by Chad Zunker
Standing there, Sam thought about the gray-bearded man. A thirty-year CIA master spook who’d entered Sam’s life only nine short months ago but who’d already twice toyed so cruelly with him. First, with the scandal involving Lucas McCallister and Redrock Security while Sam worked a low-paying job as a political tracker during election season; then again, just a month ago, with Sam’s unorthodox trip to Mexico City, where he’d barely survived being hunted by hit men, the police, the FBI, and even an infamous assassin called the Gray Wolf. All because of a wicked script that Pelini had both written and directed to recruit him into this mission.
The wounds were still incredibly raw from that ordeal.
Sam knew it was only last month’s shocking revelation that Marcus Pelini was his long-lost father that had ultimately put him in Moscow tonight. The still-scared orphan boy was so damn desperate to know his real father—even if the man had been willingly absent for Sam’s entire tortured life—that he’d somehow allowed himself to be recruited into this dangerous situation while lying to everyone he cared about. Working directly with Pelini the past month had done little so far to release him from a lifelong emotional prison cell. The gray-bearded man seemed to have zero interest in building an actual father-son relationship with him. Pelini had been only about the mission at hand. Sam and Pelini hadn’t spent any time tossing the football around or grabbing beers. The gray-bearded man had said nothing about his twenty-six-year absence. They’d talked only about the operation. This had made Sam angrier by the day. There had been several moments during the final days leading up to the execution of this critical mission where he’d felt like bolting. It was just too damn painful.
However, he never did.
He just kept showing up for training the next day.
Hope was a powerful drug.
Although false hope could ultimately prove to be his demise.
He sighed, tried to shake off the pity party. There was no time for it. He’d made his own bed; now he had to get out of it all by himself. He would never get back to Natalie by standing there and whining about his stupid mistakes. He had to keep moving forward. He had to stay alive.
In the mirror, he examined his face more closely. His bottom lip was busted up good. He had a small cut along his left eyebrow. A few scrapes on his right cheek and chin. He scanned the rest of his body. He could already see a lot of dark bruising forming down his right arm. He was in decent shape, considering what he’d put himself through the past hour. He washed his face in the sink, ran his hands through his short brown hair. His hair had just started to grow back after he’d shaved his head completely bald last month to escape from a federal police building in Mexico City. Should he shave it again? Or dye it another color? Black? Blond?
For now, he decided against all those options. He’d been wearing a black knit cap inside the compound. Grabbing a stack of paper towels, he began to dry himself. He reached down, unzipped his black travel bag, found the same clothes and shoes he’d worn on the private plane over from London: blue jeans, gray T-shirt, dark-blue hoodie, running shoes. He took off his black climbing shoes and black pants and changed back into the dry clothes from the bag. He’d brought nothing else with him from London—no phone, no wallet, no cash. Pelini had instructed him to carry nothing on him during the mission. He also hadn’t brought along any toiletries or extra clothes in the travel bag, as he hadn’t planned on being away from his hotel room for very long. He regretted that now. He should have prepared for the absolute worst.
Thankfully, he had one important item that could prove to be highly valuable right now: the alias passport given to him by Pelini before the mission as a precautionary measure. Every team member had received new aliases at the same sitting. They’d all had good laughs while comparing new fictitious names. Taking the alias passport out of the back pocket of his blue jeans, he stared at the name: Dean Alexander. Someone on Pelini’s team had even stamped the passport appropriately for his Russian travels before he’d ever left the United States.
Putting the toilet seat down, Sam sat and held Roger’s phone in front of him. Scrolling through the contact list, he looked for Pelini’s name, found “MP,” placed the call, and prayed that the gray-bearded man would simply answer his phone, be hiding out in a hotel somewhere nearby, and they’d begin working out a plan to get Sam out of this mess. The phone rang four times and then went to an automated voice mail. Cursing, Sam hung up, pressed an option to send a text message instead.
