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Malone stamped on the brakes, gripped the wheel, and began skidding across the ice.
The other jeep veered left too fast, tires spinning upward, the vehicle twisting in the air then smashing back down on its side, sliding off with the grinding screech of metal on ice.
One down.
He straightened out the wheel and kept moving.
* * *
Cassiopeia saw a mélange of headlights lancing the night. Four pairs were pursuing one pair, all of them moving fast. In the night-vision goggles she saw they were off-road vehicles, like jeeps. One tried to cut off the lead one, ending up on its side skidding across the lake. Relief, disbelief, anticipation, and exhilaration tumbled through her mind.
She knew who was driving the lead vehicle.
The chopper roared north, skimming low over the lake. She watched the officer across from her as he studied the scenario. She knew the icy surface below stretched many kilometers, and if she’d not come along Cotton might have had some trouble getting out of this predicament.
The least she owed him was to save his ass.
“Let’s be sure it’s him,” she said in English.
The chopper swung around parallel to the chase. Through her night-vision goggles, in a faint reflection of dash lights, she saw a familiar face.
One it was good to see.
“It is,” she said.
Through the goggles she also saw two figures emerge from the passenger side of following jeeps.
Both aimed rifles.
“Those are Kozliks. Military,” she heard the pilot say to the officer in Russian.
“I know,” he replied. “Which is a problem. Are we to fire on our own people?”
She noted their confusion, but could not reveal she understood the concern, so she simply said in English, “We need to do something.”
* * *
Malone had no choice but to keep going. He was cold from the lack of a window, the Goat’s heater doing little to abate the frigid night. He heard pops and realized the shooting had started again, single rounds becoming repeated bursts, the lake’s smooth surface allowing for a better aim.
A few deep gulps of the cold air freed his brain.
Lights appeared in the sky before him, swooping down to a hundred or so feet off the ground. In the blackness, with nearly no illumination, it was hard to know exactly what had arrived. But the powerful heartbeat-like throb echoing around him signaled a helicopter.
He hoped Zorin did not have access to one.
The lights approached fast and he heard the distinctive sound of cannon fire. Since none of the rounds came his way, he assumed they were for his pursuers. In the rearview mirror he saw headlights scatter as the Goats broke formation. He whipped his head around and stared out the open rear window. The chopper was swinging for another pass, the Goats making a beeline away.
More cannon fire kept the taillights receding.
He slewed the front wheels into a sideways skid and stopped, but left the engine running. The chopper completed its assault and, seemingly satisfied that the problems were gone, swung back around and headed his way. He assumed it was the military to the rescue, which puzzled him, considering that the military may have been the ones after him.
The dark hulk of a gunship filled the sky. A light appeared in the rear cabin and framed a helmeted man crouched in an open hatch. Malone squinted against the blinding aurora. The rotors’ throbbing clatter seemed earsplitting as the chopper made a final descent, the blades’ downblast churning up a cauldron of snow.
Skids touched ice.
A figure hopped out and trotted his way.
In the penumbra of his headlights he began to see that the person was slim and small, clothed in a thick coat with a hood. Ten feet from the jeep he caught the dark hair and delicate features that showed a Spanish ancestry.
Then the face.
Cassiopeia.
She stopped at the Goat’s front end and stared at him through the windshield. Her dark eyes projected love and concern. The sheer joy of seeing her lifted his heart. She stepped around to the driver’s-side door, which he opened. There were so many things to be said, but the first word that came to mind seemed the most obvious.
Thanks.
He stepped from the truck, and before a sound could escape his mouth she brushed his lips with her gloved fingertips and said in a soft voice, “Don’t speak.”
Then she kissed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
WASHINGTON, DC
Luke shoved Anya Petrova down into one of the dining table chairs and secured her to it with more duct tape. Back at Anderson House he’d used a roll to bind her hands behind her back, then led her from the building, making their escape just before the DC police arrived. Stephanie had stayed to deal with the authorities, made necessary by someone placing an emergency call. Not particularly what they’d wanted to happen, but understandable given the gunfire. He and Petrova had left the ballroom through a rear courtyard that opened to another street. From there, he’d found a cab that had taken them across town to his apartment, his Defense Intelligence Agency badge and a $20 tip calming the driver’s anxieties.
He lived near Georgetown in an ivy-veined brick building brimming with tenants in their seventies. He liked the quiet and appreciated the fact that everyone seemed to mind their own business. He spent only a few days here each month, between assignments, enjoying the place.
“Is that your family?” Anya asked him, motioning with her head to a framed photograph.
He’d been born and raised in Blount County, Tennessee, where his father and uncle were both known, particularly his uncle, who served in local political office, then as governor and a U.S. senator before becoming president. His father died from cancer when he was seventeen. He and his three brothers had been there for every moment of those final days. His mother took the loss hard. They’d been married a long time. Her husband was everything to her, and then, suddenly, he was gone. That’s why Luke called her every Sunday. Never missed. Even when on assignment. It might be late at night her time when he had the chance, but he called. His father always said that the smartest thing he ever did was marry her. Both his parents were devoutly religious—Southern Baptists—so they’d named their sons to correspond with the books of the New Testament. His two older brothers were Mathew and Mark. His younger, John. He was the third in line and acquired the name Luke.
The photo was of the family just a few weeks before his father died.
“That’s them,” he said.
He wondered about her interest. Most likely she was playing him, trying to relax things enough so she might be able to make a move. He should bind those legs, but that could prove dangerous as they definitely packed a punch. But she now realized he packed a punch, too, the bruise on her face evidence that he was not to be taken lightly.
“I like this place. Your home,” she said. “Mine is quite different.”
He hadn’t had many one-on-one conversations with Russian nationals, especially one up to no good like Anya Petrova.
He slid out another of the chairs, flipped it around and positioned it behind her. He sat with the high back nestled to her neck. “What were you after in that house in Virginia?”
She chuckled. “You expect me to answer?”
“I expect you to help yourself. You’re not going back home. You’re going to one of our prisons, where I’m sure you’ll be real popular.”
Her blond hair hung to just above her shoulders in a layered bob. She wasn’t overtly attractive, only alluring in a puzzling sort of way. Maybe it was her confidence—never any sign of misgiving or nerves or worry. Or the blend of femininity and athleticism. He definitely liked that.
“You and Zorin married?”
“Who is Zorin?”
He chuckled. “Don’t insult me.”
She kept her head facing away, toward the family photo across the room, making no effort to turn back toward him. “Are you close with your brothers?”
“As close as brothers can get.”
“I have no brothers or sisters. Just me.”
“Might explain why you don’t play so good with others.”
“Have you been to Siberia?”
“Nope.”
“Then you have no idea what difficult can be.”
He could not care less. “What were you after in that house?”
Another deep throaty laugh.
“Things you might wish I never find.”
* * *
Stephanie was ready to leave but the DC Police were not done with her. She’d answered their questions as vaguely as possible, but with an inaugural event scheduled for the Anderson House in three days, there were lots of inquiries. The last thing the Cincinnati people wanted was to be declared off-limits and their security clearance pulled. That would mean the end of the event, and everyone wanted the bragging rights of hosting something for the new administration. Finally, she made a call to Edwin Davis and the intervention of the White House chief of staff had sent the police packing. Edwin, of course, had wanted more details, as did the president, but she’d begged off.
At least for now.
All would have been fine except for the appearance of Bruce Litchfield, who arrived in a Justice Department car.
“You want to tell me what you’ve been doing,” he said, not even trying to keep his voice low.
They stood outside, beyond the main portico, just past one of the iron gates that led out to the street. The Anderson House staff had retreated inside.
