The man was barely conscious. He wasn’t capable of lying. He seemed like he was just able to get words out. “Just us inside… maybe a dozen more out on the grounds. They’re supposed to watch the… the gate, the fence.”
“What if they hear gunshots inside the house, think their boss is in danger?”
“Might… come in. Maybe.”
It was the best force estimate Chapel could expect. He asked more questions, as many as he thought he had time for, but got no answers that meant anything. None of the conscious guards in that cellar had any idea where Favorov was, or knew anything about possible escape routes from the mansion. They’d been waiting for the yacht to arrive, that was all. Michael might have known something—the guards explained that Michael and Stephen had been Favorov’s personal bodyguards and heads of staff. But Stephen had fled, and Michael was very dead.
He searched one of the dead men and came up with a cell phone and a hands-free unit. Standard equipment for an executive bodyguard. The phone still had half its charge. Chapel wiped some blood off the hands-free unit and, with only a little distaste, stuck it in his ear. He switched on the phone and dialed a number he’d memorized a long time ago.
“Chapel,” Angel said. Nobody else had that number. “Chapel—you’re alive!”
“About half dead, I’d say,” Chapel told her. Maybe he was more woozy than he thought. “Never mind. I’m alive, and armed, and I’ve neutralized about a third of the forces here. Some of them are going to need medical attention. Others can… wait. I’m sure this isn’t a safe line but I don’t very much care at this point. I need intel, Angel. I need you sitting on my shoulder.”
“You know you’ve got me,” she said. “I’ll always be here for you.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. I’m in the cellar right now. Do you have floor plans for this house?”
“I’m afraid not. They were never entered into the public record.”
Chapel frowned. “They should have been, right? To get the permits to build this place, Favorov would have had to file something.”
“Or he would have had to bribe a county clerk,” Angel suggested.
“Sure.” Chapel ran his good hand through his short hair. “So what do you have?”
“Satellite and thermal imaging. I can give you a rough idea of where people are in the house. But I can just tell you how close you’re getting to a human being, not who they are or what weapons they’re carrying. I can tell you, because I know it’s your next question, that Favorov is still inside. I saw him peek out of a window not three minutes ago, maybe looking for any sign that he was about to get raided by SWAT teams.”
Chapel nodded. “He’s probably wondering why it hasn’t happened already. Interesting…”
“What?”
“Never mind,” Chapel said. “Like I said, this isn’t a safe line. I’m going to move now. I don’t have a lot of time left. You’ve got my six, all right?”
“I’m always watching out for you.”
Well, at least that was something.
Chapel still had no idea what waited for him upstairs. He had no illusion that Favorov was as uninformed. There might be security cameras anywhere, even in the cellar. Favorov would know Chapel was still alive, and that he was armed, and that he was coming to capture him.
Chapel was absolutely certain the Russian wouldn’t go quietly. Not now.
He did one more thing before he left the cellar. He loaded up a pile of AK-47 clips and stuffed them in a sack he could tie to his belt. Slung a pair of assault rifles over his shoulder. Took two pistols—they were Glocks, pretty standard for executive security types—and all the pistol ammo he could find. It made his pockets bulge and clank but he didn’t care.
By the time he was ready to climb the stairs, he had enough firepower on him to knock over a Third World government. Well, he thought, maybe that’s a bit of an overstatement. There were places in the Third World where AK-47s outnumbered the people. But Monaco or Luxembourg? No problem.
23
When Chapel reentered the kitchen he found it deserted except for the cooling body of the cook, who lay slumped right where she’d died. The place was a mess, pots and pans knocked onto the floor, cabinets torn open and their contents strewn across the counters. Apparently when Michael and his men had come through, looking for Chapel, they had been careful to make sure he wasn’t hiding in any of the cupboards.
“There’s movement outside,” Angel told him. “I’m watching through the FLIR camera on a police helicopter loitering just outside the perimeter. I’ve got a dozen heat signatures streaming toward the house.”
Chapel nodded to himself. He tried to think like his enemy, like Favorov. Those heat signatures would be the security guards normally stationed around the grounds. Most likely they’d been told to stay at their posts even when the shooting started—someone needed to be on hand to repel the SWAT teams when they arrived. If they were heading inbound, that meant Favorov or someone else had called them back, which meant that whoever was running the shots didn’t care about the police anymore.
They just wanted Chapel.
“I was hoping it would take longer,” Chapel told Angel. “I guess Favorov is smarter than that. He’s been waiting to make his escape until the SWAT teams attack, probably hoping to sneak out in the confusion. Now he knows we’re holding off, which means he’ll change his plans.”
“That’s good, right?” Angel asked. “You have about thirty seconds before the first guard reaches the front door, by the way. They’re taking their time moving in, being careful. It’s good Favorov had to change his strategy. That means you’re making him sweat.”
“Maybe, but it’s bad because it means he’s capable of improvising on the fly. He was GRU, one of their best. He’s going to have some surprises for us yet.” Chapel loaded one of his AK-47s and set the fire selector to full automatic. “It’s also bad because it means he’s already started to run away. I’m going to have to make this fast.”
“ETA on the guards, fifteen seconds now,” Angel said. “They’re headed for the front door. Head left out of the kitchen, then take your first right.”
Angel and Chapel had been working together for a while now. She knew how he thought, how he would act in most situations. She knew that if the guards were headed for the front door, Chapel meant to be there to meet them.
He hurried down a narrow servants’ hallway, then around a bend and into the massive foyer where he’d first seen Fiona coming down the stairs. There wasn’t much furniture in the foyer, but he found a big ornamental table. He kicked it over and ducked behind it just as the doors exploded.
The noise and the light were intense. The guards must have had some kind of breaching explosive, either C-4 or some kind of grenade. They hadn’t wanted to take the chance that Chapel was standing right inside the doors, waiting for them to open. These weren’t just rent-a-cops from the local security temp agency. They’d been trained for combat.
Well, that could actually work in Chapel’s favor. If they were ex-military, or at least trained by somebody ex-military, they would understand the concept of suppressive fire. Chapel lifted his rifle over the top of the overturned table and fired a long burst toward the doors, not even aiming. He heard shouting and people running away from his fire. That was good. Rent-a-cops might have just stormed inside, right into his gunfire, and some of them might even have gotten hit. Chapel didn’t need any more bodies on his conscience.
Chapel moved to the edge of his improvised shield and took a quick look. He could see almost nothing through the now open front doors. It was nighttime out there, but there was enough light to show the driveway and the start of the gardens beyond. He couldn’t see any of the guards, though—yeah. There. He saw the tip of a rifle barrel just sticking out past the door frame. The guards were hanging back, standing to either side of the door.