OUTSIDE ARBOÇAR
Grebnev uses his teeth to tie off the bandage around the grazing wound at the top of his left bicep. Whoever that man in camo is, he knows his business. Grebnev had been prepared for one professional, but two? Who are these people, anyway?
Tasha—the sole survivor from Karik’s squad—hammers away at the heavy wood door with his boot, raising a racket but not making much progress. Even using the last breaching charge probably won’t open the thing; it’s acting like it’s barred, not locked.
Grebnev glances toward the villa’s front door. Karik and another of his men lay in a heap at the foot of the stairs, shredded by one of their own grenades. The first of Karik’s men to die is still face-down near the ruined kitchen, not far from the dead Irish boy. Another squad member is crumpled in the courtyard; a fourth lies dead on the terrace.
And Kallström’s in what’s left of the dining room, surrounded by a lagoon of darkening blood. Grebnev idly wonders who did for him—the Tarasenko woman, or the man in camo? He suspects the woman. Kallström’s death would’ve been slow in coming and unpleasant to experience. It feels like revenge.
At least he doesn’t have to worry about the hackers getting away. They’re all trapped on top of the tower with no way out except jumping.
The pounding on the door and in his head finally gets the better of Grebnev. “Stop!” He shoulders past Tasha and checks the door. It opens five or six centimeters before whatever’s blocking it stops its movement. That’s enough. “Have a grenade?”
“Yes, sir.” Tasha pulls an RGD from his pack and hands it to Grebnev, who stuffs it into the gap between the door and the jamb right next to the latch.
Grebnev sweeps his MP5 off what little is left of the island and marches for the dining room’s relative safety. “Pull the pin, then run like hell. You’ll have four seconds.”
A crack breaks the quiet just as Grebnev settles his back against the dining-room wall. He counts. At “three,” Tasha dashes into the room. A wham drowns out “four.”
The door’s open. Scattered pieces of a chair litter the stone floor inside the tower. Grebnev pokes his head inside far enough to see the man in camo climb onto the landing at the top of the spiral staircase. He can’t tell if someone’s on the landing to take potshots at anyone going up the stairs. Someone probably is.
Search the inn. Find the hackers’ gear. Take it home. Severinov surely doesn’t want scalps, does he?
Grebnev runs over everything he knows about his immediate superior and decides that yes, after all this trouble, Severinov will want scalps. Or at least photos of dead hackers.
Which means that he and Tasha have to climb up there to get them.
Grebnev sighs. “Tasha, find us another grenade.”
Carson squats next to Edik as he empties the water bottle she’d found in her pack. Both their backs are pressed against the parapet wall around the tower’s top. She asks in Russian, “You’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m still okay.” He squeezes her knee. “I’m getting too old for this foolishness, though.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Right. Try adding fifteen years and a balky leg.”
A land mine tore up Edik’s left leg in Kosovo. Somehow, Carson doesn’t feel the age difference. The only times she’s seen him limp were first thing in the morning and late in the evening. Once they stopped fighting each other in Ukraine and joined up to fight other people, he was utterly reliable, treated her like an equal, and never tried to get in her pants. Those things alone are enough to put him in the top five percent of men she’s known. Him coming here to do all this just because she asked him to puts him in the top one percent. “Hey, have I said ‘thank you’ yet?”
“Once or twice, I think.” A muffled whump echoes out the trap door leading to the stairs. “They just blew the door. Back to work.”
“Yeah.”
Carson starts to unwind from her crouch, but Edik grabs her wrist. “Please be careful. I’m still hoping to see you wear something other than your ninja costume.”
“Only if you promise me a dinner that isn’t field rations or cold food from a can.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “You young women. No appreciation for the best things in life.”
She flips him off, then returns to her post. She, Edik, and the remains of Project Karma are spread out at different points around the tower’s roof. The hatch to the stairs is at three o’clock; Edik and Vicki are at five; Carson and Iris are at nine, facing the hatch; and Karl and Dareh are at one o’clock. The people with weapons—Carson, Dareh, and Edik—can catch anyone coming out of the hatch in a crossfire without having to worry about shooting each other.