Are you out there?—Sam
Then he continued to search the phone’s contacts for Luis and Mack, his backup men on the streets. He easily found them both and sent them the exact same text message he’d just sent to Pelini. Hopefully, one of these men was still alive and would be able to help.
Setting the phone on the counter, he shoved all the excess clothes back into his travel bag and zipped it up. He kept the small sealed pouch with the computer tablet on his body, just in case, by tucking it into the back of his blue jeans. The tablet might prove to be valuable at some point.
He was about to leave the restroom when the phone suddenly buzzed. A text message had arrived back from Luis, sending a charge through him.
Red Square. Saint Basil’s Cathedral. 15 minutes.
ELEVEN
Sam tossed his travel bag into a dumpster behind the gas station. He needed to be as nimble as possible. With his hood up over his head, he made his way through Moscow’s empty streets as swiftly as possible, his eyes on a swivel the entire time. He was not sure who might be out there searching for him at the moment. Russian police? Zolotov’s kill squad? Those who ambushed the safe house? Were they one and the same?
Red Square was only a few blocks west of the gas station, sitting along the Moskva River. He jogged most of the distance, in and out of dark alleys, trying to stay off the main roads. Arriving, he slowed, caught his breath, and pulled up a mental map from his personal study of Russia. As the centerpiece of Moscow, Red Square was surrounded on all sides by prominent Russian historical buildings—the massive Kremlin, Lenin’s Mausoleum, the Kazan Cathedral, and Saint Basil’s Cathedral, among others. At three thirty in the morning, the vast square was eerily empty. Sam tried to hug the edges and stay out of the center, where he felt the most vulnerable.
He made his way toward Saint Basil’s Cathedral, which sat impressively aglow in bright lights. With its colorful towers with domes at the top, all wrapped in vibrant reds, greens, blues, and yellows, the old church looked like it had flames reaching up into Russia’s night sky.
He paused, pulled out Roger’s phone, typed a message.
I’m here.
The reply was immediate.
Monument to Minin and Pozharsky.
Luis was referring to the statue of two historical Russian men in togas that stood directly in front of the cathedral. Sam hesitantly approached it, searching in every direction for the fortysomething man he’d called Desperado a month ago because of his likeness to the actor Antonio Banderas. Sam turned sharply when three men around his age suddenly crossed through the square behind him. They all looked like normal guys in casual clothes who might be returning home from a late night at the bars. None of them even glanced in his direction. Still, they sent a shiver through him.
Seconds later, Luis stepped out of the shadows from the other side of the monument. He was wearing all black—jacket, pants, shoes—much like Sam had been wearing earlier. He hobbled over to Sam as if he were injured, their eyes connecting in recognition. Before speaking, Luis did a quick visual sweep of the square and then returned his focus to Sam.
“You really are alive, man,” Luis said, as if both surprised and pleased.
“Barely. What the hell happened?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. I lost all communication while you were inside Zolotov’s place, right after you ran into that damn kid. Everything just went dark on my end. Then I heard all the chaos from the compound.”
“Everyone is dead.”
L
uis’s brow dipped. “How do you know that?”
“When I escaped the residence, I managed to make my way back to the safe house. They were ambushed. That’s how I got Roger’s phone.”
Luis cursed. “Marcus?”
Sam shook his head. “He wasn’t there. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. Where the hell were you? You were supposed to be providing me backup. I had to jump out a fourth-story window into the pool and nearly got sprayed with bullets.”
“Sorry, man. I was a block south. Near the park. When I first heard the alarm go off, I rushed forward but nearly was taken out myself. Two men were waiting. I don’t know how they found me. I got clipped in the leg but managed to get away from them.”
“Who did this, Luis?”
Luis shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Have you heard from Mack?” asked Sam.
Another shake of the head. “Nothing. You’re my first communication in the aftermath. No one else is responding, which makes sense now.” He cursed again, as if reality was sinking in. “I can’t believe they’re all dead.”
Sam could see the genuine emotion in the man’s face. While the group was still mostly strangers to Sam, they were clearly Luis’s friends.
