Oleg was hyperventilating and risked going into shock.

But there was nothing Marcus could do about it. It didn’t matter how the FSB knew or how Oleg had managed to avoid being handcuffed or shot inside that chopper. Their only chance of survival was to get back to Morris and off the ground. Even then, he doubted they had better than a one-in-ten chance of making it out of Russian airspace without being shot down by MiGs, assuming they could even could get away from Domodedovo in one piece.

As he radioed back to Morris that they were inbound, Marcus could hear sirens converging from the north and the west. Then he noted the police band radio set where the AM/FM system usually was. He switched it on and the radio crackled to life.

Marcus couldn’t understand a word of Russian, but he instantly recognized both the fear and the urgency in their voices. “What are they saying?” he shouted to Oleg in the backseat.

“They just issued my death sentence,” Oleg said.

“What?”

“The dispatcher is telling every police officer and security guard in or near the airport grounds that I’m responsible for assassinating the president of the Russian Federation and the head of the FSB,” said Oleg. “The security services are unleashing everything they have to hunt me down along with anyone helping me. Shoot to kill. No mercy.”

Marcus switched off the security car’s flashing light and then for good measure cut the headlights, too. Given the dimness and swirling snow, he hoped that would lower their profile, making them nearly invisible. Whoever was hunting Oleg was headed to the helipad. The ground crew at the helipad had surely seen him pull Oleg off the chopper and into this car, but if the car was invisible, they still had a chance. It wasn’t much to go on, but that measure of confusion might buy them the time they needed.

Just then Marcus spotted a police car —red-and-blue lights flashing, siren blaring —racing straight toward them. He slowed a bit and veered right, out of the patrol car’s path, hoping it would blow right past them. Instead, the driver hit the brakes and tried to follow them but hit an ice patch and spun out of control.

Marcus accelerated, zigzagging dangerously through planes and food service trucks.

“They’ve spotted us,” Oleg said, continuing to translate what he was hearing over the police band radio. “An officer is giving a description and our heading.”

“What else?”

“Now they say I’m with one suspect, armed and dangerous, and that we’re heading toward the private aviation terminal.”

Well, they had that right, Marcus thought as he spotted the G4. Then Oleg pointed out two more patrol cars converging on them. The one behind them was coming up fast.

“We’re going to be at the plane in about fifteen seconds,” Marcus said calmly. “When we get there, I want you to bolt out the right side. You hear?”

“Yes.”

“Get up the stairs and into the plane as fast as you can.”

“What about you?” Oleg asked.

“I’ll cover you. The second you get on that plane, hit the deck.”

“What does that mean?”

“Get on the floor and stay there.”

“Okay.”

“Tell the pilot to pull up the stairs, taxi, and take off.”

“What if you’re not on board yet?”

“I’ll be there.”

“But if you’re not?”

“Then I’m not coming.”

Marcus tapped the brakes and skidded to a stop in front of the G4. Grabbing the machine gun and kicking open the driver’s-side door, he looked back at Oleg and shouted, “Run!”

All three police cruisers tried to brake. One slid right past them and smashed into the side of the terminal. The others stopped more successfully, within twenty yards of them. Marcus pivoted into the snow and opened fire. Oleg watched him for a moment, then jumped out and raced up the steps of the Gulfstream while a hail of bullets erupted all around him. Marcus kept firing in short bursts as he moved around the hood of the car. When he saw he’d clipped the officer firing from beside the wrecked cruiser, he popped out a spent magazine and reloaded. Then he opened fire again —still in short bursts —as he crouched low and worked his way backward up the steps.

Rounds pinged off the metal stairs and the fuselage. Then someone opened fire from just over his right shoulder. He glanced around and saw Morris.

“Get in,” she yelled. “I’ve got you.”

Marcus turned and scrambled up the last few stairs as Morris hit the switch and the stairs folded into the plane. Together, they shut and locked the door behind them and headed for their respective seats in the cockpit.

“Take a seat and buckle in,” Marcus shouted to Oleg as Morris revved the engines and began taxiing away from the terminal. “Recline the seat all the way, and whatever you do, keep your head down and don’t look out the window.”

Suddenly rounds began hitting the side of the plane again. From his vantage point, Marcus couldn’t see who was firing, but he urged Morris to push the engines harder and stay out of the taxi lanes. This wasn’t a normal takeoff. These were combat conditions, and they needed to get this thing in the air before more police cars arrived and blocked their exit or shot out their tires or their windows.

Morris did what he told her but said nothing.

Marcus craned his neck to one side and then the other, scanning for threats. When he turned back to her, he saw her wince, then saw blood all over her jacket and shirt.