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She always could see great in the dark. The opportunity she’d provided allowed him to determine that two of the gunmen had flanked right, while the remaining one trotted left, toward Kelly’s front door.
He opted for the two on his right.
Then the shadow to his left sprayed a scythe of rounds into the bushes where Cassiopeia lay hidden.
* * *
Zorin rolled into the entrance foyer just as bullets smacked into the exterior wall. The clapboard offered little resistance to the high-powered rounds and many whined their way inside, breaking more glass, ripping fabric, thudding into Sheetrock.
One of the lamps exploded in a shower of sparks.
He covered his head again.
Kelly lay to his left, behind a wall that supported a rounded arch overhead. Though the situation was dangerous, Zorin was back in his element, acutely aware of every sound and movement. His mind clicked off options as his hand crept into the knapsack and withdrew his weapon.
“I still have mine,” Kelly said to him.
Someone kicked at the front door.
He looked up in alarm, then sprang to his feet and assumed a position adjacent to the jamb. The door burst open with a crash of splintering wood, its lock wrenched from the casing. A man, dressed in a black jumpsuit, rushed inside the partially lit entrance, both hands tight on the grip of an automatic rifle. Zorin flexed his shoulders and twisted at the waist, ramming his palm forward with a straight arm, catching the man square in the face. Breath exploded outward and the intruder slumped forward, the hands clinging to the gun but the arms clawing for balance. A knee to the jaw sent the man into a wall, where the body slid along in a marionette’s dance before collapsing to the hardwood floor. Adrenaline flooded through Zorin and knotted his stomach. He’d not done that in a long time. The intruder’s head hung immobile, mouth agape, air being drawn in with short, rapid gasps. He had to know who these men were. He crouched low and dragged his prey away from the open front door, his gun jammed into the man’s neck.
“Who sent you?” he asked.
No fear filled the man’s eyes, but the face contorted in a helpless rage.
Kelly had assumed a position at the door, gun ready, as their training had taught. Good to see that time had not dulled any instincts.
“Who?” he demanded again, yanking the man upright.
“Screw yourself, traitor.”
Anger rushed through him.
Traitor?
Him?
Never.
He pulled the trigger and blew a bullet up through the man’s jaw, the top of the skull exploding out in a vermillion spray.
He’d received his answer.
These men were official.
Probably SVR.
But who was shooting back at them?
* * *
Cassiopeia had anticipated what might happen once her presence became known and had fled her position in the bushes, just after taking down one of the shooters. Good thing. A barrage erupted from another of the shadows, all the rounds directed at her former location. She was now at the rear of the house, crouched, waiting for an opportunity to help Cotton, who remained open and vulnerable. The shooting in her direction had stopped and she caught a glimpse of a shadow disappearing toward the front door.
That would be Zorin’s problem.
Hers was to deal with the two who had turned their attention to Cotton.
* * *
Malone darted left and decided to do some flanking of his own. Darkness was both an enemy and an ally, but his opponents carried weapons that spit out rounds by the hundreds. He had a Beretta with a full magazine, but unless he used his head it was no match for their firepower.
He hid behind a spindly fir, ears straining to catch sound, eyes searching for movement, anything that might betray their position. He kept his sights on the men and his ears on the bushes from which Cassiopeia should emerge. He hoped she’d had the foresight to get the hell out of there. She was smart and capable and never would she make that kind of rookie mistake. So he had to assume she was somewhere at the rear of the house. One of the shadows had hustled toward the front door and he’d heard wood being forced open, then a single round from inside, which might mean that Zorin or Kelly had scored a kill.
He rounded the tree, keeping the trunk between himself and where he thought danger may lurk. Everything had gone dead-quiet, which was not necessarily a good thing. A few lights had appeared in windows of the other houses on the street and he wondered if the police had been called.
One of the shadows revealed himself.
Thirty feet away.
Behind another tree.
A bright spittle of flame emitted as rounds zipped his way.
He pressed his body close to the thick trunk, counted to three, then swung around and fired twice, taking the shooter down.
“Drop the gun,” a male voice said from behind.
He stood still.
“I will not say again. Drop the gun.”
He had no choice, so he released his grip and allowed the weapon to fall into the grass. He turned around to see the fourth shooter, his rifle leveled and aimed.
* * *
Zorin heard more shots from outside, the same sequence of rapid fire, then single rounds.
“We must leave,” he said to Kelly.
“I need to go upstairs for a moment. There are things we’ll need.”
He nodded and Kelly rushed off.
For the first time in a lon
g while he was confused. No one should know that he was here. Only Belchenko could have betrayed him, and he doubted that was the case. And to whom? Belchenko hated the new Russia as much as he did, and there’d been no indication that Moscow was even aware of what he was doing. Only the American Malone had been a problem—which had raised red flags—but he was certainly long dead.
So who was outside?
He kept a close watch on the open front door, ready to shoot anything that moved. Kelly reappeared on the stairs and hustled down, holding a small travel bag. Like any good asset, he’d prepared for an emergency. Just like himself with his own knapsack.
“Money, passport, spare magazines,” Kelly whispered. “Some other things we’re going to need, too.”
“Where are we going?”
“To finish Fool’s Mate.”
* * *
Cassiopeia realized that Cotton remained vulnerable. She’d heard more shooting, especially the two single rounds. Then she heard a voice that was not Cotton’s ordering for a gun to drop. She used that moment to swing back around the house and follow the hedge line toward where two shadows stood, one facing her way, the other with his back in her direction. She stayed low and led with her weapon, keeping her steps light. A freshened breeze, which helped mask her approach, caused limbs overhead to shake in protest.
“Who do you work for?” the voice said.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Cotton answering.
The tone louder, meaning he was the one facing her.
“You do realize,” Cotton said, “that you’re probably all alone here.”
“As are you.”
“Then let’s figure out why we’re both here. We might each learn something.”
Cotton could surely see her, so he was stalling. Good. Keep it up. Just a few more meters.
“Zorin is in that house,” Cotton said.
“He will not go far.”
* * *
Malone could see Cassiopeia as she inched closer to the man who stood ten feet away. He was trying hard to buy her time.
“I know why you folks are after Zorin,” he said. “And if I know, guess who else knows? The people in Washington are all over this.”
