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“That’s what they tell me.”
“I should be happy, finally seeing you like this. Weak. Alone.Desperate. I always thought Quentin put too much faith in you. Must be why you flamed out six months ago.”
“Thanks.”
Truth is, I was barely paying attention to Zoya. Instead I was clocking the gunmen slowly converging around our café. Three… no, four now. It hadn’t taken them very long.
“But I’m in charge of bringing you in safely, and that’s what I’m going to do. Otherwise I’m going to have to answer to Quentin. Maybe I can get us on a jet to the CDC and some big brain there will be able to figure out your condition…”
“Uh-huh.”
Five now. Arranged around us like the points on a pentagram. Zoya was so busy relishing her superiority over me that she failed to clock the enemy agents gathering around us.
Then she cursed.
“I take it you just noticed them,” I said. “I’m counting five…”
“I see them. Who are we dealing with here, Bell?”
I wasn’t entirely sure, to be honest. All I knew was that whoever they were, they’d definitely be able to give me some answers about the chemical agent. This had been my goal all along. I’d carefully orchestrated this moment. Reached out to Zoya on an open line. Chosen an outdoor location that could easily be surveilled. Made a small show of using code words, but nothing any foreign op worth a damn couldn’t easily figure out. Hell, I had to make it easy enough forZoyato understand.
(Okay, that was a little catty. But she deserved it.)
“Where’s your backup?” I asked.
“You told me to come alone.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually listen to me.”
(Ugh, she was such a stickler for the rules.)
“What do we do now?”
“Let’s see what they want,” I said.
Zoya, however, didn’t like being in a situation that was rapidly spiraling out of control. I saw her reaching for her weapon at the same time she was pushing back away from the table. Before I had the chance to tell her to stop being foolish and stand down, Zoya was muttering more expletives, flipping over the table, and opening fire.
CHAPTER 22
IN REALITY, THE firefight probably last all of twenty seconds, tops. But it felt like forever.
Pedestrians were screaming and running for cover. They needn’t have worried; the gunmen were interested in pinning us down and forcing our surrender, not plugging a bystander. We were all trained killers, but we were also professionals.
“I think we’re dealing with the SVR,” Zoya said, before lifting her gun over the edge of the overturned table to return fire. I heard an anguished scream as she hit her target.
SVR—Russia’s foreign intelligence service.
“Makes sense,” I said.
“Nothingabout this makes sense,” she replied, and reached around the table to fire three more shots. I heard two more screams. Three down, two remaining. Zoya was nothing if not efficient.
Which was another reason I chose her. For all of my grousing about her capabilities, Zoya was an amazing marksman. And as a professional, she wasn’t shooting to kill—just a little harmless maiming, enough to force the agents’ retreat.
You see, there’s an unspoken code between opposing field agents—a kind of a dance we do. Zoya had slightly breached that code by shooting first when they made their presence known. So the agents sent a message in return, based on the trajectory of their bullets:Relax, we just want to talk. Zoya’s response, written in the bullets that sliced through biceps, shoulders, and thighs:Well, we don’t wish to speak to you right now. Back off.
Even with three of their own down, however, the remaining two pressed the issue. Bullets zinged closer to our heads. If they wanted to, they could have taken headshots a minute ago and ended this all at once. The fact that they hadn’t done so meant they wanted us—or at least me—alive. Which was the first hopeful sign I’d had in two days.
“If only Quentin could see us now,” Zoya said, almost giddy. “Me, saving your tail!”
