“About fucking time,” he muttered as he got to his feet.
He picked up the gun and pointed it directly at the spot where I normally looked for my drishti—between my eyes.
“Goodbye, Sanders,” he said.
“You can’t!” Reyna barked.
He turned his head. I watched the knuckle on his forefinger whiten as he put more pressure on the trigger.
“Wait!” Reyna said. “What if there’s another piece that D’Amato hid? He was in the back of Blake’s car long enough.”
Dmitrov swung the gun toward Reyna. “So, maybe I kill you unless he tells me right now.”
“What if Blake doesn’t even know he has it?” she blurted.
Dmitrov’s eyes flicked to me and back to Reyna, uncertainty in them. Reyna, saw it, too, and went on quickly.
“You won’t know if you have everything until they test the laser, right? Take me with you as insurance. Blake won’t do anything as long as you have me.”
He gave a single nod. “But you and the girl come with me.”
He turned to me. “If you want to see these two alive again, you sit here for ten minutes. If this doesn’t check out, I kill the girl then your lady friend unless you get what I want.”
“You son of a bitch,” I growled.
“Shut up.” He picked up the doll and moved around the table. “Come on, let’s go, let’s go!”
Reyna stood up, holding Katya on her hip and shuffled out ahead of Dmitrov. He stayed close, coat draped over his arm, covering the gun in his hand. Their footsteps, muffled by the carpet, receded until the sound of the front door closing cut them off entirely. I strained to hear noises from the hallway outside, counting slowly to myself. When I got to thirty, I was sure I heard a faint ding announcing the arrival of the elevator. I waited another four beats, and then gripped the armrests and pulled up with all my might. Like Vera, the chairs were old and brittle. One armrest snapped quickly and the other came unglued. I shook them loose and yanked the scarves free. Bending over, I untied the silk around my ankles, and picked up one of the lengths of wood that had fallen to the floor.
Sprinting past the coffee table I saw that Dmitrov had taken all the guns. It didn’t matter. I felt just as deadly without one. I burst through the front door into the hall, ran to the exit and banged through the door into the stairwell, ignoring the ache in my shoulder from hitting the door. Taking the stairs three at a time I went down fast, not caring how much noise I made, or how much pain radiated from the bad knee. All that mattered was reaching Dmitrov before he got Reyna and Katya out on the street. I had to take him inside, where I could contain him, away from prying eyes.
After clattering down three flights, I slowed enough to take the last flight on my toes, trying to make less noise. At the bottom, I paused long enough to get a glimpse through the small, square pane of glass set in the metal door. In the center of the lobby, Dmitrov herded his captives toward daylight. Without thinking, I went through the stairwell door on a dead run, instinctively knowing what to do.
Fourteen seconds on the clock, down by one, opponents’ ball. Go for the foul.
My height let me cover a lot of ground quickly. Three strides took me within striking distance. Dmitrov heard me coming and turned halfway, swinging the gun toward me. I cracked the arm of the chair on his forearm, knocking his arm away, and barreled into him. The doll skittered across the floor.
“Run!” I shouted as he and I went down in a tangle of limbs.
Somehow he’d managed to hang on to the pistol, and he raised his out-flung arm to bring it to bear once more. I scrabbled on top of him and grabbed his wrist with both hands. He lunged upward, head-butting me in the chin. Stars exploded in front of my eyes and my grip relaxed for an instant. He wrenched his arm free and swung the gun at my head. I blocked it with a forearm and caught his wrist with the same hand. Pain fueled my rage, and I smashed his cheek with a left jab, then did it twice more. With strength I didn’t believe possible, he kept inching his gun hand closer, forcing my arm back.
He freed his other arm from under me and thrust his palm under my chin, gripped my jaw and pushed my head back until the tendons and muscles in my neck felt like they were about to tear. His palm cut off my air, and the world started to dim. In my peripheral vision the gun barrel inched closer. Panic reared its ugly head, threatening to open the floodgates to all the fears and self-doubt that had pooled in my subconscious. A sudden jolt of adrenaline swept it aside.
Focus! You can’t let him win. He doesn’t deserve to live.
