“How do you want to take him?” Grant said.
“I’ll approach from the front and distract him while you sneak up behind him.”
“You mean like this?” a voice behind them said. Morgan felt the barrel of a gun jammed into her back. “Move and you die.”
The man they’d been observing strode toward them, a pistol tucked underneath the event program in his hand. He cautiously pulled the pistol from her waistband, then took Grant’s.
The guy behind them leaned closer to her. “You should have picked a partner who’s less conspicuous than Mr. Westfield. I spotted him the moment you walked into that mobile control trailer.”
He removed her goggles and used them to look at his cohort.
“The intelligence was correct. They did develop ID dust. I told you that’s how they knew we were in the house in Tijuana.” He lowered the goggles and put them in the pocket of his cargo pants.
“Where’s Colchev?” Morgan said.
“Nearby. We’ll take you to see him. Get up slowly.”
She and Grant both stood. She could now see that the men had silencers on their SIG Sauers. A jacket over the arm concealed the other man’s weapon.
“Now move.” They started walking, a pistol in each of their backs.
“We know what your plan is,” Grant said.
“So?”
“So I’m just letting you know it won’t work.”
“Why’s that?”
“We convinced the flight director to abort the launch.”
The Russian smiled. “If that were true, there would have been an announcement. Now keep walking or I’ll kill you right here.”
“That would ruin your plans, wouldn’t it?” Grant said. “A couple of gunshots would bring a lot of attention out here. Might even stop the flight.”
“That’s a risk we’re willing to take. Are you?”
Grant glanced at Morgan, and she shook her head. With the constant noise, two silenced gunshots might be mistaken for a backfiring aircraft engine.
As they walked, the Russians had to stay right behind them to keep their weapons concealed. The close range was a double-edged sword. The Russians couldn’t miss if they got shots off, but it also meant that Morgan had a chance to disarm one of them. All she needed was the proper distraction.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Does that matter?” Grant said, glaring at her. At first she thought he was genuinely angry with her, but then she saw the slightest widening of his eyes.
He was trying to give her a distraction. She played along.
“Well, I wouldn’t ask,” she said, “except that we got caught so easily because of you.”
“Oh, this is my fault now?”
“I knew I shouldn’t have brought you with me. You’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass since I met you.”
“And since I met you, you’ve been nothing but a raging bitch!”
Both Russians laughed at the comment. That was her cue.
She whirled to her right and raised her hand as if she were going to smack Grant in the face with her left hand. Grant made a show of twisting to avoid the slap. Their momentum carried them around so that they both rotated 180 degrees.
Grant struck the man behind him with a crushing blow to his shoulder. Trusting that Grant would live up to his billing as an expert in hand-to-hand combat, Morgan focused on her own guy. She grabbed the man’s pistol wrist, clasped his trigger finger, and bent it backward. The ligament snapped, causing the man to scream and drop the SIG.
The man elbowed her with the other arm, the point striking her in the ribs. She went to her knees but got back up and whipped around, grabbing the man’s hair as she slammed her shin into his thigh.
He cried out and went down. Morgan helped him, bashing his head into the pavement with a crack. The man went limp.
She looked up in time to see Grant’s opponent topple to the ground unconscious.
He stood, brushed his hands off, and walked over to Morgan. “You all right?”
She stretched her back. “I’ll be fine. Looks like you handled your guy almost as well as I handled mine.”
“His head had an unfortunate encounter with my knee.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Sorry about the ‘raging bitch’ comment.”
She pulled him to her and kissed him hard. Damn adrenaline.
When she let him go, she said, “I have to say, you are sexy as hell when you hit people.”
“You should see some video of my wrestling days.”
“I have,” she said with a smile. “Never missed one of your bouts.”
He grinned. “Why you little … And you let me think all this time that you hated me.”
“I could tell your ego was already big enough. No sense gushing over you.”
He chuckled and picked up one of the SIGs. “We have to show these guys to your bosses. Should be the proof we need to get the flight shut down. I’ll text Tyler to let him know that Colchev is down two more men.”
While Grant sent the message, Morgan scooped up the other gun and searched the man for any additional weapons or information about their plans. She came up empty and was about to tell Grant to wait here while she got security, but she didn’t need to.
Two policemen ran up to them, guns drawn. They saw the two men laid out, and pointed their pistols at Morgan and Grant.
“Drop your weapons now!” both of them yelled.
They let go of their guns and put up their hands.
“I’m a federal officer,” Morgan said.
“Show me your ID.”
“Don’t have it on me.”
The men exchanged looks, then one said, “On the ground! Do it!”
Morgan and Grant lay face down next to each other. As they were frisked, Grant said, “Maybe this isn’t going to go as smoothly as we thought.”
FIFTY-FOUR
Seething with anger, Colchev read the text message on Tyler’s phone and knew he’d have to alter his plan. According to Grant Westfield, Nisselovich and Oborski were in custody. Colchev knew they were too well-trained to talk, but without them the crew would be two passengers short when they got to the spaceplane. The flight director would certainly know something was wrong. They’d never get off the ground.
Only eight minutes remained until they were supposed to drive to the Skyward.
Colchev considered using the original passengers, who were now locked inside the hangar’s storage room, but he needed them alive, so he couldn’t take them on the spaceplane with him. He turned and eyed Tyler and Jess. Their sizes were slightly off: Tyler was taller than Nisselovich and Jess was shorter than Oborski, but they’d do.
Colchev picked up the pressure suits and thrust them at Tyler and Jess.
“Put these on.”
“Why?” Jess said.
“You two are going to be astronauts.” Seeing that they were about to protest, Colchev said, “If we don’t make it onto the Skyward, I will have no choice but to detonate the Killswitch on the ground. The gamma radiation will kill everyone at the air show. Now do it.”
Zotkin was already in his pilot’s uniform and helmet. Because he was going to fly the carrier jet, he didn’t need a pressure suit. The crash helmet and sunglasses would be enough of a disguise for him.
The three blue and gold pressure suits, however, were fully enclosed. The Skyward was pressurized, but the suits were required in the event of a hull breach. The lightweight material wasn’t exactly form-fitting, but it wasn’t nearly as bulky as the old suits the Apollo astronauts wore. While they were on the ground, a small slit in the base of the helmet allowed them to breathe. On the spaceplane the slit would be closed and an oxygen hose from the onboard environmental system could be plugged into the suit.