Iris sits with her arms around her shins and her chin on her knees. “Who’s the guy?”
“Name’s Edik. Met him on my last project.”
“Huh. Not bad, if you’re into older guys. Where’s he from? He looks Asian.”
“Siberia.”
“Wow. He must like you, coming all this way to do this for you.”
“Yeah.” Carson stands. “Nice to be able to trust somebody.” She throws a barbed glare at Iris, then scurries in a crouch to the hatch and drops almost silently onto the metal landing a couple of meters below.
Two gunmen in black tactical gear edge their way up the stairs. The one in front is the same model as the others; the one that’s three or so meters behind him wears gray urban camo utilities and no helmet. They move like soldiers.
She figures the odds. She’ll get one shot; the survivor will try to blow her off the landing after that. Plus, her MP5 has only six rounds left, and she gave her last spare magazine to Edik. She can’t afford to get into a firefight.
Make it count.
Carson sights in on a point a dozen steps below the landing. She tries to slow her breathing despite the residual adrenaline banging around her system. Clears her senses. Opens her ears. Rubber boot soles scrape on the steel stair treads. A D-ring clicks against another.
The helmet and an MP5 muzzle appear above a tread. When the top of the man’s ballistic vest fills her aperture sights, Carson pulls the trigger.
Tasha jerks backward like someone yanked on his leash. He yells in pain and surprise as he tumbles down the steps. His helmet and rifle spin into space and clatter onto the tower floor.
Grebnev gets off a single round toward the landing before he has to grab the railing to keep Tasha from bowling him off the staircase. Grebnev drops to the treads, aims at the landing, and waits for the next shot.
There isn’t one.
He pushes into a crouch, then waits. Still nothing. He carefully backtracks half a dozen steps until he reaches Tasha sprawled with his head and shoulders hanging off the treads’ inside edge. Grebnev hauls him to safety, but the man’s head rotates in an unnatural way. His neck’s broken. The brass button of an expended bullet shines in the subdued light near the top of Tasha’s vest. Whoever shot him deliberately tried to avoid killing him. Interesting decision.
Grebnev’s a couple of treads short of halfway up the stairs. He’ll be exposed all the way up. The only protection he has is speed.
So be it.
He fishes the grenade out of Tasha’s pack, whispers a short prayer, then charges up the stairs.
Carson calls out, “He’s coming.”
Dareh signals to Karl to lie flat. Edik pushes Vicki prone, then helps her arrange her arms to best protect her head. Carson glances at Iris, who’s still hugging her legs. “Lie down. Make a smaller target.”
Iris turns a wounded look on Carson. “You still care?”
“If you’re gonna get killed, I wanna do it.” Carson stretches out flat on the tower’s dusty stone roof and aims at the dark hole beneath the upright hatch.
The running steps stop. How’s he gonna play this? Spray and pray? Gopher and take us out one by one? He’s gotta know we’re ready for him.
Still silence. No head pops into her sights.
Or is this where he tries to bargain with us? Do I trust Vicki to do that, or handle it myself? What’s he gonna want?
Silence.
Wait us out? We got four bottles of water and a granola bar. Won’t last long in a siege.
Maybe he’s waiting for reinforcements.
Maybe we’re supposed to make the first move.
Just do something, for fuck’s sake!
It’s not hot, but sweat drips into Carson’s eyes.
Crack.
A grenade arcs out the hatch and bounces next to Carson.
Fuck! She rolls to her left as fast as she can.
Iris is on her feet, bounding toward the grenade.
“No! Don’t do it! Get down!”
Iris’s right leg sweeps forward. She kicks the grenade with her right instep. It rockets into the metal hatch cover. Karl pops up and slaps the cover closed.
The explosion blasts the cover off the top of the tower.