It was clear there was no time to waste. “Okay, please let Robert and me have the room. I want an update every fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Everyone but Robert left the Oval Office.
“Okay Robert. Please give me some good news.”
Bobby went back behind his desk and took his seat. Robert sat down across from him.
“Alexander King checked in with Sam and was able to confirm that Dmitry Kuznetsov is in fact at the Volkov Mining company under an alias.”
Bobby’s mood lifted. “This is fantastic news.”
“It is. He is awaiting your instruction.”
“Well, hell, Robert, you’re the director of the CIA. You know more about this than anyone. What’s the next move?”
“That depends.” Robert sat forward in his chair. “We can send in a team and shut the entire facility down. Or we can wait . . . and watch.”
“Okay. I’m assuming you mean wait to see if we can get to who is responsible.”
Robert nodded.
“But I have to keep the American people safe,” Bobby said as he sat back in his chair, trying to think it through.
“Look, we can shut this facility down in a matter of hours. King could take Kuznetsov down tonight.”
“I feel a but coming on,” Bobby said.
“But . . . I don’t think that would stop anything. We don’t know enough yet. While whoever is building this virus might very well be doing it in Barrow at the Volkov facility, that doesn’t mean they have kept everything there. I can almost guarantee you they have already sent samples back to wherever this entire thing is being orchestrated.”
“So shutting down the facility and killing Kuznetsov might not actually stop anything,” Bobby said.
“Right. I would almost guarantee that whatever strain of this virus was tested in Koenig is already in the hands of someone who can distribute it. And that isn’t in Barrow, Alaska.”
“I agree. So what is the next move?”
“I know it doesn’t feel right to just sit on this, with so many Americans in danger, but we have to let King do some more digging in Barrow. And maybe just as important, we have to let Sam run down where this thing is ultimately being concocted. We need to know if Russia is planning to start World War III with a bioweapon or not.”
Bobby couldn’t believe this is what his first few days in the White House were consisting of. Possibly the biggest threat to America since its inception. But clearly the threat was real. If for no other reason, he could see it on Robert’s face.
“So you think it’s Russia,” Bobby said. “How confident are you?”
“Confident enough that Sam has already been there for a week. And I think she may have found out just who Kuznetsov is communicating with in Moscow.”
Bobby thought about it for a moment. “Shouldn’t we have King in Moscow if you think that is the epicenter?”
“I think Sam is every bit as good as King. And right now we need King in Barrow. They could just as easily distribute the virus from there. All we can do is hope they haven’t already.”
Bobby swallowed hard. He had a long night ahead of him. After the coronavirus outbreak, the sitting president had been good about making sure there was a strong pandemic team in place in case this happened again. It was time for Bobby to make sure they were getting prepared. He wasn’t going to let this thing get away from him. And he just hoped the agents in place could do the same.
“Okay. It’s settled then,” Bobby stood. “We wait . . . and pray we haven’t made a monumental mistake.”
Chapter Seven
Moscow, Russia, 8:00 p.m.
Sam Harrison sidled up to a row of boxes piled seven feet high inside the hangar. As she pulled her Glock from her concealed hip holster, she was hoping she hadn’t overextended herself. She had to gain some information about what was going on with the virus here in Russia, if something was actually happening. As she peered through a crack in the boxes at the private portion of the Domodedovo Airport in southeastern Moscow, she felt certain it could be a matter of millions of people living or dying. All her instincts from her days in MI6 and with the CIA, running down baddies with Alexander King, were telling her that this could be her first real lead. Some answers would be found here.
Up until two hours ago, Sam had been spinning her wheels a bit in Russia. She had located the famous virologist Dmitry Kuznetsov’s protégé, Veronika Kamenev, and even learned she’d been seen meeting with some of the higher-ups in the Russian government. However, none of that was concrete evidence that Veronika was involved with anything Kuznetsov might possibly be doing with weaponizing a virus.