Behind the cruelty on his face lay a malevolence that was palpable. Marko may have taken some sick, twisted, sexual pleasure from what he’d done to Masha and Anya, but for Dmitrov it was business. He’d said it was about money. I didn’t believe him. For him it was about violence, suffering and pain.
I jerked my knee up hard into his groin, and used the instant of surprise to reach over and hook the gun barrel with my free hand. Instead of fighting the relentless pressure of his arm pushing against mine, I twisted his hand and pulled on his wrist, using his strength against him, forcing the gun in and down between us. I squeezed his hand as hard as I could, lack of oxygen turning my vision dark. The pressure forced his finger against the trigger until the gun went off with a deafening report.
Chapter 49
July 28—Suitland, Maryland
Janet hurried down the hall toward the COMONI’s office before she had a chance to change her mind. She was insane to think this would work, but she didn’t see another choice. Captain Farley would dismiss her theory outright, and she’d never admit to him that she’d been helping Reyna. But Reyna had put her trust in ONI’s commanding officer before, so Janet thought there might be a chance Hinson would listen to her.
The assistant in the anteroom guarding the COMONI’s office was a CWO like herself, but with a few more miles on him. He bent over some paperwork on his desk, grizzled buzz-cut hiding his features. A nameplate on his desk said “R. Jones.”
“I need to see the COMONI,” Janet said, standing directly in front of his desk.
He gestured with a pencil and said in a gravelly voice, “Have a seat. He’s in a meeting.”
“How long do you think it will go?”
“This one?” he rasped. “Only ten more minutes or so. Then he’s got them lined up like an armada for the rest of the day.”
“This is urgent, Chief.”
“Aren’t they all?” He looked up at her and gestured again at a chair. “Have a seat.”
Janet worried a button on her blouse. Self-preservation instinct told her to walk away, to forget everything she’d seen and heard in the past three days. But she couldn’t. The thought of how many rules she’d broken in 72 hours sickened her. Some moral compass—or maybe not even that, maybe just a gut feeling—had directed her here. She refused to chicken out now.
“I could sit quietly in the corner, chief, like a good girl, and let you brush me aside. Instead, I’m going to stand here and make your life a living hell until you let Captain Hinson know I’m here and that I need five minutes of his time to discuss a matter of utmost importance.”
Jones studied her for a moment. “I believe you’d do it. What’s so important it’ll get his attention?”
She considered her options. “Tell him it concerns Commander Chase. Reyna Chase.”
His eyebrows rose. Apparently, word about Reyna’s status had gotten around. Jones put his palms on the desk and levered himself out of his chair. Then he scribbled something on a scratch pad and ripped the top sheet off.
“I’ll see how much longer the captain’s meeting will last.”
He knocked softly on the office door and opened it without waiting for a response. He slipped inside quietly, pulling the door shut behind him. Tolliver paced the carpet in front of the chief’s desk her already frayed nerves kick-starting a muscle twitch around her right eye. She screwed a knuckle into the socket in an attempt to stop it.
Jones appear
ed a minute later, again pulling the office door shut softly behind him.
“Two minutes,” he announced as he sat at his desk.
A rear admiral Janet didn’t recognize emerged from Hinson’s office less than 90 seconds later. Jones jumped to his feet, eyes front and saluted. Janet quickly followed suit. The admiral nodded at both of them, touching fingers to his forehead, and hurried down the hall. Jones gestured at the open office door.
“Good luck,” he said.
Janet steeled herself, took a breath and marched into Hinson’s office. Stopping a few feet in front of the COMONI’s desk, she stood at attention and saluted.
“At ease, Chief,” Hinson said. “Have a seat.”
Janet gratefully eased into a chair, certain her knees would have given out if she’d had to stand. “Thank you, sir.”
“You have information about Commander Chase?” he said.
She shook her head. “No, sir.”
He frowned. “I hope you’re not wasting my time, Chief Tolliver. You could as easily gone to Captain Farley with whatever you have to say.”
She held up a hand. “Let me explain, sir. What I’m about to tell you does concern Commander Chase’s situation. In all likelihood it also will mean a court martial for me and the end of my career.”
Hinson’s frown deepened. “Go on.”