“I’m sorry,” Sam offered. It felt empty.
Luis shook it off. “I’m glad you’re still alive, Callahan. Pretty damn impressive, under the circumstances. You were definitely the right man for this job. None of us could have gotten out of that building like you did.”
“Well, I’d like to stay alive. What the hell do we do now?”
“Get out of Moscow ASAP. Reestablish secure contact.”
“Secure contact with who? Everyone appears to be dead. Marcus is missing and probably dead, too.”
“I’ll figure that out later. You still have your new passport?”
Sam nodded.
“Good. Let’s get going.”
Sam followed behind Luis, who limped along at a steady gait as they moved away from Saint Basil’s Cathedral. He was grateful to find the guy. In no way, shape, or form did Sam want to go at this alone right now.
Unfortunately, fate had other plans. The first bullet hit Luis square in the chest. He spun around from the impact. A quick second bullet hit him in the back and dropped him to the ground. Sam stared fifty feet straight ahead of them, spotted a man charging forward, gun in hand. He immediately reminded Sam of the massive Russian boxer, Ivan Drago, who’d battled Sylvester Stallone’s character in Rocky IV.
Pivoting, Sam dashed back toward Saint Basil’s Cathedral, head ducked low, his legs propelling him forward in a full-on sprint. He again heard the familiar thump of the gun, saw something ricochet right in front of him. He circled the cathedral, created a path away from Red Square, where he chased a main street straight toward the Moskva River. Two more thumps behind him. He hunkered down, braced for impact, but nothing came. The Russian had missed again. But how many bullets could Sam possibly dodge? He had to break free of the Russian somehow, and quickly.
Reaching the Moskva River, Sam sprinted up onto the Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge until he was straight over the water. For the first time, he took a glance behind him. Although he was easily outpacing the assassin, the man was still in pursuit. If he could just somehow get across the bridge, Sam felt he could lose the guy entirely. He turned, kept sprinting forward on the bridge’s walking path. A few isolated cars passed beside him on the bridge. Suddenly, one of the cars veered up onto the bridge’s walking path, thirty feet in front of him. Sam saw two men jump out of the car, stare straight at him, looking like they were holding guns. He jerked to a stop, felt caught in the crosshairs. One man behind, two men in front, all intent on killing.
There was only one thing for Sam to do. Get wet again.
Climbing up over the top of the bridge’s concrete wall, he stared down into the water. When he heard another thump, he immediately jumped. Dropping maybe fifty feet, he plunged feetfirst into the ice-cold river water, which made his chest tighten on impact. Still, he knew he couldn’t immediately resurface. He swam deeper when he could tell the men were shooting into the water all around him. As fast as he could, he made his way back underneath the bridge to create a sight barrier. When his lungs threatened to give way, Sam finally surfaced, gasped for breath. He was safe beneath the bridge. But he had no intention of remaining there for long. He had to get out of the water or his body would go into hypothermia.
Dipping beneath the water again, he swam with every ounce of energy he had left, his arms and legs growing numb, as far away as possible from the side of the bridge where he’d jumped. He surfaced only when he thought he might drown. Treading water, he looked back, could still see at least two of the men up on top, frantically searching, but their focus was too close. Sam had created more space than they’d expected. He went under again, swam even farther, until he finally made his way over to the border of the river and pulled himself up onto the dirt bank.
He lay still on his back, sucking in the night air.
When his mind thawed, he thought of Luis and cursed.
He was alone again. Unsure of his next move.
TWELVE
A firefighter recovered Natalie’s cell phone in all the wreckage. Thankfully, the phone was still in good working condition. After being dropped off on the sidewalk in front of her brownstone by a police officer, Natalie immediately called Sam. She sat on the outside steps, closed her eyes, and prayed that he would answer. That he would then explain how that wasn’t him in Moscow, that he was still in London, and this was all a big misunderstanding. But Natalie wasn’t naive—her gut told her otherwise. Her shoulders sagged when the phone call went to Sam’s familiar voice mail greeting. At the beep, she begged him to call her back immediately. She then called his number three more times, still hoping he might answer, thinking the repeated buzzing might wake him from sleep if that was the case. No luck. Finally, she hung up and sent him a text with the same message she’d left in her voice mail: Call me back ASAP!
