Moyer lowered his head and scrambled past the window, not taking the chance someone with a gun might be sitting in the dark. Moyer checked half the windows; Crispin eyed the remaining three. The best Moyer could tell, nothing but darkness filled the building.
Reaching the corner with Crispin in tow, Moyer joined Rich and Pete. A sharp, upraised hand by Rich stopped Moyer in midstep. Rich gave a hand signal directing Moyer to look in the rear window near where Rich stood.
Moyer approached and glanced through the glass: A small, red glow floated four feet off the floor. Laser sight? Ghost?
Rich brought two fingers to his lips, then pulled them away.
Cigarette. Good catch, Shaq.
Two feet north of the window was a door covered with peeling red paint. Moyer took a position to one side, Crispin immediately behind him. Rich took the other side, Pete on his six.
Moyer eased a gloved hand onto the knob and turned it with painful slowness. It rotated. Unlocked. Moyer's eyes drilled into Rich's.
Rich nodded and turned on his tactical light, a small flashlight attached to the underside of his M4. The others did the same.
Moyer pushed the door open and crossed the threshold, his light slicing the black, his weapon pressed into his shoulder. Other beams swept the area looking for any threat.
The floating red glow was near the middle of the wide, empty room. Moyer drew down on it and the dim shape behind. The others followed suit until all four beams were fixed on a man seated in a wood chair, a cigarette in his lips.
"Gentlemen. I've been expecting you." The voice was calm and the accent thick. He leaned to the side and extended his arm.
"Don't move." Rich took a step closer, close enough that the barrel of his M4 was only inches from the man's head.
"Slow down, cowboy." The man continued to extend his arm. Moyer heard a click, and a dim light pushed back the darkness. Seated in the chair was a bald man with a half crown of hair running from ear to ear. He was round in the middle and slump shouldered. He wore glasses with thick lenses and a wire frame. His clothing was that of a working man: dirty jeans, heavy flannel shirt, and work boots. He looked like he'd be more comfortable with a platter of nachos and a six-pack.
The lamp sat on a battered folding table and shared the space with a pot of tea, an unidentifiable half-eaten sandwich, and a nearly empty bottle of vodka.
Moyer signaled Pete and Crispin to finish securing the building. Moments later they returned. "Clear," Pete said. "But you won't believe what we found."
Moyer kept his focus on the bald man. "State your name."
"You know my name. I'm why you're here."
"State you name," Moyer repeated. Rich put the barrel of his weapon to the man's temple, putting the exclamation point to the order.
"Lev."
"Lev what?"
"Lev Nikitin. Now, can you call off your dog?"
"He's our man." Moyer waved Rich off.
Lev grinned. If Rich put any fear in the man, it didn't show. Lev had the look of a man who had seen a lot, maybe too much.
"I don't have much to offer. I'm afraid I finished the tea. The vodka . . . well, you are on duty, are you not?"
Moyer frowned. "Yeah, just like you."
"Ah, I see. You think I'm drunk. Well, I'm Russian. Drunk is a long way off."
"Are you sure this is our guy?" Rich's disdain was clear.
"What? You don't like my looks?" Lev stood. "You think I should wear a tie and suit coat? How many agents do you think are willing to work in this area? Vodka is a staple of Russian diet. It got my father and mother through the Cold War years and my grandparents through Stalin."
"I'm just saying a little personal pride—"
"Fine. If you don't want me, I'll go to what passes for my home. You can find your satellite and lost men by yourself." He started for the door when Moyer stopped him by placing a hand on the man's chest.
"The wordplay is over, Lev. I've been ordered to meet with you and meet is what we're going to do. I have no orders for what happens to you after that. You do understand what I'm saying, don't you?"
Lev grinned. His breath smelled of cigarettes. "I don't intimidate easily, Mr. Sergeant, sir. You don't grow up in Siberia like I did without making friends with fear. Now do you want my help or not?"
"Yes." Moyer had a growing desire to plant a fist in the man's face.
