Port of Baltimore
We had fifty million dollars’ worth of Egorov’s stuff. Of course he wanted Joseph and Natasha released, and the cash and the art delivered to a place of his choosing. If I complied and played nice, he would release our girl.
The message from Egorov was simple and to the point:
Bring me my money in a moving truck. Come alone. I will watch you until I am satisfied that you are not being followed too closely by your friends in Chesapeake Security. I will call you from a number you won’t bother to trace and tell you where to park. You stand in front of truck, and I bring Ms. Fuller to you. We make the trade, and we are done. Once I leave, you call your friends and have them pick you up. Simple.
I had to hand it to the guy—he was thorough when it came to instructions. But I was going to find out what he really wanted from me—clearly it was something besides delivering his dough.
In ten minutes, we had loaded everything and everybodyinto the 4Runner and the Florida Moving and Storage box of fun.
The Black Star folks had their own cleaning crew wheels up before we finished packing. The cops hadn’t posted yet, so we would leave it to the cleaning crew to deal with the dead bodies and remove any prints, shell casings, or other items that might connect us with the assault.
We picked up Si from his house and headed west to the sugarcane fields. Stu had the pilots dialed in on his Iridium, and within five minutes we heard the blades cutting through the sky and assumed the PZ posture. At touchdown, Oliver, JP, and Jimmy loaded the two Russian passengers into the Bell 429, which left seconds later.
The second exfil was slightly trickier in that the heavy load going out with me and the rest of Team Rhino would require a much larger helicopter. The Black Star guys had a heavy-lift, modified Chinook available, but it would need to change crews and refuel somewhere in the Carolinas before it could get to us. We picked an alternate PZ north of Lake Okeechobee and waited there for our exfil.
Every one of us was thinking the same thing, but knew enough not to bring it up. We’d had a gunfight, with no friendly casualties. We’d killed some bad guys and captured two high-value targets. We’d changed the plan on the fly and had met no resistance from the boss. Our first package was en route to home base and the last moving piece of our puzzle was inbound in an hour. Achieving these markers defied staggering odds.
My only mission now was to bring Meg home safe and sound.
CHAPTER 92
Easton Airport
We landed at Easton Airport on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. From there I would go on to the Marine Terminal in Dundalk, Maryland—the Port of Baltimore’s largest cargo facility. The driving distance was sixty miles, but in a loaded, twenty-six-foot moving truck, it felt far longer.
Driving a box truck full of illegally gotten booty into a deserted container yard in the middle of the night posed serious risks. Yet, for Meg’s sake, here I was.
Egorov was no amateur and had undoubtedly done this a time or two.
Did I trust him? Hell no.
Was I playing it straight? Almost.
Oliver’s team was tracking me and would dutifully stay just far enough away for Egorov’s comfort but close enough to assault if the deal went off the rails.
All the contact we’d had so far had been professional. Noneedless chatter, just simple instructions as I passed each poorly lit checkpoint until I reached Egorov’s chosen gate, which was indeed unlocked. The exchange location was a good one. The stacks of shipping containers provided very good cover and concealment from prying eyes—as well as from potential snipers in a hide site.
I cut the lights and maneuvered the truck to face the gate the way Egorov had specified.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I checked the chamber of my Sig and slipped it in my belt. Then I climbed from the cab, keys in the ignition as directed. If anyone got frisky, I’d readily put two hollow-points right between their running lights and another one in the chest to fuck up their hydraulics.
I heard the car rolling across the gravel before I saw the outline of the Lincoln, headlights off, circling the open area between the containers. The driver parked the car in the same direction as the truck. Smart enough.Who wants to do a three-point turn during a gunfight?
The rear passenger door opened and an older man stepped out. The pictures I had seen of the stout seventy-something didn’t do him justice: Even in the dark, he had a presence that no doubt stopped people in their tracks.
Without taking his eyes off me, Egorov extended his hand inside the Town Car and helped Meg step out. My heart beat faster at the sight of her face. She was stunning. I had never recognized it before, but Meg Fuller was beautiful.
During the drive here, I had rehearsed my next movements in my mind a million times over. My hands felt good and loose, and I said a silent prayer that God would guide me to be faster than my opponents.
Meg looked at me and then at Egorov. He released her with a nod that seemed almost paternal, and she half-trotted the ten yards between us. I held my breath. If anything was going to go south, it would be in the next few seconds.
My eyes told her to stand behind me for cover.Let’s finish this thing.I smiled when I heard her whisper, “Thank you, Nat.”
“Mr. Phillips, may I?” Egorov showed me that his hands were empty, gesturing that he would like to move closer to me. Trusting soul. He knew I was carrying.
I shook my head. “That’s close enough. Who else is in there with you?”
