by Ethan Jones
Volkov smiled at Taylor. “This is excellent. Will be very useful.”
Max nodded. He wasn’t expecting Volkov to tell Taylor about how they were planning to use the intelligence. Robinson was suspected to have connections to a woman that was very dear to both Russians, a woman for whom they’d willingly give their lives.
“Robinson is not in very good health,” Taylor said.
“What’s wrong with him?” Volkov said.
“Bowel cancer.”
Volkov shrugged. “A little cancer never stopped anyone stubborn enough like Robinson.”
“Or like you. The two of you.” Taylor’s eye flitted between Volkov and Max.
Volkov opened his mouth, but Max saw the red-headed woman who had appeared from behind one of the thick trees. She was pointing her pistol at their bench. Max shouted, “Down, down,” as he jumped over Taylor pushing Volkov to the ground.
A bullet thumped against the back of the wooden bench, while another whizzed overhead. Max rolled onto his back and turned his pistol toward the woman.
She had disappeared.
Where did she go?
His eyes searched the area and focused on two other trees nearby thick enough for the woman to hide behind. He didn’t see her, so he glanced at the location where the two black men had been playing soccer. One of them was crouched behind a bench further away and to the side. He held a gun in his hand, and it was pointed toward the park’s entrance. The second man was lying flat on his back and was not moving.
Max looked at Volkov, whose face had an expression of annoyance rather than fear. He had landed on his back and didn’t seem injured by the fall.
Taylor, on the other hand, was lying on his stomach. A purple stain had started to form over his right pants leg. A bullet must have clipped him, Max thought.
“Max, how are you? How’s Volkov?” Ava’s worried voice came into his earpiece.
Max glanced at his father stretched on the ground next to him. “He’s all right. You?”
“Fine, but they know we’re here.”
The armed man fired his weapon.
“Ava? Ava?” Max shouted.
No answer.
He climbed to his knee and double-tapped the Grach. His bullets missed, and the man turned his attention to Max.
Max fired again. This time, the bullet found the target. It slammed into the man’s leg, and he fell backwards.
Gunfire erupted from another location to Max’s right. Taylor’s guard. He couldn’t see the man, but he saw bullets lift slivers from the bench the black man was using for cover. The man turned his pistol toward the right and fired a couple of rounds. Then, his head slumped to the left, and he fell onto his back.
Before Max could fire another round, the red-headed woman appeared from behind the closest tree. She squeezed off a few rounds that zipped dangerously close to Max’s head. A bullet struck so near that it kicked up dirt inches away from his face.
Max returned fire, followed by Volkov, who had pulled out his Makarov 9mm pistol. Their bullets tore slivers off the bark, but the woman managed to disappear behind the tree trunk again.
“Ava? Ava?” Max shouted again.
Instead of a reply, he saw a black Nissan drift through the grass, skirting one of the benches. Ava leaned out the window and fired a quick burst at the black men sprawled behind the bench. Then, she turned the steering wheel, and the Nissan jumped onto the path leading toward Max, Volkov, and Taylor.
One of the rear windows of the Nissan exploded into a spray of fragments. Max noticed the red-headed woman firing from further back, closer to the gate. How did she get that far? He pointed his Grach and let off a quick burst. The woman disappeared behind another tree, then Max noticed a police car pulling close to the park’s entrance. “We’ve got to go,” he said to Volkov.
Ava had already gotten out of the Nissan. She began to help Volkov up, but he shrugged her off. “Get the shooter,” he said and sat up.
Max shook his head. “The police are here. She’ll disappear.”
“So should we,” Ava said.
“Help me with Taylor,” Max said to her.
“Where’s his guard?”
“He was firing from over there.” Max gestured with his hand. “Didn’t see him; only heard the shots.”
“Well, if he can’t make it to the Nissan…” Ava said with a shrug.
Max and Ava lifted Taylor to his feet. He was bleeding badly from the leg wound and had some bruises and scratches to his face and hands, but otherwise, he was fine. “Where’s Micky?” he said as they helped him to the backseat.
“Can’t get to him,” Max said as he slipped into the driver’s seat. He gestured with his head at two police officers taking positions near the park’s entrance.
“Go, go, go,” Volkov said as he strapped the seatbelt across his chest.
Ava slammed a fresh magazine into her pistol and aimed it out the window.
Volkov said, “Don’t kill anyone.”
“That will be hard. Especially if they keep shooting at us,” Ava said.
A couple of bullets thumped against the back of the Nissan.
Max turned the wheel, and the vehicle shot through the grass. He drove fast, avoiding a couple of picnickers who were still sitting on the grass with their headphones on.
Max looked at the sideview mirror, then over his shoulder but couldn’t see the red-headed woman or the police officers. “Did we lose them?”
“Yes, the officers. The woman, she’s still there.”
“Where?”
“Coming from the side.” Ava gestured at a red Jaguar SUV cutting through the grass, about twenty yards behind them. A hand holding a pistol jutted out the driver’s window.
Max jerked at the wheel as bullets struck the back of the Nissan. She’s determined to die before she gives up … Well, if she wants it that way… Max shifted gears and stepped on the gas pedal.
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This work would have not been possible without the great support of my wife and son. I would also like to thank Frank Paine, Kristen Lewendon, Patti Holycross, Susan Harju, Irma Lero, Meagan Myhren-Bennett, Barbara Kappen, Susan Fritz, Shari Gross, J.T. Brock,
and Tim Birmingham, for their helpful suggestions.
AGENT RISING. Copyright © 2019 by Ethan Jones
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Kim Killion
First edition: May 2019