THIRTY-EIGHT

Nothing much happened until the night of day three. Buzz Farmer had drawn the video village midnight to six a.m. shift and my cell phone jangled me awake at around four.

“There’s activity at the mansion,” he said.

“What’s going on?”

“A Range Rover arrived a few minutes ago. A short man emerged, mature, well dressed, and imperious-looking. Has to be Petrov. He stretched, took a few deep breaths, and stood looking around for several moments. Then he entered the mansion.”

“Let me know if he reappears. Or if anything changes.”

“Copy that.”

Having been startled awake, I realized getting back to sleep wasn’t in the cards.

My thoughts turned to Buzz Farmer. Marsha Russo had bundled herself off to Rockford, Illinois, to interview his wife.

As for Buzz himself, he continued to tirelessly and professionally assist with the Petrov surveillance. But Marsha’s revelation disturbed me.

I tried to reconcile the fervent appeals he made on behalf of his candidacy for the job with the knowledge that his wife had left him. Three months ago.

I now had misgivings regarding Mr. Farmer. Nothing specific. Nothing I could put my finger on. But I found his dispassionate nature odd. He made all the right moves and said all the right things, but he did and said them mechanically.

I was hoping that Marsha’s interview would prove benign and that his behavior was nothing more than idiosyncratic.

But he bothered me. More so than I wanted to admit.

I readied myself for the day, then headed to The Friendly Inn dining room where I joined Wilma Hanson for an early breakfast.

We reviewed our plans for the deployment of each member of the team. Positions would be manned at dusk, after Petrov’s rented security forces had departed for the day. Back and shoulder packs were to be checked and rechecked to make certain the correct weapons wound up in the right hands.

We established three main staging areas inside the compound.

The first was at the outer edge of a heavily forested foothill that opened onto a section of beach that fronted the dock and the boathouse.

The second was amid the Japanese privet hedges and the tall Northwind and Prairie Sky switch grasses that combined to surround the mansion’s immaculately manicured front lawn with its three-hole putting green, fishpond, and redwood gazebo.

The third area was halfway between the first two, in a brambled glen bordering the inland side of the sandy roadway that ran between the house and the dock.

A member of our team was to be stationed at each of these locations.

Anticipating we’d conduct an action that very night, we arranged for a previously organized team of ten San Remo County Police officers to assemble at twilight in The Friendly Inn parking lot, where they would stand ready to assist, should it prove necessary.

We recruited these officers because of their experience under fire. All of them had seen combat in places such as Kabul and Baghdad.

The day crept by slowly, unimpeded by any unusual activity at either the dock or the mansion. Boris Petrov remained secluded inside.

At six o’clock, the hired security guards rounded up any remaining beachgoers, escorted them from the grounds, then closed and locked the access gates. Satisfied all was in order, the guards left the area in a gray Honda SUV.

Shortly after eight p.m., with darkness swiftly descending, Al Striar arrived at the estate’s southernmost access point brandishing a heavy-duty wire cutter that he used to snip open a flap in the fencing.

One by one, each member of the team wriggled through and swiftly headed to his appointed station. By the time darkness had fully fallen, we were all at our posts, ready for whatever the night might bring.

Buzz and I were hidden together in the brambles, not noted for comfort but well shielded. He seemed withdrawn, distant, absent.

“You okay?”

He looked at me as if for the first time. “What? Oh, sorry. This operation puts me in mind of the Afghani nights. The nights of terror. All of us preparing strategically for a firefight and at the same time, trying to ward off our collective fear of sudden death. God, it was horrible. I’m sorry, Buddy. I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Not to worry.”

Shortly after eight-thirty, Boris Petrov sprang from the mansion accompanied by two men dressed in white lab coats, each sporting a pair of black canvas shoulder bags. They moved swiftly along the sandy road that led to the dock.

At about the same time, we could hear the roar of boat engines coming from the sea.

“It’s on,” I texted Wilma. She, in turn, transmitted the information to the team.

Buzz Farmer and I were hidden amid the tall switch grasses, watching Petrov and his associates make their way up the road.

Despite his height, Petrov walked with a loping gait and a swagger that accentuated how lithe and graceful he was. He wore a collared gray sweatshirt over tailored blue jeans. He had on gray Nike high-tops. He exhibited an air of invincibility and power, someone to be reckoned with.

I tore my attention away from him and turned to Buzz. “You ready?”

“Beyond ready.”

“Shall we?”

“My pleasure.”

Buzz made a furtive dash for the mansion where he would connect with Johnny Kennerly and P.J. Lincoln.

I set out for the dock, ducking in and out of the shadows, careful not to reveal myself to Petrov and the two Lab Coats in front of me. I arrived moments after Al Striar and Dave Balding.

