A Raging Storm (10 page)

She slipped on a terry-cloth robe and let him inside.

“I got this from downstairs,” he said. “It’s an English breakfast. I’ve got scrambled eggs, sausage, black pudding, baked beans, and a slice of tomato.” He waved the tray under her face.

She suddenly felt nauseous. And that made him smile.

“Since I spent the night elsewhere,” he continued, “I took the liberty of ducking into your room at the Marriott and grabbing you some fresh clothes. There in the hotel bag.” He dropped a plastic bag on the bed.

“How come you’re so bright and cheery?” she asked.

“I had to take a very cold shower after you locked me out.”

“Just one cold shower? I figured you’d need a couple.”

“The shower was enough to lower my expectations.”

“Cute,” she said.

“I’m going to fill up the rental with petrol,” he said in a mock British accent. “We need to leave in an hour in order to get to the protest rally. Enjoy your breakfast.”

Showers was nursing the worst hangover she’d had since college as they rode to Oxford. She kept her eyes closed under her sunglasses and fought the urge to vomit each time the car hit a bump or pothole.

The anti-Barkovsky rally was being held in the grassy fields of Oxford University Parks, on the northeast edge of the thirty-eight independent colleges that made up the school. Storm parked on a dirt road near the Old Observatory, and they walked toward a stage that had been constructed specifically for the protest. The platform rose only two feet above the grass and was only large enough for a podium and four chairs. There were about a thousand protesters mingling around it. A young girl told them that everyone was waiting for Petrov, who was running late.

As was his practice, Storm surveyed the crowd and immediately spotted three men who seemed to be out of place at the rally. They were Eastern European and in their thirties. Most of the others in the crowd were younger students or older professors.

“Did you bring your Glock?” he asked Storm.

“Yes,” she said. “You don’t have to yell.”

“I wasn’t.”

Just the same, he lowered his voice when he said, “I’m going to point out three men. If my hunch is correct, you may have to shoot them. If you can’t, give me your gun.”

“I’m not giving you my gun,” she said. “And you don’t have to point them out. The fact that they are wearing London Fog overcoats and the sun is out and it is hot makes them stick out. How do you want to handle this?”

Two black Mercedes-Benz S-Class 600 sedans with tinted windows appeared on a road to the right of the park, about two hundred yards away. When they came to a stop, Petrov and Lebedev stepped from the first car. Security Chief Nad stepped from the second. The two cars’ drivers fell in behind the group, and Petrov and his entourage began walking toward the stage.

“I’ll intercept Petrov and Nad,” he said. “You keep an eye on those men.”

“Do you think Nad and the two security guards are armed?” Showers asked.

“I sure as hell hope so.” He started making his way around the crowd.

Storm had gone about twenty feet when he saw two golf carts speeding from behind the platform. Driven by two students, the carts were decorated with anti-Barkovsky placards and were en route to give the guest and his attendants a ride to the stage. Storm realized it would be impossible for him to reach Petrov and his entourage in time.

One of the golf carts delivered Petrov to the stage. Lebedev and Nad stayed in the back of it. The two bodyguards positioned themselves at the front of the platform, on either side of it.

Nad had only brought two men with her! Both wore PROTEC security badges on their dark blazers and berets. If they were any good, they would notice the three interlopers
.

The three Eastern Europeans separated. One positioned himself directly in front of the speaker’s podium. The other two moved to the left and right of the stage, taking spots directly in line with the two PROTEC bodyguards. Showers was on Storm’s left and was keeping an eye on the suspect closest to her.

Storm zeroed in on the suspect in front of the podium. He would be the one responsible for shooting Petrov. The others would be tasked with killing his two bodyguards and then backing up their friend. Storm searched for Nad and noticed that she was not studying the crowd as she should have been. Instead, she was watching Petrov, who was now behind the podium being introduced.

The crowd began clapping as Petrov began to speak.

Picking up his pace, Storm began shoving spectators out of his way. “Move! Move!” he yelled. He was trying to start such a commotion that Petrov and his security guards would notice. Both guards did and slowly reached under their jackets. Nad spotted him, too, but Petrov was too preoccupied with his speech to take note. “Hey, Petrov!” Storm yelled. The Russian stopped mid-sentence.

Everyone was looking at Storm, except for the three attackers in their trench coats.

Storm yelled: “Duck!”

The Eastern European directly in line with Petrov screamed, “Traitor!” and pulled a .45-caliber pistol from under this jacket. He began firing just as Storm tackled him from behind. Petrov collapsed on stage.

The shooter’s two companions drew Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns from under their coats and killed both PROTEC bodyguards with sprays of bullets.

Antonija Nad ran across the stage to Petrov, who had blood coming from his chest. Panic erupted. Some protestors hit the ground; others bolted in different directions, while some stood petrified with fear.

Storm was now lying on the back of the downed gunman. He grabbed the shooter’s right hand, pinning his pistol against the grass. But the gunman was stronger than Storm had estimated. With his free left hand, the shooter pushed his body upward, knocking Storm from his back, but not before Storm was able to break the gunman’s hold on his pistol.