Things were completely different now.
Sam had zero question whether Veronika was involved with Kuznetsov. And the only reason that was the case was due to sheer luck. Intel from an agent-in-place in Moscow led Sam to a meeting between Veronika and a supposed agent for the Foreign Intelligence Service, or FIS, the Russian equivalent of the CIA. It wasn’t anything that Sam found out by being a few tables away from the meeting. In fact, she hadn’t understood a word of what little she could hear. They were speaking Russian. The point of luck was that Sam actually knew the person Veronika was meeting with. And Sam knew she was not Russian intelligence because she used to be a part of Reign, Alexander King and Sam’s clandestine team in the CIA that was disbanded a couple of years ago when Alexander King was forced to fake his own death.
Sam couldn’t believe her eyes when she’d watched Zhanna Dragov walk into the cafe. Sure, she was Russian, and Sam was in Moscow, but last she’d heard about Zhanna was that she’d fallen in love and subsequently fallen off the grid.
Looks like that had been just a cover.
Sam had managed to follow the two of them all the way from the city center to the airport. Zhanna had been ushered into the same vehicle as Veronika, and Sam couldn’t imagine how Zhanna had become involved with what she and Alexander were trying to run down there in Russia.
Zhanna hadn’t changed a bit. She and Sam were built a lot alike. Five feet eight, athletic, fit, but not overly muscular. However, the similarities ended there. As Zhanna was talking to Veronika at the other end of the hangar, her fiery red hair sparked in the yellow overhead lights. To the left of them, the hangar door rattled and began to open. Though Sam was tucked in a corner behind some boxes, she was still exposed. There was a door behind her, and if someone came through now, she would be forced to fight. That was the last thing she wanted to do.
Beyond Zhanna and Veronika, standing beside a small propeller plane, there were three men. Sam didn’t see any guns, but there was little question in her mind that they were strapped. As the hangar door continued to rise, Sam could hear a plane approaching from the runway. She crouched even further and found a different slot to peep through. Everyone’s attention was now on the jet that was pulling to a stop just outside the hangar. As the engine shut down and the cold air seeped into the open room, Sam sat motionless, listening.
Three men exited the jet and walked inside the hangar. The man in front was carrying a briefcase. The two behind him looked like the muscle. The massive door clicked and began to roll down. Before it disappeared from sight, Sam took a mental picture of the tail number on the plane, just in case it could be helpful later: Z450XY. The hangar was about two hundred feet long and about half as deep. Sam would easily be able to hear everything being said. She would also be entirely caught in the cross fire if anything were to go wrong. Since she had no idea the nature of this meeting, she remained open to all possibilities.
“Who is she?” the front man for the trio barked as he pointed to Zhanna. His accent was Asian, and as he stepped into the light, Sam could see that he was in fact from somewhere in the Far East. Things were getting more complicated by the second.
Veronika took a step forward. “Do you have the samples or not?”
Samples? Alarms rang in Sam’s head. She obviously had no clue what they were talking
about, but it sounded like things might be lining up.
“I was told that you would be the only one here,” the man said. “Open the door, we’re leaving.”
Veronika looked back over her shoulder at the three men standing guard. At the same time, Sam watched Zhanna slide her right arm around her back. Whatever this was supposed to be, it was about to go sideways. Sam edged to the end of the boxes and readied her gun. Her only immediate concern was making sure that Zhanna stayed alive. She could give a damn about the rest of these people.
“I’m not opening the door,” Veronika said. Her men all brandished handguns at the same time. “Hand over the briefcase. Then you are free to go.”
If everyone started shooting, there was no way Zhanna was going to make it out of there. Sam took in her surroundings. She looked beyond everyone at the back wall of the hangar: nothing useful. Off to her left were some random storage boxes. As she glanced up at the hanging lights above them, out of the corner of her eye she noticed the two men behind the guy with the briefcase as they moved their arms.
