Extraordinary Rendition. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
A note of irritation was in her voice, tugging the corner of her mouth down on the side Bolan could see. “Gennady Sokolov is, as you know, a smuggler. It would not be unexpected for him to have contacts at our major airports.”
“You could sweat the officers who passed me through and find out if they’re dirty. Crack one of them, and you’ll find out who he’s dealing with.”
“And if they’re innocent?”
“No harm done,” Bolan said. “I’ll send word back to triple-check whoever knew about my travel plans on our side. One way or another, something had to leak.”
“And I’m afraid that it’s still leaking,” Pilkin replied.
Another glance at Bolan’s mirror showed him headlights following their car. That wasn’t any kind of shocking revelation at a busy airport, but the vehicle in question was performing risky moves to keep Pilkin’s car in sight and close the gap between them.
“That was quick,” he said.
“They must have had a driver waiting.”
“Too bad they’re so organized.”
“Too bad for them,” she said, and flashed a wicked little smile before she shifted, then floored the gas pedal, giving Bolan another taste of Newton’s third law of motion in action.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the plan?” Bolan inquired.
“Evade them, if we can. If not…eliminate them.”
“I’d be more help on the last bit if I wasn’t naked.”
“What?” Pilkin shot a sidelong glance at Bolan, making sure.
“Unarmed,” he said. “Airline security, you know?”
“Of course,” she answered. “Try the glove box.”
Bolan opened it and found what he presumed to be her backup duty gun, an MP-443 Grach semiauto pistol, also known as the Yarygin PYa for its inventor. The Grach was a double-action piece with polymer grips, chambered for 9 mm Parabellum rounds and packing ten or eighteen in detachable box magazines. Its resemblance to the more famous Glock ended with a partially exposed hammer and an external ambidextrous safety.
Bolan pulled the magazine, relieved to find that it was one of the high-capacity staggered-box models. A nineteenth cartridge nestled in the firing chamber.
He was good to go.
“GET AFTER THEM!” Yuri Bazhov snapped.
“On it,” Osip Bek replied, before he whipped their BMW sedan around a slower car and stamped on the accelerator.
“Who’s the woman?” Danil Perov asked from the backseat.
“How should I know?” Bazhov replied. “Someone sent to pick him up.”
“We nearly had him,” Vasily Radko said.
“We still have him,” Bazhov answered, as he drew his pistol, eased off its safety and held it ready in his lap.
He’d left two men behind to fetch the second car and follow up as best they could. Evgeny Surikov and Pavel Malevich together in the UAZ-469 SUV. They’d have to get directions via cell phone and would likely miss the action, but at least Bazhov had backup if he needed it.
Against two people?
How could they match Bazhov and the four men riding with him now?
As if reading his thoughts, Radko chimed in from the back, saying, “He won’t be armed. You can’t take anything on planes these days. They even catch the plastic knives.”
“Suppose the woman brought him guns?” Bazhov replied. “You didn’t think of that?”
He saw Radko grimace in the rearview mirror.
“Are we still required to take the target back alive?”
“Our orders haven’t changed,” Bazhov reminded all of them. “Whoever kills this guy has to deal with Taras on his own.”
Radko muttered something, but he kept his voice low-pitched, allowing Bazhov to pretend he hadn’t heard. The fear of Taras Morozov would curb his temper to a point, but if their quarry started shooting at them, or seemed likely to escape, what could they do?
Go back to Taras empty-handed, with excuses?
How would that improve their situation?
“What’s that she’s driving?” Bazhov asked his wheelman.
“It’s the VAZ 2112,” Bek answered, staying focused on the traffic that surrounded them. “Zero to sixty-two in twelve seconds. One hundred fifteen miles per hour at the top end. Doing fifty, she will need 120 feet to stop.”
Bek knew cars.
“Don’t run them off the road, then, eh?” Bazhov instructed. “I’m not handing Taras a bucket of strawberry jam.”
“I won’t ram them,” Bek said. “But I can’t promise you that the woman knows how to drive.”
“She’s doing all right, so far,” Bazhov said. “Be damned sure you don’t lose her.”
“No problem,” Bek answered, and put on more speed.
“You be ready,” Bazhov said, half-turned toward his men in the rear. “When we stop them, be careful. The woman can die. Not the man.”
“Not to worry,” Perov said.
“We’re ready,” Radko stated.
Bazhov heard them cocking their weapons behind him and hoped neither one of them blew out his brains by mistake. They were pros, yes, but accidents happened.
If he had to die this night, Bazhov could only hope it would be like a man, and not some poor bastard slaughtered by mistake.
BOLAN COULDN’T READ the street signs written in Cyrillic, but he knew that they were heading north, toward central Moscow. That meant crowds, more traffic, innocent bystanders.
And police.
“You have someplace in mind to ditch them, I suppose?” he asked.
“I’m working on it,” Pilkin replied. “I did not come expecting you to have a tail.
“There is a park off Chertanovskaya Street,” she said. “They have a lake there. Little innocent civilian traffic after dark, because of crime.”
“Just muggers and what have you?” Bolan asked.
“No one likely to trouble us, as long as you have that.” She nodded toward the pistol in his hand. “Unless you’re dead, of course.”
“Won’t matter then.”
“So, we agree,” she said. “Five minutes more, if all goes well.”
And if it didn’t, Bolan knew the drill from prior experience. They’d stand and fight as necessary, if and when they had no other choice.
He shied away from small talk, letting Pilkin drive the car, and concentrated on their tail. Still just one vehicle, as far as he could tell, gaining by fits and starts. Headlights behind it showed him three heads, maybe four.
Assume the worst, and you won’t be surprised.
The worst would be more cars, more guns closing in. With a single chase car there were options. A crash could disable the hunters inside without shooting, and even if guns were required, killing three or four men would be quicker, easier, than taking out eight or a dozen.
Bolan didn’t mind the wet work, but it grated on his nerves that he’d been burned even before he set foot in the country. He considered that a past trip to Russia, or his past collaboration with the FSB, might have some kind of boomerang effect this day, but none of it made