"Then come with me."
Lev led them in the direction Pete and Crispin were a short time before. At the end of the building was a large, white panel truck with blue and orange letters painted on the side: FedEx.
"You're kidding me." Rich looked stunned. "You have FedEx here?"
Lev shook his head. "FedEx is everywhere. We might be remote, but we are not backwards." The Russian opened the back doors of the truck. Inside were white cardboard boxes here and there. "Unlike most delivery trucks, this one has rear seating."
"What's in the boxes?" J. J. asked.
"This and that. Food, water, a few other things."
Moyer cocked his head. "Other things?"
Lev seemed proud. "In one of the boxes is something you might need: a way of carrying radioactive material. You didn't think you could throw it in your backpacks, did you?"
"I've been wondering about that," Rich said.
"How did you get all this?" Moyer stepped into the cargo area.
"Overnight delivery, of course."
"You got a sense of humor, I'll give you that." Rich slapped the man on the back.
"You see, everyone loves Lev."
"We ain't buddies yet, pal."
Lev shrugged. "It's a start." He stepped into the back of the vehicle, opened a small box near the driver's area, and removed something that reminded Moyer of a large iPhone. "Your people will send information to this device."
"We have satellite phones." Moyer studied the device.
"Do they have displays? Do you know how a submarine gets its information?"
"Well, there are several ways—"
"Data is sent from satellites in compressed digital packets. They are called 'burst transmissions.' A submarine comes close enough to the surface to extend its communication mast, then receives a burst of information. It takes only a few seconds so the submarine can submerge to deeper, safer waters. What you hold is a version of that."
He took the device from Moyer and caressed it. "It's an amazing piece of work. Did you know I studied to be an electrical engineer? Of course not, how could you." He handed it back. "With this device you can do more than talk as you do on a satellite phone. There are electronic ears in this area. Satellite phones are easy to track, even if they encrypt their transmissions. In fact, encrypted messages tend to raise suspicions."
Moyer faced Pete. "Think you can handle this?"
"Yes, Boss. If it runs on electrons, then I can handle it."
"Boss," Lev said. "How . . . quaint." He paused, belched, then scratched his belly. "We should be going."
"We?" Moyer raised an eyebrow.
"I'm your driver."
"You're kidding." Rich took a step back. "I hate to tell you this 007, but you're drunk."
"See, I'll fit right in."
"Bad idea," Moyer said.
"Really? Which of your team speaks Russian?" Lev crossed his arms.
Moyer had a bad feeling. The agent had a point. Given the time, the brass might have sent a Russian-speaking soldier with them, but the clock was working against them. In a matter of hours, Angel-12 would plummet to earth, and there were the captive men to consider.
"Mount up, men."
"Boss, you can't be serious." Rich looked stunned. "I can't remember the number of times I've jumped out of airplanes, some at high altitude. I did so without a second thought, but this has disaster written all over it."
"I said, mount up." Moyer keyed his throat mike. "Colt, status report."
"All clear, Boss. I saw a rabbit. Does that count?"
"You and Doc haul yourselves in, double time, and
bring Crispin's gear."
"Roger that."
Moyer turned to Lev and smiled. The Russian grinned back. In a blink, Moyer seized the man by the front of his flannel shirt and rammed him into one of the fixed seats mounted to the truck bed. "At the moment, I am a man with mixed emotions. You've done us some favors, not the least of which is this truck, but so far you seem to be taking this lightly; too lightly for my tastes." Lev's eyes widened. "I haven't had much sleep, I've been traveling for I don't know how many hours, so I'm a little on edge. Are you following me?"
"Yes, I follow." A slight tremble ran through the man.
"If you do anything that endangers my men, hinders my mission, or puts those captured men at greater risk, I will bust you up so bad, buzzards will puke when they see you. Is there anything you don't understand?"
"I assure you that my intention—"
With one arm, Moyer lifted the man from the seat and slammed him back down hard enough to force air from his lungs. "I asked you a question."
