The Fugitive's Secret Child. Geri Krotow

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СКАЧАТЬ in racks of weapons, ammo, explosives. Dang, they were loaded for bear. Just who were they expecting, the national guard? He wouldn’t mind a unit to show up and rescue him right about now.

      He knew no one was scheduled to come in here until after he’d secured Vasin—the risks were too great. Vasin and his boss Ivanov were known for retribution; last month six ATF agents had been slaughtered in an ambush in Newark, New Jersey. ROC didn’t get its hands dirty, of course, but intelligence had proven it was clearly done on Ivanov’s orders.

      The powers that be had decided that taking out Ivanov alone was best to allow them to begin to dismantle the entire North American ROC from the inside out. It was going to take months, even years. Rob couldn’t worry about that—he still had to complete his mission to neutralize Vasin. Somehow, someway, despite all these men around him.

      He tested his binds. They’d used plastic zip ties on his wrists, which remained painfully strapped behind him and forced his back into an excruciating arch. His ankles were shackled, probably by chains, judging from the weight holding him down. The victims he’d witnessed captured by the ROC in New Jersey had been similarly restrained. It was signature Vasin. The man was a sadistic sociopath.

      Vasin asked for something, then the sound of pounding on a table—a bottle, maybe?

      Liquid pouring, a toast. Then another. Then a third. Keep drinking, you son of a bitch.

      Fortunately for Rob, Vasin liked his vodka. Judging from the larger size of Vasin’s nose, the obvious veins mapped over it, Vasin’s alcoholism had progressed over the last two years even as his physicality didn’t appear weaker. And it sounded like he wanted to celebrate tonight, before the big party tomorrow—Rob’s murder party.

      Steps shuffled on the floor, toward Rob. A solid hit to his chest forced his eyes to fly open.

      Vasin laughed and spoke in a flurry of Russian. His spit hit his face with obvious satisfaction. Rob considered it a win that he felt it on his swollen skin. No extensive nerve damage. Yet.

      “I didn’t come here for you.” It hurt so much to speak, damn it. Flashes of a previous time at the mercy of captors. He ignored them, fought off thinking about the one sure thing that got him through that torture.

      “No, of course you didn’t. You want my boss, no? But you’ll never get him. No one touches Dima Ivanov.”

      “Maybe not, but I know who’s coming to get him and all of you, and when.” Another sign Vasin was losing it; he’d said his boss’s name, blatantly unafraid of Rob. Yeah, Rob was a goner—they were going to kill him. Maybe sooner than tomorrow.

      Vasin’s eyes narrowed at Rob’s dig, his breathing hitched. Bait. He’d believed the overblown statement.

      “Everything you say is a lie. Who do you work for—the same people?”

      “Yes.” Let Vasin think he was still CIA or FBI. Vasin had accused Robert of being CIA when they’d blown apart the New Jersey op. There was no reason to correct him. The Trail Hikers were far more clandestine than the CIA, and Rob was certain Vasin and in fact the ROC had no idea who the Trail Hikers were.

      “And who are they, your employers?”

      Robert stayed silent. He’d never tell Vasin whom he really worked for. Or that he’d been a SEAL. Vasin was smart enough to know that no agent worth his or her training would ever give up their employer.

      “Tell me.” Vasin’s meaty fist hit his temple, and an explosion of lights floated over his vision. The blackness threatened, but he hung on.

      “Never.”

      “Of course you won’t. So tell me, who’s on their way to get us? The bogeyman?”

       Hook.

      “Two thousand agents. National Guard, DEA, local teams.” The lie came easily even through his aching jaw. Vasin’s breathing increased.

      “When?”

      “Tomorrow. Before sunup.”

      Vasin straightened and turned toward his men, but not before Rob saw the frown drawn on his face. He watched them squirm in their seats as Vasin asked his team if anyone knew about the LEAs. Then he asked how many of the ROC men were expected to arrive over the next day. Rob let go a small, painful sigh when the men stated they only expected a dozen or so.

      Vasin lowered his head, and Robert saw the flicker of worry cross the bastard’s face. After what felt like hours, Vasin motioned with his head toward Rob, shouting orders to his goons. “Get him up and let him take a piss. Then put him in the chair at the table.”

      He faced Rob again and leaned in, his breath heavy with vodka and bile. “I’m going to let you tell me everything you know. If you’re lucky, I’ll leave you for dead here, before my boss shows up.”

      Rob didn’t have to ask what would happen if he wasn’t lucky. Vasin would torture him until he begged to die.

      Time to reel the monster in.

      * * *

      Trina peered around the corner of the building, her weapon drawn. The puppy had given her enough time to see the ATVs before she’d done something stupid and unforgivable for a US marshal: walk into a danger zone uninformed. Someone hadn’t done their job, because clearly Vasin was not alone and all of her reports indicated otherwise. She’d worry about the lack of communication later. Right now she wanted Yuri Vasin in cuffs.

      Security cameras were mounted under the roof’s overhang on the four corners of the building; she’d only discovered them once she was up under the eaves herself.

      She flattened herself to the side of the wall and started to inch her way back toward the opposite side of the building where she’d noticed the other, probably faux, doors. But she had to determine if she could see inside the structure and make out what the hell was going on. Trina sent a quick text to Mike, telling him to head in. She’d wait for him to apprehend.

      As she crept along the twenty yards of solid steel building, she was conscious of the puppy shadowing her, quiet and stealthy. She couldn’t risk the noise of shooing the dog away, and was annoyed that he distracted her at all. Her fingers hit the corner of the building and she made sure the area was clear before she turned the corner and made straight for the doors. The security cameras had to not be working, or she’d have been stopped by someone by now.

      When she lined up with the “doors,” her fingertips felt the smoothness of the corrugated steel—and the paint that had been used to create the illusion of entrances. Except in the middle of the one large garage-style door, where she immediately felt the cut of steel-on-steel. An opening. Maybe not one that was used much, but an entrance or exit of some sort. Further inspection revealed a painted-over window. She slipped a razor out of her front pocket. Slowly and carefully scraped away the black pigment. She kept her free hand over the working one—she didn’t want to alert anyone inside with a flash of light. The paint was thick and chipped off in the tiniest of pieces. That was fine. All she needed was a pupil’s worth.

      As soon as she had enough of an opening, she stood on tiptoe and looked inside. Shelves, all stocked with what appeared to be cans of paint—no shocker there—and ammo, the boxes emblazoned with US ARMY. It was hard to see much farther than five or six rows of shelving.

      Ammo. СКАЧАТЬ