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Ilya hissed at him as he approached, and Volkov moved into the trees. The other man, dressed all in black, put his face close to Volkov’s ear and said, “There may be a shooter at the far end of the motel, in the woods.”
“Will she have goggles?”
“I don’t know. She could—her own or taken from us. I ask you, what is the goal now? They are barricaded inside the hotel and they may have operators out here in the trees.”
Volkov whispered back: “The goal is to see if there is anything more to be done. We’ll approach the hotel, assess the defenses, and decide then.”
Letty heard themcoming before she could see them. She was wearing the night-vision goggles taken from the man she’d killed. They were not the latest or best model and everything was outlined in a brilliant acid green. She’d trained with more modern goggles, which translated everything into white light; still, she could see in the dark.
When she heard the footsteps above her and toward the highway, she signaled to Cartwright, Kaiser, and Bunker. Kaiser swore once, then pressed the transmit button and said, “Letty, Barbara, whoever just pressed the transmit button: we’ve knocked down five of them and I doubt there’ll be many more. Don’t take any unnecessary risks; I think they’ll be pulling back.”
He got back a single vibration as an acknowledgment.
Volkov and Ilyamoved as soundlessly as they could down the hill toward the motel, which was the one source of light in the post-midnight darkness of the valley. Sometimes, stepping out frombehind a tree, they’d catch too much light, and the night-vision lenses would overload and flare before the autogating could reduce the sensitivity.
Ilya was carrying a Mini Uzi, and their movement wasn’t soundless. The brush constantly dragged at them, snagging their clothes and hats and ski masks. Volkov’s involvement in the attack had genuine tactical aspects—he’d shoot somebody if he had to, and if he could—but also, and more importantly, it had display aspects. He was displaying his bravery and selflessness should they be reviewed at the Aquarium, as GRU headquarters was called.
He was, actually, fairly brave; not enough for a medal, but he was prepared to take reasonable risks. The risks in attacking a group of computer hackers were less, in his opinion, than the risks of fucking with his bosses.
As he and Ilya moved down the hill toward the motel, they came up to a tree that had perhaps been blown over by a storm. At the base of the tree, there existed a hole, invisible in the dark, even with the night-vision goggles, and Volkov fell into it.
Stunned by the fall, he thrashed about, cursing, not understanding quite what had happened; his night-vision goggles got pushed cockeyed, and Ilya whispered, harshly, “What are you doing?”
“Get me...” Volkov lifted one hand that he might be helped back to his feet, from the awkward position in the hole, and used the other hand to push the night-vision goggles back in front of his eyes. He did that just in time to see Ilya’s head explode, followed instantly by the sound of a shot.
The no-longer-living Ilya fell on top of him and Volkov pressed deeper into the hole and let Ilya bleed on him. Moving, he thought, would not be a good idea; he was prepared to remain in his hole allnight, if need be. While he really was somewhat brave, he was not imprudent, and one thing he knew for sure: he was not alone in the woods.
After firing at the mancoming down the hill, and seeing him drop, Letty sank back into her hole. Kaiser, speaking through her earbud, asked, “If you can, pull back to the motel. Staying out is too risky: I believe we’ve won this thing, no point in dying now.”
She squeezed the transmit button to acknowledge the call. Thinking it over, she decided that Kaiser was probably right. And with the night-vision goggles, she could probably see somebody coming through the trees after her, if there was anyone else out there.
Moving an inch at a time, she crawled out of her hole, and staying on her hands and knees, began crawling crabwise across the hillside, parallel to the driveway.
Volkov heard her go.If he could hear her, she could hear him. So he let her go, the sound of her departure dwindling as she moved farther away through the trees. When he could no longer hear her, he risked a move on his own, pushing Ilya’s body away and beginning to crawl through the trees to the highway.
No one interfered. He hunkered by the highway, listening, then scurried across it and into the trees on the far side, waited for a minute, then two, listening again, then began trudging uphill toward the car. He’d lost six men; he’d recall the one remaining and warn Washington of a possible disaster coming their way, although the identities of the men, he’d been told, had been scrubbed clean.
As he withdrew, he warned himself to move slowly, to use his night vision to scan the far side of the highway for any sign ofmovement. There was none, and twenty minutes later he arrived at the car and found Step sitting in the passenger seat with the side window down.
“We have...” he said.
Step was avery good businessman, and like experienced businessmen everywhere, he knew when to cut his losses. Volkov would be deflecting blame for what now looked like a disaster, and there weren’t many survivors left to blame.
Step was one.
Volkov didn’t get to finish the sentence because Step shot him three times, rapidly and accurately, twice in the throat and once in the head and Volkov dropped in the weeds at the side of the turnoff.
Step got out of the car, sat by a wheel, and waited for any movement. After five minutes, looking the whole time at the lump that was Volkov, he stood, grabbed Volkov by the jacket collar, and, after checking both ways, dragged the body across the highway and into the woods, and left it there, another victim of the firefight, of the psycho women, or so he would claim.
That accomplished, he ran back to the car, got on the radio and called, “Pickup. Pickup. Operation canceled, drivers and operators, go to designated pickups.”
He got back one acknowledgment and he sighed. Bad business, he thought. Bad business, and badforbusiness.
That was the end of it.Letty, Cartwright, Kaiser, Bunker, and now Baxter stayed on guard the rest of the night, and in the morning, almost certain that the Russians had retreated, put the coders in their cars and told them to scatter before the cops and the FBI arrived.
Able collected the boxes of computer chips, and the coders headed back to Los Angeles. They would move on from there, as soon as Able delivered the cash. Letty told them not to tell anyone where they’d be; to tell not even her, so she couldn’t be forced to tell the cops or the FBI or the NSA. She gave all of them the number of her NSA phone so they could call if there was trouble.
She told Sovern that as soon as they had phone service, to call the FBI and report the shootout, and its location, and to tell them that they needed an ambulance at the motel.
