Tom Clancy Under Fire

by Grant Blackwood

  You know this stuff, he told himself. Don’t hurry it. Watch your corners and your intersections— He stopped himself. Get on with it.

  He shifted the Walther to his left hand, swiped his sweaty right palm across his chest, then regripped the gun.

  On flat feet he walked back down the path and out the gate. He scanned the length of the driveway and the front corner of the house. Nothing moved.

  Down the street the dog yipped again. A voice shouted, “Quiet, Numsy!”

  Jack crept to the cottage door. Through it he heard running water, then the clink of a dish. He reached out with his left hand, turned the knob. It was unlocked. He pushed open the door a couple of feet; through it was a round dining table and an arched entryway, through which he saw the flickering light of television playing on the walls.

  A loud buzzer went off and a voice said, “No, sorry, Annette. The answer is Dumfries.”

  To the right of the dining table a wooden plank door was set into the wall. A basement door, Jack guessed.

  Using the door as a screen, he stepped inside and peeked around it. A man was standing at the sink, doing dishes under the glow of a pendant lamp; its light reflected off a window above the sink. Careful, Jack. If he looks up—

  Something on the beige linoleum floor caught his eye. In the floor’s indentations were slivers of a brown substance. Dried blood.

  Jack crouched down and crab-walked into the kitchen until the man’s body was between him and the window, then stood up. A single shot at the base of the skull would do the trick. He’d never done that before. Then again, he told himself, these people had threatened to send Aminat back to Medzhid in pieces, and Jack had no doubt they meant it. They’d signed up for whatever they got.

  Make a decision.

  He crept toward the man, who suddenly shut off the water and reached for a towel on the counter beside him. Jack clamped his left hand over the man’s mouth, then rapped him behind the ear with the butt of the Walther. The man went limp. Jack caught him and lowered him the rest of the way to the floor, then turned the sink faucet back on.

  He turned his attention to the entrance to the TV room. It was empty.

  He paced to the basement door and waited for the game show’s buzzer to sound again. When it did, he opened the door, revealing a set of stairs. Leaving the door open a crack, he took the steps to the bottom, where he found a dimly lit basement.

  Tucked against the far wall beneath some pipes lay an elongated shape beneath a gray woolen blanket.

  “Please, no . . .” Jack murmured.

  He walked over, took a breath, and jerked back the blanket. Lying on the concrete floor were two bodies. Bloody towels were packed around the edge of the corpses. One man was lying on his side with a bullet hole in his temple; the other, who was younger, lay on his back. His shirt was sodden with blood and his forearms were covered in slashes.

  This had to be Steven, Jack thought, but who was the other one? Steven had gone down fighting, while the second man had been executed.

  From upstairs came the creaking of floorboards.

  Jack froze and listened, trying to gauge their path. In his mind’s eye he saw the TV watcher stepping into the kitchen. Jack braced himself for the shout of alarm. None came.

  He crept back up the stairs and stopped at the door.

  A shadow passed the gap.

  “What the hell . . . Yegor—” a voice muttered.

  Jack pushed open the door and raised the Walther.

  The man in front of him was already turning around. In his left hand was a small semi-auto equipped with a noise suppressor. Jack shot him twice in the chest. Aside from the click-clack of the racking slide, the Walther’s report was almost silent. The man stumbled backward, eyes wide with surprise. His legs gave out and he dropped butt-first on the floor. He looked down at the seeping holes in his chest, then at the gun still clenched in his right hand. He started to raise it. Jack took a step forward and shot him in the forehead.

  Upstairs, a door opened. A female voice called, “Everything okay?”

  This would be Helen.

  Shit. Jack didn’t give himself a chance to think. He put what he hoped was a Russian-like accent in his voice and said, “Dropped something.”

  The woman didn’t reply.

  Then: “Okay. Turn that down, will you?”

  The door clicked shut.

  Jack walked to the TV room’s entrance and peeked around the corner. Carpeted steps led upward to the darkened second-floor landing bordered by a wood balustrade.

