Arkangel, page 9
Still, an obstacle rose ahead of them. It was a towering six-story glass arboretum, one of the garden’s many elaborate greenhouses. It sprawled the length of a football field, enclosing an acre of grounds.
But which direction did Radić go? Right or left?
As Tucker slowed, Kane dashed forward.
Believing his partner had recaptured the trail, Tucker followed. The shepherd raced to the side of the main entrance and sniffed at a few shards of glass on the ground. Above, a low window had been shattered, its sill brushed clear of glass.
Bastard didn’t go around—he went through.
Tucker crouched and peered inside the window. Humid air wafted out. The arboretum was filled with palms and orchids. It looked as impenetrable as the thickest jungle. Radić could be holed up anywhere inside, or maybe he was planning on breaking out the far side.
With no other choice, Tucker climbed through the broken window. Kane leaped after him, landing silently. Still, he noted the dog’s right forelimb—the one nearly blown off—buckling before straightening again.
Kane was reaching his limit.
Tucker dropped to a knee. “STAY,” he ordered firmly, then tempered with softer words. “Guard this exit. Can’t have that bastard sneaking out behind me.”
Kane rumbled, nearly inaudible, just a vibrato in his chest. The dog was not happy with this command.
Still, Tucker reinforced it, pointing at the broken window. “GUARD.”
Kane huffed, circled once, and stood stiffly.
Satisfied, Tucker set off into the depths of the arboretum.
This time I hunt alone.
6
May 11, 4:12 A.M. MSK
Saint Petersburg, Russian Federation
Joe Kowalski crouched inside the rear compartment of the crashed SUV. He swept a penlight over the unconscious body draped across the back. It was a woman, late twenties or early thirties, with snowy blonde hair tied in a ponytail. A bruise was beginning to purple under one eye, but the blow wasn’t what had knocked her out.
He checked her pulse and found it strong. A pass of his penlight over her eyes revealed glazed, dilated pupils.
Drugged . . .
He eyed that welt on her cheek.
“You put up a fight,” he mumbled. “Good for you.”
But who are you, lady?
The woman was wearing grayish-green coveralls. Even through the baggy clothing, she appeared fit. He shifted his light to a nametag clipped to a chest pocket.
“Dr. Elle Stutt,” he read and squinted at the Russian Cyrillic below it.
ботаник-исследователь
Kowalski shrugged, not understanding, but he dismissed this mystery for now.
He slid out of the back of the truck. He had already hauled the two dead bodies into the bushes beyond the gate, but there was nothing to do about the pools of blood. He frowned at the spare tire mounted on the SUV’s lift-gate.
Probably should change the blown tire.
Radić had abandoned the vehicle with the keys still in the ignition. If they were going to haul this woman with them, the vehicle would be useful.
Still, he took a moment to check his tablet. He had been monitoring Tucker’s progress across the botanical garden. The glowing blip that tracked Kane’s microchip had stopped.
Did they finally run the bastard down?
If so, it was all the more reason to get this SUV road-ready. With a sigh, he crossed and climbed into the driver’s seat. He started the engine and reversed into the street. He then searched the SUV, found a set of tools, and set about freeing the spare tire. Bolts fell to the ground, then he tugged off the spare and dropped it to the pavement.
He took a breather to check the tablet again.
Kane’s blip still hadn’t moved.
Kowalski grimaced, suspecting something was wrong. “Two should’ve been headed back by now,” he mumbled.
He looked at the broken section of fencing, then back to the woman sprawled inside. She should be out for hours. Or so he guessed. He was no medical doctor.
“Screw this.”
He yanked his Desert Eagle from its holster. He hated being sidelined. If the mission was going south, he couldn’t risk simply babysitting this unconscious woman.
Besides, I’ve been playing babysitter long enough.
He scowled at his small partner, who stood silently nearby.
“C’mon,” he grumbled. “Let’s get going.”
4:33 A.M.
