The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(60)

Zhomov had been hyperfocused at the time but was now amazed at the vastness of the tunnels and how they spoked from a central tunnel. Each time he came to an intersection he stopped, listened, and searched the intersecting tunnels for a glimpse of artificial light. Seeing none, he followed the cables.

He picked up his pace as his eyes adjusted to the dark and his footing became more sure, but he remained information blind, with no cell phone reception. He needed to either find Jenkins and Kulikova or conclude they had left the tunnel, in which case he would go back to Lubyanka and search footage to determine where they had surfaced.

He turned at a bend in the tunnel and thought he detected a flicker of artificial light. It was quickly extinguished. He doused his own light and used a hand on the wall to feel his way forward. The light appeared again, this time more than a glimpse before it was extinguished.

Zhomov needed to get closer before he fired his weapon. Not knowing the bends and turns in the tunnels, he could fire the gun with no chance of hitting Jenkins or Kulikova but alerting them to his presence. He decided to keep his light off and use only his hand to guide him, hoping to get close enough for a decent shot.



“What is it?” Kulikova whispered.

Jenkins shook his head. He was looking behind them. “I thought I saw a light.”

“I don’t see anything. Are you sure?”

“No. I’m not sure.”

“It is not likely Zhomov knows about the tunnels, and unlikely he could find the entrance,” Kulikova said.

Jenkins paused. He did not want to panic her and tell her he had seen Zhomov near the fountain before he had time to pull the grate back in.

“Mr. Jenkins?”

Jenkins kept his eyes on the tunnel walls behind them. “Let’s move,” he said. A man flashed beneath a tube of light descending from above, like a flickering image in a black-and-white film. “Shit,” Jenkins said just before a shot rang out.

The bullet pinged off the bricks, kicking up dust and nearly hitting him. Jenkins and Kulikova took off in a dead run, Kulikova turning left and right with the bends in the tunnels. When they came to a ladder, Jenkins told her to climb. He would wait until certain Kulikova reached the level above. On the ground he at least had the chance to perhaps surprise Zhomov.

Footsteps pounded the pavement.

A silhouette rushed past the side tunnel in which they had taken refuge.

Kulikova was approximately thirty feet up the ladder, climbing quickly. Then her foot slipped on one of the rungs and she dropped but managed to grab a bar and keep from falling. Her phone, however, which she had wedged in the waistline of her pants, came free. It pinged against the ladder once, then a second time, before it hit the ground and shattered.

The sound of feet pounding the pavement stopped, then started again. Zhomov returning. Jenkins looked up and watched Kulikova go through a hole. Momentarily safe. He quickly climbed. The ladder was more rusted and less stable than the one they had descended. He climbed as fast as he could, trying not to think of Zhomov shooting him. If he did, Jenkins hoped he was dead before he hit the ground.



Zhomov had no depth perception in the dark and did not know if he was ten meters or a hundred meters behind Jenkins and Kulikova. Uncertain he would ever get a clear shot, he broke his established protocol and sprinted forward, then dropped to a knee, steadied his aim, and fired at the light, someone running, their phone in hand.

The light continued to swing wildly. He’d missed.

He rose and sprinted, lost view of the light, turned, and saw it again. Jenkins and Kulikova were turning left and right, hoping to confuse him. Hoping to lose him. But he heard footsteps pound the bricks and splash in puddles of water. Zhomov stopped. Listened. Followed the sounds. Stopped again. Listened. Then ran.

He stopped a third time but this time he heard nothing. About to go forward, something metal pinged once, then a second time. The sound came from behind him. He was close.

He pivoted and ran to another T. He stopped, listened. Nothing. He stepped to his left. This time he heard metal thrumming. Someone climbing a ladder. They were attempting to exit. He ran down the tunnel. A cone of light from above illuminated Jenkins on the ladder rungs, nearly to the ceiling.

Zhomov knelt, took aim, and fired.



Jenkins was ten feet from the top rung of the ladder, moving as quickly as he dared. He briefly diverted his attention to glimpse down to the T where the tunnels met, and stepped up. The rung snapped under his weight and he slid down several rungs before his hands regripped, but not before he hit his chin hard on a rusted crossbar. He winced in pain, saw stars, and felt blood trickling from his chin. With pain in both hands, he resumed climbing, careful not to put weight on the broken rung. Kulikova leaned over the opening above him, urging him on.

“Don’t look down. Just climb. Climb.”

He looked up at her and could see her gaze focused down the tunnel. Her eyes widened again. Zhomov.

“Climb,” she urged him. “Climb.”

Jenkins reached for the top rung, and Kulikova pulled him from the ladder as shots rang out, hitting the metal rungs. Jenkins rolled on top of Kulikova in case the bullets ricocheted through the hole.

Unhit, but with blood dripping from his chin and his hands, Jenkins scrambled to his feet. “Go. Go.” He pushed her forward. The ground beneath his shoes was no longer brick but gravel. A rail track with crossbars centered in the tunnel made it more difficult to run, requiring them to pick up their feet, like football practice in high school.