Chapter Eighteen
James donned the mantel of leadership and opened the door. He entered the dingy front room first, followed by Quinn. LT and Dave waited in the hall for the signal to move in once the money and drugs had been recorded changing hands.
Yefimov and Anatoly stood waiting for them. A large, brightly painted matryoshka doll sat on one of the armchairs.
James pointed at the Russian nesting doll and said, “It appears my order is ready.”
“Yes,” Yefimov said. An icy chill ran through Quinn’s veins when his gaze landed on her. “Who is she?”
“My personal assistant.”
“I am sure she helps with many things.” His suggestive tone and oily smile made Quinn’s skin crawl.
James stared at Yefimov, stone-faced.
Yefimov’s eyes traveled to the briefcase in Quinn’s hand. “That is for me, yes?” The Russian seemed to be enjoying his perceived control over the situation.
Other than the steady rise and fall of his chest, James stood motionless with his arms hanging limply at his sides. Unblinking, he regarded Yefimov, as if trying to gauge how much longer he was willing to put up with his shenanigans.
The longer the uncomfortable silence stretched, the more Yefimov’s nerves visibly strained. His smug smile turned sickly, and a thin sheen of perspiration sprang up on his forehead.
Quinn felt her own nerves begin to fray.
“Yes,” James finally said. “Now, if we could dispense with any additional pleasantries. Show us what’s inside the doll and we’ll show you what’s inside the briefcase.”
Yefimov went over to the doll and pulled off the top half, revealing a two-pound brick of white powder wrapped in plastic.
James turned to Quinn and said, “Miss Riordan, if you will.” She set the briefcase on the sofa and opened it. Bundles of one hundred euro notes were stacked across the bottom. Of course, only the top bill in each stack was real.
The phone in Yefimov’s pocket rang. His brow furrowed when he looked at the screen. He put it to his ear and said, “Da.”
Quinn tensed as she watched Yefimov listen. His face hardened and his eyes burned a hole in James with each passing second.
Busted.
“Now!” James shouted.
Anatoly went for his sidearm. Quinn flung the briefcase at him and knocked the gun from his hand as soon as it cleared his holster. She went for the tranquilizer pistol on her thigh.
Dave ran past her to secure whatever was on the other side of the door on the right.
Quinn pulled the pistol from her thigh holster.
The sharp clap of a gunshot ripped through the flat. Dave crumpled to the floor in the hall.
“Dave!” she screamed.
Anatoly lowered his shoulder, barreled into Quinn, and drove her back against the wall. Even with the protection of her vest, her chest exploded with pain and the breath in her lungs whooshed out in a gust.
Anatoly bounced off and raced out the front door.
Eyes watering and gasping for air, she was in no position to chase him. With the way her chest ached like she’d caught a cannonball, she had no choice but to let him escape. She couldn’t dawdle, though. She pushed away from the wall and staggered toward the prostrate Dave.
She leaned a hand against the doorjamb and gulped down two mouthfuls of air. Seconds later, the pain in her chest abated and her vision cleared enough to peer through the opening and down the hall.
Viktor stormed toward her.
She raised her gun and readied to fire.
Her finger squeezed the trigger, but let up before firing when Viktor pitched forward and crashed to the floor.
Viktor’s epic fall revealed a panting, grinning Pyotr with a chair gripped in his hands.
“Way to go, Pyotr!” Quinn shouted in Russian.
His eyes rounded with recognition when he heard her voice. “You were on island.”
“I was. Are you okay?”
“Da.”
Movement behind Pyotr drew her attention. Quinn raised her pistol and yelled, “Get down!”
He dropped to the floor. Zhanna, her face contorted with fury and her fingers curled like talons, flew straight at them.
Quinn fired.
Zhanna stopped, wobbled, and then collapsed.
Quinn turned and knelt beside Dave.
Before she could speak, he wheezed, “I’ll be okay. Took one in the vest.”
Quinn’s head snapped toward James when two more gunshots sounded. The shots hadn’t come from him. He was locked in a power struggle over Yefimov’s gun.
Screaming and crying sounded from the other side of the flat.
Through her comms, she heard LT say, “The two guards in the drug room are down.”
She leveled her pistol at Yefimov’s back.
The men spun as she fired. She missed. The dart impaled the wall.
James smashed Yefimov’s wrist against the top of the TV. His pistol clattered behind the stand.
Yefimov heaved at James, throwing him off, and then bolted out the door.
“Yefimov’s running!” James yelled.
Quinn shouted, “Go after him!”
“What about you?”
“Viktor, Zhanna, and the other two guys are down,” she replied. “I think Anatoly ran, too.”
“James, go,” LT said. “We’ve got this.”
“Copy.” He flew toward the door and careened into the hall.
There was still one of Yefimov’s crew unaccounted for. “Pyotr, do you know where Mother Olga is?” she asked, forgetting to do so in Russian.
His arm swung up and he pointed to the opposite end of the hallway. “There is back way out. She took tovarish.”
His comrades. Her fist clenched. “Is Mila one of them?”
“Da.”
Quinn was already running. “Stay with LT and Dave. They’ll get you all out of here to someplace safe,” she said as he charged past him.
She flung open the door and stepped into a dark stairwell. Voices and footfalls echoed up the staircase from below. Mother Olga and the kids had a head start, but alone, Quinn could catch up to them fast.
Light from her phone’s flashlight pierced the dimness, making her sure-footed as she scampered down the steps.
Bright sunlight filtered into the stairwell and then as quickly disappeared.
Mother Olga and the kids had just left the building.
Quinn sped up. She was close.
She burst out the door and onto the sidewalk. Blinking against the bright noonday summer sun, she scanned the sidewalk, left and right.
She glimpsed Mother Olga’s ample backside just before it disappeared around the corner to her left. As she ran, Quinn stuffed her phone in one pocket and jammed her tranquilizer pistol in the other. She didn’t dare brandish her weapon in public.
At the end of the block, she skidded around the corner. Mother Olga, along with two boys and two girls of varying sizes, was up ahead.
Quinn ran up on them like they were barely moving. She grabbed Mother Olga by the shoulder, spun her around, and punched her square in the face.
Stunned, Mother Olga stumbled backward and slid down a wall to the sidewalk.
A girl screamed.
She didn’t have time to mess with Mother Olga and they were already garnering curious stares. It was time to move out. “Come with me,” Quinn said in Russian. “We have to go.”
Mila had the same reaction to her as Pyotr had only a few minutes before. “Quinn?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” she said in English. “We’re here to rescue you. We have a safe place for you to go. Come on.”
Mila nodded.
Dread jolted through Quinn when she saw only three faces looking into hers. “Where’s the other girl?”
Eyes wide, Mila shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Quinn switched to Russian and asked the question again.
One of the boys pointed down the sidewalk. “She ran away.”
“We can’t leave her behind,” Mila said, her voice pleading. She gripped a hand of each boy.
Quinn took the free hand of one of the boys and pulled the train down the sidewalk. “Don’t worry. We won’t.”