana said. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Because all ballet dancers flit around carrying knives?” one of the men said sarcastically. “Please
, spare me the innocence act.”

  “You’re in big trouble, little lady,” the other guard said.

  As Tatiana eavesdropped on the conversations of the men surrounding her, they seemed to be just as confused as she was as to the whereabouts of President Michaels and President Petrenko. After a few minutes, one of the men ushered her into a dark SUV. Following a short drive across the city, she found herself inside a small interrogation room in the FBI’s downtown offices.

  Tatiana sat alone in the room, hands restrained and attached to the table in front of her, a blanket over her shoulders. A single tear inched down her cheek. She could feel her makeup running too.

  More than an hour passed before a woman sauntered into the room and slid her notepad on the desk. She slumped into the chair across from Tatiana and leaned forward. Alexis’ hair was pulled taut in a bun. Snatching a pencil from behind her ear, she tapped the eraser onto the paper to an uptempo beat.

  “I would ask you your name, but I doubt I’m going to get your real name,” the woman said. “But my name is Alexis.”

  “My name is Emily.”

  She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “Did you really think I was going to fall for that?”

  “That’s my name.”

  “No, that’s what your Russian handlers trained you to say, but we know that’s not really the case now is it, Tatiana?”

  She remained stoic despite the revelation that Alexis knew who she was. It was entirely possible that the Americans only knew her name and nothing else. That’s why the general warned her that if she was captured, the Americans could learn her identity. But he said there was no guarantee that they knew who she really was or what she was up to.

  “Never drop your cover,” the general had told her. “Don’t do the easy work for them. If they’re going to break you, make them earn it. Otherwise, you’re just giving up. Never give up.”

  Tatiana’s lips quivered as more tears streamed down her face. “My name is Emily Smolov, and my father is a diplomat here. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Yuri Smolov?”

  “That’s interesting,” Alexis said. “Because I’ve read Mr. Smolov’s file, and he doesn’t have any children that I’m aware of.”

  “Maybe you don’t know Mr. Smolov as well as you think you do.”

  Alexis shot her a sideways glance before pulling out her phone and typing on it.

  “Might I suggest the search term ‘Emily Smolov Yuri Smolov?’”

  She glared at Tatiana. “Might I suggest you keep your mouth shut?”

  After a few seconds, she stared, mouth agape at the images on her phone.

  “Did you find them?” Tatiana asked, half hoping, half asking.

  Alexis turned her phone around and held out the screen so Tatiana could see it.

  “There we are,” she said, her expression unmoved by the picture that affirmed her story was true. “I told you. However, I also don’t need to tell you about the diplomatic immunity I receive as a household member of the Russian delegation.”

  “I wasn’t aware that Mr. Smolov had any children your age,” Alexis said. “This comes as a big surprise to me, though I’m not about to let a couple of pictures on the Internet settle the issue for me.”

  She swallowed hard, trying not to cry anymore, trying to make the general proud. Though it wasn’t easy. Tatiana wanted to sob buckets and then strangle someone. But none of that would help her cause at the moment.

  Stick to your cover, Tatiana.

  Alexis slid the document aside and clasped her hands together, interlocking her fingers. Leaning nearly halfway across the table, her eyes met Tatiana’s gaze.

  “I don’t care who your papa is; you can’t get away with everything here,” she said.

  “Then please tell me what I did. I don’t remember trying to kill anyone.”

  “I’m no stooge, Emily. I know who you are and what you were doing up on stage, even if you didn’t actually do anything. Now, we don’t have any any record of your entrance into this country, so it would be in your best interest to tell us the truth, starting right now.”

  “Why don’t you ask my father?” she said. “He will tell you whatever you need to know.”

  “Well, I would, except he’s not available at the moment,” Alexis said. “Apparently, your father was at the Kennedy Center tonight. What a strange coincidence that he was there too and you just so happened to be standing on stage armed with a knife when the dance ended.”

  “He’s been arrested?” Tatiana asked.

  “You could say that,” Alexis said as she eased another picture out of the folder. Tatiana stared at the image, gently stroking her dad’s face in the photograph.

