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“I’m almost certain of it,” I replied.
“We need to—” she began, but didn’t get any further.
“We’ve got movement outside, ma’am,” Kate cut in urgently.
She brought up the feed from surveillance cameras located around the yard and surrounding area, and the screens filled with images of Moscow Police and unmarked vehicles flooding the property.
“This location is compromised,” Erin said. “We have to assume your vehicle or ours was tracked here.”
My heart sank. The Land Rover contained all our gear. Could the Russians have marked and tracked every embassy vehicle? In the era of big data and AI surveillance, anything was possible.
“You need to leave now,” Erin told us. “The truck three to our north with the red container. Access code is seven-six-three-four.Inside are four Kawasaki motorbikes, fueled and ready to go. Get out of here. Use the blue route and go to the old bakery on Fadeyeva Street in Lefortovo District. The Red Man has the key to everything you need. Just tell him you need bread. Go!”
West moved toward the exit as the false wall rose. I followed. We crouched to step beneath it. When I glanced back, I saw Erin, Cecily, and Kate priming explosive charges to destroy all the gear in the container.
The door opened and West and I jumped onto asphalt and ran north toward the red container. I saw flashes of vehicles between the parked trucks as police and unmarked vehicles raced through the yard. We didn’t have long. The roar of approaching engines set my heart pumping. As we neared the red trailer, I understood what Erin meant by the blue route. There were blue butane canisters scattered around the yard but when I looked closely, I saw they weren’t placed at random. They indicated an escape route.
West climbed onto the red container and tapped the code that Erin had given us into the keypad. The doors clicked open and he swung them wide to reveal four powerful dirt bikes, each with a helmet perched ready on the seat.
“Can you ride?” he asked.
I nodded and hauled myself into the container. I grabbed the black bike and West took the silver one. We each put on a helmet that matched our bike.
I jumped on, pressed the ignition, revved the engine, kicked down into first gear, and shot forward, jumping out of the container and hitting the road. West followed and we both tooka hard right, aiming for the furthest blue butane canister we could see.
Behind us, two police vehicles and an unmarked saloon gave chase. I kicked up through the gears and twisted the throttle to put some distance between my bike and our pursuers.
My heart leapt into my throat when I heard a loud explosion. I glanced over my shoulder to see a huge fireball over the tops of the vehicles chasing us and the surrounding containers. The three spies had destroyed their operations center.
We raced on, wheeling and turning to follow the route marked out by the canisters, and soon the road ran out and our wheels were chewing up dirt.
One of the pursuing police vehicles broadcast commands over its loudhailer, and the passenger in the unmarked saloon started taking pot-shots at our wheels.
West and I weaved around, trying to stay clear of the bullets as we raced toward what appeared to be a dead end—a line of containers set against the perimeter fence.
I thought we’d been led to disaster until I saw two butane containers either side of a tiny, barely visible gap between two of the containers. It was just wide enough for a motorbike and rider.
I raced toward it and lined myself up as best I could. There was no chance to slow down with the pursuit almost on us, and if West and I got this wrong, hitting one of the containers at 60 m.p.h. with no body armor would be devastating.
I roared toward the gap, held my breath, and shot between the two containers. West made it too. I heard the screech of brakes and the crunch of dirt as the vehicles behind tried to stop. Oneof them couldn’t and hit the container to my right, which shuddered as I cleared the end and passed through a gap that had been cut in the perimeter fence.
We joined the road beyond the yard and raced east. My thundering heart only started to quieten when we’d put half a mile between us and our pursuers. I was in awe of the planning and preparation that went into making Agency locations secure.
West and I finally slowed when we reached the gas station about two miles away. We pulled into the forecourt, stopped the bikes side by side and raised our visors.
“Holy hell, that was close,” he said.
I nodded and exhaled deeply. “I hope they made it out okay.”
“Chief Sebold is a pro,” he assured me. “They’ll be fine.”
“I guess we need to go to Lefortovo District,” I remarked.
“And find the Red Man,” he added. “Follow me.”
He lowered his visor and I did likewise before trailing him out of the gas station, heading north through Moscow.
CHAPTER 90