  Jack found the remote on the couch and lowered the TV’s volume.

  Two down, but how many more upstairs?

  HE TOOK THE STEPS SLOWLY, agonizingly so, stopping each time one of the treads squeaked, until he reached the landing. Before him was a hallway with four doors, two on the left, one on the right—which Jack could see was a bathroom—and one at the end. All but the bathroom door were shut.

  Again Jack forced himself to stand still and listen. This was a failing of his, he knew, the urge to go, go, go; every time he found himself in the field he had to fight against it. His legs were trembling.

  He stepped to the first door on the left. It was unlocked; he opened it a couple of inches and looked inside. The bed’s covers were jumbled, but it was empty. He moved to the next room and repeated the process. This bed was occupied.

  The diminutive shape told him it was a girl. She was turned slightly away from him, her duct-taped right wrist stretched toward the bedpost. Moonlight streamed through the side window and cast a pale rectangle on the carpet.

  Jack stepped through and clicked the door shut behind him. Gently he sat on the bed. Aminat jerked awake and rolled over, her eyes wild with panic. Jack clamped his hand over her mouth and, before she could start struggling, raised the red-and-yellow thimble before Aminat’s eyes.

  “Your father sent me,” he whispered. “Can you walk? Just nod or shake your head.”

  Aminat nodded.

  “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  Jack pulled a penknife from his front pocket and sliced the tape away, first from her wrists, then from her ankles, all of which were wrapped in thick fleece; someone had shown at least some concern for the girl’s comfort. Jack helped her to her feet. She lost her balance. Jack caught her before she bumped into the nightstand and held her until she nodded that she was okay.

  He whispered in her ear, “How many are there?”

  She held up four fingers.

  That meant he had two left to deal with—or not, providing he and Aminat could get out quietly.

  “When we’re in the hall, follow me. Move only as I do. If I stop, you stop. You’re going to be fine, Aminat. You’re going home.”

  She nodded.

  “At the bottom of the stairs, we’ll turn left, then out the kitchen door. Don’t look around. If I say run, you run and don’t look back. Head down the driveway, cross the road to a paved trail. Turn right onto that and run as fast as you can until you see lights. Flag down a car or start pounding doors until you find someone. Have you got all that?”

  She mouthed Yes.

  Jack took out his sat phone and texted: HAVE GIRL. LEAVING HOUSE.

  ROGER.

  Jack handed Aminat his second phone. “Once you’re safe, hit speed-dial four. It’s a man named John. Tell him who you are. He’ll help.”

  He stepped around her and opened the door a couple of inches. The hall was empty. He turned back to her, put his finger to his lips, then stepped out and headed for the stairs with Aminat on his heels.

  Jack heard a thump and the twang of vibrating wood. Aminat cried out. He looked over his shoulder and saw her leaning over, holding her bare big toe. Her face was a grimace.

  At the end of the hall the door swung open and a petite figure emerged. Helen. S
he shouted, “Hey!”

  Simultaneously, Jack grabbed Aminat’s wrist, jerked her behind him, and raised the Walther and fired two shots over the balustrade. One bullet went wide, splintering the door beside Helen’s head, but the second hit home. Helen stumbled backward into the bedroom.

  Taking steps two at a time, his hand still clamped on Aminat’s wrist, Jack rushed down the stairs.

  Aminat shouted, “Wait, I can’t—”

  Her feet slipped out from under her. She landed on her back and slid down the steps, sideswiping Jack’s legs as she went. He felt himself tipping sideways. He slammed his left hand against the wall for balance, then vaulted the last three steps, landing astride Aminat, who was trying to get to her feet.

  “Stop!” Helen shouted from the top of the stairs.

  Jack didn’t look back, but instead shoved Aminat into the kitchen. Jack felt something slam into his left hip. The impact shoved him sideways into the entryway jamb. He hadn’t heard the shot; Helen had a suppressor as well. A second bullet smacked into the wood above his head. He pushed off and stumbled into the kitchen. Aminat was standing in the open door, looking back at him.