She took a deep breath. “I came to you because Reyna—Commander Chase—trusts you. I don’t have any basis on which to judge, but I trust Commander Chase. And I’ve learned in the past few days that I will apparently do anything for her.”
“Your loyalty’s admirable, but her situation is quite grave. This might not be the best time to demonstrate that loyalty.”
Her nostrils flared. “If not now, when? She’s done nothing wrong, sir. Well, at least she hadn’t before NCIS came calling. They have no case against her because she’s innocent. But she’s decided to take matters into her own hands.”
“What do you mean? She’s on administrative leave.”
Janet nodded. “Yes, she is, but she just happens to be spending that leave investigating what happened to the NCIS agent who was killed. She’s in Seattle, sir.”
His mouth turned grim. “If you know where she is, Chief, you—”
“That’s as much as I know,” she interrupted, “but that’s not why I’m here. Sir, I’ve learned that a Russian destroyer from the Northern Fleet is heading toward the RIMPAC exercises.”
He looked surprised. “Nothing unusual in that.”
“Sir, if you’ll check, that ship has no business being in the Pacific Ocean. It was not invited to RIMPAC, and doesn’t have friendly intentions, in my opinion.”
He put his chin in his hand and tapped a finger on his lips. “And you know this how?”
Janet swallowed hard and launched into her story. It tumbled out, and the more she told, the more she wanted to tell, as if Hinson would grant her absolution at the end of her confession. But the intelligence director remained mute when she finished, absorbing her torrent of words.
“This is serious business,” he said finally.
“I told you.” She felt relieved she’d unburdened herself to him.
“I’m not talking about your theory about the Russians.” He spoke quietly, but his disappointment hit her like a slap in the face. “Because that’s what it is—a theory. No, I’m talking about your conduct, Chief Tolliver, conduct unbecoming and a serious breach of ethics, not to mention your total disregard for orders and the chain of command. You were absolutely right, this is grounds for a court martial, and at best a dishonorable discharge.”
Janet’s stomach churned. “But sir—”
“I’m not finished, Chief Tolliver. As I said, I admire your devotion to Commander Chase, but you aided and abetted someone who disobeyed a direct order. The only reason I haven’t called the MAs to throw you in the brig is my consideration of Commander Chase’s past record. Rest assured I’ll monitor the case involving her very closely, but I strongly suggest you limit your investigations to projects you’re responsible for and nothing more.”
Janet sat ramrod straight, determined not to show Hinson a sign of weakness. She hadn’t received a dressing-down like that since her days at the academy, and those were painful memories.
“Sir, with all due respect, you missed the point.”
“No, I got your point just fine. You’re convinced the Russian Federation is up to no good sending a ship to an international maritime exercise that involves hundreds of ships and planes and thousands of personnel. Let me ask you, Tolliver, what did you do when you uncovered this information?”
She saw where his question led, but couldn’t avoid answering. “I called the watch commander at NAVSOC out at NBVC.”
“And what did he say?”
“That they’re aware of the Russian ship, sir,” she said miserably.
“You have your answer then.” He rose and came around his desk. “I’m late for another meeting, Chief Tolliver. You’re dismissed.”
Chapter 50
July 28—North Pacific Ocean
Over the heads of a boisterous group of sailors Macready saw Dudayev seated at a crowded table in the mess. Second shift breakfast had started and the passageways outside were filled with noisy, hungry servicemen. Macready stood in the cafeteria line and watched Dudayev speak to a man who stood next to him. Dudayev seemed preoccupied, his glance darting round the mess, body fidgeting with nervous energy, but he exchanged a brief smile with the other man, an orderly from sickbay named Umarov.
Macready continued to watch as the line inched ahead, glancing over at Dudayev every so often. The doctor ate with his senses on alert, eyes constantly scanning the mess, once even meeting Macready’s gaze. Macready smiled and nodded then looked away. When Macready was halfway down the serving line, movement and a loud expletive from Dudayev’s table grabbed his attention. The sailor next to Dudayev stood up, empty tray in one hand, and leaned over to peer under the table. Dudayev reached under the table, grabbed whatever was there and pulled, straining with effort. The sailor bent over and the two of them lifted a heavy duffel bag and put it on the table.
