Dead Man's Rule (27 page)

There was a knock at the door just as Shamil ended his conversation with General Shishani. Umar and Mamed came running up the stairs and appeared at the old desk where Shamil sat. They had been in the basement, guarding the semiconscious prisoner, but they knew their roles in defending against intruders.

Shamil nodded and gestured for them to take their positions. Mamed ran to cover the back door, while Umar went to the lobby. He quickly crouched down behind two carefully positioned file cabinets. The drawers had all been filled with sand, making them effectively bulletproof. Umar was virtually invisible from the door, but his range of fire covered the entire room.

A second, more forceful knock rattled the old door in its warped jambs.

“Just a moment!” called Shamil in a friendly voice as Umar settled in and positioned himself.

When they were ready, Shamil opened the door and saw a police officer. He was smiling and his gun was in its holster, but he had the shrewd eyes of a man who has spent decades dealing with liars. The shirt inside his open jacket had the stiff, bulky look that told Shamil he was wearing a Kevlar vest. He hoped Umar would notice as well and not waste bullets on chest shots.

“How can I help you?” asked Shamil.

“We’re looking for these two men,” said the policeman, holding out two sketches. “Have you seen them?”

A tingle of apprehension ran down Shamil’s spine and settled in his stomach. One of the drawings was clearly General Shishani—it even had his name and description. The other was his bodyguard, Iljas, though the likeness was not as good. He shook his head and handed the sketches back. “No. I am sorry; I have not seen those men.”

“Are you sure?” asked the officer, looking him in the eye. “They were seen coming out of this building.”

“That must be a mistake. Those men have never been here.”

“Do you mind if I come in and look around?”

“We are very busy now. Tomorrow you can come.”

Shamil started to close the door, but the policeman put his hand on it. “It’s an emergency.”

“Okay. For an emergency, you can come in.”

“Thank you,” said the officer as Shamil opened the door and stepped aside. “We’ll try not to interfere with your operations,” he continued, scanning the dimly lit room as he crossed the threshold. His eyes caught the oddly configured file cabinets in the corner and he reached for his gun.

Two quick gunshots flashed from between the cabinets. The first hit the policeman squarely in the forehead, jerking his head back. The second tore through his exposed neck and shattered his spine. His body collapsed backward onto the doorstep.

Shamil signaled Mamed, and seconds later the other policeman lay dead in the alleyway behind the building.

A hundred yards away, Elena Kamenev looked through the scope on her rifle and watched in horror as the policeman flopped down lifelessly. The man who had opened the door reached down to pull in the body. She put a bullet through the top of his head. He fell heavily on top of the officer’s body and lay still.

Adrenaline poured into her blood, and her heart raced. Her training kicked in and she automatically slowed her breath to steady her nerves and improve her aim. She chambered the next round, watching the inside of the room carefully. She couldn’t see her target and waited for some movement before firing.

It came a split second later—a metallic glint and then the flash of a gunshot. A car window shattered twenty yards to her right, setting off a screeching alarm. She fired at the flash.

Nothing moved in the shadowy interior of the room. She glanced around, looking for other shooters who might be stalking her. Nothing. She took out her cell phone and called Frank Hernandez.

“Hi, Elena,” he said. “How’d it go?”

“There’s an officer down with a head wound and I’m taking fire,” she said quickly. “I need that SWAT team and an ambulance.”

She paused. If Sergei was still alive, there was a good chance they would kill him now. She pictured finding him crumpled on the floor with a bullet hole in the back of his head, his skin still warm. She knew better than to go into a situation like this alone, but she couldn’t bear the thought of being too late to save him.

“I’m going in.” She ended the call before Frank could object.

Slinging her rifle across her back, she took out her pistol and ran out from behind the car where she had been crouching. Gunfire erupted from inside as she ran toward the building. She squeezed off several shots and dove behind a row of mailboxes.

