“I figured as much.” Backed into the corner, he had no choice but to pretend he already knew the woman would create such an elaborate plan.
“Well, I was spot on, as usual. Misha made his appearance. I disappeared him. I used one of your lovely helicopters to shred his Russian butt all the way back to Bryansk.”
“I guess I owe you thanks.”
“Not…quite…yet. I’m in the helicopter again, following the biggest, slowest escape vehicle they could have ever picked. I’m going to get around them, set up a proper greeting, and end this.”
“Why don’t you swoop in and kill them right now? Why the delay? You have a helicopter. They have a train!” He didn’t think she needed a schematic to explain it.
She hesitated. “There are, uh, considerations. I had a mechanical failure I didn’t want to mention. It would be embarrassing for TKM if your aircraft broke down while over the target. It wouldn’t make me feel very good, either.”
“Fine. Don’t contact me again until this is over. I’m sick of hearing nothing but excuses with those people!”
He slammed the phone down.
A second later, the red light came on again.
“If it’s Nerio, I don’t want to—”
The secretary interrupted. “It isn’t, sir. It’s Mr. Stricker.”
“Him again?” he said to himself. Louder, he spoke to the phone. “I’ll take it.”
“Hello, Mr. Stricker. To what do I owe this pleasure?” He was certain the threat of releasing those photos had put the man in his place.
“I’m afraid I have bad news. The president was not in the mood to entertain any delays for our offer. In fact,” Stricker gulped on the line, “he says if you don’t sign over one of the largest pieces in the next twenty-four hours, he’s going to demand two of them. And if you keep delaying, he’s tempted to take all of them.”
Petteri recognized he was in the worst possible place of a blackmailer. It would be a snap to order those photos released, and they would be on the worldwide networks in five minutes. The career of a powerful cabinet member would be over. However, from Petteri’s perspective, it would represent a loss of every ounce of leverage he’d carefully built up over the years. Stricker was merely a means to exert control over the President of the United States. He wasn’t willing to throw that away.
“This is an interesting turn of events, Mr. Stricker. I’ll get back to you with my answer before your deadline. Good day.”
He slammed the phone again.
His arm was getting sore from repeating the act.
CHAPTER 9
Somewhere in Southeastern Wyoming
The good news for Grace was her truck still worked, despite having new bullet holes in the rear compartment. The woman had sprayed the vehicle from her aircraft, but didn’t waste enough shells to put it out of commission. The bad news for her, however, was that she now rode in the same truck with Asher and the hitman once sent to kill her. He sat in the seat behind Asher, as if he wanted a clear view of her, the driver. They hadn’t said a word for the last hour.
She glanced sideways at Asher, hoping to think of something to say.
He looked back at her, appearing as trapped in the situation as she.
It was Misha who finally broke the silence. “Who is Alex Trebek?”
In their first meeting she’d told him she was with a guy named Alex Trebek; it was the first name she could think of in the tense moment. She turned to check if he was being serious. His cold blue eyes said he was.
Grace shifted to keep her own eyes on the road. “Mr. Trebek is a game show host. It’s called Jeopardy.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Misha replied. “And you thought you were in jeopardy when you met me. Makes lot of sense.”
She could have told him he was wrong. Her reason for saying the name had been totally random, as best she could remember. Maybe she’d watched the show recently. Maybe one of the park guests had said the name. However, it was easier to let him believe she’d been scared back then. Her mission at the moment was to convince him she wasn’t scared now, even though she was experiencing record levels of jeopardy as she drove with Misha toward a woman in a helicopter with a machine gun.
“I would have made an excellent game show host,” Asher mused. “I have the rakish good looks, telegenic hair, and I dress in the same nice suits as Mr. Trebek.”
She sent over a you-can’t-be-serious eyeroll.
“What?” he replied. “You don’t think I can pull it off?”
“I do not,” Misha said dryly.
“You don’t get a vote,” Asher snapped. “Besides, you hardly qualify as knowing how to dress well.”
In prior meetings, Misha had always been wearing a black suit with a TKM-blue tie, as if he wanted to dress to kill, but when he showed up in the drainage ditch, his casual blue shirt was torn and dirty, as if he’d been robbed on the street. He’d taken off his blue uniform top, leaving only his undershirt. However, since he’d been in the filthy wet pipe, the white shirt was still covered with earthy smears.
“Bah. Maybe on American television. In Russia, we—” Misha cut himself off and pointed ahead. The two-lane road traveled very near the train tracks, as if there was one agreed-upon route across Wyoming. “There. That’s
