Ghosts of War (38 page)

I
made Veep slow down so I could study the apartment buildings on my right. The GPS was saying Tatum's address was two hundred meters away, but that didn't mean much. The only thing I trusted from it right now was that it had me on the correct street.

We'd already reached the outskirts of Lodz before the Taskforce had called with an address and description. They'd managed to crack the web server of the real estate agent, but had then had to scrounge up someone who spoke Polish to translate. Luckily, there weren't a lot of Americans renting from this agent—in point of fact, only one—so it hadn't taken long to find the correct address.

We'd pulled over, plugged the address into the GPS, and reorganized. I'd decided that the males would bird-dog the apartment, and then the females would approach. They could knock on the door without any fear of retaliation and then get a read of the atmospherics. From there, it was up to them. Either enter, or back off and wait on us.

Veep said, “We just passed the GPS coordinates. It's supposed to be behind us now.”

I said, “Yeah, but the description in the file states it's a corner apartment with views two ways. That GPS grid doesn't fit.”

We reached a cross street and I saw a pile of bricks on the ground from a hole in the wall of the last apartment. I said, “That's it.”

“How do you know?”

“He came home because of a plumbing problem. The real estate file says it's a corner apartment, and we're on the right street. Pull over.”

He did so, and I radioed the rear car, “Koko, we have it. It's the last apartment on this block. Go ahead and park. We'll keep eyes on.”

She acknowledged and Aaron said, “Pike, movement from the apartment.”

I turned around and saw two men leap out, comically look left and right, then bolt across the street into a park. The shirttail of one flapped up as he went across, and I saw the butt of a pistol.

What the hell?

I said, “Change of plans. Koko, Carrie, dismount and follow those guys. Find out what they're doing.”

“Roger all.”

“Careful. They're armed.”

To the car I said, “Kit up. We're going in hard.”

Ten seconds later we were jogging up to the front door. Veep tried the knob, then nodded at me. I nodded back, and he swung the door inward, allowing me access.

I raised my weapon and saw a man talking on a cell phone, his back to me. The rest of the team came barreling in, clearing the apartment. He turned at the noise, dropped the phone and reached for his belt. I closed the distance and hammered him across the bridge of his nose with the suppressor of my Glock. He fell to his knees.

Veep came from the back, saying, “It's clear.”

Aaron picked up the phone, seeing it was still connected. He said, “Hello?”

He waited, listening, and I saw him smile. He began speaking in Yiddish. He turned to me and said, “He hung up. Can't imagine why.”

Confused, I said, “Who was it?”

“Mikhail. I recognized the voice.”

“What did you tell him?”

“He asked who I was. In Yiddish, I said, ‘I'm the bill collector. I'm coming for the payment.'”

“No shit. I didn't think you had that sort of humor in you.”

“That wasn't humor. I
am
coming for him.” And for the first time, I saw a little of the dark angel that hovered so close to the surface with Shoshana, floating deep within him.

I replied, “You should have said, ‘I want my two dollars.'”

“Huh?”

“It's a joke from a movie. . . . Never mind. Veep, start SSE. Turn this place upside down and see what you can find.”

I turned to the Russian at my feet and said, “You speak English?”

He just stared at me with his pale eyes, uncomprehending, and I knew I was out of luck.

Aaron said, “He speaks English. He would have at least understood that question and shook his head. He's faking.”

Aaron squatted down, saying, “If he doesn't have that capability, he'll be able to speak my language, I promise. Everyone understands pain.”

He was five inches away from the Russian, and the dark angel blossomed in him, just like it did with Shoshana, scaring even me. It finally dawned what the connection was between the two of them. She wasn't the odd one out. She was
him
, only he kept it hidden deep. It caused a serious reappraisal of everything I knew about the two.

He bored into the Russian, and the man cracked, just like that. “I speak English.”

Without breaking his stare, Aaron said, “We have some questions for you, and an answer of ‘I don't know' will not suffice. Do you understand?”

J
ennifer and Shoshana managed to keep the men in sight without spiking even as they ran through the park. They were clearly searching for someone and, because of that, spent just as much time running parallel as moving forward. Eventually, they reached the top end and began arguing between themselves. One of them pointed to the west, and Jennifer saw a large brick building with the word
MANUFAKTURA
on top. On the walkway leading to it were multiple sculptures painted in bright colors, and throngs of people coming and going.

A shopping area?

The men took off toward it, no longer outright sprinting, but jogging with their heads on a swivel. Jennifer and Shoshana fought to keep up without showing a signature that they were, in fact, trying to keep up. The men were caught at the pedestrian crossing for a four-lane road, both sides building up with people waiting to cross. Jennifer and Shoshana joined the crowd, watching the light.

When it changed, the men jogged across, then slowed to a walk, glancing all around, trying to find someone in the crowds.

Jennifer and Shoshana followed, still with no idea whom they were looking for. They walked past the sculptures, then entered the building at the end of the brick promenade, and Jennifer found it
was
a shopping area. A gigantic, three-story mall not unlike the kind found in America, with even a few American brand stores sprinkled throughout.

The men discussed, and one took the escalator to the second floor, while the other pressed ahead. Without needing to use words,
Shoshana split off, taking the escalator. Jennifer followed the man who'd stayed on the ground floor.

They began to wind through the mall, him still craning his neck at each store entrance, and her earpiece came alive.

“Koko, Carrie, this is Pike, you copy?”

She acknowledged and heard “We caught a guy here, and he's talking. They're after Amy Tatum, Devon's wife. She was being held hostage and managed to escape. They're using her as leverage to force him to give them access to the base.”

Her phone vibrated, and he said, “Just sent a picture. I don't know how old it is, but Devon's in uniform, and he's wearing captain rank, so it can't be that off.”