It had been a risk, but worth it. She had covered about thirty yards and had a better angle for shooting into the door. Also, the three-inch gap separating each box from its neighbor provided just enough room for a rifle barrel. Elena holstered her pistol and slipped her sniper rifle between two boxes. She rested the stock on her thumb, providing a steady brace as she looked through the scope. She saw the two file cabinets and an indistinct shape behind them. It moved slightly and she saw that it was a man holding a gun. She fired. The figure collapsed and the gun fell to the floor between the two cabinets.

Elena cautiously poked her head from behind the mailboxes and surveyed the scene inside the doorway. Nothing moved, so she got up and ran toward the building again. The seconds it took to cross the narrow street and weedy lawn seemed an eternity. She reached the door and flattened herself against the wall to the right of it.

Heart pounding, she pulled out her Glock, took a deep breath, and turned into the doorway. She stepped awkwardly to get around the two bodies lying in the entrance. She momentarily lost her balance and nearly tripped. If the lobby had held any living Chechens, she’d be dead.

Fortunately, it didn’t. She regained her footing, crossed the lobby to another doorway, and peeked around the corner. The door opened into a long hallway. A man at the other end of the hall turned and saw her at the same instant she saw him. She pulled her head back just as he fired a shot. A cloud of plaster exploded from the wall a few inches from the doorway. Running steps retreated into the building.

Gambling that she wasn’t stepping into an ambush, Elena ran through the doorway and down the hall, following the sound of the steps. She reached the door at the other end and saw the man’s back disappearing into another doorway.

“Freeze! FBI!” she yelled, but he ignored her and raced down a flight of stairs.

“Help!” a man’s voice called from somewhere in the distance. “Down here!” The voice was weak and hoarse, but she recognized it at once—
Sergei!

The sound of gunfire jolted Sergei more or less awake. Thirst and the aftereffects of a concussion slowed his thoughts. A growing fever also fogged his mind, and at first he thought he was dreaming or hallucinating. But as the shots and yells grew closer and louder, he realized what must be happening.

He heard sounds behind him and twisted his head around in time to see a gun-wielding man come running down the stairs that led to Sergei’s prison. It was the same one who had threatened and pistol-whipped him earlier.

They’re going to kill me before I can be rescued.
“Help! Down here!” he croaked as loudly as he could.

But the man ignored Sergei. He stepped to the side of the doorway at the bottom of the stairs and pressed himself against the wall, his gun at eye level and pointed toward the staircase, poised to blow the head off of whoever came down next.

I’m bait,
Sergei realized, kicking himself for shouting.

A woman’s feet appeared on the stairs, cautiously and silently picking their way past nearly invisible booby-trap trip wires. As more of the woman’s body appeared, Sergei realized that it was Elena.

“Look out!” Sergei yelled. “Bottom of the stairs on the right!”

The man whipped his gun around and aimed it at Sergei. The detective jerked his body sideways, tipping the chair over. A flash and explosion went off simultaneously behind him, and a bullet whizzed past his right shoulder as he fell. The man fired again and the bullet ricocheted off the steel frame of the chair back. But Sergei didn’t notice—he had struck his head on the concrete floor and was unconscious again.

Elena jumped down the remaining stairs while the Chechen was shooting at Sergei. She landed nimbly with her gun aimed at his chest. “Freeze!” she ordered.

He swung the gun back toward her.

Bang!

The man staggered backward, looking down in shock at the bullet hole in his chest. His eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, dead before he hit the floor.

Elena ran over to Sergei, who lay motionless on the floor. Fearing the worst, she checked his pulse and breathing and looked for wounds. Relief poured through her when she found that he was still alive and hadn’t been shot. His skin was hot to the touch, however, and angry red streaks spread out from the long burns on his back. And he still hadn’t woken up.

“Sergei!” she cried, cradling his head in her hands. “Can you hear me? Sergei!”

He opened his eyes and looked at her blearily. “Elena?” he groaned through dry, cracked lips. “What happened? Did you get him?”

“Yeah, I got him.”

“Did you get the other ones? I think . . .” His mind wandered for a few seconds, then he focused again with a visible effort. “Two. Yeah, I think there were two more. Did you get ’em?”

“I got ’em.”

He smiled weakly. “Gotta love a woman who can shoot.” Then he passed out again.