No one saw Simon drop his hands to his side and pull out his pistol. They were all too busy pushing and shoving, distracted by their singular focus of escaping the confining walls of the Kremlin. He held the pistol out of sight as he flipped off the safety. Simon turned his head slowly side to side, looking at the guards trying to control the agitated tourists while searching among them, searching for someone. Without further delay, Simon fired three quick shots into the ground. The loud report silenced all for the briefest moment, a harsh silence as if the crowd was coiling back.
And then the panic erupted.
Everyone scattered in all directions, moving outward like ripples on a pond. Screams and cries of fear roared from the masses, their self-preservation instincts taking over. Simon and Michael lost themselves in one group as it plowed thirty strong into the Arsenal’s archway for cover, fighting through the stunned guards who didn’t know what to do in the face of a panicked mob.
Confusion reigned as the group of thirty ducked and covered in the brick tunnel, panting, weeping in fear for their lives. With all of the mayhem, unseen in the chaos, a side door was jimmied open and Michael and Simon slipped inside.
They stood in a small walled vestibule of the Arsenal, the outside noise and confusion falling away to silence. They peered into a large vacant lobby that stretched as far as the eye could see into a forever-long hallway. The ceiling was over thirty feet high, the walls of polished marble. The place was deserted, all of the staff having been called to unexpected duty outside. The long hall was adorned in statues and artwork, all depicting the country’s greatest victories over foreign invaders. A vast display of military might that was witnessed by only the privileged ranks of the Presidential Regiment and VIPs.
Michael and Simon hadn’t taken two steps inside the grand hall when the gunfire erupted from outside, from every angle, shattering the windows, tearing through the walls. Michael and Simon dived for cover behind a set of heavy wooden doors. They were six inches thick and, for the moment, better than Kevlar.
Guards had taken up positions outside, flanking both sides of the doorway, in front of the archway, and even from the rooftop of the Palace of Congresses across the courtyard. The guards had no intention of capture. Every guard smelled blood and wanted credit for the kill.
A burst of gunfire shattered the moment. Two guards charged the outside door as the suppression fire was laid down. Simon was prone on the marble floor just inside the doorway. He had no intention of the charging guards getting anywhere near them. With two shots, he ended their approach.
The elevator was across the hall from where they lay. Gunfire was intermittently making it through the doorway, bullets riocheting off the marble walls, shrapnel chips exploding around them.
“You’ve got to get the elevator,” Simon shouted over the gunfire.
“I know. I’m having a bit of a problem with that.”
Simon didn’t respond. He took aim and shouted, “Go.”
Michael took off on a belly crawl in the direction of the elevator. Simon fired off shots, two each in the direction of each of the guards who were taking target practice on him and Michael.
Michael skidded into the wall by the elevator, hit the button, and prayed.
Busch had raced through the cavern, following the map that Michael had given him and the well-placed orange paint dots along the wall. His hulking frame squeezed through the vent shaft and peered out into the vacant vestibule of the medical lab that sat ten stories underneath the Kremlin Arsenal. He watched and waited half an hour for a sign of any activity before removing the grate and hopping into the pure white room. The corner table still held the spread of food from the morning: the fruit now tinged brown, a single uneaten piroshki dried and crumbled, the half-empty cups of coffee grown cold.
He held his gun high and at the ready, moving down the hall, quickly checking the rooms. He walked back and hit the elevator call button.
He knew it would be at least a minute before the elevator arrived. He held his gun tight as he went back down the hall. He peered in the operating room: the doctors were gone, the bodies removed. The bloodstains were fifteen-foot-wide puddles of dark brown. It appeared as if the five doctors had completely bled out from their gunshot wounds. The revulsion he felt for Fetisov served to distract his mind from the tainted floor before him.
He looked through the shattered glass that the intense Russian had shot out, the same Russian who captured Michael. The theater was empty but for the chairs, probably never to be occupied again. The spectators had all been evacuated for debriefings before going home to nervous breakdowns.
As Busch looked upon the mayhem, he wondered whether this was all worth it. Five people were dead. Michael and Busch were no further along in saving Michael’s father, Genevieve was gone, and Susan was missing.
And the box, the mysterious box that Genevieve had pled with Busch to destroy, had now fallen into the hands of Fetisov and Julian. He wondered what it really held, how such a simple thing could hold so much danger. But he knew that was a foolish notion. A teaspoon of VX gas could kill tens of thousands. Plagues had killed millions. He didn’t know what the box held, but he knew it was in the hands of the last two people on earth who should possess it.
The elevator pinged. Busch headed back to the vestibule and stepped through the opening door of the cab. He flipped the stop button, locking the doors open, holding the car in reserve, and waited. He checked his watch. Simon said he would hit the call button in the main lobby when he had Michael. But if the call button didn’t illuminate by five o’clock, Busch was to not only leave the building but get back to Martin and leave the country.
Busch was pulled back to the moment as a gun landed two inches from his eye. The Russian guard had silently stepped into the elevator, catching Busch by surprise. He motioned him back against the wall and ripped the pistol from Busch’s hand. He shouted a barrage of questions, all in Russian and all useless as Busch stood there, cursing himself for being caught off guard.
