There was no time to think. Only to react.
With the UMP behind his back, and seeing a handgun in the Russian’s right hand, Slaton launched himself over the crown of the roof. His own weapon out of reach behind him, Slaton’s only play was to lock up his adversary’s arm. They grappled across the hard tile, struggling for control of the weapon. A wild shot rang out, the gun’s barrel canted skyward in their combined grip. Slaton felt the man’s finger on the trigger. He locked the finger down and twisted the gun viciously, heard the crack of bone and a grunt of pain.
Slaton had the advantage of size, and was confident he would win a close-in fight. The Russian sensed it too, because as Slaton tightened his arm bar, the man made the best possible move—he rolled and pushed with his legs, sending them both tumbling down the pitched roof. They fell intertwined, and the handgun caromed free. It clattered across the tile, and Slaton saw it slide toward the edge and disappear to the patio below.
He tried to arrest their entangled drop. The Russian did his best to promote it. Slaton knew what he was thinking. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
Slaton dug his heels into tile grooves, but each time he gained purchase, the Russian countered with a push of his own. With gravity on his adversary’s side, they both tumbled one last turn before careening over the roof’s edge. In midair the two men let go of one another, survival instinct kicking in. In the next split second Slaton saw the second-floor balcony rail coming. It struck him square in the chest, but his vest spread the impact.
His body bounded out into space again, and he reached out with his right hand for the rail, trying to arrest his fall. As he did, the UMP’s sling caught on something, twisting his body awkwardly. He grabbed the rail for an instant, braking his descent, but the force was overwhelming and his hand twisted free. It was a ten-foot drop to the stone terrace, and Slaton landed as best he could, legs bent and rolling onto a hip. New pains seared in, but he ignored every one and bounded to his feet.
The Russian had landed a few steps away, yet he too knew how to survive a fall. He was up before Slaton, his eyes sweeping the fine Italian tile, searching for his weapon.
Slaton did the same—somewhere in the fall he’d lost the UMP.
They spotted the handgun at the same time, a dull black L on the bottom of the kidney-shaped pool. It was much nearer the Russian. Slaton searched for the UMP. He didn’t see it, but noticed his burner phone on the tile ten paces away. Then a sway of motion overhead caught his eye—the UMP was hanging by its sling from a wall-mounted light fixture. The gun was ten feet above him, and he guessed he could jump high enough to slap at it. He might knock it down on the first try. More likely, the second or the third.
He didn’t have that much time.
The Russian dove into the pool head-first, his hands clawing for the bottom. He retrieved his gun six feet under, and started back up. Slaton was trapped in the open on the broad patio. There was no cover he could reach soon enough to dodge an expert marksman. And that’s what this man would be. He saw one chance: on the nearby lounge chair the Barrett lay as if sunning itself.
Slaton leapt for the big gun and grabbed it by the barrel.
In retrospect, he would later realize that this was where the Russian faltered. Perhaps he wasn’t experienced in the water. Not comfortable with shooting through refraction, or concerned about the ballistic degradation imparted by a few inches of over-chlorinated water. If he had only paused where he was and raised the gun toward the surface, fired at a stationary target a few feet above him, he would have won the battle. Won their whole private war. Instead, he tried to come up for air before taking his shot.
Slaton intervened decisively.
With both hands on the rifle’s barrel, he ignored the pain in his shoulder and raised it over his head. In that same instant the Russian’s head broke the surface. Slaton swung down like a lumberjack trying to part a log in a single blow.
He missed the man’s head as it came out of the water, but no such precision was necessary. The gun weighed twenty-eight pounds, and was traveling on a moment arm of nearly five feet. The steel stock crashed into the Russian’s neck with all the certainty of a sledgehammer, crushing bone and tearing sinew. The man crumpled instantly, stunned to stillness. Slaton’s second blow was far more exacting, and probably fatal. The Barrett’s stock caught him flush on the crown of his head.
The Russian went still in the water, facedown in a fast-diffusing cloud of red. Never one for half-measures, Slaton leapt into the pool and held the man’s head under until he was sure. Absolutely sure. There was one flutter of movement, likely no more than an involuntary spasm. Then nothing at all. Slaton retrieved the handgun before scrambling out of the pool. With the gun poised, he scanned the villa for any sign of Ovechkin. He saw nothing.
Dripping wet, Slaton pocketed the gun, which he recognized as a Sig Sauer P320, and recovered his phone. He jumped up, knocked the UMP off the light fixture—it took two tries—and rushed into the villa. He was barely through the seaside French doors when a car engine fired to life out front. He heard the engine rev and the squeal of tires. Slaton burst through the front door with the UMP poised, but saw what he expected—a flicker of white disappearing up the driveway.
Ovechkin was gone.
The tan sedan remained, and Slaton checked the ignition. No keys.
He took a deep breath, ratcheting down. He lowered the UMP, reconnecting the damaged sling and putting it across a shoulder.
As the adrenaline ebbed, he regarded the two vanquished guards. Then his eyes drifted to the equipment case near the car’s trunk. It wasn’t an exact twin to the one he’d seen on the promontory, but seemed similar in size and shape. He walked over, unlatched the lid, and after a brief pause threw it open.
There, cradled in solid foam, was the rest of the system. A thick optical lens that was connected by an umbilical to a processor of some kind. Two heavy batteries and a tripod stand, the rectangular feet of which matched the impressions he’d seen beneath a rock ledge on a Davos mountainside. And to one side, an ordinary ammo box. Slaton picked up the ammo box and opened it. What he saw inside was anything but ordinary. There were three shaped-foam cutouts, and one of the spaces was empty. The other two contained plastic cases the size and shape of a fifty-cal round. He opened one and saw a pristine example of the mangled projectile he’d recovered in Davos.
Slaton repackaged everything, then stood wondering what came next. He glanced up at the truck on the distant hill. It hadn’t moved. He then considered whether the CIA might be able to track, or even intercept Ovechkin. He decided it was worth a try.
Slaton checked his phone.
He saw eighteen missed calls.