But Victoria . . . They would kill her. And then, yes, they would come for him. The consequences were that simple . . . and that deadly.
Sergei pushed on through the trees, ducking below low-hanging boughs as the whomping of the helicopter resounded like a racing heart.
HANSENhad darted out of the church and dropped down into a long embankment running parallel to a service road near the main airstrip. He'd seen how several culverts could provide fast and temporary cover before choosing his course, and he dropped into one drainage pipe just as the chopper thundered overhead and descended toward the helipad. He waited there for another few seconds, then slipped back out, dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled forward for a better view of the pad--about two hundred yards away.
He wasn't sure if the people on board the chopper or Sergei or someone else was jamming him, but he still had no contact with Grim and no electronic surveillance of the area via the COM-BAT plane, which now was circling the airport in an endless loop, waiting for its next set of instructions. Sergei's silence raised questions about him; but, then again, maybe he, too, was being jammed, and his signal had been cut off before Hansen's. He wanted so badly to give the man the benefit of the doubt, but a more powerful sense told him, No, you can't trust him anymore. He's turned.
The chopper pitched up, but the pilot was skilled enough to lower the bird into a hard but efficient landing despite the crosswinds.
Bratus, Zhao, and Murdoch had moved back toward the hangars and were shielding their faces from the rotor wash as the engine began to wind down. Hansen also noted that while the window was down on Bratus's car, the driver was no longer there. He scanned the area. No sign of him. Hmm.
It took several moments before the door on the chopper finally popped. Here we go,Hansen thought. This was either going to get very enlightening or very frustrating, depending upon what he could capture with the laser microphone in this weather and with all that rotor wash.
AFTERmaking his phone call, Ames got out of the car, donned a black balaclava to conceal his face, and followed Sergei's boot prints until he reached a stand of trees on the edge of the airport grounds. He sat on his haunches beside a thick oak, shivering. From this vantage point, he could survey most of the airport with his pair of 18 x 50 all-weather binoculars.
Within ten seconds, he spotted Sergei crouched down near the fuel truck. The fool was partially exposed and easily identifiable from this angle. Not so from where the agents and helicopter were positioned, but Ames would not have chosen that spot. Rookie.
Then, almost losing his breath, Ames spotted Hansen tucked in tightly along the embankment, surveying the scene with his trifocals and trying to listen in with his laser mic. He'd done an admirable, if imperfect, job of concealing himself from the group near the helicopter, but from the rear he was vulnerable, and that was when Ames noticed the monster of a man in a long coat and Soviet Army ushankacrouched over and drawing up behind Hansen. Unbelievable. Perhaps it was the wind or the continuing rotor wash from the chopper, but Hansen did not react to the guy's approach. It was Bratus's driver, and he was about to make contact.
No no no.This was not acceptable. Ames began to hyperventilate. If this fat ape reported trouble back to Bratus, then the meeting could go to hell. Ames looked to Sergei, still sitting there like a little bird in a nest, waiting for his mother. The fool!Ames flicked his gaze back to the helicopter, then back to the fat man, who was already on his phone. Ames's mouth fell open.
TWOmen exited the chopper and moved toward the group, ducking slightly against the wash. Hansen zoomed in even more, and the floodlights from the hangar revealed both men as Asian, assumedly Chinese. They shook hands with Murdoch, Bratus, and Zhao, who steered them toward the chopper, where another pair of men was unloading a black Anvil case about the size of a coffin, with a pair of heavy locks. Hansen couldn't get a good beam with his laser mic so he pocketed it and just observed.
Abruptly, Bratus raised a phone to his ear, then suddenly backed away from the group and drew a pistol.
"Oh, my God," Hansen muttered aloud.
Even as the words came from his mouth, Bratus shot Zhao in the head; then he fired at Murdoch, striking him in the chest. Both men dropped to the icy tarmac.
But Bratus wasn't finished. He shot the two men unloading the large case, then pushed into the open chopper and shot the pilot and copilot.
He killed everyone except Murdoch's driver, who attempted to squeal away in his car, but not before Bratus put four bullets into the driver's-side window and the car simply came to a slow halt on the tarmac.
Just then a baritone voice rose from behind Hansen:
"Hello!" The cry was in Russian. "I am Rugar! What is your name?"
Hansen whirled back, tore off his trifocals, and found the business end of a suppressed pistol in his face. The man holding the gun, Rugar, was of inhuman proportions, and besides offering a promise of death, he flashed a carnivorous grin that left Hansen as shocked as he was breathless over his grave error. He'd been so engrossed in the images coming to him via his goggles that he'd failed to check his six o'clock, and the snowstorm had done an excellent job of helping to conceal the big Russian's approach.
"You didn't answer my question," added the fat man. "What's your name?"
Hansen just stared.
Rugar chuckled lowly, clearly enjoying himself. "What's the matter? You don't speak Russian?"
Before Hansen could reply, Rugar's phone rang, and in the instant he flicked his gaze down, Hansen lifted onto his left leg and delivered a roundhouse kick to Rugar's hand, knocking the gun from the fat man's grip. The pistol flew through the air several meters and landed in a pile of snow beside the service road.
Hansen then rolled around, reaching for his own pistol, but Rugar dropped on him like an avalanche, the snow blasting into Hansen's face and blinding him.
As he groaned and struggled against Rugar's immense weight, he realized the man had already seized his hand, the one going for his gun. He blinked, tried to move it, but then an elbow came down into his cheek, striking like a lead hammer.
In point of fact, Hansen had never been hit so hard in his life, even during all his training exercises, where they "trained as they fought." Pinpricks of light winked among the snowflakes, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out. The blow now seemed to reverberate through his entire head, the pain growing roots that wrapped around his brain.
Nearly blind now, Hansen reached out, all his martial-arts training escaping from his memory, as though squeezed away by the man's sheer weight, but he still had sheer instincts and muscle memory. He found Rugar's cold ear, just beneath his hat, and seized it between his fingers.
Hansen tugged so hard that the fat man screamed and broke his grip, and as he moved slightly up, Hansen, in one massive expenditure of energy, rolled from beneath him. He came around onto his knees, drew his SC pistol, but Rugar was already there, delivering a solid jab to Hansen's jaw that sent his head back even as once more the Russian seized his gun hand and began to pin him back onto the snow.