Then Julie heard a sound which made her heart soar.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Tommy Bracco from outside the door.
Buck grabbed a handful of Julie’s hair and yanked her to her feet. He shoved her in front of him for protection and clutched her tight around the waist.
“Go ahead,” Buck yelled, jamming his pistol into her neck. “Just try it and she’s dead.”
Buck dragged Julie to the side of the bed, all the while keeping her between him and the door. “Now listen,” he said. “Crack open the door and slide your weapon toward me. If you do anything slightly wrong, I’ll kill her first.”
There were a few seconds of silence on the other side of the door.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Tommy repeated, seemingly mocking him. Buck fired his gun twice into the middle of the door. The noise rattled the bedroom and caused Julie to cower. When she didn’t hear anything on the other side of the door, she worried.
Buck was jittery though. Julie could feel his indecision through his tight grip, which was leaving her with little oxygen. He was pulling tighter and tighter. This couldn’t last much longer or she would collapse. She had to try something.
“Shoot him, Tommy,” she yelled, hoping her voice might give him the position he needed.
“I’m not counting to three, jerkoff,” Buck snapped. “I’m killing her right now. Then you.”
Tommy just said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Only this time it sounded exactly like the first two times and it clearly baffled Buck. Julie was confused as well.
Until she heard the high-pitched clink of her bedroom window cracking and felt Buck’s arms loosen their grip around her waist. Then his body slumped onto the floor behind her. His mouth was open in shock. On the side of his head was a round bullet hole with red and white liquid oozing down the side of his face and onto her beige carpet. She finally sucked in a full breathe and put her hands on her knees. She looked up to see Tommy opening her bedroom window and scrambling up into her room with a silenced gun. He dropped his gun onto the bed and pulled her into his arms.
“You okay?” he said, holding her gently, like cradling a newborn.
“Yeah,” she said, gathering herself. She held her belly while huffing. “Oh, Tommy, I wasn’t sure there for a minute.”
Tommy backed up and held her chin in his hand. “You wanted to go after him didn’t you?” He grinned. “I saw your face. You wanted a piece of him.”
Julie grinned. Mostly out of relief. They both look down at the dead man.
“Who are these guys?” Julie asked.
“They’re mercenaries. Soldiers for hire,” Tommy said. “I guess they’ll work for just about anyone as long as you pay them enough. Even a terrorist.”
“You saw them coming?”
Tommy kicked the headset from the soldier’s head. His lips curled into a disgusting scowl. “These assholes are so arrogant they can’t even imagine someone could be smarter than them.”
“But … how …” she said not quite understanding what happened.
“My new phone,” Tommy said. “I can hear wireless transmissions within a hundred yard radius. I knew exactly where they were.”
Julie wanted to laugh. She nearly cried.
Once again Tommy’s recorded voice came from the other side of the door. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Tommy walked over and opened the door. Sitting on a chair outside the door was his phone. He grabbed it and held it up with pride. “I’m telling you, Jule. I love this thing.”
Chapter 11
Anton Kalinikov stood behind the wheel of the forty-foot yacht and became comfortable with the rhythm of the waves in the Chesapeake Bay. The restaurant he spied sat at the end of a long pier, out in the bay, by itself, exposed. Nightfall had blanketed the coastline and left him floating in darkness. The water was calmer than he’d anticipated, just a jostling of waves slapping at the hull as he peered through his binoculars. His eyes perked up as he spotted the target entering the restaurant.
It was Carl Rutherford’s twentieth anniversary and he smiled while taking his wife’s hand and sat her at their table by the window. He’d made the reservations a week ago like a good husband. Most people felt there was safety in numbers, so Rutherford didn’t appear apprehensive. It helped that he’d brought along three of his FBI friends to watch over him while he enjoyed his meal. Two for the inside, one outside.
The three agents came in the same car two hours prior to the reservation. They were efficient in their sweep of the area. They’d inspected the table, spoke with the kitchen staff and scrutinized the perimeter. Very professional. Kalinikov knew, because he’d been at the bar watching the entire time.
A professional assassin, however, must always stay unpredictable. Once you develop a pattern you become vulnerable. Kalinikov wondered now how much the FBI knew about him. He had to believe they knew he was Russian, maybe even knew he was left-handed by the first body he’d left. That was okay. He was a complete stranger to the American authorities and the FBI had no data to draw from. If they’d known anything about his history they would suspect he preferred to work close-up. That helped.
Now he could see the waiter standing by the Rutherfords’ table, hands behind his back, probably explaining the menu. Crab cakes were their specialty.
He heard a moan and pulled the binoculars down to address the bound and gagged man next to him. Even in the darkness Kalinikov could see the fear in the man’s eyes. He sat behind the wheel on the captain’s chair, obviously petrified of his fate.
“I told you I will not kill you,” Kalinikov offered. “But you must remain still.”
The man nodded furiously, trying to agree as much as possible. His fears were most certainly elevated by the rocket-propelled grenade launcher lying on the floor across from him.
Kalinikov scanned his surroundings first with the naked eye, then through the binoculars. Nothing seemed irregular. A few random fishing boats. A marine police boat slowly trawled the shoreline, moving away from him.
Kalinikov pushed a green button on the control panel and heard the creaking of the anchor ascending into the side of the hull. He maneuvered the boat sideways to allow the RPG’s backblast to avoid the cabin. The FBI agent on the pier outside the restaurant pretended to be on his cell phone, pacing back and forth, while examining the customers as they arrived for meals. Half the time he opened the door for them, a reason to get an even closer look.
Now the agent seemed to pick up the new movement and gained interest in Kalinikov’s boat. It was time for the distraction.
Kalinikov reached into his pocket and removed the remote control. He placed it in his fingers and carefully scanned his surroundings one more time. Then he pushed the red button.
From the parking lot on the opposite side of the restaurant an explosion pierced through the still night loud enough to alert even the casual diner. It was nothing more than an abandoned car Kalinikov had left there for his diversion. The FBI agent guarding the pier immediately sprinted around the restaurant and out of view.
Kalinikov mounted the Russian-made RPG to his shoulder and steadied it on his torso. The exact Russian translation for an RPG is hand-held anti-tank grenade launcher. It had enough power to take out the entire restaurant with one launch. The only problem with the device was its range, so Kalinikov had to risk coming to within eighty yards of the front window before he stepped out into the cool bay breeze. He’d thought about using his rifle, but the boats movement made the shot too risky even for him. This was the correct choice.