Tucker headed slowly through the heart of the arboretum. He had donned a pair of night-vision goggles from his pack, but the sun had risen a few minutes ago. The glare through the glass walls had grown excruciating. It threatened to blind his normal sight.
To save his vision, he toggled the lenses into infrared mode, which would allow him to detect heat signatures. But the view remained murky, wavering with the steamy warmth of this tropical greenhouse. All around him, palm leaves slowly dripped from the humidity. His face ran with rivulets of sweat.
With a grimace, Tucker finally pushed the goggles to his forehead, recognizing their uselessness. He continued forward, his ears straining for any telltale sign of Radić. He feared the bastard had already crossed the arboretum and smashed out a window on the far side. If so, then the target was likely lost to them.
Tucker pushed aside the frond of a huge fern. The view opened ahead of him, revealing a vast pond filling the center of the greenhouse. Huge lily pads, some a full meter across, covered the dark surface. Several stands of smaller pads were in bloom, lifting stalks of white and yellow flowers. The air was redolent with their musky, sweet scent.
Tucker paused and searched the pond’s far side.
He spotted the reflection of windows in the breaks between the palms and bushes, marking the other flank of the arboretum. Tucker edged around the water, sticking to the cover of the foliage. On the far bank, a section of bushes suddenly shook. Tucker froze—but then jets from a sprinkler burst forth and doused the area, pebbling the pond with droplets.
He cursed under his breath and continued onward.
He reached the opposite bank and dropped lower. He crept through the last of the tropical garden. Once near enough, he stayed within a thicket of ferns and searched the spread of windows.
For as far as he could see, nothing appeared to be broken.
Tucker glanced behind him.
Is Radić still holed up in here somewhere?
The answer came with a crack of a pistol. A round clipped his shoulder just as he had turned. More shots shredded through the leaves, but Tucker had dropped flat. He rolled behind a palm trunk. He winced against the blaze in his shoulder and tried to figure out where Radić was hiding. Tucker fired into the foliage, warning Radić that he was also armed.
Then bushes exploded to his left.
Tucker ducked aside as a dark shape raced past his position.
Kane.
The dog must have heard the gunshots. His partner would never have broken the last command to GUARD—not unless absolutely necessary.
Caught by surprise, Radić panicked. His first round blasted near Kane’s flank. The dog pivoted away, but his weakening front leg betrayed him. Kane slipped on the wet ground cover and toppled sideways into a tumble.
Tucker leaned out with his Makarov, ready to defend his partner, regardless of how exposed it left him.
He was too slow.
A gunshot blasted from Radić’s position.
No . . .
Tucker cringed, but Kane remained uninjured. Glass shattered behind Radić’s position.
Is the bastard using this moment to escape?
Tucker stood higher. Outside, a towering shadow loomed beyond the glass wall and cradled a raised pistol.
Kowalski.
The large man hollered a single command from out there: “TAKEDOWN!”
Radić burst out of hiding and ran toward Kane—not to threaten the dog, but to escape another. A dark shape raced after him, low to the ground, having just leaped through the window that Kowalski had blasted open.
Radić reached the edge of the pond when he was struck from behind. The shepherd’s bulk slammed into him and toppled the man headlong into the shallow water. The dog kept hold of an upper arm. As they surfaced, the beast thrashed Radić back and forth, like a shark with a seal.
The Serb screamed in terror.
Tucker hurried over, aimed his pistol, and shouted to the dog. “RELEASE.”
The large shepherd stopped his rag-dolling—but he kept hold of Radić’s arm. Fangs dug deeper; a growl flowed in a continuous threat.
“RELEASE,” Tucker repeated.
The dog finally let go, gave a shake of his wet fur, and bounded out of the pond.
Kowalski joined them, picking a piece of broken glass from his jacket. He aimed his pistol at Radić, but the bastard would not be offering any further resistance.
The Serb knelt in the shallow water, holding his torn arm to his chest. Blood flowed thickly, showing white bone and shredded muscle.
With the man guarded, Tucker turned to the bloody-muzzled dog. The young shepherd—another Belgian Malinois—panted and paced, fighting the battle-rage inside him.
