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Reznikov motioned with a flick of his hand. "See what he wants."

Botkin went to the door, and angrily slid the first bolt to the side, then the second. Light from inside barely showed through the opening, when Slade forced the UF inside with a powerful shove. Orlov stumbled, lost his balance and fell on the floor, rolling near the table. The heavy door smashed Botkin in the face, sending him on his ass. Blood spurted from his nose. Reznikov knocked his chair over, as he jumped up, not believing what he was looking at. Five armed men.

"Stay where you are!" Grant shouted in Russian. "Hands up!"

Slade and Diaz grabbed the two downed Russians, dragged them across the floor, then jerked them up next to Reznikov. Slade ripped the duct tape from Orlov's mouth, sliced through the rope tying his wrists, then he and Diaz immediately hustled back.

At the same time, Adler pulled a penlight from his vest as he raced to the back of the room. He moved the light along the floor, then toward the wood beam, following the strung-out explosives. Wires ran down both walls, hanging nearly to the floor. He'd seen enough. He mustered alongside Grant.

Grant continued glaring at Reznikov, seeing him look towards his weapon on the table. "Go ahead," Grant said, motioning with his Makarov. "Try it."

Reznikov's mind was spinning. How the hell did these men find him? Who were they? He answered his own question, quietly grumbling, "Spetsnaz." (Russian Special Forces.) But suddenly all he could think about was the future for him and his men. If they survived this evening, they'd face interrogation at Lubyanka in Moscow. And if they survived Lubyanka, it could mean a firing squad. But with the deaths and destruction they caused, they'd surely be made to suffer. He pictured the harshest gulag on the face of the earth in northern Siberia. They'd never be heard from again.

Grant glanced at his watch. Five minutes to go. C'mon on, you sonofabitch. Reach for it!he silently demanded, setting his eyes on Reznikov.

But it was Botkin who made a sudden move toward his pistol. Slade and James fired. A bullet pierced Botkin's head, the other went through his chest. His upper body fell against the table, then it slid backwards, leaving a trail of blood on the wood. He landed on the floor in a bloody heap. The two terrorists' eyes went from Botkin's body, back to the five men.

Reznikov decided he wasn't going back to any gulag or face Lubyanka. That meant he would die in this building — and within the next few seconds. Keeping his eyes on Grant, he lunged for his pistol. Five weapons fired multiple times, sending both Reznikov and Orlov backwards, before both bodies hit the floor.

Grant immediately pressed the PTT. "Mike, we need that camera!" He turned to Slade, Diaz, and James. "Get the hell outta here! We'll be right behind you!"

Novak handed his rifle to Slade as they ran past one another. Without needing details, he aimed the camera, taking two pictures of each body, then close-ups of each face.

"Go!" Grant said. Novak ran from the room.

Standing over the bodies of Reznikov and Botkin, Grant and Adler weren't about to risk it. Stranger outcomes had been known to happen. They double tapped each one, and then Orlov.

As they ran toward the door, Grant spun around and raced back to the table, grabbing the map. He caught up to Adler, who was running with the RPG over his shoulder. Once they were away from the light, they flipped down the NVGs, then picked up the pace, trying to avoid ruts, vines and rocks crossing their path.

When they were nearly at the road, they stopped and spun around, immediately flipping up the NVGs. "How much time?" Adler shouted, as he set the launcher firmly on his shoulder.

Before Grant answered, the underground storage room exploded in a massive orange fireball, creating a powerful noise that shook the earth. The glow in the night sky was visible for miles.

Adler took aim, and pulled the trigger. The H.E. grenade exploded on impact with the crumbling, concrete block house, immediately setting off the dynamite strung across the wooden beams.

"Let's go!" Grant shouted, grabbing Adler's arm. Debris was beginning to rain down. Dried grass caught fire.

"What about this?!" Adler yelled holding the launcher.

"Toss it in the lake!"

Boots pounded against blacktop, as they raced to the car, where Slade already had the engine running. Trunk, and passenger front and rear doors were open. Adler tossed the RPG in the trunk. Trunk lid, then doors slammed.

"Go! Go! Go!" Grant shouted.

Tires spit dirt and grass as Slade stomped on the gas. The rear end of the BMW fishtailed before he brought it under control. The engine roared as the BMW picked up speed.

"There's the lake!" Grant pointed toward the windshield. "We've gotta dump the RPG!"

Slade brought the car to a skidding stop on top of the two-lane bridge. Adler jumped out, grabbed the RPG from the trunk, and flung it as far as he could. Before it hit the water, he was in the car.

A.T. was outta there.

Chapter 15

Schonefeld Terminal
June 24
0330 Hours
Day 6

After confirming Dotsenko and Stalley were safely aboard, and securing all gear, Adler and Grant drove to Terminal A before turning in the BMW. Traffic entering and leaving the airport was half of daytime traffic. Parking wasn't an issue.

"C'mon, Joe," Grant said, "let's make the call." The first floor phones were the same he used last time. This time of morning, there were fewer passengers to worry about in the immediate vicinity.

Grant dialed the secure line at State, using special numbers that disguised where the call was originating to/from. He noticed Adler eyeing a cafe. Motioning with his thumb, Grant said, "Go! And whatever you get, get some for everybody!"

The phone continued ringing. If Mullins wasn't at the office, he probably transferred the call to his home.

"Mullins."

"Is thisthe Scott Mullins?!"

"Grant! Jesus! Buddy, are you okay?!"

"We're all good, Scott. Getting ready to head home."

"I know you'll be kind enough to fill me in completely once you're back, but do I need to hook you up with the 'big guy'?"

"Just give him this shorthand version. The three individuals were taken care of, and we snapped some helpful photos."

"Outstanding, Grant!"

"That's all I've got for now. I see Joe coming with a shitload of food. And I'm starvin'!"

"Okay, buddy. Enjoy your meal! I'll expect a call when you're two hours out. Safe trip!"

Friedrichshain Municipal Hospital
0500 Hours

Kalinin was sitting in a chair, with his legs stretched out, his fingers intertwined behind his head. His eyes were closed, but he was totally aware of sounds in the room. Zykov leaned a shoulder against the wall, fighting to stay awake.

Expecting the police to return in five minutes from their break, Kalinin stood up and stretched his arms high overhead, then glanced down at prisoner Baskov. He was still asleep, mostly from the meds he'd been administered. Kalinin jiggled the handcuffs secured to the metal bed and Baskov's wrist, before walking to the main aisle. Slipping his hands into his pants pockets, he wondered about Grant and his men. Was their op over? Was it a success? With the last conversation he had with his two friends, and although no specifics were given, he doubted Reznikov and his men were still alive. Kalinin silently confirmed that if he were in control of that situation, he'd have it end the same.

He jerked his head up, hearing the two East Germans coming into the ward. He walked over to Zykov, and tapped his shoulder. "Oleg! Come on."

"What?!" Zykov said, shaking his head.

"We must go."

Zykov slowly stood, then stretched. "Where? Where are we going?"