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I took a breath and composed myself.
“I said, call me Jack.”
“Will do, sir—I mean Jack.”
He smiled and I tried to smile back, but I had a horriblefeeling it was a grimace. My chest and back were aching with the pain of the impact.
I took a moment to get my bearings and realized that rather than taking us away from the airport, West was following the approach road to the main terminal building.
He must have sensed my concern.
“We need to ditch the pick-up,” he explained. “They will be looking for it. A taxi will be better.”
I nodded, relieved the gesture didn’t spark another explosion of pain. My muscle control and nerves started to feel as though they were returning to normal. Hopefully there hadn’t been any serious damage from the impact.
West steered the F-350 into one of the airport parking lots and we hurried out to catch a taxi from the deserted rank.
The driver, a taciturn middle-aged man with a perpetual scowl and a cigarette hanging from his lip, nodded when West told him our destination and we set off for home turf.
CHAPTER 85
“WE’VE GOT A problem,” West said as we made our way into the city. “Over there.” He pointed beyond the taxi driver.
Through the windshield I saw a line of traffic, red tail lights flaring as the drivers slowed. Their vehicles crawled toward a Moscow Police checkpoint.
“We’re two blocks from the embassy,” he said.
The Russians were nothing if not predictable. This was exactly what they’d done when I was last in Moscow. They’d encircled the embassy and used checkpoints to try and catch me.
“I’m going to tell him to pull over so we can walk from here,” West said.
I nodded and he spoke to the driver in Russian. The man’s scowl deepened and he tutted as he signaled and pulled out of the line of traffic.
He stopped by the sidewalk, which ran in front of someapartment blocks, and West paid him. We clambered out of the bright yellow Skoda Octavia, and I was grateful my injuries seemed to have downgraded from intense pain to dull aches.
“Foot patrols,” West said, nodding toward a trio of uniformed Moscow police officers who were milling around near the vehicle checkpoint. “We need to be careful.”
“Hey!” I heard the taxi driver yell, and turned to see him leaning out of his window, addressing the trio of cops.
He said something in Russian and West cursed under his breath.
“He just told them we’re Americans and wanted out when we saw the checkpoint.”
“Hey!” one of the officers yelled in English. “Stop!”
“Can you run?” West asked me.
I nodded. “I think so.”
“Well, let’s go then,” he said, starting off at a sprint.
I raced to catch up, hearing yells and barked commands aimed in our direction.
“We’re going to take the rat run,” West said.
He set a cracking pace that left me struggling to keep up. Every part of me screamed with pain and I was already out of breath. The collision had taken a greater toll than I’d realized.
I heard tires screech and saw the three vehicles that had formed the checkpoint racing toward us. The trio of officers on foot ran in our direction, yelling instructions and giving hurried commands into their radios.
