No Way Out (18 page)

How does it look? Not bad. But you’re pushing your luck. How much longer?

She typed out a reply, shoved the phone back in her pocket, and resumed her ritual of letting her eyes roam the hallway while listening for signs of activity.

A moment later, the elevator bell dinged. Her head swung right, as a splash of adrenaline flooded her bloodstream. She called DeSantos. He answered quickly.

“Elevator alert.”

She kept the line open and watched as the doors slid open.

Hussein Rudenko and two other men stepped out.

“Oh shit. It’s him,” she whispered into the phone. “Three men. Repeat, three. Get out!”

DESANTOS CLOSED THE BROWSER and had launched the eraser program to remove all traces of his movements on the PC when his Nokia buzzed.

“Oh shit. It’s him. Three men. Repeat, three. Get out!”

Him—Rudenko? What about Reid—

DeSantos disconnected both calls as he shoved the Nokia into his pocket. He moved toward the window—then ran back and turned off the monitor. The program was still running, erasing his digital fingerprint. But Rudenko would know that something had been done to the computer because DeSantos had installed that software, and it wasn’t going to uninstall itself.

Key in the door, a click.

DeSantos ran back to the window, pulled it open an inch, and then slipped into the nearest bedroom.

VAIL BURIED HER CHIN against her chest.

Wanted on multiple continents, Rudenko had not survived this long in a dangerous business, striking deals with despots and drug lords, without being smart and cunning.

If Vail revealed herself, Rudenko would ask her what she was doing at his apartment. She had no good answer—at least, not one she could share with him. He would know they had discovered his true identity—and that would not end well for her and DeSantos. While they were not carrying handguns, an infamous arms dealer would almost certainly have something concealable on his person. It would not be much of a fight.

No. DeSantos would have to work this out himself. Hopefully she gave him enough notice to get out or find a place to hide.

28

D
eSantos concealed himself behind the open bedroom door, eyes searching for a location where he could remain out of sight—or at least maintain a strategic advantage.

The modest room was nearly devoid of furniture: centered on the long wall stood a contemporary, high-gloss mahogany queen platform bed, which eliminated an obvious, though effective, hiding place, and a matching dresser. Nothing offered him a better vantage point than where he currently stood.

Voices chattered in the living room, where the computer desk sat. They were speaking Arabic, and from what DeSantos could tell, the conversation was casual, if not jovial.

So far, so good.

But then the man he guessed was Rudenko—based on his memory of Paxton’s intonations from the time they met at the gallery—said something that raised the hairs on his neck. “Make sure they’re well hidden. I don’t want something stupid to trip us up. And make sure the driver doesn’t run any red lights.”

Had he been in the States, DeSantos would be equipped with sufficient weaponry to challenge Rudenko and his men. Even if it was only a handgun, it would increase his chances of a successful attack to “possible.” But at this distance, against three men, and armed with only a knife, taking the offensive was not a winning strategy. Until he knew the extent of Rudenko’s network and the location of the chemical weapons, he could not be as aggressive as he would otherwise be: he had to capture Rudenko, not kill him.

But perhaps there was another option.

DeSantos moved the door slowly and peered through the crack below the top hinge. Across the way was the bathroom.

DeSantos pictured the layout of the apartment: the hallway that led to the two bedrooms and bathroom stood perpendicular to another corridor that opened into the living room, where Rudenko and his men were huddled.

What is this on your computer?

One of Rudenko’s men had noticed the program DeSantos left running.
He had to act now.

DeSantos moved out from behind the door and took a box of tissues from atop the dresser. Holding it like a football, he tossed it into the tub; it hit and landed with a
thunk
! that was sure to arouse suspicion.

He threw his back up against the wall beside the open doorway. And listened.

Umar, you hear that?

Rudenko’s voice:
Waleed, go see.

Then the third man:
It deleted some files, erased them.

DeSantos heard footsteps approaching along the wood floor. He waited, pressed as flat as possible against the wall. A second later, the footsteps stopped.

He knew Waleed was looking in the bathroom and that his next place to check would be the bedroom.

When Waleed ducked his head in, DeSantos was ready. With lizard-like quickness, he fisted the man’s hair in both hands and yanked him forward—eliciting intense pain—and then drove his knee into Waleed’s face. His head snapped back, a stunned look in his eyes.

But DeSantos did not give him time to clear his jumbled thoughts or tighten his neck muscles. DeSantos slid his hands down to his ears and forcefully jerked the neck in rotary fashion, snapping the second cervical vertebra and effecting what special forces call “a silent death.”

He pulled Waleed completely into the room and tossed him on the bed. DeSantos quickly patted down the man’s limp body—and found a Tokarev 7.62 handgun.

He press-checked the chamber to be sure it was ready to fire.

If Rudenko’s men were anything like the mercenaries he had encountered over the years, Umar would realize his comrade had gone quiet and he would come looking.

DeSantos moved to the doorway and waited. Listened. He heard nothing. Perhaps he had underestimated him. Seconds passed.

DeSantos wondered where Rudenko was—as well as where Vail was. Finally he could wait no longer. If Rudenko had left, he had to find him before he went into the wind.

He swung out into the hallway—and got a face full of boot. He fell backward and landed on the floor, the Tokarev flying from his hand and discharging a round.

Umar kicked away the handgun and pointed his own pistol at DeSantos.