"Yes, I understand. I understand completely."
"Good, you have five minutes to sober up." Moyer released him and then jumped from the back of the panel truck.
"If you ask me, Boss, you just made him sober."
CHAPTER 13
Columbia, South Carolina
STUDY GROUP WAS GOING well and Gina was pleased with herself for the gathering. She and three other girls from her junior high school met twice a week to study and cram for tests. Gina didn't need the help, but she enjoyed the warm sense of accomplishment that came from helping others. Well, she didn't need help with academic classes. Science, social studies, English, Spanish, and history came easy to her. It was speech class that gave her nightmares. The class reinforced what she long suspected: She was a high-order introvert. Among family and friends, she was a wit, quick with a jab, a soft sarcasm, or a suggestion for an outing. Standing in front of a class and talking was a different matter.
Tomorrow she would have to do the emotionally painful act of giving a three-minute speech. Three minutes! Why did it have to be so long? Her stomach already hurt.
Gina repositioned herself on the floor, crossing her legs. The girls gathered in Pauline Wysocki's house three blocks south of Gina's home. Pauline was the first to practice her speech: "How to Properly Brush Your Teeth." Gina suggested something a little more serious might be in order.
"Dental hygiene is important, girl." Pauline's straight black hair bounced when she spoke. Petite and several inches shorter than anyone else in the group, Pauline was powered by boundless energy. Everything she did, she did at accelerated speed. Gina guessed the girl would have to write a six-minute speech to reach the three-minute minimum. "I mean, have you seen Vinny's teeth?"
"Eeeeew." Sharon sat on the floor, her back against Pauline's sofa.
"You just like the subject because your dad is an Army dentist." Beth was stretched out on the sofa. Tall and lanky, she covered the entire length of the piece of furniture.
"And what's wrong with that?" Pauline crossed her arms.
"Nothing wrong with it. I'm just sayin'." Beth studied her nails, the notes for her speech resting on her flat belly. Life kick-started her growing years, leaving her a half-a-foot taller than any girl in her class. To her credit, she took the teasing in stride. Her unflappable nature was one of the things Gina admired about her. That, and she was the smartest girl in the school and Gina's constant competition for the higher grades.
Sharon sighed loudly and for effect. "Come on, guys, let's get on with this. I gotta be home by nine, or my parents will ground me again." She pushed her blond bangs from her eyes. Sharon was the darling of the boys. Her short hair with the streak of pink in it, bright blue eyes, and thousand-watt smile drew the attention of every seventh, eighth, and ninth grader with a Y chromosome.
"Okay, you go first, Pauline." Gina lifted a stopwatch she borrowed from her brother. "I'll time you."
"Why me?"
"It's your house," Beth said.
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"It doesn't." Beth pulled her long legs in, turned on the sofa, and sat facing Pauline. "We're all going to give our speeches, so what does it matter who goes first? Get it over with, girl. There's a program I want to watch on television."
"But—"
"Just do it." The other girls spoke in unison. The unplanned chorus drew giggles from them all.
"Okay, okay." Pauline stepped to the middle of the living room, straightened her back, and raised her notes. "High blood pressure, diabetes, and heart disease. Very few people know these diseases can come from poor dental health . . ."
THE STUDY SESSION LASTED another ninety minutes, lengthened by Pauline's mother's insistence they reward themselves with chocolate chip cookies and milk. Gina didn't want any so she ate only three of the largest cookies.
She told her mother she'd be home by eleven and her watch told her it was five minutes past that. It would take less than ten minutes to walk the three blocks north to her house, not late enough to call home. Mom was always tolerant of Gina's study nights.
The May air was still warm; South Carolina warmed early and stayed hot far too long for her tastes. At this hour, however, things had cooled to a comfortable level although the humidity refused to leave.