  “Go!”

  She sprinted out and turned right. Jack ran after her.

  He heard pounding on the steps behind him.

  He turned, saw Helen in the doorway. He fired, missed, fired again, then dashed outside. Aminat had reached the end of the driveway. Good girl, he thought. Keep going, fast as you can—

  Helen shouted, “Stop, damn it—”

  Jack spun on his heel and saw her shuffling across the kitchen floor, gun pointing at him. The side of her blouse was soaked with blood. She fired. Jack ducked left, reached out, and slammed the door in her face. The door buckled outward.

  Half limping, half running, Jack headed down the driveway. Aminat was well ahead of him, almost lost in the darkness, save the white of her T-shirt. Jack crossed Abden. Ahead, he saw Pettycur Road. He glanced left and right and saw no headlights. Just need another sixty seconds, he thought dully.

  He heard the snap beside his ear. Too close. If you could hear the snap, the round was close enough to touch. He ignored it and kept going. His left hip was growing numb. With each step he could hear the squelch of blood in his shoe.

  Despite himself, he glanced over his shoulder. Helen was thirty feet behind, gun extended before her and weaving as though drunk. Her face was deathly white. The muzzle of her gun flashed orange. Jack felt the bullet pluck at his sleeve. Fuckin’ good shot, this one.

  He crossed Pettycur Road. At the shoulder his foot caught the dirt berm and he fell forward and started barrel-rolling down the slope. He crashed to a stop against the hedges. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Helen appear at the top of the slope. She stopped, looked for him. She spotted him and raised her gun.

  Jack rolled sideways, raised the Walther, and fired twice. This time his aim was true. The first round slammed into Helen’s thigh, the second into her belly. She folded forward, then pitched headfirst onto the grass and rolled onto her side.

  Jack heard bare feet slapping on the paved path, then Aminat was crouching beside him. “You are hurt.”

  “I told you to run,” he said.

  “I did. And then I stopped and came back. Should I check to see if that woman is—”

  “No, stay away from her. Help me up.”

  Leaning on her, Jack got to his feet and limped up the slope to where Helen lay. She wasn’t moving. Gun trained on her head, he prodded her shoulder with his foot.

  She let out a groan.

  “Thank God,” he murmured. “Aminat, look over the berm and tell me what you see.”

  Aminat did as he asked. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Pick up her gun and help me with her.”

  Together they dragged Helen down the slope by her shoulders; her body left a slick of blood on the grass. With Aminat’s help, Jack manhandled Helen over his shoulder, then he found a gap in the hedges and pushed through. Another fifty feet brought them to a jumble of boulders at the waterline that Jack hoped would screen them from the road. He laid Helen on the sand. He sat down with his back against one of the boulders.

  He got out his phone and texted Clark: OUT SAFE.

  CONTACT WHEN CLEAR OF AREA.

  Jack stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

  Aminat said, “Your pant leg is all bloody.”

  “Yeah, I need something to stop it.”

  Aminat raised the hem of her T-shirt to her mouth, bit a hole in it, then ripped free a strip of the cotton. “Where is it?”

  “You better let me do it.”

  “Tell me where.”

  “Left hip.”

  Aminat unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down until the wound was exposed. Unceremoniously, she stuck the tip of her index finger into the hole. Jack winced, tried to jerk away. “Hold still,” Aminat said. “It’s small and not very deep. I can feel the bullet beneath the skin. I need to shove some of my T-shirt inside. It’s going to hurt.”

  Jack gritted his teeth as she jammed the material into the wound. A scream rose into his throat. He swallowed it, breathed through it, and slowly the pain subsided to a sharp throbbing.

  Aminat said, “That will do for now, but it should be seen to.”

  “Exactly how old are you?” Jack asked.

  “Twenty-one. You know who my father is, yes? You know where I come from? Not such a nice place sometimes. We grew up fast, my brothers and I.”

