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Part of the roof was missing, but the remains of the desk and the chair on which Maxim Yenen had sat as I’d interrogated him were still there.
At the far end of the room, seated in a leather armchair, was Valery Alekseyev. Marlon West had been hogtied and laid on the floor to Alekseyev’s right. Two masked men in night camo held West. One was crouching, holding the point of a large combat knife to the prisoner’s neck. The other was standing. He kept the muzzle of his ShAK-12 aimed at West’s head.
He had been badly beaten and his face was covered in blood. There was more blood around the wound in his shoulder, but his eyes blazed defiance.
“Kill them, Jack,” he yelled, before the man with the knife punched him.
“Mr. Morgan isn’t here to kill us,” Alekseyev said in flawless English. “He’s here to die.”
CHAPTER 97
“MY BROTHER DIED six months ago in disgrace,” Alekseyev told me. “Not even your intelligence agencies know, because I wanted to hide his shame. Shame that you caused.” Giving way to anger, he jumped to his feet. “You brought about his ruin. I hold you solely responsible.”
“Then why not face me like a man?” I asked. I noticed he was keeping his distance on the other side of the room. He likely thought me dangerous. Rightly so. “If you hold me solely responsible, why involve all these innocents?”
“Innocents!” he almost spat. “There are no innocents in this world. You ruined so many lives here. Not just my brother’s. Don’t blame me for involving others. They are suffering because of your actions. They are dying because of you.”
“If you let my friend go, I won’t kill your men,” I said.
He challenged, “And will my life be spared into the bargain?”
“No,” I replied coolly.
“You seem to be under the misapprehension that you hold the power here. I propose a different deal. Put down your weapon and surrender, and I won’t kill your friend.”
The knifeman underlined Alekseyev’s threat by pressing the point of his blade into West’s neck.
“You know I’m not bluffing. Put down the gun.”
“Don’t do it!” West said. “Shoot them.”
I weighed my options. Shoot the knifeman and the guy with the gun drills a hole in West. Shoot the gunman and the knifeman goes to work.
I did the only thing I could.
I lowered myself to the ground and put down my rifle.
CHAPTER 98
ALEKSEYEV YELLED SOMETHING in Russian, and the knifeman stepped away from West and started toward me.
“Lie down,” the SVR director instructed me. “Flat on your belly.”
I locked eyes with West, who looked disappointed and shook his head slowly.
I watched the knifeman carefully as he approached. He had a Makarov MP-71 pistol in a holster at his hip and was reaching into his pocket for something. He produced a coil of high-tensile cable.
“Hands behind your back,” Alekseyev said. “He will tie you like your friend.”
My hands were beneath me. I shifted to free them, and as I did so the knifeman crouched to reach me. I grabbed my tactical blade, rolled toward him and drove it into his neck. Before hemoved, I took his Makarov pistol from its holster, flipped onto my back and shot the gunman in the chest. He fell to his knees clutching the wound, while the knifeman made horrific gasping sounds and toppled onto his back.
“Don’t move,” Alekseyev said.
I glanced round to see him grab an SR-2 Veresk submachine gun from beside the armchair and aim it at West.
“Drop it or I will shoot your friend,” he commanded. “Drop it!”
I wavered. He was going to kill us both anyway. I might as well take a shot.