Had Rob made it home from McDonald's? He said he might have to work late, so maybe not. She spent more time lately thinking of her brother. Maybe it was because of the change she watched in him over the last two years; maybe, at the age of eighteen, he became the protector of the family when her father went away on mission. Maybe.
The neighborhood looked sleepy. Only half the houses had lights burning; from a few the sound of a television rode the gentle breeze. In the distance a night bird sang. Weariness settled on her. After a day of school, an afternoon of study, and an evening of study group, Gina was ready for her bed.
The headlights of a car approaching from behind washed the road with illumination. Gina turned and saw a red 1970s Cadillac approaching. She had seen the car before. An elderly couple owned the vehicle, apparently unable or unwilling to buy something made in this century.
She turned her attention to the sidewalk extending before her. Just two blocks to go. Another pair of lights came toward her: a new Volkswagen Beetle. She eyed it with admiration. A red Beetle was on her wish list. All she needed was to grow a little older and find a way to finance the car. Like the Cadillac, she had seen the car before.
She paused at the curb, ready to cross the last street and walk the last block. Gina shifted her speech book to her other arm and started across.
A car engine started.
Tires rumbled on asphalt.
Gina turned to see who was pulling from the curb at this hour. Instead, two large men appeared. Before she could think, before she could react, one of the men pulled a hood over her head. It smelled of chemicals. A hand clamped over her mouth.
She screamed anyway but couldn't manage any sound with volume.
Dizzy.
Her legs gave out. Her last memory was of being lifted and carried. A few moments later she felt motion, forward movement. A vehicle?
Gina tried to focus but nothing happened. Shouldn't she be afraid? Yes she should, but she couldn't keep her eyes open. The smell turned her stomach. Thoughts bounced randomly in her head: no order . . . no reason . . . no emotion. The chemical smell deprived her of reason. Her last conscious thought struck her as odd.
She hoped her mother wouldn't be angry about her not coming home. Stupid thought.
Then she couldn't think at all.
Khabarovsk region of eastern Russia, near Enken
THE FEDEX VAN MOTORED over the rough, potholed surface of the road Moyer and his men followed a short time before. Irritation and weariness mixed with adrenaline, leaving Moyer on edge. There was something else; something he couldn't put a finger on.
Lev told them what to expect. After Moyer's little conversation with the man, Lev became very cooperat
ive. Moyer didn't know how long it would last. Lev didn't seem like a man who would stay intimidated. Moyer just hoped it lasted through the trip.
The team sat on seats specially installed for this purpose. They were small, they were uncomfortable, but they did the job.
Rich sat across from him. They made eye contact and the big man tilted his head.
"Something on your mind, Shaq?"
Rich nodded. "Yup."
"Spill it."
He leaned forward and Moyer did the same. Moyer could feel Rich's breath on his ear. "You okay?"
"Solid. Why?"
"You seem a little out of sorts, even for you."
Moyer leaned back. "I'm gonna forget that last comment."
Rich rested elbows on his knees. "All I'm sayin', Boss, is that you seem edgy."
His second in command had to speak up to be heard over the roar of the engine and the rattle of the truck's metal sides. Moyer glanced at the other members of the team. Not one made eye contact.
"What's your point?" Rich leaned forward again but Moyer waved him off. "Just say it, Shaq."
"Okay, I will. You were a little rough on our man up there." He motioned to Lev with his thumb.
"I was rough. You put your gun to his head."
"True, but that's me. Someone has to play the bad soldier and I do that well. You're supposed to be the good soldier."
Moyer frowned. "This isn't good cop, bad cop, Shaq. The man needed some sobering."
"Agreed, but that's what I'm here for."
"So you're ticked because I didn't let you put sense into the man?"
"No. I'm just asking if you're okay."
"I'm fine."
"Okay, if you say so, Boss. Just checkin' because it's my job."
"You've checked and I've answered."
"Understood, Boss. You're doing just peachy. Got it. I read you."
"You don't sound convinced."
"Is that a requirement?"
Fallen Angel Page 10