Mikhail was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone had softened. “Where are you?”
“We just retrieved the car from the motel.”
“No problems?”
“None. Anything on Moody yet?”
“I found someone who remembered him. A neighbor. Said he thinks Moody moved to New York, but he wasn’t sure.”
Petra frowned. “Keep looking.”
“What do you think I’m doing? Sitting in a bar getting drunk?”
Petra closed her eyes. “Of course not. I know you’re doing your best. But we can’t afford to lose another chance.”
“We’ll find them.”
“We found Chang and McKitrick and Thomas, too,” she reminded him.
“I meant alive.”
“Have you heard from Stepka?” Petra asked.
“No. You want me to call him?”
“I’ll do it.”
She hung up. Stepka’s role in the operation was that of technical support. Dombrovski himself had ensured that Stepka got the best training available. Something the young man would undoubtedly use to make millions once their mission was finished. He was based out of a Moscow apartment. A significant amount of their funds had been used to equip the space with the best computers and communications gear.
Petra calculated the time difference. Moscow would just be waking up, which, knowing Stepka, meant he was starting to think about going to bed. She made the call.
“Yes?” Stepka said in typical hurried fashion.
“It’s me,” Petra said.
“Hold on.” The delay was only a few seconds long. “Where are you?”
“Los Angeles. Heading to the address you found for Winters.”
“Excellent.”
“Have you made any progress on the other matter?” she asked.
She had tasked Stepka with trying to find out who had been hired to erase the people she and her team had been trying to find. If they could figure that out, they might be able to get one step ahead of them. That could very well be the difference between failure and success.
“I’m still working on it.”
“Work faster,” she told him. “We need to know.”
“I’m doing what I can,” he insisted.
“If Winters and Moody are dead, too, then the only lead we’ll have left is whoever’s doing the killing.”
“I know!”
“We can’t afford to—”
“Petra,” Kolya interrupted.
She put her hand over the phone. “What?”
“We’re almost there.”
Winters was home.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone.
His house was located where Laurel Canyon began its rise into the Hollywood Hills, several blocks south of Ventura Boulevard. It was one level, and impressive: a dark wooden roof, outer walls painted creamy yellow, window frames and front door a bright, glossy white, and a wide grassy front lawn. Back in Moscow it would have been something only the very rich could afford, but by American standards, she had no idea where it fell on the monetary status scale. In the driveway were two sedans, a Mercedes and an Infiniti.
As Kolya drove the sedan leisurely down the street, Petra took another glance at the house. Through the front window, she could see the dark shapes of several people. She told Kolya to keep driving, then instructed him to turn down the next street and park. She opened the glove compartment, but it was empty. A bit more anxious, she slipped her hand under her seat and dug around until her fingers touched a hard object wrapped in what felt like cloth. She pulled it out.
It was a canvas bag, the kind someone would use at a grocery store. From within she pulled out the Baby Glock subcompact pistol Mikhail had arranged to be waiting with the car.
“You think you’re going to need that?” Kolya asked.
“I hope not,” she said, then slipped the gun into her bag and climbed out of the car. “Keep the lights off and the engine running. I’ll be back soon.” She closed the door silently behind her.
Night had descended in full over Los Angeles. But while the lights along Ventura Boulevard had been bright enough to leave little hidden, up here in the hills the streetlamps only cut ineffectual holes in the darkness. Despite this, Petra proceeded with caution, taking the relaxed pace of someone out for an evening stroll. She noted lights on in most of the houses she passed, but she was the only one out.