Under the cover of darkness, we were close enough to watch Petrov and the Lab Coats greeting two other men at the dock, men to whom they handed over the four canvas shoulder bags.

After handshakes all around, and nodding to Boris Petrov, the Lab Coats left the dock and headed back to the mansion.

As the sound of the boat engines neared, one of the dockhands flipped the switch on the boathouse power panel which activated a pair of high voltage lighting fixtures that rested on fifteen-foot-high towers.

That was our cue.

Striar and Balding, their weapons drawn, made tracks for the two men on the dock, each of whom, their eyes still adjusting to the intense light, finally spotted the approaching deputies and immediately reached for their weapons.

“Police officers,” Striar shouted. “Hands in the air.”

This caught Boris Petrov’s attention, distracting him enough to allow me to furtively creep up behind him. I startled him when I thrust my Colt Commander into the small of his back.

He suddenly whirled and lashed out at me, kicking and pummeling me repeatedly with his fists. I backed into a defensive position, feinted left, caught sight of an opening, and unloaded a hard right jab into the side of his head, followed by a fast left cross and a right uppercut that dropped him.

As he lay inert on the sandy road, groaning, I removed a plastic tie from my kit belt and secured his hands behind him.

Still groggy, he struggled slowly to his feet and glared at me through steely blue eyes, rife with venom. “You,” he sneered.

“We meet again.”

“A meeting you’ll soon come to regret.”

“Regrets are a two-way street, Boris. As you’ll soon come to realize.”

He glared at me.

“Did I forget to mention you’re under arrest?”

“Arrest?”

“Yes.”

“For what reason?”

“Too many to go into just now.”

“You’re an insignificant man, Mr. Buddy. You have no idea who or what you’re dealing with.”

“Yikes. Now you’ve given me the shivers.”

The sound of men yelling caught my attention. I looked up in time to see Al Striar head-butt one of Petrov’s men, knocking him off balance. He then jumped on the man, grabbed him by the ears, and slammed his head heavily into the ground.

Dave Balding was also on the move, racing toward the dock where the second man had already picked up two of the four canvas bags and hurled them into the sea.

Balding, his Sig Sauer service revolver in hand, called out to him as he reached for the other two bags. “Stop right there.”

Undaunted, the man unholstered a Glock G43 semi and turned it on Balding.

Dave shot first, but it went wide.

In turn, the man fired at Dave, hitting him in the leg, knocking him off of his feet.

My Colt was already in hand, and when the man stepped over to the fallen Balding with the intention of finishing him, I shot the gun from his hand.

He gaped at me in amazement, then grabbed his hand which now had three fewer fingers than it did when the shooting started. And it had begun to bleed profusely.

The speedboats were just rounding the jetty when the shots rang out. Leaving a churning wake behind them, the boats hastily reversed course and headed back out to sea.

In the chaos of the gunfire, Boris Petrov had slipped away. I spotted him running full bore toward the mansion.

Leaving Striar to deal with the downed men, the two remaining shoulder bags, and the wounded Dave Balding, I took off after Petrov.

He was in good physical condition and despite his height, ran faster than I might have imagined. Even with his hands bound behind him. In a final burst of speed, he outraced me to the mansion, hot-footed it up the front steps, and disappeared inside.

I clambered up the steps after him, but when I entered the house, there was no sign of him.

I found myself standing in a huge antechamber, all marble and dark woods. Shafts of diffused light insinuated themselves through floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows. A massive mahogany staircase climbed skyward toward a balcony-surrounded second-floor landing.

I noticed an ancient Otis elevator cage containing a gold and steel filigree cab carved into one of the walls, an option for those not hardy enough to attempt the stairs.

As I stood somewhat dumbfounded, Johnny Kennerly showed up in the foyer.

“Buddy,” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Boris Petrov. He beat me by only seconds.”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“He came barreling in here. He’s got to be around somewhere.”

“I wouldn’t know. P.J. and I have been searching for the lab, but we haven’t found it.”

“How difficult could it be to find?”

“Good question.”

Buzz Farmer appeared at the top of the staircase and called down to us. “What’s up?”

“Have you seen Petrov?”

“No. Should I have?”

“He came plowing into the house and then vanished.”

“Well, he’s not upstairs. I would have seen him.”

“He has to be somewhere. He didn’t just dematerialize.”

“This is a weird place,” Johnny said. “P.J. and I have been all over it and haven’t found even a trace of any pharmaceutical laboratory.”

“You think there are hidden rooms?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Johnny said.

“So Petrov could have slipped into one of them. Even the lab rooms might be hidden.”

“It’s possible.”

“How can we find out?”

“Anyone have a fire axe?” Buzz asked as he made his way downstairs.

Johnny Kennerly spoke up. “Listen, Buddy, for all we know, he could be climbing out of a manhole in downtown Freedom right now. Like El Chapo.”