by Tom Clancy
Bullshit. That couldn’t be the case. Fisher needed to know—and he needed to know now.
He pulled himself up and leaned over the side to catch a glimpse of the SUV’s rear seat and cargo hold. There she was, young Nadia, bound and gagged and lying across the backseat. “The package is here, Charlie,” he grunted into his SVT. “I’m looking right at her.”
The thundering roar of a diesel engine came from behind, and as the road curved slightly to the right, brilliant headlights appeared.
Shots cracked from within that glare, and the rounds pinged off the passenger’s side door, forcing the Snow Maiden back inside. Fisher was ready to reach around once more to shoot Travkin, but those headlights and the wailing racket enveloped him. He glanced over his shoulder.
A huge tri-axle dump truck from the construction site next door to the hotel raced by them in the right lane, and though his eyes were tearing from the wind in his face, Fisher still caught sight of the driver: Briggs.
That he’d commandeered the truck was an impressive display of quick thinking. That he could actually drive one and was prying every bit of speed out of the engine was an even more welcome surprise.
The dump truck raced by, billowing thick smoke from twin exhaust pipes rising from either side of the cab. Piles of broken concrete and dirt jutted from the open-box bed, with sand and pebbles whipping across the SUV.
Briggs cut in front of them, heading straight toward an intersection where the light had just turned red.
Charlie screamed.
Car horns wailed.
Briggs plowed right into the intersection, driving a taxi and a pickup truck off to the side of the road, one truck missing a T-bone with his cab by barely a meter.
Travkin had no choice but to follow Briggs’s line through the gauntlet as two more cars approached.
Up ahead now, the dump truck’s hydraulic lift system slowly raised the bed, and the rear door flipped open.
Now Fisher grinned as hundreds of pounds of concrete and dirt began splaying across both lanes of the road, dust clouds rising, the cacophony of cracking and booming cement sounding like artillery fire in the night.
Travkin didn’t react in time. He drove straight toward a chunk of concrete as wide as the SUV itself, turning only at the last second. The Skoda took flight.
And Fisher was no longer smiling.
They came crashing down, with Fisher’s arms straining against the bumps as his entire body was lifted twice from the roof. Was it over? No, they kept on, only to rumble across several more pieces of stone.
It was all Fisher could do to maintain his grip, and then, after another hard blow to the front wheels, the SUV was once more in the air, floating hopelessly like a bloated, wingless bird.
Fisher glanced up.
And lost his breath.
They were heading straight for the concrete median, the wall standing at least two meters, the gray bricks speeding up at them. A head-on collision was inevitable, impact in two seconds . . .
Fisher released his grip on the rack, allowing himself to slide off the roof. He struck the grass and dirt with his shoulder and hip. The dreaded crunch of a broken collarbone never came as he followed through with a roll to further dissipate the shock.
Before he could look up at the SUV, it hit the wall with an explosive boom echoed quickly by the higher pitched tinkling of flying glass and the hissing of spewing steam and fluids. Two more pops resounded—the air bags deploying.
The sea breeze whipped the dust clouds over the Skoda, shielding it from view for a moment as Fisher scrambled to his feet.
Out ahead, Briggs had pulled the dump truck to the side of the road and was leaping down from the cab.
“Sam, it’s Grim. I’m two minutes away!”
“Hold back,” Fisher cried, just as gunfire sent him crashing back down into the dirt and rolling toward the wall for cover.
“Sam, local police are on the way,” reported Charlie.
“How long?”
“It’s Russia. Don’t know. Maybe an extra minute?”
“Great. Briggs, hold fire now. Nadia’s still in there!”
“Roger, but she’s firing at me!”
“Keep her busy. I’m moving up.”
With his SIG in one hand, Fisher burst from cover and fired two rounds at the wall beside the SUV.
The pistol was a double action/single action, so the first trigger pull was tougher, ten pounds to be precise, while the second and all subsequent pulls was less than half that and with a much shorter reset.
His third and fourth shots forced Travkin back toward the SUV, where he opened up the rear door and sought cover behind it. Fisher saw that the agent’s head was cut, his nose bleeding. He was probably still fatigued, too. Good.
Travkin peered out and squeezed off at least four more shots, two hitting the wall near Fisher, the others striking the dirt behind him.
Fisher squeezed his trigger in reply, but the round failed to feed, damn it. That cheap ammo was coming back to haunt them, as Briggs had predicted. Fisher dropped to his gut, ejected the mag, and wrenched back the slide, tipping the pistol to allow the jammed round to fall out.
At the same time a hailstorm of fire came in from the other side of the SUV, this probably from the Snow Maiden, who seemed hell-bent on emptying her magazines, the salvos coming thick and fast.
Fisher slammed home his own magazine, then racked the slide, chambering a fresh round.
Back on his feet, crouched over and advancing along the wall, he fired two more shots before the next one jammed again. Garbage ammo and shit aftermarket magazine!
He holstered the pistol and reached for his backup—but it was gone, slipped free while he’d been fighting to hang on to the SUV.
“Briggs, put some fire along the wall to your right, just above the car.”