And then, much to Busch’s despair, the elevator call button lit up for the lobby floor. The guard glared at Busch, reached over, flipped the elevator stop switch, and watched as the doors slowly closed. The guard read the fear on Busch’s face and, while keeping his gun keenly pointed at the huge blond American, raised Busch’s gun, pointing it at the seam of the door, prepared to kill whoever would appear when the door opened, whoever was going to meet Busch.
Michael heard the elevator kick into gear. The indicator showed the car to be starting its rise from the basement level. His sense of doom dropped a notch; they had a chance if they could just make it through the next minute in this ancient stronghold. Michael looked about at the oversized statues of the Russian military heroes that flanked the far wall, hoping their spirits wouldn’t react adversely to this blasphemous act in their sanctuary.
Two more guards suddenly charged the Arsenal doorway, rolling in from either side. Simon spun across the floor, narrowly avoiding their gunfire. He took one out with a shot to the neck and the other clear through his left eye.
“Hurry that elevator up.” Simon checked his gun. Out of ammo. “Throw me your guns.”
Michael slid his two unfired pistols across the polished marble. Simon picked them up and in a single motion continued to fire double-fisted out the doorway. Michael prayed that it would keep them away long enough for the elevator to make its ten-story climb.
Michael looked up from his prone position. The elevator was at sublevel eight and slowly approaching. Simon continued to fire, placing his shots to create the greatest amount of fear, the greatest amount of trepidation in the guards. He needed to hold them off for at least another minute. But his ammo was running low.
“I don’t suppose you have any more of those smoke bombs up your sleeve?” Michael asked.
Simon’s silence gave Michael his answer. He looked up, the elevator cab was on sublevel five now. “Almost here.”
Simon saw three men slipping toward th
e building; he fired three shots in their direction and tried a fourth. But the gun clicked empty.
He turned to Michael, his eyes wide in question.
“Three more floors.”
And Simon slid on his belly to Michael.
The gunfire stopped. A sudden silence as the onslaught ceased. And then footsteps, running, quick, echoing throughout the cavernous space—they were coming from all directions, both inside and out. The guards began pouring in, guns raised.
Michael and Simon braced for the end. They sat up, their backs against the elevator door. They both raised their hands.
And the elevator pinged on arrival.
The doors slowly slid open.
Simon and Michael, their backs to the elevator door, remained sitting as the contingent of guards aimed. Waiting for someone to exit the elevator, but no one came. The entire contingent focused their weapons.
Michael and Simon didn’t move, didn’t flinch.
And then, from within the cab, gunfire. Rapid and focused, three Russians down in the first burst. The guards reacted, ducking, rolling, moving for cover.
Michael and Simon fell backward into the cab next to a body as the elevator doors closed. The unconscious man looked like his face had run headlong into a train. Michael could swear he saw an indent in the man’s cheek that matched Busch’s wedding ring.
“Sorry I’m late,” Busch said with two guns held high as he looked down on Michael and Simon.
“I see you’re making friends,” Michael glanced at the comatose man. “I take it, it was a one-sided conversation?”
Busch smiled. “You know, sometimes actions speak louder than words.”
Chapter 49
A perfect image of the moon reflected off the ocean, its rays reaching across the waves like fingers spreading toward Stephen Kelley. He stood on the balcony of his room two hundred and fifty feet above the sea and scanned the narrow strip of land between the mansion and the cliffs. A pair of guards came by every twenty minutes—almost to the second—circling the perimeter with wary eyes. These weren’t rent-a-cops. These were former soldiers, military, people trained in precision. And as efficient as they were with their rounds, they were probably experts with the rifles and sidearms they carried.
Stephen had on a pair of jeans and a dark jacket he found in the closet; it was the only alternative he had to the dress shirt he arrived in or the white oxford shirt that Zivera had provided. Both would be like bull’s-eyes reflecting back the moonlight. Around his neck was a bath towel, draped as if he had just exited the shower. His chest felt like a horse race on the inside, his heart seemingly ready to explode, and he hadn’t even started running yet.
He had checked his room from top to bottom but found nothing he could fashion into a weapon. He would put his faith in his fists and his mind. And that was why his heart was pounding: he knew that what he was about to do was as foolish a thing as he had ever done, but he knew that staying was even more unwise. No point in lulling himself into a false sense of security. Zivera may have worn the image of a gentleman, but Stephen had no doubt: he was going to kill him and soon.
Stephen hiked his legs over the balcony and looked down. It was fifty feet. If the fall didn’t kill him, the guards would when they found him broken upon the ground when they returned in twenty minutes. Every room was designed around the view of the Mediterranean, designed around capturing its grand majesty, the vast vista of the open water. As such, each was equipped with its own balcony to afford a perch above the ocean, a place to smell the sea, to feel the breeze whenever the heart desired. Directly below Stephen’s third-floor room was another balcony, and below that one more.
