Fortunately for Georgi, America was fertile ground for the kind of criminal enterprises he’d practiced in the old Soviet Union. So when the Iron Curtain rose and the KGB files were opened to the public, certain information Georgi had provided to the secret police came to light. That information proved damning to Georgi’s rivals in the Ukrainian Mafia, many of whom were sent to Siberia. A few others — particularly nasty sorts, in Georgi’s estimation — ended their lives facedown in a filthy prison shower, a KGB officer’s bullet placed behind their ear, solely on the evidence he had provided.
Unfortunately, those men had relatives, friends, and criminal associates. When the truth was revealed, many sought revenge — and so Georgi was forced to emigrate in a hurry.
Here in America, he was able to start anew in a less economically repressive world. In America the police were much less of a problem, and a fascist organization like the KGB nonexistent. There were, of course, dangers. But here in America, here in Georgi’s adopted country, that danger came courtesy of four young gangsters wearing dusters on a warm summer night.
Georgi shot a glance at Alexi. The bouncer seemed prepared, his beefy hand poised to reach for the bulge in his safari jacket.
Well, I certainly hope he’s ready, Georgi mused, though at times poor Alexi is a little slow.
Georgi always had a soft spot in his hard heart for veterans of the Afghan war, though he despised Russians in general. Only now, at this tense moment, did it occur to him that his compassion might cause his death this night.
So be it.
With a degree of fatalism, Georgi Timko sniffed the steaming mug of tea as if it were his last. Then he turned to face his assassins.
That’s when all hell broke loose — but not the way Georgi expected it.
Suddenly the tavern’s thick, glass block windows exploded inward in an avalanche of broken shards. On the ceiling, a light fixture shattered in a shower of hot sparks, plunging much of the bar into darkness. Two spider-webbed bullet holes cracked the smooth surface of the wall-sized mirror behind the bar. A third whizzed by Timko’s brow, to punch a hole in the stuffed buffalo head mounted on the wall.
A final shot smashed a gallon jug of Jack Daniel’s, and in the silence that followed, Georgi listened to the rich brown elixir drip onto the scuffed hardwood floor.
As the echoes faded, the patrons who’d thrown themselves under tables when the shooting started now stumbled to their feet. With angry shouts they crowded around the single exit as they all tried to escape the building at the same time.
The punks were stunned into paralysis when Jack fired the Glock into the crowded tavern. Jack was careful to keep his shots high, far over the heads of the patrons inside.
Instantly, a dangerous horde of furious customers poured out of Tatiana’s. Jack dropped the empty Glock and held up his hands.
From the bar’s doorway, a biker with a long oily ponytail pointed at the gun-toting young men. “There they are! There’s the bastards shooting at us!”
The punks bolted, vanishing among the parked cars. Jack stood alone, hands raised. The bikers approached, not friendly.
“What the hell are you doin’?” one yelled. He drew a police special from his pocket.
Jack kept his arms raised, but if they searched him, they would find the other gun — and more. Suddenly a sustained barrage of automatic fire discharged inside the darkened tavern. Then the bartender burst through the front door, running full tilt for the street. He only made it a few steps before a stream of 9mm slugs chased him through the doorway, tearing bloody red holes in his back. The bartender staggered for a moment, then pitched headfirst onto the concrete.
When he saw that, the biker with the police special turned tail and ran, too, as yelling men and two screaming women in thongs and high heels stampeded. Engines roared to life all around Jack. Cars, trucks, motorcycles, until the noise drowned out the chattering guns.
Inside the tavern, the shooting continued. The automatic weapons’ fire was first met with single shots from a large-caliber handgun. Then Jack heard a familiar sound, easily recognizable from his service with Delta Force in Eastern Europe — the distinctive crack of a Soviet-style AK–47 assault rifle.
Jack found the choice of weapon intriguing. It also occurred to him that Dante Arete had sent the shooters inside that tavern personally. That might mean that the assassins’ intended victim was involved in whatever plot was unfolding. This person might even know something about the missile launcher, and the two men who had driven away with it. If Jack was really lucky, he might capture one of Arete’s assassins alive, and possibly find out where Dante was holed up.
So while fleeing vehicles sped away from Tatiana’s Tavern, Jack drew the Browning Hi-Power from his shoulder holster and moved cautiously toward the building.
Ryan Chappelle caught up with Nina Myers and Tony Almeida at Jamey’s workstation. Jamey was watching a map grid on her monitor. Dante Arete’s GPS beacon blinked intermittently. Meanwhile Nina was attempting to interface with the DEA’s database and Tony was tracing the license plates Jack had read off.
“We’ve finally heard from the FBI,” Ryan announced. “The New York office has issued an arrest warrant for Jack Bauer.”
Jamey exploded. “That’s crazy. What are the charges?”
“The murder of two federal marshals and the wounding of an FBI pilot. Aiding a fugitive to escape federal custody, one Dante Arete.”
“Ryan, that’s ridiculous and you know it,” Nina said.
“I’ll admit it sounds far-fetched,” Ryan conceded. “But Special Agent Frank Hensley survived the airline crash; he’s talking to his bosses and that’s his story.”
“Are there any other survivors?” Tony asked.
“Besides Jack and Dante Arete? Just the pilot, and he’s not talking.”
“The FBI keeping him under wraps?”
Ryan flashed his displeasure. “He’s in a coma, Tony.”
Almeida bristled at Chappelle’s tone. “Hold on a minute, Ryan. You sound like you believe the FBI’s version of what happened.”
“I don’t believe and I don’t disbelieve anything. I’m waiting to be convinced—”
“But you heard what Jack said. He’s innocent and you know it,” Nina argued.
“I don’t know anything,” Chappelle replied. “Until another witness steps forward, what happened is open to interpretation. What happens next is up to you. You’re going to have to convince me that what Jack Bauer said is true—”
“Convince you?”
“Yes, Tony. Convince me. Because I’ll be the one who has to turn around and convince the Secretary of Defense that Jack Bauer hasn’t gone off the deep end.”
Georgi Timko cowered under a table; another toppled on its side served as scant protection against the 9mm bullets whizzing around the room. Still clutching the warm cup in his fist, he gulped reflexively, scalding his tongue.
From somewhere inside the shadowy tavern, lit neon blue from the sign outside the shattered window, old Yuri was still plugging away at the remaining assassins. The ancient AK–47 rattled, muzzle flash bright. Georgi could hear spent cartridges bouncing on the floor following each carefully timed burst.