VAIL HEARD THE GUNSHOT. She leaped to her feet and ran toward the apartment door. Tried the knob. Locked.

Of course. Why should this be easy?

She stepped back and with all her momentum, threw her right shoulder against the wood panel. It budged, rattled a bit on the frame—but that was about it.
Fuck
.

She did it again, and again—and got nowhere.

It’s loosening. Keep going.

Was it? Didn’t matter—she had to believe she was going to get in. DeSantos did not have a handgun, so the discharged round was not good news.
Damnit, I should’ve knocked right away; then they would’ve answered the door. How much of a threat would I have been?

Three more blows had definitely done some damage—to her shoulder.

Vail shifted her weight and slammed her right foot into the jamb near the lock. It was a solid, square kick, and the wood splintered and finally gave. One more blast with her shoulder and she tumbled into the apartment.

It was at this point she usually leveled her Glock at the occupants and yelled, “Freeze, FBI!”

But she had no Glock.

She had no jurisdiction.

And she was going after assholes who didn’t give a damn about those three famous letters.

Along the far wall, the window was open a couple of feet and the curtain billowed in the gentle breeze.
Rudenko
.

“Hector!” she said as she started into the living room.

“I’m fine. Go!”

DeSantos’s voice, off to the right. He sounded like he was in distress, but she did as he suggested and headed for the window.

“WHO ARE YOU?” Umar said in British-accented English.

“A friend. I’m here to help. I’ve got a message for Mr. Rudenko.”

Umar tilted his head.

That’s right, fuckhead, makes no sense. You have to figure this out.

“Mr. Rudenko,” DeSantos said, leaning right as if the man was standing behind Umar.

Umar turned his head to look—and that was all DeSantos needed. He swung his left leg in a sweeping motion and hooked his shoe behind Umar’s knee and threw him off balance.

He scrambled to his feet and buried his head in Umar’s stomach just as the man was turning back toward him. He swiveled his body as DeSantos made contact, minimizing the blow, and then grabbed DeSantos’s shirt with his left hand. His right maintained a grip on the pistol, but DeSantos kept Umar’s wrist pinned against his thigh, preventing him from raising it and pointing the weapon at him.

The two men wrestled in place to a standoff until DeSantos brought up his right leg and kneed him hard in the groin. Umar recoiled, and the pistol hit the wood floor with a clunk as DeSantos slammed his fist into Umar’s nose. The blow stunned him. Umar’s head snapped back and his body went limp. Blood spurted from his nose.

DeSantos didn’t want to kill him—not yet—because he might have information they could use. And DeSantos did not know how integrated Umar was in Rudenko’s network. He could be a valuable asset.

DeSantos spun him around and shoved him up against the wall, then kicked apart his legs. With his left foot, he corralled the Tokarev and brought it close. He bent down and took it in his hand, shoved it into the back of Umar’s skull, and said, “Now. You’re going to tell me everything that I want to know and I’ll let you live. If you don’t, I’ll pull the trigger and splatter your brains all over the lovely white paint. Understand?”

Umar nodded.

“Good.”

JUST OUTSIDE THE WINDOW, a metal fire escape wound its way down the side of the building. And nearing the bottom was Hussein Rudenko, a.k.a. Gavin Paxton.

Vail vaulted through the opening and landed with a thump. Her boots slipped against the slick surface and sent her into the metal balustrade. Her sore shoulder protested.

She started down, feet clanging the steel steps, her weight causing the structure to bounce as she descended.

Seconds later, Rudenko had made street level and began dodging cars as he crossed the road against the light.

Vail was not far behind him, but she knew that when she hit the ground floor she would lose the benefit of the high vantage point. And since she didn’t know London, Rudenko could easily slip into an alley, a tube station, a coffee shop—and she would run right by him.

Vail jumped to the pavement and started in Rudenko’s direction, passing a kiosk vendor selling “Magic Corn” for £2 a cup, in multiple flavors. She didn’t stop to order but definitely could have used some magic right now—because she’d lost sight of the man who had eluded law enforcement the world over for decades, who had single-handedly caused so much death and destruction.

How can I be so close, and yet so far?

Sirens, a block or two away. She made a quick visual search of each shop as she passed by. But as the moments ticked by, she realized her efforts were fruitless.

Two white Metropolitan Police cruisers pulled to the curb, their flat, low profile light bars whipping blue and red lights, a fluorescent orange and blue stripe running the length of the vehicles’ side panels.

Probably responding to the gunshot.

AFTER TAKING ONE last survey of the area, Vail texted DeSantos. She gave him her twenty, and a moment later he came running down the block. He had a large red bruise on his chin.

She gave him the bad news that Rudenko had escaped.

“Son of a bitch.” DeSantos kicked an empty beer can down the sidewalk.

“If he goes underground, we’re totally screwed.”

“He won’t go underground,” DeSantos said. “He’s got an attack to launch. But that doesn’t mean he’ll be easy to find.” He slammed his toe against the can again and sent it under the tire of a passing cab. It crushed pancake-thin with a crunch.

“Let’s get out of the street,” he said. “More of his men may be around. Not to mention the police.”

“The police?”

“My DNA’s all over that place, not to mention prints, hair, fibers. I left them a treasure trove of forensics.”

“Do they—or Interpol—have your prints?”