Zen looked at the two other men who’d gotten into the aircraft. They were watching Stoner, not him. But there was no way he could overpower even one of them, let alone both.
“Where are we going?” Zen asked them.
They pretended not to hear. He asked it again. It was Stoner who answered, coming back into the cargo area.
“We’re getting away,” he said. “We can go anywhere. Our network is worldwide.”
“Do you work for the Russians?” Zen asked.
“I work for myself.”
“Really? Who put you back together?”
Stoner frowned, then shook his head. “I wish it had never happened,” he said. “I wish I had died that day.”
“You don’t really wish that, do you, Mark?”
But he could see that Stoner did. There was real pain in his eyes — deep anguish.
Regret, maybe?
Zen wanted to say that they could fix things, but knew it would be impossible. He had to say something, though. Not to save himself, but because he felt as if they owed Stoner somehow.
He did owe him. Stoner had saved his wife.
“Mark, listen to me—”
Stoner reached into his pocket. His phone was ringing.
Not his phone. Zen’s.
“What do you want?” Stoner asked.
“Mark, this is Breanna Stockard. We know you’re in the helicopter. We’re following it. Listen, we found a box that has records of your treatment. They used powerful drugs on you. We can help reverse them.”
Breanna Stockard. It was full circle now.
“Mark, listen to me,” she continued. “You helped me once. I can help you. Let me help you.”
“I’m beyond help.” He reached his thumb for the End button.
“You’re not,” he heard her say before he clicked the phone off.
He tossed it at Zen.
“That was your wife,” he told him.
Two MiG–35s appeared on the radar screen just as Turk made contact with the Czech air force colonel assigned to liaison with him. The aircraft were coming off the runway at Caslave, a base about fifty miles north of him. They weren’t walking either — once off the tarmac, they poured on the afterburners, juicing over Mach 1.
Good luck with that, thought Turk. You’ll never stay close to the helicopter going that fast.
Their radars couldn’t locate the Tigershark, even when he gave them a position. The two aircraft turned a circle some 10,000 feet above him.
“American aircraft, please restate your position,” said one of the pilots.
“This is Tigershark. I am about ten angels below you, five miles south, uh, on your nine o’clock. Helo looks to be slowing down. He’s low, real low.”
“Tigershark, Checkmate One acknowledges,” said the Czech pilot, giving his call sign. “Please stand clear.”
“Uh, stand clear? Repeat?”
“Please remove from area. We are going to engage the enemy aircraft.”
“Negative, negative. Do not engage — they’ve got a hostage aboard.”
“We have orders, Tigershark. Please stand clear.”
Shit on that, thought Turk, pushing closer to the helicopter.
“Two kilometers,” said the pilot.
Stoner saw the green building ahead in the distance. The other barn was still out of sight.
“MiGs!” warned the copilot. “We are being tracked.”
It was exactly the same. Exactly.
“Keep going,” he said.
Turk banked hard behind the helicopter and loosed a group of flares. He spun back left, ahead and above the helicopter, and released some more.
“Tigershark, stand off!” repeated the Czech pilot.
“Yo, bro, I ain’t movin’,” said Turk.
“We see your flares. Your aircraft is in the way.”
“That’s the idea,” he answered.
Zen felt the helicopter weave and bob as the sky exploded around them. He thought for a moment that they were being fired on, then realized he was only seeing flares.
“Land the aircraft,” he told Stoner. “Get us down. You can surrender. We’ll fix you.”
Stoner frowned at him.
“We are landing,” he said. He turned to the other two Wolves and spoke to them in what Zen guessed was Russian.
The helicopter banked, then turned hard in the other direction, then dipped so quickly Zen felt weightless.
And then they were on the ground.
Stoner grabbed the back of Zen’s shirt as the helicopter settled down.
“Out!” he commanded. “Everyone out!”
He dragged Zen along the deck of the chopper, pulling him along as he followed the others outside. There were aircraft above — two MiGs, diving furiously in their direction, and another, smaller plane that ducked between them.
“Get the cars!” he shouted.
He still had Zen. What should he do with him?
Kill him, and make a clear break with the past. Or leave him here, as he’d been left.
But that wasn’t the same thing, was it? He’d been left to die. Zen would surely be found.
He looked toward the aircraft. The pilots, slowed by their seat harnesses, were just now getting out.
“Stoner, you can be helped,” said Zen.
“What are you doing with the American, Black?” asked Blue, shouting over the helicopter’s dying engines.
“We don’t need him anymore,” said Stoner, and he dropped Zen to the ground.
“We should take him,” said Blue. “We can always kill him later.”
“Get to the cars.”
“I wouldn’t have believed that you would turn soft for the Americans,” said Blue.
The pounding in Stoner’s head increased. His throat felt scratchy, as if it were made of sandpaper.
He knew what was coming. He saw it before it happened.
Blue spun, gun drawn. Stoner already had his gun out and shot once, through the right eye as he knew he must. Then he turned and caught Gray in the temple. The bullet struck one of the carbon plates that had been inserted in his brain, throwing Gray to the ground but not killing him. Stoner took two quick steps, leaning down as Gray struggled for his gun.
He shot him in the face. It was the only reliably vulnerable place.
Zen saw the gun fly from the Blue Wolf’s hand as it fell. He began crawling toward it.
The pilots began to run as soon as the Black Wolf shot Blue.