She climbed the stairs of the brownstone and entered her third-story apartment. Inside, she called David Benoltz’s cell phone, knowing Sam’s boss was also in London with him. Again, the phone rang four times and went to voice mail. She cursed, dialed David three more times. Still no answer—it was one thirty in the morning in London. Natalie refused to give up. She searched Google on her phone for the Amba Hotel in London. Calling the front desk, she paced in a nervous circle around her living room. When a man answered, Natalie explained that her fiancé was staying in the hotel, and she was afraid for his safety. She hadn’t been able to get ahold of him and had reason to believe something may have happened to him. Could he please check the room? Along with the room of her fiancé’s boss, who was also staying in the hotel? The hotel staffer collected all the pertinent information and told Natalie he would call her back as soon as he was able to pursue proper hotel protocol.
Hanging up, Natalie went into the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror, examined the scrapes and bruises on the left side of her face. She’d probably end up with two black eyes. Her jaw felt sore. And she ached something fierce in her midsection. The medic thought she might have bruised ribs and had given her some pain meds. She refused to take them—she needed to be clearheaded right now. She couldn’t afford to be numb or knocked out by pain medication, no matter how much it hurt. She set her cell phone on full volume so she could hear the ring, then jumped into the shower to clean herself up. The hot beads of water felt good against her hurting body, but she didn’t stay under the water long. She wanted to answer the phone at first ring and be ready to respond in whatever way necessary—even if it meant getting on a damn plane to London.
After rinsing off, she dried herself with a towel and quickly put on a pair of blue jeans and a worn Saint Louis Cardinals sweatshirt. She checked her phone every thirty seconds, her impatience growing. What was taking the hotel people so damn long? While waiting for the hotel to call her back, she called Sam’s
number four more times. Still no answer. She called David again. No answer. She was ready to pull out her hair.
Walking into her kitchen, she quickly made a hot cup of tea, hoping it would somehow help calm her nerves. While letting the tea bag saturate the hot water, she set her mind back on the driver of the Suburban, the man with the gray ball cap, glasses, and goatee. Natalie thought the crash had to be in response to her meeting with Michelle. It felt like too big of a coincidence for it to happen only minutes after Michelle had wanted to meet privately. Who was he? She’d given a full description to the police and told them she thought she’d spotted him in the crowd in the aftermath, but they’d been unable to locate him.
When her cell phone rang, she nearly spilled her hot tea. David Benoltz.
“What’s going on, Natalie?” David asked, his voice groggy. “Hotel security just banged on my door and woke me up. They said you called the front desk all frantic. Then I see all these missed calls from you in the past fifteen minutes.”
“Where’s Sam?”
“In his room, I presume.”
“Has hotel security gone inside his room yet?”
“Well, no, they said they knocked repeatedly, then came over to my door when he didn’t answer. I told them I figured he had taken some meds because he was feeling ill earlier and was probably knocked out cold.”
“You need to go inside his hotel room right now,” Natalie demanded.
“What’s going on, Natalie? You sound panicked.”
“I think Sam’s in trouble. I just need you to check on him. Please, David.”
“Okay, calm down. Give me a second. The guy from hotel security is still at my door, waiting to sort this all out with me. Stay on the phone.”
Natalie again paced in a circle in her living room, the anxiety growing with each passing moment. She listened as David had a brief conversation with hotel security, where he insisted they enter the hotel room and check on his employee. She heard four firm raps on a door, and David told her over the phone they were knocking on Sam’s door again. When there was no answer, David said they were unlocking the door and going inside. Natalie sat on the sofa, her breathing heavy. She waited several seconds for the next update from David.