Stephen climbed over the marble rail, slipped the towel around the balustrade, an end of the white cloth in each hand. He tested it, pulled against it, and finally, with his feet firmly planted against the outside edge of the balcony, he leaned back. Angled outward forty-five degress, he craned his head down. He saw the balcony below him and its darkened room beyond. No one there. He pulled himself back up and against the outside of the balcony’s marble posts. He paused a moment, centered himself, and crouched down on his knees. He held tight to the marble, suppressing his fears. His complicated world of running a law firm had suddenly been simplified. He was focused on only one thing: don’t fall. And with the towel firmly gripped in both hands he dropped. His body only fell about five feet as the towel snapped taut. He hung just below his balcony. He dangled for a moment, his feet kicking about for a perch, his arms aching from the jolt of the drop. His left foot finally caught the lower balcony rail and he gained his footing.
He steadied himself, balancing on the marble coping stone as if it were a balance beam. He broke out in a sweat; it wasn’t like the sweat from working out. This was all over, and it came upon him almost instantly. It was a cold sweat, like a misting of his entire body accompanied by sharp tingling. It was pure fear, like nothing he had ever felt in all his years.
Stephen released his right hand from the towel and, like a gymnast, quickly fell to a crouch, grabbing the six-inch marble rail where he precariously stood, pulling the towel down with his left hand.
He leapt onto the balcony and caught his breath. He looked below him, behind him, even above him, a paranoia setting in that he had surely been seen. He sat down on the marble balcony of the second floor and pulled his knees to his chest. He tried to steady his mind, catch his breath, convince himself that he had some chance at success, that he had some hope that he would live to see tomorrow. After the death of his son, having already lost two wives, he had spent the last year questioning his will to live. There was no question in his mind now. He rose up, checked his watch. He thought it had to have been at least ten minutes, but his watch told him the truth: only one minute had passed.
Stephen looked about; he couldn’t shake the paranoia that someone was watching, lining up their crosshairs on him. He looped the towel through the balcony rail and continued to the next balcony below. He made it with a bit more ease the second time around and was thankful it was only an eight-foot jump to the ground from where he now stood.
He was already running when he hit the grass, off in the direction the guards went. As he ran, he stole a glance over the cliff face and immediately decided against heading down. It was a sheer drop to craggy, sharp rocks awash in a tidal surge that would crush anyone who happened into the surf.
He moved back to the mansion, remaining in its vast shadow.
As he peered around the corner of the building, he saw the driveway filled with cars, a group of drivers milled about, their conversations just out of earshot. Ahead of Stephen, running parallel to the mansion, was a stand of pines five hundred strong. It was thick, once part of what must have been a vast forest, but in keeping with the detailed and manicured grounds, it had been thinned, wiped clean of scrub and undergrowth. Fortunately, its canopy was still dense, sheltering out the moonlight. It was a perfect place to run.
Stephen cut across the thirty feet of grass and headed into the woods. The forest floor was nothing but pine needles and mulch, soft on the foot and softer on the ear. Stephen jogged cautiously through the darkness; what little light made it through the canopy was only enough to see a few yards ahead, but nothing more. He judged the mountains to be five miles east, but between them and the sea, he had no idea where he was. He was quite sure, though, he was far from home free. The compound was huge and, he was sure, gated. He ran with a soft step and a keen ear, his eyes darting about, looking for danger.
And he found it.
Up ahead.
At the edge of the forest boundary: a one-story building, twenty guards running out, loading into an open vehicle. They were being called into action and Stephen suspected he was that reason.
Stephen’s mind went to work. It wouldn’t be long until they found him; he had only traveled a mile from the mansion. The search perimeter would close in on him quickly and his race for freedom would be over. He was being hunted and he was easy prey.
He looked about the forest; there was nowhere to hide that they wouldn’t find. But then he realized there was one place they wouldn’t look.
Stephen raced through the last bit of trees and came to a stop at the side wall of the structure he had spotted moments earlier. It was an old stucco-sheathed farmhouse. He peered in the doorway of the one-story building from which the guards emerged. It was a wide-open room. Nobody there. He cautiously stepped in. There were several large desks along the wall, computers and radio consoles upon them. A host of chairs and couches sat on the far side of the room. He looked out the doorway and windows and, seeing no one, he ran through the room opening drawers, closets, cabinets. He didn’t know what he was searching for, but he would know when he found it. The computers displayed log-in screens. The radios were password protected. There was a map of the compound on the wall. He tore it down and grabbed a pen. He quickly found his location, circled it, and drew a line along the shortest road to an exit. He tucked the map and the pen in his pocket and was about to head out when he checked the closet next to the door. And he found help.
Clothes. Uniforms, to be exact. Dark blue. God’s Truth emblazoned on the breast pocket. On the back in big bold letters: SECURITY. Stephen quickly stripped off his jacket and donned the shirt and security vest. There were pockets for radios, ammo, cuffs, etc.,…but they were all empty. No matter. He would at least be able to blend a bit. He finished putting on the pants, and tucked his old clothes back in the closet. He grabbed a baseball cap labeled God’s Truth Security and stuck it on his head.
He was feeling better. Where before he was desperate and hopeless, now he felt a plan coming together. He just might make it.
The Thieves of Faith Page 34