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In less than a second, it’s an all-out brawl. My agents unload on the Russians, fists and elbows flying. The Russians fight dirty, and two of my people go down as their knees are kicked in.
I whip out my collapsible baton and swing, beating a path for Brennan and me toward the UN doors. Fists slam into my ribs, my back. Sheridan and Nuñez are rushing toward me. “Cover us!” I shout.
Sheridan hurls himself through the brawl, and in a moment, he’s at my side, throwing himself in front of me and Brennan.
Konstantin appears out of thin air. How did he get through the bare-knuckle fight? I scan him for a weapon and spot him reaching for a pistol in a holster beneath his jacket. “Gun!”
Sheridan launches at Konstantin. It’s a textbook last-ditch covering move, a choice made when there are no other options. If Konstantin fires, he’ll be shooting point-blank into Sheridan’s heart.
But there’s a corollary: inside ten feet, a shooter likely can’t get the shot off before you’re on them, and it’s best to rush with violence and bring them down fast and hard.
Sheridan’s fist slams into the side of Konstantin’s skull before Konstantin wraps him in a bear hug and takes him to the ground. Konstantin’s gun clatters across the concrete, where it’s scooped up by one of my agents.
Konstantin lands three hard punches as Sheridan lies dazed. His head cracks against the concrete before his arm darts up and he closes his hand around Konstantin’s throat.
Sheridan has bought me the seconds I need to get Brennan clear, and I seize them. He headbutts Konstantin, and they go rolling in a flurry of punches and grapples as I barrel into the UN lobby. Once we’re inside, a perimeter forms behind us as we race to the elevators.
Tires squeal. I shield Brennan with my body, bracing for the inevitable car crashing through the glass.
Nothing happens. More tires squeal as sirens rise. The Russian motorcade is roaring away, probably with Anatoly, Konstantin, and Kirilov. They’ve left the riot and half their FSB agents behind, and the fists are still flying.
My people aren’t fighting to protect Brennan anymore. They’re fighting to fight.
The NYPD arrives and jumps into the free-for-all. Now cops are throwing Russians and Secret Service agents left and right as they try to break things up.
I haul Brennan inside the waiting elevator at the end of the lobby. The Secret Service has the fire control key engaged, and I shut the doors and hit the button for the roof before I stop to breathe.
“Are you all right?” I collapse my baton and shove it back into its holster. Two steps bring me to Brennan as I check him for injuries. God help Anatoly and his Russians if Brennan has even one mark on him.
All the fury has drained from Brennan. He takes my hands in his. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m good.”I have no idea how I am.
“You’re shaking.” He studies me with that intense, world-stopping gaze. “Hold the elevator.”
It’s not a request, it’s an order, and it’s coming from the president. I twist the key to Stop, and the elevator brakes squeal and bring us to a jerking halt just above the twentieth floor.
Adrenaline is still pumping through me, and I’m still obsessively checking Brennan for injuries. “I’m sorry. Putain de bordel de merde—”
“It’s not your fault, Reese.”
“Your security is my responsibility. All that out there is absolutely my fault.”
I don’t realize how close we’re standing until he brings his hand up and brushes back a strand of my hair that’s fallen over my forehead. “It’s not your fault President Kirilov wanted to play political theater.”
My eyes flutter closed. My breath rattles.
“Are your agents okay?”
My radio is sputtering with reports from the motorcade and the lobby. Two of my guys are being seen by the medical team and the presidential physician. The rest of the injuries seem to be bruised knuckles, split lips, and black eyes. “It sounds like the Russians got the worst of it. They’ve cleared out, and all new arrivals are being routed to the garage.”
My people aren’t moving from the front of this building.
“Keep me updated. I want to know how everyone is.”
I nod. He takes my other hand in his. “I’m okay,” he says softly. “You got me out of there. And, despite what the Secret Service believes, you really can’t control everything in the world.”
“I can try.” He smiles. I’m not joking. “You did a good job down there.”