  Helen let out a groan. Her eyes fluttered open. She turned her head, saw Aminat, then looked at Jack.

  “I didn’t hit her, did I?”

  Jack was taken aback. “No, she’s fine.”

  “Please don’t take her,” Helen pleaded. “She doesn’t deserve this.”

  “Deserve what?”

  “Do you have any idea what he has planned for her?”

  Jack felt a pit in his stomach. “Who’re you talking about?”

  “Farid Rasulov. But I’m sure it wasn’t real.”

  Oleg Pechkin, Jack thought. “Aminat’s father sent me, not Rasulov.”

  Aminat said, “He’s telling the truth. Who is Rasulov? What was he going to do to me?”

  “I’ll explain later,” replied Jack.

  Helen said, “Funny, I’ve never had one get away before. This is the first time, and it’s turned out to be a good thing.”

  Jack’s mind was blank. This wasn’t what he expected to hear from a hardened kidnapper who’d threatened to dice up a twenty-one-year-old girl. Nor was her appearance a match: Helen was petite, barely taller than five feet, with a black pixie haircut. A tough woman, Jack thought, to succeed in such a cutthroat business.

  All he could think to ask was, “How many of these have you done?”

  Helen took a ragged breath and a bubble of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. She was bleeding inside, Jack knew. There was nothing he could do for her.

  “Thirty-eight. All of them returned safe. I am a saint, aren’t I? Rasulov . . . I had a bad feeling about him from the start. The money was very good, but what he asked me to do—I couldn’t.”

  “Who were the two men in the basement?” asked Jack.

  “Roma killed the boy . . . stabbed him. So I killed him. He was an animal. He would have killed you too, Amy. You were never going back home.”

  “Then why not just let me go when the others weren’t looking?”

  “I was, but I had to think it through. Rasulov would have killed Yegor and Olik when they got home. They are dead, aren’t they?” she asked Jack.

  “Only one of them. The one in the kitchen is okay.”

  “Yegor; he’s a good man,” Helen said with a wan smile. “Make sure the police get him.”

  “Why?” Aminat said. “You’re not making sense.”

 
; “I told you: He can never go home again.”

  Jack decided Helen deserved to know the truth; soon it would make no difference anyway. “Rasulov’s real name is Oleg Pechkin. He’s SVR.”

  “Bastard.” She coughed and her face twisted in pain. “I should have listened to my little voice. He told us it was a straight ransom job. It wasn’t, was it?”

  “No,” Jack replied. “Helen, I need you to do me a favor. I need you to say all of this on camera. Aminat’s father has to know who took her.”

  Helen nodded. “You’d better hurry.”

  • • •

  AFTER SHE WAS GONE, Jack searched her and found only a cell phone. Then they covered her body in sand and some seaweed that had washed up on shore. Aminat sat staring at the mound. “I don’t understand any of this . . . By the way, what is your name?”

  “Jack. Your father will explain it all. We need to go.”

  As if on cue, in the distance he heard the warble of sirens.

  • • •

  “JUST SIT TIGHT,” John Clark said over the phone six hours later. “He’ll get to you by tonight.”

  Jack sat hunched over on the edge of the tub, elbows on his knees, phone pressed to his ear. He was exhausted and his hip had in the last hour gone from numb to pulsing with pain. The long walk hadn’t helped matters.

  Sticking to the shoreline, they’d headed north away from Kinghorn while the police sirens converged on Abden Place. As they walked, Jack field-stripped Helen’s weapon, heaving the pieces into the ocean at irregular intervals. Two miles and as many hours later they found themselves in Linktown, where Aminat, armed with Jack’s credit card, got them a motel room.

  “Tell him to bring a first-aid kit,” Jack muttered.

  “Already done,” replied Clark.

  Gerry Hendley said, “How’s the girl?”

  “Sleeping like the dead.” Through the half-open door he could hear Aminat snoring softly. “As for the long term, she’s probably going to need some help.”