Hardy followed a man from the café. The man had sat in the corner, pretending to read a newspaper. Hardy had noticed the man never flipped a single page of the newspaper. Occasionally, he would peer over the paper, looking at Natasha. After she had gone, the man chucked the newspaper, tossed a few Rubles on the table and left.
On the street, Hardy saw the scene unfold. The van came to a quick stop, blocking Natasha’s forward movement. Two men jumped out, rushing toward her. Watching them throw her through the side doors, Hardy knew what was coming next and he had to act. Drawing his Glock 19, he took a step to the right to get a clear shot at the two men near the van. He pressed the pistol’s trigger several times, shooting the man to the left four times, hitting him in the torso. The last shot penetrated his ear, sending him crumpling to the concrete. Transitioning to the second man, Hardy shot him multiple times, until he fell through the van’s open doors. The man from the café telegraphed a move for a holstered weapon. Hardy had been waiting to see what the man would do. He had to make sure the newcomer was not coming to Natasha’s aid. When Hardy saw the pistol on the man’s hip, he had seen enough. He put his pistol’s front sight on the man’s nose and pulled back on the trigger. Mr. Newspaper collapsed into a heap, never getting the chance to draw the pistol.
Hardy sprinted toward the van. Keeping a safe distance from the open doors, he swung his pistol around and pointed it inside. Natasha was on the floor, a man squatting behind her and pressing the muzzle of a gun against her right temple. His other arm had her in a headlock. She was off-balance, unable to fight back.
The man said something to Hardy in Russian and drove the muzzle deeper into her skin. Natasha’s eyes squinted and she groaned. Her windpipe was being crushed. Hardy leveled the Glock at the man’s right eye. “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Russian.”
Again, the man spoke to Hardy in his native language.
Not taking his eyes off his adversary, Hardy spoke to Natasha. “Natasha, this ugly oaf doesn’t know what I’m saying, so this is what’s going to happen.” Hardy waited again to see if his comment got any reaction from the man. It did not. “When I count to three, you’re going to tilt your head to your left as far as you can. Understand?”
Struggling against her captor’s grasp, Natasha held her hands in front of her, her eyes wide. She managed to shake her head, no.
“Trust me, Natasha. You’re not the only one who graduated at the top of the class in marksmanship. On three, tilt your head to your left.” Hardy gripped his Glock a little tighter. “One.”
Natasha’s adrenaline coursed through her body. Her heart pounded in her chest and she could feel her pulse throbbing in her temples.
“Two.”
Natasha had met Hardy less than thirty minutes ago. He was expecting her to place her life in his hands. She was not a religious person, but she said a quick prayer and lowered her hands, hearing Hardy say the next number.
“Three!”
Natasha put all of the adrenaline surging through her veins to good use. She yanked her head to the left as hard as she could. The muscles on the right side of her neck burned. She thought if she did not die from a gunshot wound to the head, she would break her neck.
Hardy had noticed the gun being held to Natasha’s head was a Sig Sauer, a double-action/single-action pistol. The hammer was forward and in double-action mode. The man’s trigger finger would have to travel further and exert more energy to discharge the gun. Hardy took advantage of those factors.
He applied steady pressure to the trigger of his Glock. Natasha had jerked her head far enough to give him a clear shot. He only needed one. The gun in his hands roared. The muzzle rose and fell.
The muzzle of Hardy’s pistol settled and he saw the man’s body go limp. The grasp around Natasha’s neck loosened and the arm slid off her shoulder. The arm holding the Sig Sauer dropped to the floor of the van. The man’s body slowly leaned back and came to rest against the unopened door of the van.
Natasha rolled to her left, clutching her neck and coughing. In between coughs, she shouted at Hardy, using her native tongue.
An interpreter was not necessary. He had learned a few Russian words, starting with the curse words she was spewing. She was not was angry. Adrenaline and fear were driving her emotions.
Hardy started searching the dead men, while Natasha regained her senses. The first man had a badge. He was a member of law enforcement. Hardy felt a lump form in his throat. He had killed a cop. He held the badge, so Natasha could see it.
Climbing out of the van, she retrieved her handgun from the ground and holstered it. She snatched the badge from Hardy’s hand and examined it. “What the hell?” she said. Her voice was deeper and hoarse. She held the shield she carried on a daily basis. They’re FSB?
Hardy checked the other bodies. Each one had the same badge.
Natasha rubbed her throat. “I don’t understand this.”
Hearing the gunshots, MacPherson came running from the parked sedan, surprising Natasha, who spun and reached for her gun.
Hardy stopped her. “It’s all right. He’s with me.” He pointed at the dead men. “Are these friends of yours?”
Moving from one to the next, she examined each of their faces. “I’ve never seen them before, but that doesn’t mean anything. The FSB is a large agency with many, many agents in its employ.”
“What happened,” asked MacPherson, holstering his gun?
Hardy gestured at the corpses. “They tried to kidnap Natash…Agent Volkov.” Without formality, Hardy introduced them to each other. “Agent Volkov…MacPherson…MacPherson…Agent Volkov.”
MacPherson said, “Pleasure.”
Not making eye contact, she replied, “Pleasure.”
Natasha reached into her pocket. “I’ve got to call this in.” Not finding her phone, she jerked her head left and right. The cell was lying on the ground where the man had grabbed her arm. She picked up the device and brushed off the dirt.
“Wait a minute.” Hardy held up his hand. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“I have to. I’m an FSB agent. I have to report this.” She tapped the screen, dialing the number for her supervisor.
“Exactly. These are your people. Why would they want to abduct you? That makes no sense.”
She stopped dialing and looked at him.
“You don’t know who you can trust. You don’t know who ordered this.”
In the distance, wailing sirens grew louder. MacPherson joined the conversation. “In a few minutes, this area is going to be crawling with police. Whatever you plan on doing, you need to do it, now.”
Hardy saw patrons from the café, peeking out the window. Some were making their way outside to see the commotion. “He’s right. We need to leave.”
Natasha held out her arms. “And, go where? We don’t know what’s going on here. I need to find out who these people are and what they wanted from me.” She coughed before massaging her throat.
“You’re not going to find answers if you’re arrested by the police. Instead, you’ll be answering their questions.”
Natasha stared at the dead bodies. He was right. Without more information, the police would assume she and Hardy were guilty of killing four FSB agents. She slid her phone into her blazer pocket. “All right, let’s go.” She hurried up the sidewalk. “My vehicle is right around the corner.”
Hardy waved off MacPherson. “Get out of here. I’ll find my way home, somehow. Thanks for your help.”
MacPherson nodded. “Take care, Hardy.”
Hardy ran to catch up with Natasha at the corner of the main cross street. Her SUV was a few parking spaces away. After they got into the vehicle, she brought the engine to life, peeled away from the curb and accelerated as fast as she could without drawing attention.