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She would not like the answer.
He stopped walking.
“Keep going,” Reinhardt said.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Sonia stopped.
“What are you going to do?” he asked Reinhardt. “Shoot the president of Poland? How far do you think you will get. I doubt you’ll make it off this level alive.”
Sonia’s eyes asked, What are you doing?
His hands were down by his side, his right hand close to the side pocket where the gun she’d given him rested. When he’d first challenged Sonia, delivering the order of retreat, with Reinhardt focused on her, he’d managed to unzip the pocket.
Now he had to reach in.
But too much movement could be fatal.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Cotton saw that Munoz had finally decided on a vantage point. Even worse, his boat was drifting closer to that point, about eight feet above the lake’s surface, closing the distance between him and trouble.
“I leave now,” Ivan said.
He held up his gun. “I don’t think so.”
“I think different.”
Ivan motioned with his free hand and Munoz stood, gun aimed.
“He make sure I leave.”
The motor on Ivan’s boat came to life.
* * *
Czajkowski dug in. “You’re a dealer in information. Let’s deal.”
“What do you offer?” Reinhardt asked.
“A way out of here to begin with. What did the Russians pay you?”
“Five million euros.”
“All right. I’ll pay five times that for you to deliver what Jonty Olivier was going to sell. Do you have it?”
Sonia knew they already had the answer to that question, which he hoped would alert her to pay attention and be ready. Her gun lay three meters away on the floor.
“I have it,” Reinhardt said.
“Really? The Russian allowed you to keep it,” he said. “That was quite generous of him, considering Moscow would love to use that information against me, starting with no American missiles in Poland. Where is the information?”
“My associate, Munoz, went to retrieve it.”
He doubted that, too. But—
“Let’s get him back. Mr. Munoz,” he called out. “Please come here.”
* * *
Cotton heard Munoz’s name called out.
So did Munoz.
He turned his head for barely a second toward the source of the summons, but long enough for Cotton to raise his gun and take the man down with one well-aimed shot.
Not bad for twenty feet away, eight feet up, in dim light.
He immediately turned his attention to Ivan, who was disappearing into a dark tunnel that allowed the water to flow toward the next reservoir.
Too late.
He fired up his own electric motor.
And headed after him.
* * *
Czajkowski heard the gunshot.
And used that instant to wrap his fingers around the pistol in his pocket and grope the trigger. But he did not withdraw the weapon. Sonia could see what he was doing, but Reinhardt could not. Luckily, the pocket had been stitched to his front thigh high enough that he did not have to overextend his arm.
“Don’t call out again,” Reinhardt said, pressing the gun into his hair to emphasize the point.
“I don’t take orders from you,” he made clear.
Reinhardt’s gun kissed his scalp again. “Brave words. Mr. President.”
“True words.”
Sonia stared at him, now knowing exactly what he was doing. Her eyes pleaded for him to stop, but she kept her features frozen, revealing nothing to the threat that stood behind him.
“It’s time to decide,” he said to Reinhardt, his eyes locked on Sonia. “Time for you to make a choice.”
“I’m not interested in selling anything to you. And twenty-five million euros is not even close to what it is worth.”
“What if Munoz is dead?” he asked. “Was that the shot we just heard? If so, then you’re on your own. You going to shoot us both? Then walk out of here? You do realize that’s impossible. We have you trapped on this level.”
He was pushing. Doing what he once did with the SB. Playing off fears and insecurities, aggravating paranoia, making adversaries doubt themselves, which was the fastest way to cripple them.
“Shut up,” Reinhardt barked.
His right hand stayed on the gun, the semi-darkness of the chamber helping shield his intent. Reinhardt was focused more on Sonia, since he felt he had one threat contained while the other was still loose, capable of striking.
“Just put the gun down,” he said to Reinhardt. “Cut your losses before this gets totally out of control.”
“I said, shut up.”
Movement disturbed the darkness at the exit.
A man stumbled into the chamber, one hand clutching a gun, the other his chest. The gait was short and strained. A face dissolved from the darkness.
Munoz.
Sonia turned her attention to the new arrival. Czajkowski used the moment of distraction to remove the weapon and, though he could not see to aim, he stuck the barrel behind him into Reinhardt’s belly and fired.
He felt the vibration as the round tore through flesh.
To be sure, he pulled the trigger again.
Reinhardt collapsed.
Munoz tried to raise his weapon, but Sonia kicked it from his grasp.
Finish it.
And what the foreign force has taken from us, we shall with sabre retrieve.
He fired a third round into Munoz.
* * *
Cotton heard more shots echoing through the mine and wondered who else was shooting. Some help? Maybe. There’d been no way to determine if Munoz was dead, but he’d definitely hit him.
Ivan was the focus now.
He kept motoring through the dark tunnel, this one longer than the others, as the light at the other side was still another fifty-plus feet ahead. Ivan had enough of a head start that he could be lying in wait, so it seemed foolish to just pop out the other side.
He’d spoken the truth when he’d told Ivan about the salt brine. Once, years ago, he’d taken a dip in the Dead Sea, floating easily on the thick water. He’d had to shower right after, so as not to leave a layer of salt on his skin for too long, which would burn thanks to the heat of a Middle Eastern day. Signs had warned about protecting faces from the water and not to swallow it.
The same dangers were here, compounded by freezing temperatures.
Ivan was surely waiting to see what the whine of an electric motor was bringing his way. Munoz? Or trouble? With no choice, he slipped over the side and into the frigid water. Coldness wrapped him like a coat. He could only take this for a few minutes. But that was all he’d need. The pitch and timbre of the electric motor never changed as he clung to the boat’s low side, floating high in the brine, unable to go down even if he wanted to. His right hand held the gun, which remained dry in the boat. There’d be a moment or so of confusion on Ivan’s part when he first saw a pilotless skiff, then realized his target was in the water.
That would be his opportunity.
The boat kept moving, the lower part of his body numbing from the cold. He emerged from the darkness into the lit lake. Sure enough, Ivan was floating to one side, below another wooden railing, standing in the boat, gun aimed.
Ivan fired.
He dipped down below the skiff and got a little of the freezing water on his face. The bullet whined by as he continued to glide across the lake. The buoyancy now became his ally as he no longer resisted the push upward and relaxed his grip. He popped from the water like a cork, aimed, and fired, catching the big Russian right in the midsection.
Ivan winced.
One hand found the wound.
The other released his grip on the gun.
Balance faltered and Ivan dropped backward from the boat into the water, making a large splash
that sent waves in every direction.
Cotton dropped his gun inside the boat and propelled himself up and over the side, reentering the skiff. His legs were freezing, but he grabbed the motor and turned the boat toward Ivan, who was thrashing in the brine. He swung around to one side and saw Ivan roll over, face to the water.
Then all movement stopped.
Blood continued to leak from the wound, staining the clear water with red clouds. The body flipped and Ivan floated high, on his back, eyes open, two black orbs boring into the ceiling.
He shut the motor off and caught hold of the other boat.
The plastic packet lay inside.
He relaxed and moved his head gently, trying not to disturb the spots before his eyes, clicking and clacking off one another in all directions, sending his brain spinning from the cold. His legs were stiff and throbbing, but seemed to work.
Ivan lay dead.
Like all the others.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Czajkowski lowered the gun.