Recognizing it instantly, Macready’s pulse quickened. He spun out of the serving line and headed toward the table, shouldering his way through a group of sailors. He’d taken no more than two or three steps when shouting erupted behind him.
“Halt! Rostropovich, do not move!”
“Atten-tion! Captain on deck!”
The sailors straightened to attention and the mess fell silent. Macready stood stock still as two masters-at-arms shoved their way past the men in line, followed by the ship’s captain.
“Stand where you are!” the captain called as his gaze panned the mess hall.
The MAs each took one of Macready’s arms and twisted them behind his back as the captain approached him. Macready felt cold steel encircle his wrists and heard the rasp of metal as the MAs handcuffed him. He felt their grip on his arms loosen now that he was restrained.
The captain stopped a foot away, hard stare boring into Macready’s eyes, as if trying to read the thoughts that lay behind them. “Mladshiy Lyeytyenant Rostropovich, you are under arrest.”
Macready felt sweat drip down his sides under his uniform. He tried to put just the right amount of surprise and outrage in his voice. “On what charge? What is the meaning of this?”
“The charge is treason,” another voice said. The sailors parted, clearing a path for Admiral Orlov. He walked up and stood next to the captain, gaze taking Macready in from the ground up.
“You think I’m a spy,” Macready said, taking the offensive. He went on quickly before the admiral recovered from his surprise. Macready jerked his head to the side. “Dudayev is the one you want. The bag on the table in front of him contains a live artillery shell.”
Macready gave the captain credit. Without a murmur of protest, he motioned to one of the MAs to go check the bag. “Lyeytyenant Dudayev,” he called. “Report!”
>
Dudayev snapped to attention and saluted. He squeezed past the sailor who’d helped him lift the duffel onto the table even as the MA reached the table, unzipped the bag and leaned over to peer inside.
The MA turned and nodded at the officers. “It’s a live round.”
The mess erupted in shouts as men scrambled for the doors. Macready felt his attention drawn to something incongruous in the melee. He finally spotted one man who watched the chaos instead of joining it—Umarov. Macready felt pieces click into place in his head.
“Stop!” the captain thundered. “Everyone stay where you are! I want silence in here!”
More MAs appeared at the doors carrying weapons at the ready, along with two men dressed in the red and black colors of the Voennaya Politsiya, the Russian Military Police.
Dudayev walked up stiffly and stood at attention.
“I saw that bag in his office earlier,” Macready said as he watched Umarov sidle toward one of the doors, the MA’s attention focused on the men crowded in front of him.
“Is this true?” Orlov asked the doctor. “Is this your bag?”
“No, sir. He’s lying. I’ve never seen that bag. I’m with naval intelligence, assigned by GRU to find a Chechen terrorist aboard this ship.”
“Umarov,” Macready murmured.
Dudayev’s face clouded with a frown, then suddenly cleared. But Macready had already shifted focus. Umarov moved closer to the door, panic on his face. Macready twisted out of the grasp of one MA and head-butted the other before he could react. Shoving his way past Dudayev, he ducked his head and bulled through the crowd, the unbloodied MA clutching at his sleeve. Macready jerked loose and kept going, but suddenly encountered a wall of sailors blocking his way.
“I’ll detonate it!” Umarov shouted. “I swear I will! Let me through or I will blow you all to hell! Free Chechnya!”
The wall holding Macready back broke apart as the sailors in front of Umarov scrabbled in every direction, boots clanging dully on the metal deck. Macready’s momentum carried him through the blockade. Umarov now stood alone in a ten-foot circle and raised an electronic box the size of a cigarette pack aloft, his thumb nervously twitching over a button on the front. A red eye atop the box winked evilly. Unable to stop himself, Macready stumbled off balance across the space, legs churning, hands still cuffed behind his back. He leaned and twisted, driving his shoulder into Umarov’s midriff. The two of them sailed into the crowd. Before Macready could even get untangled, an MA the size of a small truck took one step toward them and stomped on Umarov’s arm, snapping bones with a loud crack. Umarov howled in pain.
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