Red Dawn Rising (Red Returning Trilogy) (37 page)

“You’re
what
?”

She grabbed her backpack, pulled out the small handgun, and slid it into her coat pocket. “Right here!” she cried.

“Not without me.” Jordan angled dangerously toward the right curb, jumped it, and brought the car to a precarious stop. He grabbed Cass’s hand, and together they dashed across the street, dodging traffic like flags on a downhill course. At the main entrance, Cass was ready to scale the wrought-iron gate when Jordan stopped, steadied himself, then gave the rusted lock a mighty kick. The gate fell open, and Cass flashed a second of approval before they ran into the compound.

“There’s Hans!” She pointed to the figure lumbering toward a small cottage near the back wall.

“And there’s trouble,” Jordan said, swinging the other way. Their pursuer was streaking from the house in full chase with a gun in his hand. “He’s after Hans. I don’t think he sees us. Get back!” He pulled her against what appeared to be a classroom building. Then he ran toward a pile of debris nearby and pulled out a wooden board about three feet long. “Use the gun if this doesn’t work,” Jordan said, then took a position near the corner of the building concealing them. As the pounding feet grew closer, he took a batter’s stance and waited.

Seconds later, he stepped into the open and swung, bringing the full brunt of the board across the runner’s midsection. When the man doubled onto the ground, Jordan landed another blow to the back of his head and grabbed the gun from his hand. Holding it on the unconscious man, Jordan looked behind him. “No one else coming?” he asked Cass.

“Don’t see anybody. But we’ve got to tie him up.” She released the braided belt from her waist and strapped it around the man’s wrists, encountering no resistance. She noted the lump rising on his head, nothing she considered life threatening, then looked up at Jordan as if she’d never seen him before. “I didn’t know shoe salesmen could do that,” she said, tying off the last knot. She didn’t wait for a response before dashing toward the cottage. “Hurry!” she called over her shoulder.

Approaching the spot where she’d last seen Hans, she studied the brick dwelling with the windows almost completely covered by wild growth. She and Jordan found one door on the opposite side. It was open. She turned to Jordan. “Would you wait out here?” she whispered, handing him her gun. “Give me just a minute.” He nodded, comprehension clear on his face, and took a lookout position near the door.

Once inside, Cass saw that it was a studio with cobweb-laced easels stacked to one side and a few bare tables placed haphazardly about the room. The floor creaked beneath her next step, and she heard a stirring from behind a door.

“Hans, it’s Cass. You can come out.”

Something thudded to the floor behind the door as it opened slowly and a man stepped from what appeared to be a closet. “Cass?” His voice was pitched high in disbelief.

“It’s okay, Hans. You’re safe.” Though she couldn’t be sure of that. It was the shallow promise of one comforting another in an unpredictable storm.

“But how … how did you …” His pitiable face, his leaning body, the thick cording partially tied around his waist and restraining one limp arm—it was a sight too wrenching for Cass. She rushed to help him and untied most of his restraints. Then she embraced him gently, and he clung to her as if she were his last lifeline. He lowered his cheek to the top of her head and sobbed. All she could do was hold on.

Finally, he released her, and she led him to a dusty stool and made him sit while she untangled the rest of the cording. But now, he wouldn’t look at her, and she could see the shame bead up on him like a vile secretion. “You don’t know what I’ve done,” he said, his voice rasping.

“Yes, I do. You left a trail. That’s how we found you.”

He stared at her, his face pinched with a painful processing going on inside.

“That’s not all I know, Hans.”

Now the eyes riveted on her.

“Mom told me.” She searched his face. “Why couldn’t you?”

His body tipped forward, but he caught himself and turned away from
her
, silent for too long. “It’s best you ignore what you heard. Who would want me for a father?”

Cass made him look at her. “We all carry shame. Surely you know mine.”

He reached for her hand and drew it to his chest, holding it as if it were a prize. “You have no idea how much I’ve loved you. And how I betrayed you and your mother with my reckless—”

“Cass! Ava’s here!” Jordan announced from the door.

Hans dropped her hand.

“The FBI has been searching for this place,” Cass said. “Jordan and I just found it first.”

Hans stood and placed a hand on Cass’s shoulder. She knew it was to steady himself more than her. “It’s okay,” he said. “This is the right thing.”

He looked toward the door, then back at her. “I don’t know how you found me, but there’s no time for me to ask those questions. Right now, I’ve got to tell someone what’s about to happen.”

“What do you mean?”

She could feel the shaking in his body, and once more she hugged him to her. Then Mark Delaney and an army of agents rushed the small studio.

“Wait!” she called to them, but nothing was going to stop their rapid containment of this man even though he’d given no sign of escaping. They clamped handcuffs on him and led him out of the building.

“Listen to me!” Hans cried.

“Stop!” Delaney finally told his agents, then faced Hans. Ava came up beside them, followed by Cass and Jordan.

“In my right jacket pocket! Get the flash drive! It’s names and locations of people about to blow this country up!”

Delaney thrust a hand into the pocket and retrieved the drive.

“They’re all waiting for his signal. Find a laptop. Pull up the names. They’re all over the country. A dam, a nuclear plant … you can’t waste a second!”