Tucker dropped to a knee and held out a hand. The young dog trembled all over. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You did good, Marco.”
His calm voice soothed the dog’s shaking and smoothed the raised hackles.
The shepherd came over, looking for further reassurance.
Kane joined them, limping slightly.
Tucker cradled the young shepherd’s muzzle and drew it close. He touched noses with the dog to let him know all was fine. “Good boy, Marco.”
A tail wagged tentatively.
Kane came forward and butted a hip against his young brother.
Marco’s tail swept wider.
Still guarding Radić, Kowalski explained, “I radioed Kane after I circled behind the greenhouse. Got here just as gunfire broke out. Told him to close quarters with the target, to keep him distracted until I could sic Marco on him.”
Tucker eyed Kane.
So that’s why you broke command.
Tucker reached over and scratched Kane behind an ear. He nodded to Marco. “He’s not Abel—but we’ll get him there.”
During his tours in Afghanistan, Tucker had worked with two dogs, littermates, Kane and Abel. Abel had been killed, slaughtered during a fierce firefight, a loss that still debilitated Tucker at times.
Then eight months ago, while Tucker had been recuperating alongside Kane, an old friend—a former army veterinarian—had dropped off a pup, a Belgian Malinois who had flunked out of the military war dog training at Lackland AFB. The pup had been judged to be too feral, too irredeemable.
Tucker had intended to prove otherwise.
No dog is irredeemable.
He patted his newest brother and reassured him again. “Well done, Marco.”
“We should get going.” Kowalski waved his pistol for Radić to move. “Get this guy to talk. But first, I still have to finish changing a tire. And there’s the matter of a drugged woman in the back of the SUV.”
Tucker had forgotten about the captive and stood up. “I know who can help us—maybe with both mysteries.”
11:45 A.M.
Seven hours later, Tucker paced before a panoramic window of a sprawling penthouse. The view overlooked a curve of the Neva River and the spread of the Hermitage Museum.
He barely noted the breathtaking sight. He had showered and had his bullet-grazed arm bandaged. The doctor who had been summoned to the penthouse had also given Tucker an injection that left his head fuzzy but had dulled the fire in his shoulder.
To the side, Kane and Marco were sprawled on the curve of a window seat. The younger dog rested his muzzle on his paws, snoring softly, adrenaline-weary. Kane matched that pose, except his eyes were only half-closed, feigning inattention. Tucker knew better. Kane missed nothing: posture, hand-and-eye movements, respiration rate, perspiration. The older dog had picked up on the anxiety in the air and continued to keep watch.
A gravelly voice rose behind Tucker. “How much more assistance must I provide before we consider our debt settled, moy drug?” Bogdan Fedoseev asked.
Tucker sighed and faced the Russian oligarch. The man, in his mid-sixties, sat on a velvet sofa, one leg up on it. He wore a thick robe, which barely constrained a prominent belly, but no one would mistake him as soft. He puffed on a Cuban cigar, casting redolent swirls of smoke around the room.
This was his penthouse. It occupied the top four floors of a high rise, one situated at the heart of the city’s Golden Triangle, the richest section of Saint Petersburg.
“I guess it matters how much value you put on your life,” Tucker answered.
Five years ago, Tucker had been hired by Bogdan, as both bodyguard and security adviser. There had been an assassination attempt on the man’s life by Vladikavkaz Separatists, political terrorists whose main victims were the prominent Russian capitalists. And Bogdan certainly fit that description. The industrialist controlled hundreds of holdings across Russia: oil fields, mining operations, a shipping conglomerate. Tucker had saved the man during a coordinated attack during a worker’s strike. Tucker had been paid well afterward, but he knew Bogdan still appreciated what he had done, even sending him Christmas cards and Russian dog treats each year.
“Speaking of my life,” Bogdan said. “I still value it very much. Enough that I do not wish to find myself accidentally falling out a window. To help you Americans, I risk much, da?”
