Thursday—7:59 p.m. (local time)
Moscow, Russia
Once the Gulfstream V jet had leveled off and reached its cruising speed, Hardy leaned back in his chair and fell asleep. Now, he was fastening his seatbelt, as the jet made its final approach to Moscow’s Domodedovo International Airport.
Eight-and-a-half hours ago, he had said his ‘goodbyes’ to Special Agent Cruz, standing outside the backdoor of the Chevy Tahoe that would take him and Natasha to Bangor International Airport, in Maine, where the Gulfstream V had been waiting, engines running. ‘Be careful—I’ll be praying for you’ is what she had said.
Hardy was not a religious man. He believed in things he could touch and see—facts, not beliefs. Those, along with the actions of his teammates, are what had kept him alive throughout the years. Secretly, he liked having someone—who cared for him—praying for him. In case there was a God, looking over the people of this world, it couldn’t hurt to have someone rooting for you, he thought.
When the wheels of the plane made contact with the runway, Hardy tightened his grip on the seat’s armrests. His mind went back to when Cruz had been hospitalized in Dallas with a gunshot wound and he could not do anything to help her. Out of options, he had prayed to God. Praying was something he had not done in many years, if not decades. She had awakened and called his name at the same time he had been praying. For days afterward, he had reflected on the connection between his prayer and her waking up, wondering if there really was a God, and had this God intervened. It had been too much of a coincidence and Hardy did not believe in coincidences. They bordered on luck and chance—not reliable facts.
The plane taxied toward a little used section of the airport reserved for government purposes. Hardy leaned closer to the window. The darkness was broken by the lights coming from the airport terminals. Looking forward of the plane, he saw two black vehicles near the end of the runway, their headlights reflecting off the tarmac. Four men wearing dark suits under long overcoats stood next to the vehicles. The plane was heading straight for them.
In the seat across the aisle, Natasha was speaking into her cell phone, in Russian. As the plane came to a quick stop and rolled backward slightly, she ended the call, unbuckled her seatbelt, and stood. “There’s been a change in plans. We’re meeting my team at a safe house. They’re already waiting for us.” Picking up a knee-length black blazer and spinning it around her shoulders, she slid her arms into the jacket’s sleeves, buttoned the blazer and turned up the collar. Under the coat, she was wearing a long-sleeved white cotton shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans. Black shoes, with chunky one-inch high heels, completed her outfit. At this time of the year, the average temperature in Moscow was twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit; however, most of Russia was in a cold spell, dropping the temperature to the mid-teens. Fortunately, there was no wind to accompany the bitter temperatures. “As soon as we get our gear loaded, we need to get there.”
“What’s the rush?” Hardy stood and put on his black leather jacket. Following her to the door of the plane, he zipped the jacket, wishing he had something more substantial to wear.
She looked over her shoulder. “We have a meeting tonight. While you were sleeping, I was able to get a face-to-face with an ex-KGB general, who might know where we can find Popovich.” Facing forward, she added, “I’ll bring you and my team up to speed when we get to the safe house.” She opened the door to the plane and walked down the stairs.
At the bottom, Natasha gave orders to the four men in overcoats before hustling to the nearest full-size, Russian-made sport utility vehicle, similar to a Chevy Tahoe. She got behind the wheel and closed the door before leaning right and turning the fan blower as high as it would go. Rubbing her hands together, she watched Hardy through the windshield.
He remained by the plane, while the four men climbed the stairs and disappeared from sight through the open door. One-by-one, they emerged carrying Storm Cases by Pelican. Descending the stairs, they made their way to Natasha’s vehicle and loaded the cases into the cargo area. After the men had made a second trip to the plane and back, Hardy verified they had all the equipment before getting into Natasha’s SUV and slamming the door. His hands shot out toward the nearest dashboard vent.
“What is that saying you Americans have about a kitchen sink?” She blew into her cupped hands, eyeing the numerous cases being loading into the vehicle.
The Storm Cases contained computer equipment, tactical gear, weapons, extra magazines, and ammunition. One of the cases held a Barrett M107 fifty-caliber sniper rifle, outfitted with a Leupold Mark 4 scope, compliments of Tom Henderson, who had packed it special for Hardy. It was Henderson’s weapon of choice, but he was not going to need it anytime soon.
Hardy cranked his head toward the back seat. “I’d rather have more and not need it, than the other way around.” One man closed the cargo door and pounded on the side of the vehicle, indicating everything was loaded.