We have a name!
Morrison snapped his fingers several times, pointing at the screen. “I want everything we’ve got on this Ilya Mashkov.”
“Yes, sir.” He paused. “My team?”
Morrison nodded. “Get them all on this. I want to know everything, fast, before they go to ground.”
Saint Paul’s University, St. Paul, Maryland
It was the dead of night, barely anyone about. Acton wasn’t sure what time it was, his watch confiscated when he had been arrested, though he’d have to guess around three in the morning. His captor had parked their SUV at the rear entrance to the sciences building where the archeology lab was located and the two of them were now walking down a deserted hallway, their footsteps echoing on the hard walls, nothing being said between them.
He stopped in front of one of the doors. “This is it.”
“Open it.”
“I don’t have the key.”
The woman stared at him blankly. “Why not?”
“The police took everything when I was arrested.”
“And you decide to tell me this now?”
He shrugged. “I honestly hadn’t realized it until this very moment.” The sad thing was it was actually true. Now he wondered if it would cost him his life.
The woman drew her weapon and he took a step back with his right foot, preparing to disarm her.
A slight smile appeared, almost genuine. “I’m not going to shoot you, Professor. Your training from Colonel Leather will do you no good here.”
Christ, she knows everything about me!
She fired two rounds into the lock then kicked the door open, Acton breathing a sigh of relief as she holstered her weapon. She jerked her head toward the lab. “You first.”
He nodded, stepping inside and reaching over to flick the light on. He looked about to make sure they were alone, though he wasn’t sure why, there no possibility of anyone being there at this hour.
“Quickly, Professor. Somebody likely heard those shots.”
He nodded, walking to a climate controlled storage room to the rear, his captor following at a cautious distance. There would be no surprising her. From everything he had seen, this woman was deadly. She wouldn’t hesitate to kill, and there’d be no dramatic delays with flamboyant speeches before she killed him.
She’d just take the shot.
Leaving no time for someone to rush to the rescue at the last, climactic moment.
He opened the rear door, it a coded panel not requiring a pass.
The door hissed, there a slight positive pressure on the opposite side to keep contamination out. Stepping inside, he pointed at the painting, it laying on one of the examination tables, still slightly curled. “There it is.”
The woman stepped over and grabbed it by one end.
Acton gasped. “Be careful with that, it’s priceless!”
She looked at him. “You do realize, Professor, that this painting will be destroyed. No one can ever know it existed.”
Acton suddenly forgot about his own life that hung in the balance, a piece of history now at risk. “Is that really necessary? Can’t you at least preserve it so that one day, perhaps years from now, it can be shared with the world once again?”
She quickly rolled the painting up then grabbed the case it had been delivered in by Wainwright. She stuffed it inside then turned to Acton. “Professor, your idealistic vision of the world we live in is curious.” Her eyes narrowed. “Does everyone think like you, or are you unique?”
It was an odd question, he immediately wondering if there was indeed a Terminatrix under that beautiful exterior. For she was beautiful. Gorgeous in fact, and if she wasn’t pure evil, he might have actually allowed himself to acknowledge that fact. But beauty wasn’t only skin deep. Beauty to him extended far deeper, into one’s heart, into one’s soul. And this woman had neither.
She was the ugliest woman he had ever met.
Yet her question made him wonder if she even knew how ugly she truly was. Or if she’d care.
“I like to think I’m your average guy.”
She nodded slightly. “Interesting.” She motioned with the case toward the door. “Let’s go. Quickly.”
He stepped outside the pressurized storage room when a flashlight beam suddenly blinded him.
“Professor Acton, is that you?”
Acton’s heart leapt as he recognized the security guard’s voice. “Tucker, get out of here!”
Two shots rang out from behind him, the beam of light suddenly broken.
“No!”
Poydras Street, New Orleans, Louisiana
“Homeland Security, FBI, CIA, NSA. They all piss me off. Who do they think they are?”
Isabelle looked over at her partner, understanding his frustration. Their case was being taken away from them, and right now they were a glorified escort to the NOPD transport van ahead of them. There was actually no real need for them to be there, but she didn’t want to let these two men out of her sight until they were delivered into the hands of the FBI.
Orders from the Chief himself.
Apologetic orders, but non-negotiable as well.
“They’re the Feds,” she finally responded. “Nothing we can do about it.”
“Yeah, yeah, it just pisses me off.”
“Then join them.”
“Huh?”
“Join them. Take the FBI exam, they’d be lucky to have you.”
“And leave your pleasant company? What would you do without me?”
Isabelle chuckled. “Don’t you worry about me, dear, there’s been many before you and there’ll be many after you.”
“Careful, Laprise, taken out of context some might think you were casting dispersions on yourself.”
“You’re a pig, Salinger. You definitely need to get laid.”
“I was trying but you decided to take this case.”
“You really think you had a shot tonight?”
“Absolutely.” Salinger paused. “Okay, probably not. Not at least tonight. At least I hope not. Who wants to get into a relationship with someone who’ll sleep with you on the first date?”
