And then Smith lashed out, chopping down with the edge of his right hand to knock the barrel away]ust as the Makarov fired. At such close quarters, the sound was shattering. In a spurt of flame, the small-caliber 5.45mm bullet punched a hole in the floorboards, smacked dully into the road below, and ricocheted awav.
In that same instant, Jon drove his left fist into the other man’s face.
The punch slammed the Russian doctor’s skull back against the wall with tremendous force. More blood spattered across the metal. The white-coated man groaned in agony. His eves rolled up into the back of their sockets and he slumped forward, starting to lose consciousness. The small pistol thudded onto the bench beside him
Smith reached for it and then froze
With the back of one big hand, the burly paramedic had already knocked Fiona Devin sprawling. She lay curled up at his feet, with the red mark left by his hand plainly visible on her pale cheek. Now he sighted carefully down the barrel of his own pistol, a larger, 9mm Makarov. He was aiming right at Smith’s face.
And then the dark-haired woman moved, uncoiling with astonishing speed.
While rising to her knees, she yanked a slender, black-handled switch-blade out of a sheath concealed in one of her elegant leather boots. At the touch of a button on its hilt, a four-inch stainless-steel blade flicked out, glint- ing cruelly in the light. Acting with cold determination, she stabbed the big man in the neck. The long, narrow blade plunged deep, severing his trachea and one of his carotid arteries in a single powerful thrust.
Horrified, the Russian paramedic dropped his pistol. His hands pawed frantically at the terrible wound. Jets of bright-red blood spurted across the ambulance, pulsing wildly at first with every heartbeat but diminishing fast as his life force ebbed away. Still clutching desperately at the gaping hole in his neck, the dying man slid slowly sideways. He sagged to the floor beside Elena Vedenskaya’s blanket-wrapped corpse. The blood stopped pumping from between his locked fingers. He quivered once and then at last was still.
White-faced herself, Fiona quickly wiped her knife on the back of the dead man’s coat. Her hands shook slightly as she retracted the blade and slipped the knife back into her boot.
“You’ve never killed anyone before?” Smith asked quietly.
She shook her head. “No.” She forced a sickly smile. “But I’ll worry about it later … assuming, of course, that we live through the next few minutes.”
He nodded. The doctor and one of the two paramedics were down, but they were still facing at least two more enemies. “Can you handle a gun?”
“I can.”
Smith scooped up both pistols and handed her the smaller Makarov PSM.
Quickly, he checked the 9mm pistol, making sure the safety was off and that it had a round chambered. Fiona did the same with hers.
There was a loud rap on one of the closed rear doors. “Fiona?” a deep voice boomed from outside the wrecked ambulance. “This is Oleg. Are you and Dr. Smith unharmed?”
Jon whirled around with the Makarov raised, ready to open fire. But the dark-haired woman laid a hand gently on his wrist, pushing the weapon down.
“Don’t shoot,” she said quietly. “He’s a friend.” Then Fiona raised her own voice. “Yes, we’re fine. And free.”
“What of the others? Those who took you captive?”
“They’re out of commission,” Fiona reported shortly. “One permanently.
The other is still alive, hut he’ll have the devil of a headache later on.”
“That is good!” The doors were yanked open. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a full head of silver hair stood there. In one hand, he held a pistol fitted with a silencer. With the other, he motioned them out. “Come!
Quickly! We have very little time before the militia arrives.”
Smith stared at the other man in astonishment. There was no mistaking that haughty, large-nosed profile, one that could easily have appeared on an ancient Roman coin. “Kirov. Well, I’ll be damned,” he said quietly. “Major General Olcg Kirov of the Russian Federal Security Service.”
“Not anymore, Doctor.” Kirov shrugged his powerful shoulders. “I have been retired, put out to pasture, as you Americans say,” he said drily. “The men in the Kremlin decided that I was not sufficiently loyal to their dreams of restoring the old order.”
Jon nodded tersely. A few years before he had worked closely with the tall, barrel-chested FSB officer, joining in a desperate hunt to track down a container full of deadly smallpox stolen from one of Russia’s biological weapons facilities. Since then he had often wondered how Kirov, so closely tied to his country’s political reformers, was faring under the rule of President Dudarev and his hard-line cronies.
Now he knew.
“Small talk and career news will have to wait until later,” Fiona broke in.
“Right now we should be moving.” She waved a hand at the street. “As it is, we’re drawing a crowd.”
“True,” Kirov agreed, glancing briefly over his shoulder. Cars that had braked hard to avoid the crash he had caused were scattered randomly across the street. A few of the drivers were climbing out of their stalled vehicles to stare at the tangled wreckage. Others who had heard all the noise were spilling out of the neighboring apartment buildings, restaurants, and cafes.
Several of the onlookers were speaking excitedly into their cell phones, pre-sumably summoning the militia and emergency medical assistance.
Kirov looked back at the two Americans. “You have what you came for?
Those notes Dr. Vedenskaya brought for you?”
“They’re right here,” Fiona said, gingerly retrieving the bloodstained plastic binder from where it had fallen during the crash.
Smith turned grimly toward the dazed white-coated man huddled in one corner of the ambulance. The doctor was groaning softly now, drifting right on the edge of full consciousness. “Let’s take that son of a bitch with us. I have a few questions to ask him. For one thing, just how the hell he knew my real name and rank.”
The former FSB officer nodded. “An excellent question. If nothing else, it would also be useful to learn who issued his orders and where he was taking you.”
Together he and Smith dragged the sallow-faced man out onto the street.
Clotting blood matted the sparse hair on the back of their prisoner’s head. His eyes were half-closed and clearly unable to focus. Propping the injured man up between them, Smith and Kirov half-carried, half-dragged him around the side of the ambulance. Fiona walked beside them, still keeping a wary eye on the small, but growing crowd of the curious drawn to what must have seemed a terrible accident.
Jon whistled softly. The collision had smashed in the whole front end of the emergency vehicle, reducing it to a mangled mass of twisted steel and broken glass. Still tangled in their seat belts, the two men who had been riding in front were slumped back against the seat. Both held weapons in their hands.
Both had been shot dead at pointblank range.
He glanced at Kirov. “Your work, I presume?”
The other man nodded somberly. “It was regrettable, but necessary. I had no time for half-measures.” He indicated the dark blue Niva slewed across the street beside the wrecked ambulance. “Come. Our chariot awaits.”
Smith stared at the small SUV, noting the 4x4’s smashed grill, dented hood, and broken headlights. He arched an eyebrow. “You think that piece of junk is still in good running condition?”
“Let us hope so, Jon,” Kirov said with a bleak smile. “Otherwise we could be in for a very long, cold, and conspicuous walk.”
The Russian propped their dazed captive up against the Niva’s side. He tugged the rear passenger side door open. “Let’s get him inside. Ms. Devin will sit up front by me. You take the back seat and keep your weapon aimed at our guest here. Make sure he stays down on the floor and out of sight.”
Smith nodded. He turned toward the bleary-eyed ambulance doctor. “In you go, pal,” he growled, using the barrel of his Makarov to prod the wavering man toward the open door.
Crack.
Their prisoner’s head exploded, torn open by a high-velocity rifle round.
Blood and bits of shattered bone sprayed across the Niva’s upholstered interior. The dead man slid slowly down the side of the truck.
