and breath resonating inside his helmet, Ian ran out the back door in time to watch Comrade One scuttle over the fence. He stopped the chase, his eyes drawn to the ground. The final member of the team writhed in pain, a knife protruding from his thigh.
Ian slid his gun into a holster at his hip as he dropped to the ground and began to apply pressure to the wound.
“What happened?” he asked, his attention torn between his injured teammate and the escaped Russian gangster.
The other man gritted his teeth. “It was Comrade One. I didn’t see the knife and he stabbed me when I tried to apprehend him. I’m sorry, man. I screwed up.”
It was a serious mistake, for certain. Yet there was nothing to be gained with second-guesses.
“We’ll get you patched up,” said Ian. Then into his mic, “Man down. I need backup, stat.”
Roman DeMarco, an RMJ employee with combat experience, slid in next to the downed man. He began to administer rudimentary first aid. “I’ve got this,” he said. “Go.”
Ian was already consumed with the need to capture Comrade One. He took off at a sprint and vaulted over the wooden fence.
He landed in a neighboring yard. It was empty and eerily quiet. Ian scanned his surroundings. Nothing. Yet he refused to give up so easily.
With a curse, he jumped over the next fence, dashed through the yard and jumped over the next two fences after that. Landing on a sidewalk, he spun toward the sounds of screeching tires, as a set of headlights raced up the street. The car swerved. The undercarriage hit the curb as the bumper headed straight for him.
Without time to think, Ian propelled himself up. He came down hard, landing on the hood. His shoulder slammed into the windshield and he pitched forward. In that split second, he caught a glimpse of the driver. Comrade One. Ian continued the roll, landing on the ground. The acrid smell of burned rubber filled the air as the car dropped off the curb, a shower of sparks trailing behind when it sped off into the brightening morning.
Frustration from this latest setback filled his gut. He got to his feet, and for the folks in the HQ van, said, “Yuri Kuzntov, Comrade One, has gotten away. Repeat, Kuzntov, Comrade One, has fled via a dark gray sedan, partial Colorado license plates Foxtrot Echo Four Nine. I’m returning to the scene.”
“Copy that” came the reply.
Lights atop police cruisers, strobing red and white, were visible from four blocks away, while the wail of sirens grew closer. The front door, knocked off its hinges, had been set aside on the stoop. Ian crossed the threshold and removed his helmet, tucking it under his arm.
Comrade Three sat on the sofa, a medic treating his minor head wound with an antiseptic wipe. With curly dark hair and a beard that didn’t quite cover his chin, the Russian was the youngest of the group—aged twenty-four, Ian knew—and the least important.
Turning to the medic, he said, “Get DeMarco to talk to this one.”
Roman DeMarco, Ian’s first employee at Rocky Mountain Justice, was ex–Delta Force and fluent in half a dozen languages, including Russian. Ian spoke Russian as well, but his responsibility was to delegate and prioritize—whether he liked it or not.
“I’ll get right on it,” the medic said.
Ian nodded his thanks and moved to the kitchen. Four ashtrays, filled to overflowing, sat atop the table. Dirty dishes lay on the counter and a trash can vomited pizza boxes and takeout containers onto the sticky floor. Without question, these men had been living rough for days, perhaps weeks. Were they waiting for something? Or someone?
Ian hoped like hell that it was Nikolai Mateev.
Comrade Two sat in a kitchen chair with his hands cuffed together before him. He was the oldest member of the group. His hair was sparse, and his skin was like timeworn parchment—lined, slightly yellow and dry. Inked into his ring finger was an Orthodox cross with three bars. An outline of a diamond surrounded the whole. It was the initial tattoo for the vory v zakone, or thieves-in-law. Russian organized crime. Several other tattoos covered his hands and what could be seen of his wrists. One was for a prison where he’d served time. Another for a crime committed. The rest of his body would be the same and have a more complete list of his misdeeds than any dossier prepared by Ian’s old colleagues at MI5.
Ian eyed him closely. “Ty govorish’ po-angliyski?” Do you speak English? Even though Ian could have conversed in Russian, there were two other uniformed police standing guard, and he wanted to make sure they heard what was being said in case the conversation was ever part of a court case.
The man snorted. “Better than your Russian.”
“Where’s Nikolai?”
“I don’t know anyone named Nikolai.”
Ian refused to play games. “If you can’t help me, comrade, I can’t help you.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“I can arrange for you to be housed in a minimum-security prison. Nice meals. Cable TV. Tennis courts.”
“You think you can bribe me?”
“No,” said Ian, “but I can make it look like you cooperated and are receiving favorable treatment. How long do you think Nikolai Mateev would let you live, even in prison, if he thought you’d talked to the authorities for an easier sentence? Or you can really talk, and I’ll help you disappear.”
The man nudged the sooty ashtray with a finger. It was a simple reaction, but Ian knew he’d hit a nerve.
“You with the FBI?”
Ian ignored the question. Let Comrade Two think what he wanted.
“You don’t sound like an FBI agent. I bet you aren’t. Not with that accent, anyway. You’re English,” he said. “I can tell.”
Ian remained mute, unwilling to share even the most basic details of his life. Let the other man prattle and get nervous. It was just a matter of time before he’d talk. Leaning back in his seat, he prepared to wait the old Russian out.
“Ian?”
He looked at the person who had called his name. Another RMJ agent, Cody Samuels, stood in the doorway. During his years with the DEA, Cody had led dozens of searches like this and Ian was glad for his expertise.
Wearing the black tactical gear of all RMJ operatives, Cody had also donned a pair of blue latex gloves. He held a laptop computer. “I found this,” he said, “hidden behind a wall.”
Ian could feel it in his bones: the computer was going to be a critical link in the long chain that finally led to Mateev.
He turned to Comrade Two. “What’s the password?”
“I don’t know.”
Ian didn’t care if the old Russian was lying or not. “If you can’t be any help, then I don’t need you anymore.” He waved to the two uniformed police officers. “Take him away.”
“Wait,” said Comrade Two. “That laptop was only used for