  “Now, are you going to tell me what I need to know? Or do I have to use far more painful means to get you to comply? The choice is yours.”

  Tatiana crossed her arms and stared out the window at a mixture of faint stars and Washington’s lights winking back at her.

  “I already told you the truth,” she said. “The choice is yours of whether you want to believe me or some story you’ve already made up in your head about me.”

  Alexis sighed as she stood. “Fine. Have it your way. I can promise you that you won’t like what’s about to happen next.”

  She exited the room, closing the door behind her. When it latched shut, Tatiana sobbed and heaved over what she’d just endured. Keeping a straight face after seeing the photograph of Yuri Smolov was one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

  The general had always told her to stick to the cover and everything would be all right, so she did, trusting his advice without question. And he delivered, though she wasn’t sure what the FBI agent was going to see when he searched for her alias along with that of a Russian spy masquerading as a diplomat.

  And never did she once think that it would be an actual picture, one she’d often seen the first thing when she awoke each morning and the last thing she saw before she went to bed.

  After seeing her father at The Kennedy Center, Tatiana started to wonder if he was going to be the one to extract her. And if he was, perhaps he was working with the Russian government in a special capacity.

  But until she laid eyes on that photo, she’d never once considered that her father was indeed a spy.

  CHAPTER 39

  A HOOD DROPPED OVER BLACK’s head before he was led out of the underground entrance in handcuffs. While he had no idea where he was ultimately going, he could hear the men speaking in hushed tones and knew it wouldn’t be good. He wanted to hear Shields’s voice come through clear in his ear piece, but she wasn’t saying a word. Not that it mattered. Black’s coms had been discovered and destroyed right in front of him, stomped on by one of the arresting FBI agents.

  “The fun is just beginning,” one of the men next to Black said.

  A door opened and then shut. Black sensed there was at least one other person in the car.

  “Bet you didn’t expect your night to go like this, did you?” Black said.

  There was a moment of silence before he heard a response.

  “I’m guessing that makes two of us,” a man replied.

  Black scooted back in his seat. “I didn’t do what they’re accusing me of, you know.”

  “I’m not the judge, just the executioner. Someone else makes those decisions, not me. I just follow orders.”

  “You don’t always have to follow orders.”

  “You see, that’s where you’re wrong,” the man said. “If I don’t follow orders, things don’t go well for me. And that’s the difference between me and you. When you do what you’re told, things can go very badly.”

  “So, what are you going to do? Shoot me in the back of the head and bury me in a shallow grave?”

  The man huffed through his nose. “No, it’ll be very deep. Nobody is ever going to find your body. I’ll make sure of that much.”

  “Are you gonna take this hood off or at least be man enough to look me in the eyes?”

  “
Me doing my job isn’t a test of my masculinity nor is it wise for you to challenge me that way. I might shoot you right now.”

  There was the sound of someone tapping on the window followed by a hum as it rolled down.

  “I need you to do something else tonight,” said another man from outside.

  The alarm chimed, warning that the door was open on the idling vehicle. The other voice sounded familiar, but Black couldn’t quite place it. He was sure someone else was now sitting in the driver’s seat. The clicking of the car being placed in gear was followed by the roar of the engine as Black lurched forward.

  “Where are we going?” Black asked.

  “As far away from here as we can get without anyone tailing us,” the man said.

  “Don’t I know you?” Black asked. “Who are you?”

  The driver chuckled. “We’ve met on several occasions before. And I apologize for the rude manner in which you were treated. I would’ve removed the hood, but I didn’t have time. If I didn’t get you out of there any sooner, there’s no telling what would’ve happened to you, especially with that hothead agent itching to put a bullet in your head.”

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name,” Black said, leaning forward.

  “Of course you didn’t because I didn’t say it. And it might be best that you don’t know.”

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  “I’m going to make sure you’re dead.”

  *

  A HALF-HOUR later, the vehicle came to a stop. Black listened as the engine powered down and the man doing the driving was now checking his weapon.

  “I suggest you take it nice and easy,” the man said as he grabbed Black and led him outside. They walked away from the vehicle for about a minute in what sounded like a forest.