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The old man coughed and a small line of blood dripped from his mouth. Not a good sign. An odd sadness invaded Ryder, recognizing he probably wouldn't make it. He may not have pulled the trigger that killed thePakhanbut he would be held responsible by the remaining family as if hehad.
He didn't have time to mourn the years of work he'd thrown away in the space of a few reckless minutes. Knowing every second that ticked by made their escape harder, Ryder reached to grab up the smallest girl and barked hisorder.
"We need to run. Stay behind me. We're heading to the midnight blue Ferrari to the left as we leave the front door. Pile the kids in and have the keys ready for me when I get behind thewheel."
The frightened mother had morphed into a warrior, prepared to do all she could to assist in her family's rescue. They had made it almost all the way to the front door before he heard the dangerous cock of a weapon in the grand foyer. Spinning around, he got his shot off in time to neutralize the guard who'd come to investigate the shotsfired.
Ryder cracked the front door, relieved to find the guards from the front gate had not already descended on mansion. He'd been counting on the communication blackout in the private meeting space paired with the confusion over Viktor being shot to give them the few minutes they needed to have a prayer of achance.
He could see the bumping headlight of a souped up golf cart heading down the driveway in their direction. Their time was almost up. When he opened the driver's door to Alexi's beloved car, he practically threw the crying girl from his arms into the almost non-existent back seat. He had to hand it to Mrs. Marshall. She had kept up with him every step of the way, helping her older daughter into the car and handing the waiting keys to Ryder the second his ass hit the leatherseat.
The engine roared to life as the first bullet punctured the back window, thankfully missing all occupants. He threw the car into reverse, spinning out as he screamed orders. "Everyone get down low and stay there." He maneuvered the sports car while adding, "There's another Glock on the floor under your seat along with my cell phone. Grab them and send a text that says 911 to my contact labeled 'Pizza'."
He'd pointed the car straight at the golf cart full of armed guards barreling down on them. Crouching low, he pressed the automatic window button to make the glass go down. The second there was room, he stuck his left hand out the window, peppering several shots into the crowded vehicle in their path. The cart swerved, but continued, now less than one-hundred feet away as Mrs. Marshall screamed, "It'slocked!"
Fucking of course it is, you idiot. It's also inRussian.
"Hold on!" He had to focus on getting off Bratva property first and foremost, firing two more bullets at the guards, this time hitting the driver in time for the cart to jerk to the side, allowing Ryder to gun the Ferrari pastit.
He pressed his foot to the floor, knowing he'd need all the speed he could get to break through the front gate with the sports car. He barked his next order, "Brace yourself. It's gonna get rough for a minute." The terrorized sobs of children in the backseat reminded him of what was atrisk.
They hit sixty-five kilometers per hour just before they connected with the twelve-foot steel front gate. He was counting on the intel being correct and that they weren't about to hit an impenetrable wall. Certainly, the impact jarred the occupants of the luxury vehicle, but he shot out onto the snowy street so fast, he almost lost control on the slippery pavement. As the ass-end of the car fishtailed, more bullets shot through the back window, this time one grazed Mrs. Marshall's left arm. Only a small yelp told him she'd been hit, but he didn't have time to focus on that. They still had a lot of ground to cover to get tosafety.
"Hand me my phone," he asked as he focused on exiting the winding streets of the upscale suburb, going as fast as he safely could to prevent spinning out or being pulled over by the local police who were on the Volkovpayroll.
He used his thumbprint to unlock the smartphone, searching through his contacts to find the number he'd been looking for and pressing a simple '9-1-1-SEND' before handing the phone back to the rescuedmother.
They drove in silence for a few minutes with only the sound of the young girls whimpering in fear in the backseat as their soundtrack, and their mother whispering soothing reassurances to them that everything would be okay now. His first instinct was to tell her not to lie to her children, but with each mile they progressed, his stress level decreased marginally as chances for a successful extract from Russia went up exponentially for each minute his rearview mirror stayed clear. Still on high alert he finally asked, "You were hit. How bad isit?"
"It's a graze. I'm applyingpressure."
He was impressed with the kidnapped woman's composure under the circumstances. Things could have turned out very differently had she fallen apart like he'dfeared.
"Who the hell are you and why did you help us?" she asked for the secondtime.
His answer was gruff, even for him. "Who I am isn'timportant."
"I thought for sure we were dead. That Chip would be getting pictures of usmurdered."
"That would have been the best outcome. More likely you would have been murdered and your daughters would have ended up being sold into slavery to some unknown pedophile whacko half way around the world, never to be seenagain."
"Oh my God, that's even worse than I had imagined," the mother cried out in disbelieving anguish. "Is that why you helpedus?"
He didn't owe her an answer. He'd already forfeited years of cover work in the space of a minute for her and her daughters, so no, he didn't owe her another fucking thing. He answered anyway. "I helped you because what they did crossed a line I won't cross. It was dishonorable bringing innocent women and children into thewar."
"Whatwar?"
Ryder's chuckle sounded out of place in the heaviness of the car. He forgot that most people around the globe were ignorant to the real depravity of the world. He didn't botheranswering.
Normally he would zigzag his way to his destination to make sure he wasn't being followed, but not tonight. No one following them would be hanging back to observe, they'd be trying to run him off the road. He took the fastest route to the preplanned destination he and his local handler had agreed to meet if his cover was blown, knowing the only real obstacle between him and there were the hundreds of Moscow police cars now on the road looking for the 2015 Ferrari he was driving. With the chief of police in the Volkovs' back pocket, Artel would have the police working to find them. Not only would the Volkovs then get their revenge, but the police would try to pin the kidnapping on NicolaiRomanovski.
He needed to get the fuck out oftown.
They were only a few miles from the tiny airstrip on the outskirts of the city, in the heart of the manufacturing district. Flights in and out served industrial fat-cats with private jets who liked to fly between factories. Most Americans would be surprised to know that an unmarked, nondescript Cessina was fueled and ready to take off within thirty minutes of an agent's call for help, no questions asked. He'd already been down this path after being shot on the job and was counting on tonight's flight being his last out ofRussia.
He wasn't sure of the time, but suspected it was around four in the morning, so any lights would have alarmed him. As expected, the tiny tower used at the strip was dark. He turned off the headlights before driving the already crunched front end of poor Alexi's pride-and-joy through its second locked gate of the night, zigzagging through the warehouses turned hangars until he got to the appointedbuilding.
The roar of the sports car was his only arrival announcement, yet the two-story metal door to the hangar slid open wide enough for him to drive in. He relaxed slightly the second the door slid closed behind them, making the distinctive car that much harder for the Volkovs to find in the game of hide and seek they wereplaying.