Isabelle blushed slightly, thinking back on Dylan Kane and her impulsive actions.
God, that so wasn’t me!
She smiled slightly.
But it was so much fun!
“What are you smiling about?”
She glanced over at her partner. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” His jaw dropped. “You slept with someone on a first date!”
“I did no such thing.” Which was true. She hadn’t. It wasn’t a date.
Two SUV’s whipped by them, the city streets almost empty, they having come out of nowhere.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Salinger. “Where’s a cop when you need one?”
But Isabelle wasn’t ready to chalk it up to a street race. She reached forward and flicked her emergency lights on.
Too late to do anything.
Both SUV’s matched the transport vehicle’s speed, one on either side. Someone on the SUV to the left, it travelling on the wrong side of the road, reached out from the rear window and threw something that stuck on the side of the van like a magnet, then peeled away, the same happening on the right.
“Is that what I think it—”
Salinger never got to finish his sentence as an explosion tore through the van ahead of them. Isabelle slammed her brakes on, coming to a stop only feet away from the rear bumper, the fireball roaring into the night sky, flickering off the windows of the surrounding buildings. She shoved the car into reverse and hauled ass back about fifty feet before bringing them to a halt. Grabbing her radio, she stepped out of the car, Salinger doing the same, just as tires screeching behind them had them both spinning.
“Look out!” shouted Salinger as he dove to the side, Isabelle spinning and throwing herself to the ground as a tow truck slammed into the back of her car. She flipped onto her back to see a car sailing off the back of the tow tr
uck and over her own, smashing into the inferno that was the transport vehicle.
Salinger rounded their car, rushing to her side. “Are you okay?”
She nodded and extended a hand. “Help me up.” Salinger hauled her to her feet and she handed him the radio. “Call it in.”
“You okay, miss?” She looked at the tow truck driver rushing over, beer gut proudly displayed, three day’s growth peppered with crumbs of some forgotten meal.
She nodded then looked at what turned out to be a Jaguar joining the inferno. “Shit, that’s going to be expensive,” she muttered, looking over at the tow truck, a man climbing out of the passenger side, jumping up and down, clapping his hands together.
If that’s not a happy dance…
“He doesn’t seem upset.”
The tow truck driver looked over his shoulder at the man and laughed. “You kiddin’ me? He’s my best customer. I’m actually on his speed dial.” He lowered his voice, placing a hand to one side of his mouth. “Between you and me, I hope he buys another Jag. I’ve got two kids to put through college.” He roared in laughter then turned, heading back to his truck.
Isabelle looked at the raging fire, her heart heavy, there no way anyone was surviving, the two police officers in the front lost.
Two good men. Dead. And for what?
“This case just got more interesting.”
She looked at Salinger. “Did it? I think someone just ended our investigation.”
“How so?”
“We’ve got four dead perps, all taken out by the Secret Service, the investigation taken over by the FBI, and now our only two suspects, who we were transporting to hand over to the FBI anyway, are now dead. “You and me, Salinger, we have no case. None. Nada. Rien.”
Salinger smiled. “So what you’re telling me is we’re done for the night?”
Isabelle laughed and looked at her watch. “Give her a call, maybe you can get a nightcap.”
Salinger grinned then raised his arm. “Taxi!”
“Wear protection, little one.”
Salinger laughed and waved on an arriving taxi.
“I thought you were actually going to leave for a moment.”
Salinger shook his head, motioning toward the inferno as the first emergency vehicles arrived, all levity gone. “Our night is just beginning.”
Isabelle nodded, their coping with the helplessness of the situation through humor over.
“Let’s get to work.”
Chinquapin Round Road, Annapolis, Maryland
“What’ve you got?” asked Red, lying prone on a rooftop across the street from a warehouse they had tracked Acton to. Sherrie White’s quick thinking in having him swallow a GPS tracker was proving prescient, he and his team arriving less than half an hour ago. A quick review of the data using codes provided by Sherrie showed Acton had been taken here for about ten minutes then left for his university.
“Acton’s moving,” replied Sergeant Zack “Wings” Hauser, watching a laptop display showing the man’s movements. “It looks like they’ve left the university and are heading back here. Good call.”
Red had decided to check out this location first, his hunch that the side trip to the university was to retrieve the painting that had started this entire fiasco. The New Orleans op was wrapped—everyone was either dead or in the air, the Secret Service taking over from Dawson’s team as soon as they were on the ground, which wouldn’t be for over an hour.
Dawson had requested his help, the op center stood down by Clancy now that his men were safely in the air. They were an hour away, Dawson several. And with it being the professors, there wasn’t a man on the team who wouldn’t drop everything to help.
Sergeant Eugene “Jagger” Thomas was to his right, peering through thermal imaging goggles. “I’m showing three people sitting in chairs, two on guard.”
“Can you tell who they are?”
“Negative, but from body size, I’m guessing one is Professor Palmer and the other two are the students.” Jagger lowered his goggles and looked at Red. “We can take them pretty easy, then we’ll just have to deal with whoever is with the Doc.”