Both men sprang from the grass to face each other. The shooter reached under his coat for a Russian military-issued knife, which he jabbed at Storm. In an expert move, Storm dodged the blade, grabbed the attacker’s hand, and twisted the blade backward, plunging it into the man’s chest. In a move known on the street as “running the gears,” Storm jerked the blade upward, then sideways, then sideways again and finally down into his victim’s stomach before releasing his grip. The shooter’s lifeless body fell limp onto the ground while Storm reached for the gunman’s discarded .45 handgun.

While Storm was subduing the first shooter, Showers had drawn her Glock and fired at the the assailant nearest her. One of her rounds had struck him in his skull, killing him instantly. That had left only one assassin alive, and when he’d heard Showers’s pistol fire, he’d shot a burst in her direction from his submachine gun.

One of the rounds hit its mark, smacking into her shoulder. Her right arm became useless, her Glock falling from her fingers as she grabbed her wound with her left hand and fell to the grass for cover.

Storm fired at the gunman with the retrieved .45.
Rap. Rap
. Two rounds fired at the attacker’s head.
Pop. Pop
. Another two at his chest. As he fell, the gunman’s finger pinched the trigger of his submachine gun, emptying what remained of its thirty-round clip into the air and ground around him.

Storm ran to Showers, who was fighting to catch her breath. He got her to her feet, put her Glock into its holster, and looked for help.

“Hang on!” he told her.

During the melee, Lebedev had commandeered a golf cart and driven to one of the Mercedes. He was now racing the sedan across the park toward them. A wounded Petrov was being helped off the platform by Nad.

Leaping from the driver’s seat, Lebedev opened the car’s rear passenger door and yelled. “Bring Petrov here!”

Nad screamed, “He’s still alive! We must get him to a hospital!”

Together they shoved Petrov’s huge body into the sedan’s backseat.

With his right arm wrapped around her waist, Storm hurried Showers toward the Mercedes.

“I’ll take her, too!” Lebedev yelled.

“We’ll follow in my rental,” Storm said. “It’s closer.”

Lebedev pressed the accelerator and the giant Mercedes spit a rooster tail of grass and dirt from under its back wheels, leaving Nad and Storm behind.

Storm ran to the parked Vauxhall and had already buckled in and started the rental by the time Nad joined him in its passenger seat. The Mercedes was nearly out of sight as he drove south toward St. Cross Road.

“Turn left,” Nad ordered.

Storm glanced at the illuminated GPS screen in car’s dash. Downtown Oxford was to his right. He hesitated but then spotted the Mercedes on his left just cresting a hill less than a mile away. It was heading away from Oxford, too. Away from the nearest hospital.

Storm felt a pit of dread in his stomach. He pressed the gas pedal, causing the Vauxhall’s engine to scream. The speedometer registered 136 kilometers per hour and was still moving forward.

The Mercedes was now a half mile ahead, but Storm was making up ground. Without warning, the black sedan suddenly slowed and turned off the main highway onto a dirt path. It disappeared into a patch of woods.

Storm pushed the pedal harder.

“Slow down,” Nad commanded.

He looked to his left in the English-made car and saw that she had drawn her CZ P-01 semiautomatic pistol and was now pointing it at his chest.

“I told you to slow down,” she said. “And turn where Lebedev turned.”

Georgi Lebedev pulled a pistol from under his jacket and leveled it at Showers seconds after he parked the Mercedes under the row of trees.

“Give me your gun,” he told her.

Already in intense pain and holding her wound with her left hand, Showers grimaced and Lebedev realized that her right arm was useless. He reached across the car seat and snatched her Glock from the holster on her right hip.

“It’s time for the truth!” he hollered at Petrov, who was sprawled across the sedan’s backseat, moaning and clutching his abdomen. Blood dotted his white dress shirt.

“Where is the gold hidden?” Lebedev yelled.

“Gold,” Showers repeated. “What gold?”

“Shut up!” Lebedev yelled.

“Georgi Ivanovich,” Petrov pleaded. “Take me to the hospital! I’m dying.”

“Tell me where the gold is hidden, then we will go to the hospital.”

“But we are brothers,” Petrov gasped. “Why are you doing this?”

“No, Ivan Sergeyevich,” Lebedev said. “I’m your lapdog. You feed me scraps. But no more. Never again. Where is the gold?”

Petrov cut loose with a string of expletives.

Without flinching, Lebedev fired the Glock into the back car seat, near Petrov’s head. The shot made a deafening sound inside the sedan, but it was not loud enough to drown Petrov’s screams.

“The next one will be in your foot,” said Lebedev. “And then your balls.”

“Slow down or I will shoot you,” Nad said. “Slow down and turn right at that stone house ahead.”

The abandoned farmhouse was next to the dirt road where the Mercedes had turned moments earlier.

Instead of slowing, Storm jammed the car’s gas pedal against the floor.

“I was wrong. I thought you and Lebedev would not show your hand until later,” he said calmly.