This was going down.
Sam turned her gun toward the ceiling and fired a couple of shots at one of the hanging lights. The sound of her gunfire echoed in the open hangar, and the sizzle of the ruined light sparked above them. Sam had given Zhanna her window to find cover, and as Sam dropped to her stomach behind the boxes, she hoped when she popped back up that she would find Zhanna had taken advantage of the opportunity.
In a blink, the quiet hangar sounded like a war zone as a hailstorm of gunfire erupted. The boxes in front of Sam took some hits, and so too did the wall behind her. Through a small break in the boxes, she watched as Zhanna fired at the three men behind her from a prone position on the ground. Sam slid herself over to the left side of the boxes and fired on the men who had come into the hangar from the plane. One of them dropped from her shots, and the other beside him went down from someone else’s gun.
The gunfire stopped. Sam popped up to a crouched position. She needed to take inventory of who was left. Then she heard a woman’s voice shout something in Russian. Sam didn’t know what was said, but Zhanna’s raspy voice was unmistakable.
Sam peeked above the boxes. Gunshots came her way. Sam was able to see that there was no one left standing in that hangar.
“Zhanna! Stop shooting!”
Everything went quiet. Sam finally located Zhanna ducked beneath the wing of the prop plane.
“Is everyone dead?” Sam asked.
“Not yet,” Zhanna said. Her Russian accent seemed less heavy than when Sam last spoke to her a couple of years ago. “How do you know my name?”
“Zhanna, it’s Sam Harrison. I’m coming out. Don’t shoot.”
Sam stepped out from behind the boxes. Zhanna duck-walked out from under the wing of the plane, her gun still pointed in Sam’s direction.
“Sam?” Zhanna finally recognized her and pulled her gun down by her side. “What are you doing here?”
“Was going to ask you the same thing.”
As Sam began walking toward her, something caught Zhanna’s attention and she whipped her head in the direction of Veronika lying on the ground. Sam jogged over and watched Zhanna crouch beside Veronika as she picked up her phone. Zhanna hit the speaker button and gave Sam the index finger to the lips.
“Veronika!” a man shouted from the phone; then the line went dead.
“She had someone phoned in during the entire thing,” Zhanna said. “We must go. Now.”
Chapter Eight
Barrow, Alaska, 9:00 a.m.
A pounding sound pulled King from the dark depths of sleep. His eyes shot open yet found nothing but black. He slid his hand under his pillow to grab his Glock as he rolled to a sitting position and grabbed his phone. The time was nine, but since it was pitch-black in the room, he was still confused. The knock came again and snapped him to his feet. He rushed over to the window at the front of his small rental. He pulled back the blackout curtain, and as he looked at what seemed to be twilight, it all flooded back to him: where he was and why it was dark at nine in the morning.
King shifted to his right and could see the back of a winter coat standing outside his front door. Though it had occurred to him he was in Alaska, the implications of opening the door in his underwear had not. Suddenly standing in front of him was Cali, bundled in a winter coat. The sting of the subzero wind against his bare chest nearly knocked him backward. Cali rushed forward and slammed the door behind her.
“Still not used to living in Alaska, I see.” Cali’s face was covered by a black bandana, but he could tell by the shape her eyes took that she was smiling. Most likely laughing at the noob new to town.
King kept the gun behind his back as he backpedaled toward the couch. He had no clothing in sight, so he was going to have to indulge the awkward moment.
“You can put the gun down. I’m not going to hurt you.”
King gave her a sheepish grin and revealed the gun. “Sorry. I was disoriented.”
“Is it a habit where you’re from to grab a gun when someone knocks on your door?”
King had to think fast. “No, but when someone threatens you at a bar the night before, and you’re new to town, you really don’t know what might happen.”
Cali took down her fluffy hood and removed the bandana from her face. She was beautiful. Her smile was enough to warm the cold air that had blown in. “Makes sense, and that’s why I’m here actually. To apologize for what happened.”
