An awkward silence hung in the cabin of the SUV for a moment. Then it erupted in laughter.
Jim tried to keep a straight face, but eventually succumbed to the hilarity of his own joke. When the laughter died down, he turned serious again. “It sounds like you all have run into a bit of a problem with this Russian bloke.”
Understatement of the month, Sean thought.
“Do you have any idea who he is or who he works for?” Jim continued.
Sean reached back into his pocket and saw he had received a text message from Emily during the melee. Urgent. Check your email.
Emily Starks and Sean had worked together for Axis on a number of projects and missions. She never overreacted to anything. So when she used the word urgent in her text message, he knew that there was something serious he needed to look at.
“Looks like we might,” Sean answered Jim’s question.
He opened the email app on his phone and tapped on the new message from Emily. He looked at the image of the Russian and read the file rapidly. Next, he scanned through the information on the other guys. There wasn’t much on them. It seemed they were peripheral characters, most likely hired guns the Russian brought in to be a part of his unit.
Sean scrolled back to the top and stared at the lifeless eyes of the man who’d been pursuing them. “His name is Nicholas Petrov. He’s former Russian military, special operations division. Seems he made a name for himself as being the go-to guy for things no one else wanted to do.”
“Like dangerous missions?” Tommy wondered out loud.
“And then some. Looks like he did the dirty work for the army: torture, execution of prisoners, you name it. Then he went rogue. Was dismissed from the military for insubordination. After he left the Russian army, Petrov decided to sell his talents to the highest bidder.”
Adriana listened carefully. “A mercenary.”
“Appears so,” Sean nodded. “He’s had over sixty confirmed kills in the line of duty, and that doesn’t include his private body of work. From what Emily says, Petrov is ruthless and will stop at nothing to finish whatever mission he’s on.”
Jim had been following along quietly as he drove the SUV through another village. “So that guy is after you? Sounds like you need to pick a safer, more lucrative line of work.”
“Believe me,” Sean quipped, “I’ve tried.”
He flipped back through Petrov’s file one last time. “There’s nothing here on who he’s working for. Not surprising. The guys with the finances typically try to stay in the shadows. Sometimes you never know who is pulling the strings. The dossier says he’s had connections in France though. Might be a lead we could tug at.”
Jim’s face curled with discomfort, as if he were trying to hold down a huge secret.
“You okay, Jim?” Tommy asked, noticing the man’s obvious state of unrest.
“Aye, I’m fine. It’s just that I might have someone who could help.”
The three passengers simultaneously raised their eyebrows at the revelation.
“Help with what part?” Sean asked, his curiosity aroused.
“I wasn’t always a corporate driver. I’ve got a few friends that one might say are a little less than on the level.” He hesitated, unsure if he should keep talking. “I’ve got a connection in France that does a little, how should I say, entrepreneurial work. Nothing terrible. He just runs a few hundred kilos of marijuana into the country every year.”
“I’m sorry,” Tommy stopped him. “Did you just say a few hundred kilos?”
“Yeah,” Jim snickered. “I guess it’s not a small operation.”
“That just took the previous understatement’s place,” Sean commented coolly.
“Anyway, he knows a lot of black market types. Doesn’t usually collaborate much with them since he’s sort of got his market cornered. But he still hears things from time to time. I can give him a call if you’d like.”
“Do it,” Sean directed. “I have a feeling we’re going to need all the help we can get, from whoever is willing to give it.”
Chapter 19
The door budged but wouldn’t open. Petrov hit it again, leaning into it with his shoulder, but he still couldn’t push through. Through the crack near the doorframe, Petrov saw the feet of the man who’d been helping him. That meant Wyatt had either killed him or knocked him out and used the body to blockade the door.
Smart.
Petrov wondered if he would have thought of the same thing.
A voice yelled out, muffled by the thick wooden door. “Don’t try to resist. Drop your weapon. We have you surrounded.”
The police. Great.
Petrov had gambled, taking a shot at the cop on the roof of the old castle gate. He typically didn’t miss, but the span between him and the target was farther than optimal. His employer had told Petrov to follow Wyatt and his companions and wait to strike when they’d retrieved the second coin. He wasn’t sure they had it, but he knew that his quarry had discovered something inside the bell atop the barbican. The only assumption he could make was that they’d found the coin.
If he were wrong, he’d sort it out one way or the other when his targets were dead.
Now they’d got away though, he had no idea how they’d got past his man. Fortunately, he had two more waiting. After shooting one of his team on the street in Atlanta, he found a replacement in London who suited his needs — and at the price Petrov was willing to pay.
He turned away from the door and pumped his legs hard, running up the steps two and three at a time. When he reached the rooftop door, he fished his phone out of a pocket and hit the number on the screen. A man with a Cockney accent answered after only one ring.
“Cops are on their way.”
Petrov could hear the sirens in the distance. When he opened the door, the sound grew exponentially louder. The cop downstairs had been bluffing. Petrov wasn’t surrounded, not yet anyway. But if he stuck around another two minutes, he would be.
“Did you get the boat?” he asked, crouching low as he moved toward the other end of the walkway.
“It took a bit of doin’ on such short notice, but it’s ready and running. Pier 3. Look for a small fishing boat with a blue hull and a white pilothouse.”
“Untie, and be ready to go.”
He hit the end button and slid the phone back in his pocket. Scaling the north-facing side of Bargate would draw too much attention from gawking onlookers, making his escape nearly impossible. Not to mention the police would likely come in from that direction. Petrov’s only option was to go down the side. Falling would surely break a bone or two, and result in his capture. Petrov did not intend to let that happen.
He flung his legs over the edge of the wall and grabbed onto the bottom corner of a rampart. His feet wiggled around, desperately trying to find a ledge wide enough to hold. The right foot came to rest on a flat surface no more than two inches across, but it was enough. Petrov lowered himself cautiously, making sure the tiny ledge would support his weight. His left foot found another groove, and he jammed the toe of his boot into it. Next, he reached down with his left hand and found a lip between two stones that had worn away over time. It was smoother than he would have liked, but fortunately, years of training and hard work had made his fingers as strong as a sailor’s.
Petrov repeated the process as fast as he could, wary that a wrong move could result in catastrophe. While it seemed to take ten minutes, he managed to climb down the side of the wall in less than thirty seconds. When he reached a point about seven feet high, he dropped to the ground and rolled to his feet, taking off at a dead sprint toward an offshoot street that led to the wharf.