Grant and Russo separated, sliding their backs along the building, moving to opposite corners. Checking their watches, and if the guards were on time, there were only two minutes left for them to reappear. With K-bars drawn, they waited.
Moshenko edged closer to the corner, with Grant directly below. The Russian wished he could be involved in whatever was about to happen, but for now, he was just an innocent observer.
Suddenly, he spotted one of the guards walking along the path, acting totally bored, kicking at stones and dirt.
Grant tensed, hearing the scuffle of shoes and the sound of something being kicked across dirt. Pressing his body against the building, he raised the knife, its razor-sharp blade pointing straight up.
The guard took one step around the corner, and without a chance to cry out or fire his weapon, Grant sprang at him like a jungle cat, clamping his strong hand across the mouth, plunging the knife up, just below the sternum. The guard’s eyes opened wide, almost in disbelief before he collapsed on the ground. Grant fell with him, keeping the mouth covered until the body stopped twitching. Still kneeling, he pulled the knife from the chest, wiped off the blood on the dried grass, then immediately turned to see Russo kneeling over the other guard. In less than a minute, Russo completed the G2, then he finished the job.
They dragged the bodies into the brush. Grant pulled a penlight from his pocket and signaled the team. Then he looked up at Moshenko, pointed to himself and then up, indicating they were coming in.
Moshenko went quickly to the two huddling Russians. “Comrades, the Americans are on their way.”
Tarasov sat up straight, and with a questioning stare, he asked, “How do you know? When will they be here?”
“Sooner than you think, Comrade Tarasov,” Moshenko responded with certainty. He immediately turned and went near the vent, knowing Grant would figure it out. Now, all he could do was wait.
With the confiscated Uzis slung over their shoulders, Grant and Russo had separated and taken the same path as the two Italian guards, walking just as slowly, and finally meeting up at the front door.
Lingering there briefly, they tried to take in as much as they could from their surroundings. Grant felt uneasy. There still wasn’t any sign of EOD.
A lot of activity was taking place around the trucks and tunnel entrance. Loud voices shouted instructions, as men jumped on and off the trucks. From what Grant could see, two trucks near the end of the caravan had their hoods raised, and men were leaning over the fenders. One man raised what appeared to be a wrench, then he shouted to the driver. The engine started, then died. The driver leaned out the window and shouted, “Merda!” (Shit!)
With everything going on in the compound, Grant and Russo were ignored. Confirming they weren’t being watched, they turned and entered the building, immediately backing up against a wall by the door, with the Uzis now at the ready.
All lights were still out. They hesitated briefly, letting their eyes adjust to the darkness. Grant motioned for Russo to stay put, while he cautiously crept to the doorway entrance to a small room. Poking his head around the corner, he saw the room was empty, then he silently made his way to the base of the stairs. He signaled Russo, who took one last look out the entrance, the hustled to meet up with Grant.
Continuing to stay on high alert, they listened briefly, confirming the first floor was clear. Grant looked up to the top of the stairs, again hearing nothing but silence. Taking one last look behind them, they started advancing up the staircase, sliding their bodies along the wall, taking one cautious sideways step at a time.
Grant motioned for Russo to keep watch from the top of the stairs. Then, he walked slowly, ducking his head in a room to the right, able to see cots lined along the far wall. He started farther down the darkened hallway, taking a quick check overhead, looking for any sort of access to the roof.
He approached another doorway on his left. He made a quick check of the darkened room, only seeing more cots. Pressing his back against the wall, he let his eyes follow the ceiling until he spotted something protruding from the overhead, farther down the hall. Stepping slowly until he was directly beneath the cover, he turned to Russo, got his attention, then he cupped a hand near his mouth and looking up, called softly, “Grigori.” Then, he stepped back against the wall, being cautious, keeping the Uzi ready, just in case.
The vent cover opened. Moshenko leaned over, swiveling his head until he spotted Grant. With a big smile, he motioned with his hand, “My friend! Come, come.”
Russo hustled to Grant. They handed Moshenko the Uzis, then Russo clasped his hands together, palms up, where Grant was able to put his foot. Moshenko reached down and locked onto Grant’s raised arms, and with a boost from Russo, pulled him up through the opening. Not wasting any time, Grant hauled up Russo.
Once the cover was sealed again, Moshenko spun Grant around and threw his arms around him, slapping him on the back. “Spaseeba (thanks), my friend! Spaseeba!”
“How ya doing, Grigori?” Grant questioned with concern. He stepped back, grabbing Moshenko’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yes, yes. I am good. I am relieved just seeing you!”
“Wait one, Grigori; got to get the rest of my men up here. Come on, Vince.” They walked quickly to the back of the building. Using the penlight, Grant signaled and within seconds saw the team rushing across the field.
Russo tied off one end of the rope around a rebar sticking through the concrete, wrapped it around another, then tossed the rope over the side. “I’ll wait here, sir, if you need to get back.”
Grant half jogged to where Moshenko was waiting with Tarasov and Rusnak. “Comrades, this is Captain Grant Stevens, my friend.”
The two Russians stepped closer, offering to shake hands, especially after recognizing Grant’s name. The realization that the Americans may be their only hope to survive the ordeal finally struck home.
Grant looked past them, watching his men, as he reached down into his rucksack. Speaking in impeccable Russian, Grant handed the paper bag to Moshenko, with his eyes moving to each of the three men, as he said, “We brought some food. It’s not much, but… ”
“We are grateful,” Moshenko smiled, handing the bag to Tarasov. “Now, comrades, if you will excuse us, we have things to discuss.”
Moshenko led Grant to the west side of the roof, being careful not to get too close to the edge where they could be seen.
Grant hooked his thumbs in his pockets as he spoke quietly. “Listen, Grigori, I’m sorry as hell we couldn’t get to you sooner. I don’t have any bullshit excuses either. It… it just took time.”
“Grant, my friend, you are here, and I am grateful. No bullshit excuse is necessary! That is right, is it not?”
“You learn too quick!” Grant smiled. But now it was time to ask, time to find out about Adler, about the EOD team. “Grigori, do you know if anything happened to Joe? When did you see him last?”
“We were together that morning, sharing some food the Italian man brought. Joe and his men left for the hangar not long after. We said we would meet later.” Moshenko looked down, shaking his head.
“Hey! Grigori!” Grant quietly said, grabbing hold of Moshenko’s arm. “Look at me.” Moshenko looked up, staring into intense brown eyes. “You did what you had to do to keep yourself and your comrades safe. That was your priority. And if I know Joe, he’s probably waiting to kick ass and looking forward to the opportunity.”
“Am I getting, as you would say, ‘soft,’ Grant? I should not be. I am KGB.”
“You? Soft? Hell, you’re just being human, my friend.” Out of the corner of his eye, Grant saw his men and he motioned them over. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Officer Grigori Moshenko, my good friend.” The SEALs shook Moshenko’s hand and made quick introductions, before Grant ordered, “Take positions around the roof perimeter. Get some intel. We’ll be heading down soon.” As Moore started past him, he grabbed his arm. “Ray, get me a 16.”