“Gotcha.”
As the bricks came alive, the sparks flickering and dancing, Travkin couldn’t help but turn back to engage Briggs, as did the Snow Maiden, still out of sight on the other side of the SUV.
Holding his breath, Fisher made his move, vaulting toward the Skoda and reaching the man just as he swung around. Fisher drove himself into the rear door, knocking Travkin onto his back and then, before the agent could sit up, Fisher dragged him by the ankles beneath the door, stopping halfway before coming around behind him.
Reflexively, Travkin tried to sit up but found the door inches from his neck. At the same time, Fisher was already ripping the pistol from the agent’s grip and turning it on him.
The decision to kill never came lightly but when it did, there was never any hesitation. A single headshot point-blank finished Travkin as the police sirens wailed in the distance.
Fisher ducked down to see if he could shoot the Snow Maiden right through the SUV’s cabin—but she was gone.
Two more rounds chewed into the wall.
“Briggs, hold fire,” Fisher stage-whispered. He quietly ejected the agent’s magazine, which felt painfully light. He checked it. Empty. He searched the man for another magazine. Nothing. Damn, he’d killed Travkin with his final round. Fisher dumped the gun and drew his SIG once more, racking the slide and clearing the jammed round.
“Sam, she’s tucked in tight near the front of the car, where the radiator’s hissing,” said Briggs. “I saw her toss away two magazines, and she didn’t reload. She might be out of ammo. Wait, she’s moving now. Lost her. I think she’s heading your way.”
For the span of exactly three heartbeats the road fell eerily quiet, save for that hissing radiator and the drumming of Fisher’s pulse.
Even those klaxons from the police cars seemed muted, and the traffic in the distance began moving more slowly, as though his instincts had automatically switched off all interference so he could focus on the slightes
t crunch of pebble, the barest whisper of breath escaping from the Snow Maiden’s lips.
Then, abruptly, it all hit him again—the sirens growing louder, the stench of leaking gasoline, the wind beginning to turn icy as he circled around the truck.
His right ankle came out from under him before he realized that the Snow Maiden was beneath the SUV. He hit the ground, tried to roll to get the pistol aimed at her, but she was on him so fast that he thought for a second he was being attacked by a mountain lion or a jaguar.
She struck a roundhouse to his jaw while reaching up to clutch his wrist, nails digging in to trap his pistol over his head. With a groan, he sat up, trying to force the pistol forward toward her head.
And then, in a move that was as acrobatic as it was confusing, she locked both hands around the pistol and used it like a gymnast’s horse, launching herself away, both legs high in the air, her boots arcing in a black leather rainbow as she drew on her full body weight and momentum to free the pistol from his sweaty grasp. He spun back, now unarmed.
She hit the ground, rolled, and came up with the business end of the SIG. Her idea of doing business was, of course, to point the gun at his forehead. “Who are you?” she demanded in Russian.
“Briggs?” Fisher muttered. “Now would be a good time to shoot her.”
“I don’t have a bead. I’m moving up for a better shot,” Briggs answered. “The sights are off on this piece of crap rental pistol.”
“Sam, the police will be there any minute,” said Grim. “I need to move in now!”
“I said, who are you?” the Snow Maiden screamed.
19
FISHER’S gaze averted from the Snow Maiden’s fiery eyes to her trigger finger. The gun was slightly too large for her, and the pad of her index finger barely reached over the trigger, meaning if she fired, her shots would tend to go left. Too small of a gun and too much pad over the trigger would send them to the right. This was all academic, of course, because she had Fisher point-blank in her sights. It was just a matter of whether she’d hit him perfectly center mass or a few inches in either direction.
“You’re looking for Kasperov,” Fisher began, trying to distract her. “We know where he is.”
The Snow Maiden opened her mouth, but something on the periphery caught her attention, Briggs perhaps. As she flicked her gaze to the left, Fisher started toward her—
She backed away and pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out with an ear-piercing explosion that sent Fisher stumbling back and falling onto his rump.
But the only pain was in his ears, and when he glanced up, he spotted the Snow Maiden staring down in shock at the smoking pistol in her hands, the slide blown clean off.
One of those cheap rounds had prematurely exploded inside the weapon, possibly firing out of battery.
Fisher bolted to his feet, crying, “Briggs, get Nadia! Grim, get over here!”
The Snow Maiden threw down the pistol and lifted her arms in a defensive block as Fisher lunged at her.
While he outweighed the woman by at least sixty, maybe even eighty pounds, he once more marveled at her agility. Even as he tried to seize her wrists and straddle her, she was already writhing out of his grip and sliding between his legs, only to roll back and hook her ankles around his neck, forcing him back into a blood choke conducted with her legs.
Whether she’d learned these unconventional techniques with the Russian circus or had invented them herself was beside the point; she was the most asymmetric combatant he’d ever faced, twisting and turning like an oily snake.
She even growled now through her exertion, as though every sinew in her body had a voice. With each pound of pressure she applied to his neck, it seemed as though she cast out another demon. He’d just met her, but she fought like it was personal.
