Hardy, Natasha, and Romana jogged toward the north forest. At the garage, he broke away from the women and passed the barn and the grain silo. He thought about searching them, but decided against it. He would have to trust Natasha’s men would take care of the buildings. He needed to get to the woods. If Mika was out here, she was most vulnerable from exposure to the elements.
Hardy’s mind was in overdrive as he ran. If Hardy were escaping, outside of stealing a car, he would have chosen to run across the wide-open field to the east or use the cover of the woods to the north. The front of the house was covered by FSB agents and the terrain to the west—beyond the trees—would be too difficult to cross at night. Hardy was confident Popovich knew this, too. Taking Mika with him was something that did not add up, however. She would have slowed his progress, unless he was planning to use her as a shield. It’s possible he’ll dump her somewhere along the way, knowing we’ll stop for her. That’ll buy him more time to get away.
Starting at the northwest corner of the property, Hardy walked as fast as he could, stepping over logs and dodging low-hanging tree branches. He was using his handheld flashlight, intermittently. He would light up an area and shut off the light. Moving a little further into the woods, he would repeat the process. His earpiece crackled.
“I just got word,” said Natasha, “Mika’s GPS chip is not giving off a signal. It must have been damaged.”
“Copy that.” Hardy estimated he had been out here almost ten minutes and he had not covered much ground. He made a risky decision to keep his flashlight on and an even riskier decision to start calling out Mika’s name. The longer it took to find her, the closer she was to suffering frostbite or hypothermia.
Moving east and using a zigzag pattern, Hardy was halfway across the expanse of forest when his eye caught a glimpse of something hanging from a tree limb, thirty feet ahead. He closed the distance and reached for a skimpy lace garment. A jolt of pain ran up his arm and he shuddered. He had forgotten about the bullet wound. Holding a black bra, he examined the lingerie. Mika had a black dress on. He surveyed the area. It’s possible she was wearing black underwear, too. Though there was no visible trail to follow, he saw a couple of broken tree branches and moved toward them, heading deeper into the woods.
A few minutes later, he pushed his way through some brush and stepped into a clearing. He swept the flashlight left and right, stopping abruptly when the beam illuminated a small form on the ground. Mika.
She was naked, except for a pair of black panties, and propped against the trunk of a fallen tree. Her head was slumped against her chest. His heart in his throat, Hardy hurried toward her, his head rotating left and right, looking for the man who had deposited her here.
He knelt. “Mika, can you hear me?” She was unresponsive and the color of her skin was pale blue. He touched her. As cold as his hands were, her body was colder. He put his fingers under her chin and scanned the perimeter again, holding his breath. Seconds later, he let out the air. She’s alive. “Thank you, Jesus.” Hardy had been praying for His help to find her. He tapped his earpiece and whispered. “Natasha, I’ve got Mika.”
“How is she?”
“She’s alive, but she’s not responding. Her skin is blue.”
“Where are you?”
“We’re in the north woods, straight back from the house. Bring anything you can to get her warm.”
“We’re on our way. What about Popovich?”
“Keep an eye out for him.” Hardy removed his tactical vest. “He’s still on the loose.” Sticking his fingers between the buttons of his shirt, he yanked both hands away from each other and the shirt ripped apart. He leaned Mika into his chest and wrapped the clothing around her shoulders. He covered the shirt with his vest, carefully leaned her back against the log, and zipped the vest with her arms inside to maintain body heat. His left arm around her back and his right arm under her knees—his pistol in his right hand—he picked her up, turned and headed back the way he had come. “I’ve got her. We’re moving toward the house.”
“Copy that.” Natasha hailed the other teams. “All teams rendezvous at the north woods. I repeat, all teams to the north woods, now!”
Hardy had made it to within ten feet of the brush when a figure emerged, facing him. There was a break in the clouds. A beam of moonlight shone through the trees, illuminating a man’s baldhead and reflecting off the shiny surface of a stainless steel revolver, pointed at Hardy. Popovich. Hardy had no place to go and no time to get his pistol on target, so he did the only thing he could think to do. He spun around, surrendered his back to his adversary and yelled, “Natash—”
He had barely enough time to get into position before the first of several bullets slammed into him, cutting off his call for help. He staggered forward and fell to the ground, trying to cushion the fall for Mika by cupping her head and neck. He feared his efforts were in vain. His vision blurred. Twigs cracked under the weight of heavy footfalls. He sensed Popovich’s weapon, pointed at his head, a coup de grâce.