Red shook his head. “Too risky. They could have some sort of check-in protocol. If we take them out now whoever has the Doc could be tipped off.” He pursed his lips, motioning for the goggles. Jagger handed them over and Red took a look for himself. “No, we’re going to sit tight and take them all at once.”
“We’re taking a hell of a chance,” said Wings.
“I know, but I don’t think we have a choice. We can’t risk the Doc.”
Jagger rolled to his side, looking at Red and Wings. “If I know the Doc, he’d rather have us save his wife and sacrifice him.”
Red nodded, thinking of his own wife. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for that woman, she the best thing to ever happen to him. She had taken care of him like no other woman could and had given him a fantastic son that was the light of his life. They were why he fought for his country as hard as he did. His family, his friends, his unit. They were everything to him, and it was his duty and his privilege to make the world they all lived in a better place.
Even if it meant not coming home one day.
His wife understood that, though she worried every time he deployed. She wouldn’t be human if she didn’t. But she never complained. She knew the life, she knew the job, and she had signed up for it the day he was allowed to read her in, it just after he made The Unit. He would never forget how proud she had looked when he told her. So many times he had heard about the wives and fiancées showing fear. But not Shirley.
She beamed.
Her only complaint was that she could never tell anyone what her husband did, instead sometimes suffering jabs from her family and friends about how her husband was just a records clerk when “real soldiers” were off fighting and dying.
It had made her cry in frustration sometimes, yet she never broke.
I’d die for her.
And so would Professor Acton for his wife. He looked at the heat signature of the woman he was pretty sure was Laura Palmer, then handed the goggles back to Jagger. “I have no doubt he would. Fortunately for him I’m in charge and sacrificing him shouldn’t be necessary.” He looked again at the scene below. It was a large warehouse, modern, with tinted windows for the top half of the walls giving them an excellent view of the heat signatures inside.
And clear shots if they could remove those windows.
He turned to Sergeant Jerry “Jimmy Olsen” Hudson setting up his M24A2 SWS Sniper Weapon System. “Jimmy, you stay here, hold your fire until you hear from me or it becomes clear a hostage is about to be killed.”
“Roger that.”
Red pointed to Wings and Jagger. “We’re going to get some charges on those windows. I want clear lines of sight for Jimmy when the shit hits the fan.”
“Too bad BD isn’t here,” said Wings, looking below.
Red decided to have some fun. “Why, not happy with my orders?”
“Ooohh,” grinned Jagger. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Wings gave Jagger a look then returned to his goggles. “Nooo, I mean we could use four extra guys. We’ve already got two hostiles with an unknown number on the way. Four more guns could prove useful.”
Red had to agree. Eight guns were almost always better than four, though not always. Today would not be one of those exceptions, though he had gone into worse situations with fewer. “Unfortunately for us we’re all that’s available. Besides, we’ve got the element of surprise and I’d like to think we’re a little bit better at this than they are.” He turned to Wings. “What’s Acton’s location?”
“Still looks like they’re headed back here. Five minutes out.”
Red pushed back from the roof edge then rose. “Time to plant some charges.”
Operations Center Four
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
“Ilya Mashkov is a Russian national, billionaire, one of the oligarchs
who for some reason hasn’t been touched by Putin.”
“Buddies?” asked Morrison, sitting across from Leroux, everyone tired, it now well into the night.
“They seem to meet regularly, always formally though privately. There’s been none of the typical macho photo ops though, riding lions, hunting dolphins, scoring eight goals against former NHLers.”
“When your wingers carry AK-47s, it’s easy to score,” muttered Child.
Morrison chuckled. “Interesting. I wonder if it means anything.”
Leroux shrugged. “Could. There’s nothing Putin likes better than a staged photo op, especially when he can look more macho than the guy he’s with. Like when he tried to embarrass the Canadian Prime Minister by walking over and asking to shake his hand in front of other world leaders.”
Morrison smiled. “Yeah, I loved that. What did he say? I’ll shake your hand but I’ve only got one thing to say to you: get out of Ukraine?”
“Sounds about right.”
Morrison shook his head. “Nice to see the man neutered by a Crazy Canuck.” He motioned toward Leroux’s tablet. “Continue.”
“Yes, sir. Mashkov has holdings all over the world, especially England. Deals in hi-tech, weapons, oil, natural resources, everything. Incredibly diversified.” Leroux waved the tablet. “It’ll take a team of forensic auditors to figure out just what he’s into.”
Morrison tapped his chin. “But he’s definitely part of The Assembly?”
“I think without a doubt. After that email was received, his business empire exploded. Look.” Leroux swiped a chart on his tablet, sending it to one of the large screens, a bar chart with the CIA’s estimate of Mashkov’s net worth. “His net worth went from two billion to six in a matter of a year, and that’s just what we know about. Whoever these people are, they have money. I’m guessing that they buy from each other, so with each new acquisition, their empire grows.”
“Anything illegit?”
“Nothing we can find. He’s squeaky clean.”
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