A chill of panic struck as he realized he couldn’t pry free her legs. The world darkened along the edges, like ink bleeding into his field of view.
A gunshot boomed.
And suddenly the pressure was gone. He could breathe. He wrenched himself up. Turned. She was gone.
Briggs was hauling him to his feet.
“I think I hit her, but she took off over the wall. Want me to go?”
Grim came to a squealing halt in her rental. “Come on!”
Fisher blinked hard as the blood rushed back into his head. He looked at Briggs, at Grim, then finally said, “Help me get Nadia into the car.”
Still dizzy, Fisher turned back to the SUV, where Nadia was lying, her lips taped shut, her eyes wide. They’d fastened her wrists and ankles with zipper cuffs that they ignored for now, lifting the girl and rushing back to Grim’s car.
After getting Nadia into the backseat, Briggs crossed to the passenger’s seat while Fisher remained in back. As they took off for the next intersection, Fisher gently removed the tape on Nadia’s lips. She took a few tentative breaths. Fisher saw now that her eye was red and bruised and had probably been much more swollen. She looked at him for a few seconds, her brain seemingly unable to function until she finally asked in Russian, “Who are you? Did my father send you?”
Fisher glanced at Grim, who pursed her lips then said, “No use lying to her.”
Fisher softened his tone. “We’re Americans.”
“So I’m being kidnapped again?”
“No, we’re trying to help your father. We know he’s on the run. We’re offering him—and you—asylum. Do you know where he is?”
She shook her head. “How did you find me?”
“It wasn’t easy.”
“She killed my friend.”
“Who? The Snow Maiden?”
“Is that what they call her? She’s . . . she’s . . .” Nadia began to break down.
Fisher placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right. We’re taking you to our air force base in Turkey. She can’t touch you anymore.”
“Sam, it’s Charlie again. Police on the scene now. They’ve recovered a few of the weapons. I tracked the Snow Maiden on security cams for a few blocks, but then I lost her. She was favoring one of her arms, so Briggs might’ve shot her. Interesting that she doesn’t want any contact with the local authorities.”
“She’s not supposed to blow her cover.”
“Well, she lost Nadia.”
“No, she didn’t,” Fisher corrected. “Not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll get to that later.”
Charlie sighed. “All right, but I bet she’s on the shit list in Moscow . . .”
“I doubt that scares her.”
“Right. Anyway, glad you’re still with the living.”
“Me, too.”
Fisher glanced once more at Nadia, so frail and pathetic, looking as though she had nothing.
Instead of everything.
20
THEIR exfiltration route had involved chartering a boat out into the Black Sea and rendezvousing with a Black Hawk chopper whose crew would haul each of them up and into the hovering bird. However, Kobin had arranged for a much more pleasant yet equally clandestine exit. The crew of a private yacht owned by one of his gunrunning associates met them in Bichvinta, a city about thirty miles south of the hotel. They boarded the yacht and were ferried across the Black Sea and back to Trabzon. There, they met the crew of a CIA charter jet and were whisked back to Incirlik, some 360 miles southwest of Trabzon.
In order to maintain operational security, Nadia would stay aboard Paladin, where she would be examined by a doctor before being transferred to another jet for a flight back to the States. The 39th Medical Group’s commander sent them a general practitioner named Evren from the Deployed Flightline Clinic. The doctor was blindfolded and taken aboard the aircraft, where he was guided by Briggs to the infirmary.
“So
rry about all the secrecy,” Fisher said, removing the man’s blindfold.
Evren’s gaze panned across the room and toward the hatch beyond. “C-17?” he asked.
“Something like that. Gets us from point A to point B.” Fisher glanced over at the cot near the far wall, where Nadia was resting, covered by a blanket and with an arm draped over her forehead. “The doctor’s here to examine you,” Fisher said in Russian.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“I insist.”
Fisher muttered in the doctor’s ear, “I want you to check her from head to toe. I want you to look for recent incisions, small ones. We think she might have a tracking chip, and we need to get it out.”
“All right. And of course, I was never here, never saw you, her, or this plane.”
“My diagnosis for you is sudden, acute amnesia.”
Evren snickered. “Why don’t you leave the diagnoses to me. If we could have a moment of privacy?”
Fisher grinned and gestured to Briggs. They left the infirmary and returned to the control center, where Charlie spun around in his chair and said, “She talk yet?”
Fisher shook his head. “We need to take this slowly.”
“She knows where her father is,” said Charlie.
“Maybe not,” said Briggs. “He’s figured out now that they’ve got her, or at least had her, so he’s trying to anticipate what she might say.”
Fisher sighed. “And right now she’s not saying much, trying to protect him.”
“She said they killed her friend in front of her. What makes you think we’ll get her to talk?” asked Briggs.
Fisher considered that. “We need to earn her trust.”
Grim, who’d been conferring with Ollie, came back over to Fisher. She was holding Nadia’s diary. “There’s nothing in here to suggest a location—just a lot of rantings about teachers, school, books, and how ugly the boys are in her classes. Actually, pretty depressing stuff for a little rich girl.”
“Hey, Sam, you get a chance to try the khachapuri?”