CHAPTER 90
Imade my way to the large window at the front of the house, surprised to find Rudy and a Russian rolling around in the driveway in some kind of grappling match. I trotted out the door and toward the scuffle.
Jimmy T. was trying to get a shot in, but the two combatants were way too close to each other. Every time he tried, either Rudy or the Russian rolled the other one in or out of the way.
This must be the intel officer—the guy we needed alive. “We want this one, Jimmy,” I said as Jimmy lowered his Beretta and gave me a Now what? look.
“Okay, stop this shit. Let him go, Rudy—I said Stop!”
Rudy relaxed his grip and the Russian immediately mounted him in a classic jujitsu position, preparing to take a swing. His problem was that when he wound up for the haymaker, his arm landed perfectly in my grip.
I yanked back hard with my right hand, making the Russian fall backward off Rudy’s chest. He tried to roll out of my grasp, but I let myself fall directly on his back with all my weight.
Before he could move, I hopped up and drove my right knee into his rib cage as hard as I could.
He cried out in pain as I wrenched his right arm behind his back, twisting his wrist in the opposite direction.
“Something’s gonna break, motherfucker. Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” he wheezed.
“Bullshit! Where is she?” I applied more leverage to his upper arm and less to his wrist. “Your fucking shoulder is about to dislocate, and I will gladly do the other one if you don’t tell me where the fuck she is.”
“Mr. Egorov … plane … talk to you—” was all he could manage through the pain.
They’d already flown Meg out of here? Fuck. She could be anywhere by now.
Jimmy T. broke my concentration. “Check this out, Nat.” He had walked over to the garage and scoped out the only bay whose door was open. “The guy was in here when we pulled up.”
While Rudy and Oliver held our prisoner motionless, I walked over to the garage and stopped in my tracks. In one bay were perhaps twenty-five heavy plastic Pelican cases, each stuffed to the gills with cash. I’d guess half a million per case.
In another bay stood a dozen or so pieces of expensive-looking art, all in various stages of being crated for transport.
And in the third bay I saw stacks of hundred-dollar bills, each the size of a hay bale, shrink-wrapped and piled five high and five deep.
Millions of dollars without breaking a sweat.
These fuckers were ready to vamoose tonight.
Had they known we were coming? How could they? No way—no fucking way.
I turned back to the intel guy and pointed the Sig at his face. “Who are you? What’s in the vault? Lie to me and I’ll kill you.”
He said his name was Joseph and what I assumed was a Russian last name that I immediately forgot. Mr. Egorov has a nurse named Natasha, Joseph chattered. She’s hiding in the bomb shelter but I don’t know the entry code.
“Tell her to open the door and come out right now.”
“I have no way to contact her,” Joseph stated flatly.
I walked to the stack of art and pulled out a nifty oil painting of what appeared to be some noble Russian fighting someone not so noble in the middle of a snowstorm.
The horses were snorting in the cold air and the hero had a big-ass sword and was about to lop off the head of the less-noble guy.
Looking at Joseph, I drove my foot right through the center of the canvas.
“I hope that one was priceless. Listen, bud, get her out here right fucking now or I’ll do this all night long. First the art, then the cash, and I’ll finish by torching the house. Your choice.”
I purposely gave Joseph only a second to answer. “No? Okay.”
He was still looking in horror at the painting I had just destroyed when I pulled out my Gerber, flipped open the blade, and turned to another artwork, this one of a Russian warship firing its many cannons at some unfortunate adversary.
Ruining antiquities wasn’t my MO, but in this case I had to.
Plus, these had probably been stolen anyway.
“I do like this one,” I said, “though that water sure looks cold.” It took me about five seconds to cut the painting from its frame and start rolling it up.
The next painting was a portrait of a beautiful czaress—or is it czarina? I hoped Joseph would cave before I had to disfigure her face. I raised my knife like a slasher.
“Stop!” he cried. He asked for his phone, punched a few buttons, then reported that he had unlocked the vault door.
I looked over at Rudy. “Hey, Bullwinkle. Take Boris here and go find Natasha. We need to get out of this place like five minutes ago.”
Rudy lifted Joseph to his feet and pressed the Russian to lead the way to the bomb shelter, where they freed the nurse Natasha.
I looked around. Six enemy dead, no friendly casualties, and a fortune in cash and artworks in the garage.
The security team left behind to guard the property hadn’t put up much of a fight. Joseph had sold out Natasha in about two seconds—almost as if he’d expected all this to unfold precisely the way it did.
Rudy and Jimmy flex-cuffed Joseph and Natasha with their hands behind their backs and marched them to the truck.
“Let’s get out of here before a cop drives by,” Rudy said.
“My medicine kit,” Natasha hissed. “I am nurse—I must have medicine kit.” She pointed at one of the bags on the garage floor.
Rudy picked up the aid bag, quickly looked through the contents, and tossed it to JP in the back of the truck.
* * *
I was about to call Tristan and initiate the exfil when my phone rang.
I answered. “Alexander Egorov, I presume?”
“Nat, it’s me.”
The sound of Meg’s voice sent my heart into my throat. “What have they done to you?”
“I’m fine. But he wants to talk to you.”