Delaney sent one of his agents for a laptop in his car.

Hans swilled oxygen through his gaping mouth. “That’s not all. A man
named
Cyrus Neale is going to blow up a tugboat near the Brooklyn Bridge!”

Delaney gripped Hans fiercely by both arms. “When?” he shouted.

“Now!”

Chapter 44

E
vgeny hadn’t left the camper all day. He’d risked a few moments now and then to stretch his cramped legs, but never walked more than a few feet away. It was now mid afternoon, and he was beginning to doubt the relevance of the handwritten date. In a near-reclining position behind the wheel, he’d just straightened in his seat and was about to get out for another stretch when he spotted an oncoming black BMW with its turn signal blinking toward the heliport. The car was about to cross directly in front of the camper.

Sliding even farther below the wheel, he noted two men in the front seat and two or three people in back, but couldn’t see anyone clearly. He watched the car cruise slowly to the guard gate, stop for clearance, then proceed to a parking spot not far from the choppers. No one got out.

The longer they sat there, the more anxious Sonya became. “We shouldn’t be here, Ivan. You know they’re searching for us.”

“All they have found is Cyrus’s empty house and the bodies of Jeremy Rubin and his unfortunate brother-in-law. So relax, Sonya. We will be at sea shortly.”

The BMW was parked facing the river, just a few steps from Ivan’s private helicopter. From the back seat, where he sat with Sonya and an aide, Ivan leaned forward and spoke to his pilot, riding in the front passenger seat. “We will leave immediately afterward, Paul. You still anticipate no obstacles?”

“It is best that we depart before the skies fill with police and reporters.”

“Understood,” Ivan said, and clapped a friendly hand on his longtime compatriot’s shoulder.

The other two men in the car also had faithfully served Ivan for many years, believing in what he envisioned for Russia’s future.

“Sir, look there!” the driver alerted, pointing toward the river.

Ivan beamed with pleasure. “There goes a true hero. His memory will be exalted in the new Russia.” Ivan opened the back door of the car and got out. All but the driver followed. They moved toward the seawall of the heliport and stood silently as a massive tugboat plied the choppy East River, heading northeast toward the Brooklyn Bridge. Massed beneath a black tarpaulin stretched across the bow was the mother lode of explosives Ivan had smuggled to the New York docks, where a team of his countrymen had received, off-loaded, and transported them to Cyrus.

As the fateful boat passed, Ivan drew himself up straight and raised a salute toward the wheelhouse, hoping to catch Cyrus’s attention. As planned, the flag was rolled tightly on a staff near the helm. It wasn’t the white-blue-red bars of the current Russian Federation, but the gold-on-red hammer and sickle of the USSR.

Ivan felt an exhilarating rush as the minutes to detonation passed. In the final moments, Cyrus would unfurl the flag and leave no doubt that Red Russia had returned.

Sonya’s phone rang as planned. She confirmed the caller and handed the phone to Ivan, who answered jubilantly. “Cyrus, we see you! And we honor you!”

“And won’t Hans Kluen and that nervous little fellow Jeremy be surprised when they find out this is no demonstration,” Cyrus exclaimed. “No sirree! My boy deserves more than just a bunch of fireworks.”

“You are right, Cyrus. Your mission is to bring down the bridge.”

What
are they doing?
Evgeny wondered as he crept along the landside perimeter of the heliport. He could see four people assembled on the far side, gazing out at the river. He spotted the woman right away. Sonya Tretsky, he was sure. But there had been no vitals on the Architect, only a sketchy description from Jordan and the trawler captain. A couple of the men Evgeny now watched fit the stature, but all three men wore hats of some sort.

Evgeny inched as close as he could to the fence surrounding the heliport without drawing an inquiry from one of the guards. He could see only the hood of the BMW and the top half of the chopper. But those gathered at the seawall were in full view.

What was that? A salute?
Evgeny thought he saw one of the men raise a hand to the brim of his hat as a tugboat passed by. Suddenly one small scrap of information Viktor had supplied about Cyrus Neale fell solidly into place, like the tumblers of a lock. A retired merchant marine. A man who knows boats. Certainly a tugboat. Was that Cyrus Neale passing in review this very instant? On his way to … what?

Evgeny looked upriver ahead of the tug.
The bridge!

He felt the gun at his side. But the tug was too far away. There was no time. Only minutes before contact. Now the man in the wheelhouse stepped out and unfurled a flag, red with a gold—
the Soviet flag!

“No!” Evgeny cried, but his voice sailed away with the wind. He lurched forward, about to race for the guardhouse, when he heard the wail of a siren. Then another. Evgeny looked far behind the tug to see two police boats screaming up the river. Two more came from the opposite direction, running head-on at the tug. Now a loudspeaker. “Stop your boat! This is NYPD. Stop your boat, or we’ll shoot!”

The air began to convulse with something advancing from the south, and Evgeny looked up to see two NYPD choppers swoop down on the tug. In seconds, one hovered just off the boat’s stern. The other flew past, banked into a U-turn perilously close to the bridge, then flew straight on at the bow of the boat. It hovered like a monstrous dragonfly directly in the boat’s path.