“Mind if I put on some clothes?”
“If you must.”
She was flirting. At least he thought she was. A couple of years ago King would have already pulled some one-liners in an attempt to be charming. It had been a while, and he was off his game. Faking your death, living in hiding, and chasing terrorists can often get in the way of your sex life.
“I think I must.” King walked into the bedroom and tucked the gun back under the pillow. He grabbed a long-sleeved tee from a pile on the desk in the corner and threw on some joggers.
“You didn’t have to come by,” he said, raising his voice so she could hear from the other room. “What happened last night wasn’t your fault.” King checked his hair in the mirror. Though it was a bit longer than he would have liked, his thick brown hair was rarely out of place, even after sleep. He ran his fingers through it and walked back out into the living room.
“I woke you up, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, I’m on night shift, so I just got to bed a bit ago.”
Cali buried her head in her hands, then looked up with an embarrassed smile. “I’m so sorry. I just added insult to injury.”
“It’s fine. I have some things to do anyway. Glad you came by.”
“Maybe this will help.”
Cali reached inside her coat and produced a brown paper sack. It was shaped an awful lot like a bottle. She extended it, and he took it in his hands.
“I don’t know much about bourbon,” she said, “but they said this was a good one. They threw it in on our order last time.”
King pulled the bottle from the bag. He couldn’t believe it: it was one of his favorites. “George T. Stagg? They just threw this in on your order?”
“Why, is it a good one?”
She really didn’t know. “It is. And one of my favorites.”
“Well, good. Glad I could give you a little piece of home.”
“It’s not necessary, but thank you.” King walked over to the small kitchen behind him and set the bottle on the stove. “Can I get you some coffee? It’s shitty, but it’s the only thing I have to offer so you’ll stay a little longer.”
He looked over his shoulder and watched as she removed her coat. King was trying to remember that he was once a charming bachelor. Maybe he still had a little game left. But it was hard to woo a woman in the shack he was currently living in, decorated with none of his own things, and in a land that was as foreign to him as a country song on pop radio.
“You kidding? I live o
n shitty coffee.”
King poured some preground beans into the coffee maker and filled the pot with water. He grabbed some strawberries from the fridge and spread them on a cutting board with a knife. He set the board on the small two-person dining table that separated the kitchen from the living room. “It isn’t the Beverly Hilton, but it’s what I’ve got.”
Cali took a seat. “You’ve been to LA?”
“I have. It’s not really my cup of tea, but I don’t mind south of the city.”
King used to have a place on the beach in San Diego. But that was a lifetime ago. Before he’d let go of his civilian life entirely.
“Really? I grew up in San Diego. My family moved to LA when my mother became a surgeon at Cedars-Sanai. It’s not exactly my vibe either.”
King grabbed the coffee pot and set down two mugs. “So were you running from something, too, when you came here?” He poured them both a cup. “You did say that’s what people do when they move to Barrow.”
She gave him a wry smile. “You could say my dad and I both were. My mom was killed trying to save a gang member’s life after we witnessed a drive-by shooting. They killed her for trying to help the man live.”
King knew all there was to know about loss. He wanted to relate with her, with any human at this point, but especially the pretty woman sitting at his table. He wasn’t sure what the rules were for sharing family history when undercover, but the urge to feel something with someone took precedent over what he thought was a small detail in a much larger life.
“I’m sorry. My mother was shot in front of me as well.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. I was only fifteen.”
She moved her hand from her mug to his hand and gave it a squeeze. “The hurt never goes away, does it?”
He shook his head.
“How did you deal with the pain?”
That portion of his history was not sharable. It’s a good story, but not one he could elaborate on with her. Burying your pain in the dead bodies of bad guys was an odd way to go, but for King it was the only thing that helped him cope with missing his parents.
Alexander King Thriller Series: Books 1-3 Page 27