Tucker frowned at him, knowing the man was all but untouchable.
This drew a grin from the stern man. “Okay, I only risk some,” he admitted. “Still, you come a week ago. You want information about mafiya and other gangs. I help you, da? And now you land to my doorstep this morning, hauling in two others. And don’t even bring coffee.”
Tucker looked across the penthouse. The space was too gilded for his tastes, decorated with Old World oil paintings on the walls. On the far side, a large gold fireplace danced with flames. Next to it, a closed door marked Bodgan’s bedroom.
Inside, a physician still attended to the rescued woman. From her name tag, they had deduced she was a research botanist. The doctor and a nurse had established an IV and run a bag of electrolytes to help clear the sedatives out of her system. Shortly after, she had woken from her drugged stupor, aided by smelling salts. Initially, she had been frantic and panicked. It had taken some convincing to assure her that she was safe.
Unfortunately, Tucker still had no clue as to why Radić and the others had snatched the botanist. Any explanation awaited the not-so-tender mercies of Yuri Severin—Bogdan’s head of security. He was in the kitchen with Kowalski. The two were continuing to question Radić, trying to discern how much he knew.
The bastard had been uncooperative at first, stubborn and close-lipped, but Kane had loosened his tongue. A hand signal from Tucker had sent the shepherd into a savage snarl, bearing fangs and snapping at the man’s nose. After being mauled by Marco, Radić needed no further convincing.
Afterward, Tucker had withdrawn to the great room with Kane to give the others space.
Bogdan sat straighter, stubbing out his cigar. “You Americans cause me much hardship of late. That I must consider, too, when it comes to weighing our old debt.”
Tucker turned to him.
Bogdan counted off on his fingers. “Sanctions, then more sanctions. Then the sabotage of gas pipelines.”
“That wasn’t us,” Tucker said.
The industrialist wagged a finger. “Maybe, maybe not.”
Tucker rolled his eyes, unwilling to argue—not because he feared offending his Russian benefactor, but because he cared nothing about geopolitics. Not any longer, not after all he had seen. He knew only one certainty.
I trust a dog better than any person.
Voices drew their attention across the penthouse. Kowalski and Yuri exited the kitchen and crossed the room. The two massive men wore matching expressions of disgust. In fact, they looked like roided-out brothers. The pair bore pale scars across the dark stubble of their cheeks and over their shaved scalps. Both were also former navy men, which showed in their salt-roughened complexions.
“What did you learn?” Tucker asked Kowalski as the pair joined them.
“Not all that much.”
Yuri rubbed a set of bruised knuckles. “But I made sure he wasn’t holding back.”
“What did he say then?”
Kowalski grunted his frustration. “Bastard doesn’t know who hired him. Or even why. All he was given was an address to deliver the woman to.”
“In Moscow,” Yuri added.
Tucker shared a look with Kowalski.
Where Valya had last been spotted.
Kowalski shrugged, indicating that the two circumstances might not be related.
Still, Tucker continued to trust his gut.
She’s involved with this, but how and why?
There was only one place to find answers.
“We need to get to Moscow,” Tucker said. “Check out that address.”
“I can arrange transport.” Bogdan pointed across the room. “What about our guest in the kitchen?”
“For now, keep him under wraps,” Tucker said. “We don’t want to alert whoever hired him.”
“Then better to simply dump him in the Neva,” Yuri offered.
Tucker shook his head. He had no sympathy for the bastard—especially after he had shot at Kane—but Radić could prove useful later.
And another might, too.
The bedroom door burst open. The kidnapped woman strode out, her eyes flashing angrily, her cheeks flushed. The botanist still wore the same coveralls. The back of her hand bled, from where she must have ripped out her IV. She spoke rapidly in Russian, clearly having had enough and wanting to be set free.
The doctor and nurse followed, urging her back with soft words, but she shook them off. She cast a suspicious glare around the room.
For better or worse, Tucker stepped into her path and held up a palm. “Dr. Stutt, mne zhal’,” he apologized.
