Quinn turned as soon as they got inside. “Who’s the agent in charge here?”
Beaudine looked at the note she’d scribbled on her hand. She was so tired she didn’t trust herself to remember. “Margot Fischer,” she said. “A supervisory agent with the Bureau.” She stood on tiptoe trying to get a better look at the faces in the packed lobby, then nodded toward the elevators just across from the entrance. “We need to get to higher ground.”
“Agreed,” Quinn said, pushing his way past a table of teenage boys wearing white shirts and American flag ties. “The elevators are this way. See if you can get Fischer on the phone. This place looks ripe to me.”
“Think we should evac?” Beaudine asked.
“I’m all for that,” Trooper Evans said. “If I was going to pop gas for maximum effect, this would be the place.”
“Let’s take a look from up top first,” Quinn said, turning in front of the elevators. “Something’s bothering me. Dr. Volodin says his daughter has become extremely anti-Semitic. From what I read on the plane, the Black Hundreds are all about a pure, white Russia.” He turned to push the elevator call button. “Why would Polina help out in such a cause? And if she’s so prejudiced, why would Kaija Merculief link up with a Native?”
Trooper Evans shook his head. “Polina isn’t native.”
“What?” Beaudine took a step back.
Evan’s scrolled through his phone. “I worked the Kobuk for three years while I was stationed in Kotzebue. Polina Stewart is as gussaq as they come.”
“She’s white…?” Beaudine said. “But… we talked to her.”
“We talked to someone.” Quinn looked at the trooper. “Pregnant, early twenties, little birthmark at the corner of her lip.”
The elevator door opened and they stepped aside for a dozen spit-shined youth on their way to the reception in the lobby.
“That’s Ruby Ingik,” Evans said. “She’s Polina’s best friend so I’m not surprised she covered for her.” He held up his phone to show a photo of a pretty brunette in front of the faded yellow house in Ambler. “This is Polina,” he said. “Easy to recognize her from the half-shaved head.”
Beaudine let out a deep sigh. “So we’re looking for a pregnant woman with an undercut…”
They stepped onto the elevator.
Quinn pressed the button for the third level. “If she’s even preg—”
The distinctive crack of a rifle from the floors above cut him off at the same moment the elevator doors slid shut.
Chapter 63
Quinn’s hand dropped to the grip of his Kimber the moment he heard the shot. His first reaction was to try and get back off the elevator, but his gut told him to move toward the sound of the gunfire.
“Sounds like Kaija Merculief is down,” Trooper Evans said, head cocked to the side, listening to his radio earpiece.
“Where?” Quinn asked. The elevator chimed as it passed the second floor.
“Bottom level,” Evans said. “She was dressed like the staff serving at the lobby reception. No word who got her yet. And no sign of the gas.”
“We need to evacuate,” Quinn said. “And get that picture of Polina out to everyone. I’m betting she’s still out there.”
“Roger that,” Beaudine said.
“I’ll send you the photo,” Evans said. Since he was in uniform, he stood at the door, ready to make a hole in the crowd that would surely be fleeing the sound of the shot. When the elevator doors slid open, it wasn’t a crowd they faced, but the cold blue eyes of Feliks Zolner.
The Russian grabbed the trooper by his collar and pulled him straight into a brutal punch in the jaw. Evans sagged, staggering forward and falling to one knee as he tried to regain his footing. Directly behind him, Beaudine rushed in, knocking Quinn sideways in the close confines of the elevator. Zolner was a foot and a half taller, but he was startled by her presence and earned himself a solid slap to the ear before he was able to swat her away. The feisty FBI agent grabbed his arm, rolling up in a ball and kicking out with both legs at the Russian’s exposed gut. He bellowed, more in frustration than pain and slammed her against the edge of the elevator door like a hammer, scraping her off but losing his backpack in the process.
Keeping up his momentum, Zolner rushed into the open elevator, driving Quinn backward and upward, shoving his head and shoulders through the opaque plastic ceiling. Kimber in his hand, Quinn raised both arms to protect his head and face from the metal support structure as the giant Russian slammed him upward again and again.
A thin piece of steel frame hooked on the right arm of his leather jacket, yanking the Kimber from his hand and leaving him suspended from the top of the elevator like a punching bag.
Head above the ceiling, Quinn wondered why no one was helping him. Pulling upward in a frantic effort to unhook himself, he twisted and kicked to keep Zolner at bay. He heard a chime above the throbbing of his own pulse and felt the telltale lurch as the car began to descend.
Still suspended and trapped by the heavy leather of his jacket, Quinn spun in a full circle, narrowly avoiding a slash to his own throat on the jagged plastic of the demolished ceiling. The Kimber lay right in front of him on a metal ceiling support, less than an inch from the edge, one good nudge away from falling into the elevator. Quinn knew if the Russian got his hands on the pistol while he still hung like a side of beef, it would be over in an instant.
Quinn doubled his efforts and pulled up with his right arm, straining against exhaustion and the old wounds in his shoulder and ribs. Below, Zolner must have seen blood weeping from the shotgun-pellet wounds. The Russian began to pummel him mercilessly in the thigh. Sick to his stomach from wave after wave of pain, Quinn clawed for the gun with his free hand, missing it by a fraction of an inch, but gaining enough of a handhold on an upright metal strut that he was able to unhook his sleeve.
Quinn hit the floor hard, bending his knees but feeling it in his teeth. He was able to keep his feet but Zolner towered over him, raining down sloppy but powerful blows. His back to the cold wall of the elevator, Quinn covered up, blocking the blows with his elbows and forearms. The Russian had ten inches of height, a good foot of reach, and seventy-five pounds on Quinn. A glancing right hook slid off his hand and into his forehead, staggering him and shoving him sideways. He followed the motion toward the corner, dragging his feet so as not to get them tangled in the process.
The corner could be a friend and force multiplier in close-quarter battle. It gave Zolner a diminishing V in which to attack and protected Quinn from the wide and ungainly haymakers the big Russian seemed to favor. This forced Zolner to bring his attack straight in.
When Zolner committed with a left jab, Quinn parried, stepping into the shadow of the much larger man and punching downward into Zolner’s unprotected groin. The blow was surely nauseating but had the added shearing effect from the angle. The Russian roared, bending forward in pain and putting his chin in perfect line for Quinn’s left uppercut. The blow would have finished the fight on a lesser man but Zolner lashed out with both hands, catching Quinn in the ear by accident with a massive left paw.
Quinn fell back to his corner arms up, looking for a new angle of attack. He caught a look of something he hadn’t expected in Zolner’s eyes. It wasn’t fear. Quinn was not sure the big man had the capacity to fear. Zolner was unsettled. Just as a shooter needed a respiratory pause before a shot, a fighter had to be settled — fully joined in battle.