She looked, seeing a bright, cheerful woman a little on the heavy side, but with a beaming smile.

She said, “Got it.”

“She's the key to stopping Devon. Find her before they do.”

Shoshana came on. “What's Devon doing?”

“He thinks he's facilitating them taking pictures, but he's really transporting a dirty bomb.”

Jennifer said, “Tell the base to stop him.”

“I'm afraid to do that. I'm afraid with his wife's life in the balance he may do something stupid to gain access. We also have no idea how that thing is triggered, or whether his passenger is on a suicide run. Remember Secretary of State Billings? His captor had the detonator on his body. Billings would be alive today if we'd realized it, and I'm not making the same mistake twice. I've got Blood prepared to interdict at the base, but this is much more than simply preventing an attack against our aircraft. If they trigger anywhere on the base—even if it's at the front gate—it could be catastrophic. We need her to contact him. Give him a way out.”

Shoshana came on. “Break, break. I found her. I say again, I found her. She's in the food court. The other guy is tracking her.”

“He's found her too?”

“Yes. He just closed in. He's sitting right next to her. He's holding her arm, and I'm pretty sure he's got a weapon on her.”

“Shit. The guy here says they're going to kill her the first chance they get.”

Jennifer saw her man answer his cell phone. She said, “My target's on the phone. He's turning around.”

Shoshana said, “Pike, he just stood her up. What do you want?”

Jennifer heard “What do I want? I want the fucking Pumpkin King.”

—

Amy reached the top of the escalator and went around to the side, where she could get a view of the entrance. Drawing in deep breaths, she began to calm down when the two men chasing her didn't appear.

In the park, her small bit of safety vanished the minute she finished with the dog-walker. She'd made the decision to sprint to the mall and then had seen the two men who'd held her breaking into the park, scaring the life out of her. She should have had at least another five minutes on the loose before they discovered she was missing.

They must have heard something.

She crouched behind a bush, the option of sprinting now lost to her because it would highlight where she was. Luckily, it was easy to keep track of the two chasing her precisely because they were running back and forth like a couple of dogs chasing a ball.

She kept the bushes between her and them and managed to slink four feet at a time to the far side of the park. She circled a building, now blocked from view of the park, and began speed-walking toward the mall. She reached the four-lane road at a bus stop, and waited for the light to allow her to cross. It did, and she was halfway across before she glanced at the large crowd on the main crosswalk a hundred feet to her left.

She saw her hunters and almost froze.

She kept walking, getting to the far side, once again putting a building between her and the men. She'd taken off running at that point, trying to gain entrance to the mall while they searched the crowds on the primary walkway. She reached the building and sidled toward the entrance, scanning the crowds. She didn't see the hunters. She ripped open the doors and immediately took the escalator to the second level, then wound around to watch.

She waited for another couple of seconds, becoming calmer, then the two entered the lower level. She immediately crouched down, afraid they had some magical method of seeing her.

The men split, one moving to the escalator that would lead him directly to her. She faded back in a panic, entering the food court. A large area ringed with various vendors selling the usual American fast food, along with some Polish fare, it was crowded and loud. She ran to the far corner and sat at a table behind a pillar, cautiously peeking out around it.

She decided to wait until the man came through, playing the same hide-and-seek game she had in the park. She peeked out again, and felt a bolt of adrenaline when she couldn't see where he'd gone. She craned to her left, looking around the pillar the other way, and locked eyes with him. She bolted upright, and he closed in on her, seizing her arm and forcing her into a chair. He shook his head left and right, showed a pistol in his waistband, then said something in Russian.

He dialed his phone, spoke into it, then tilted his head toward the door. She sat still. He pinched her arm and, holding the skin in his hands, stood. She did as well.

He marched her to the escalator, and the glide down felt like a mini-movie detailing the end of her life.

When they reached the bottom, the other man was waiting. He positioned himself on her left side, and they exited, but they didn't go
down the main promenade. They steered her to the left, toward the parking garage in the distance, the sidewalk deserted.

They began walking, and she realized they weren't taking her back to the house. They were going to kill her, right here, in broad daylight. Her husband was more than likely already dead.

She began to cry, stumbling forward, and the man to her left said, “
Shhhh
,” shaking his head.

She tried to stop, but couldn't. The man on the left jerked her arm and sat her on a bench, off the gritty sidewalk and behind a maintenance shed. He sat next to her, and she thought,
This is it
.

He put a finger to her lips, and she realized they were simply waiting on some pedestrians to pass. Two females were coming down the walkway, talking animatedly.

They drew closer, and she recognized that they were speaking English. One was definitely American, with a blond ponytail. The other had an accent she couldn't place, with black hair cut in a pageboy.

For a fleeting moment, she thought about shouting at them to get their attention. But she knew she couldn't. All it would do was get them killed, and she couldn't be responsible for that.

They came abreast, and in the span of a second, she realized she had feared for the life of the wrong people.

Without warning, the two women turned toward the bench. The man standing in front of her, pretending to be engaged in conversation, made a half turn before his head exploded, spraying the man seated to her left in gore. The sitting man made it halfway off the bench before he suffered the same fate. He collapsed back, making more noise in the fall than the weapon that had caused his death.

Her mouth opening and closing in shock, she looked at her new enemies. The women were both holding pistols from an action movie, with large, bulbous barrels that showed a trace of smoke. The pageboy haircut said, “Make this quick,” then retreated to the walkway,
looking back the way they'd come. The blonde said, “Amy, my name is Jennifer Cahill. Are you all right?”

She nodded dumbly, her mouth still open in shock.

The blonde said, “Good, because we really need you to call your husband.”

She fainted.