The Russians started reaching for their own weapons, when three other men rushed to the side windows, with Makarovs pointing directly into the car. Dotsenko slouched down in the back seat, prepared for a shootout.
Slade stood by the driver's door, yanked it open, then immediately gripped his weapon with both hands. Diaz flung open the front passenger door, Novak, the right rear.
Slade ordered in Russian, "Toss out your weapons!" He waited, then ordered again, "Toss them! Now!" Reluctantly, the Russians obeyed, and four Makarovs clanged against the pavement. Stalley ran to the Mercedes, quickly collecting the weapons.
"Out of the car! Hands behind your head!" Slade motioned with his weapon.
Initial moments of shock quickly passed, as anger became obvious on Lieutenant General Komarov's face. He took a step closer to Slade, refusing to obey the order, keeping his hands by his side with fists balled up. "Who the hell are you?! What gives you the right to stop us?!"
"Enough of this shit!" Grant said through gritted teeth. He left ranks and jogged next to Slade. In a swift motion he jammed the silencer against the Russian officer's forehead, knocking him back a step.
With a quick glance, Grant noticed the Russian's name on his uniform. Then, speaking in Russian, he kept his voice deep and menacing. "You are in no position to question, Komarov! I leave it up to you whether or not I pull this trigger — and I will pull this trigger!"
Komarov's jaw tightened, but he reluctantly backed away and walked to the opposite side of the car. Novak and Diaz patted down the four men, not finding additional weapons.
Dotsenko, meanwhile, was delaying getting out of the car. Grant grabbed his arm and yanked him out. "Do not give us any trouble!" He shoved him toward Stalley who grabbed an arm, then hustled him to the Audi, as James guarded their sixes. Maintaining the ruse, Stalley pushed Dotsenko into the back seat, slammed the door, then took up a defensive position next to the car.
James was headed to the Mercedes, when Grant stopped him. "Get their names." James nodded, then took off, assisting Novak, Diaz, and Slade, who were forcibly prodding the Russians more deeply into the woods.
Keeping his eyes and weapon on the Russians as they were led away, Grant whispered, "Lose the Mercedes, Joe." Adler shoved his weapon into the holster then ran to the Mercedes, started it up, then drove it well beyond the tree line.
Grant walked around Stalley who was standing by the passenger door. He leaned in toward Dotsenko, and spoke softly in English. "We're Americans, sir. Sorry we had to be so rough. But as soon as we're finished here, we'll take you to the embassy where you'll be safe."
Dotsenko sighed deeply, before asking, "But what about …?"
"She's the second part of this mission. As soon as we're at the embassy, you'll need to answer some questions for us, though."
"Anything. Anything. I'll help all I can."
Grant gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then turned and waited for A.T.
Adler quietly closed the Mercedes' door, then hurled the key as far as he could. He hustled back to where the four Russians were standing, when suddenly the driver, Baskov, took off, running full bore into the forest. "Oh, fuck!" Adler said under his breath.
The chase was on. The Russian disappeared in the forest. Adler followed the sound of feet slapping against leaves and dirt, until — nothing. No sound, not even heavy breathing.
Adler pulled up, and stopped behind a tree. Holding his weapon close, he eased his head forward. Baskov ran from behind a tree and took off again. Adler gained on him, shouting one of a few words he knew in Russian: "Khal't!" (halt) Baskov stumbled, but kept running. Adler aimed and fired, dropping the Russian.
"Shit!" Grant raced through the trees.
Adler knelt near the Russian, whispering, "He's alive, just unconscious. Must've hit his head hard on that." Adler pointed at a dark, wet stain on a rock. Blood from a bullet wound was seeping through the uniform jacket near the shoulder blade.
Grant leaned down, and grabbed Baskov's arm. "Let's get him to the Mercedes." He and Adler dragged the Russian to the vehicle, and laid him in the rear seat.
"Now what?" Adler asked, closing the door.
"Secure him." Adler hesitated. "Do it, Joe! Somebody will come looking for them."
The other three Russians were forced onto the ground, with their backs against the base of a tree, and then they were lashed together. Duct tape covered their mouths, black hoods covered their heads, adding to the intimidation factor. Slade gave a thumb's up, then A.T. hurried back to the Audis.
But just as the men were opening car doors, the unmistakable sound of automatic weapons echoed in the stillness. They immediately dropped to a knee, taking cover near the vehicles, aiming their weapons toward the sound. Dotsenko threw his arms over his head, scrunching down in the back seat.
Realizing the noise was farther south than their location, the Team cautiously stood, but continued swiveling their heads, watching for anything out of the ordinary. Silence again.
Adler questioned what they were all thinking. "What the fuck?!"
Grant jammed his weapon into the holster, then looked over the top of the car door. "Let's get … " An explosion sent them to the ground again from pure reaction.
Still keeping a low voice, Grant spat out, "Jesus Christ! Move! Move! Go!"
The two vehicles sped off toward West Berlin, barely staying within the speed limit. They had 21 miles to go, and now wasn't the time to attract police.
A beat-up green, four-door 1970 Trabant rumbled slowly across five acres of land that twenty years earlier had cultivated potatoes, carrots, and cabbage. Heading toward an old deserted farmhouse, the driver cautiously maneuvered the vehicle through weeds and vines, avoiding ruts and hardened tracks once made by tractors and wagons. Rusted, broken, decaying farm equipment lay scattered across the property.
A house came into view, a dark shape standing against the backdrop of the horizon. The driver pulled around the back, parking close to the building. As remote as the location was, they still needed to err on the side of caution. Once the investigation into the incident started, they'd be hunted — again.
The driver, Sergei Botkin, and passenger, Pavel Orlov, started to get out, when Reznikov ordered, "Keep your weapons, but put the grenade launchers and explosives in that cellar with the rest." He pointed to a wood door, set at a slight angle, just above ground level. Below was a storage room, not more than ten feet from the house, once used for root vegetables.
Orlov pulled his straggly long hair from his face, questioning, "Just keep our weapons?!"
Reznikov slid across the seat, reaching for the door handle. "Weapons are one thing, but getting caught with those explosives … We will take only what we need when we receive new orders." He got out, opened the trunk and grabbed a flashlight, then left the two men to their assignment.
The darkness and the distance from the road gave him some sense of safety. No one could approach this property without being heard or noticed. Botkin and Orlov would take turns keeping watch, at least until daylight.
Walking to the front of the crumbling, discolored cement-block house, he remained cautious, listening to the two men transferring the explosives. Being together again made him think about the three of them, once prisoners in the high-security prison, Krasnoyarsk Camp 17. The city itself was located on the Yenisei River and the third largest city in Siberia.