The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(84)

The man in the passenger seat continued. “I can see we are going to have to do this the hard way. So be it. We will find Ms. Kulikova, with or without your help.”

One of the men in back shoved a black bag over Jenkins’s head. Their feet held him in place, and an occasional kick kept him groggy and unable to think clearly. He hoped “a friend” had found Maria before others hunting her. As bad as Jenkins expected to be treated, each kick a confirmation, he knew Maria could expect far worse if Sokalov got a hold of her.





44


Irkutsk Railway Terminal

Irkutsk, Russia

Maria saw the car approach Jenkins at a high rate of speed and brake to a stop. This was not the “friend.” Jenkins readjusted his backpack onto his shoulder as two men exited the vehicle and, in very short order, struck Jenkins in the back of the head, then shoved him into the back seat. She fought against panic, but her legs felt numb and rooted to the concrete. A thought struck her. She quickly turned and searched for the man and his two children, seeing him across the parking lot, his children already in the back seat of a waiting car. The man slammed the trunk shut and moved to the passenger door.

“Wait,” Maria called out, struggling to get her legs, which felt leaden, to move. The man ducked into the passenger seat. “Wait. Please,” she called again.

The door pulled shut and the car drove from the lot toward the street.

What now?

Stick to the plan. Get back to the train.

She turned toward the train terminal but saw a tall man with a shaved head quickly approaching from between parked cars. She looked to her left. A second man, this one shorter, but stocky, also approached. Clearly not “a friend.” Definitely not Zhomov.

Velikaya’s men.

A strong hand gripped her bicep and pulled her in the only direction she could go. “There you are. I have been looking all over for you.” Arkhip had appeared out of nowhere. “The bus leaves in less than a minute. We’ll have to hurry.”

They cut between another row of parked vehicles, illuminated in headlights. The sound of engines and odor of diesel fumes filled the air. Maria allowed Arkhip to lead her, wondering, if perhaps, he had provided the note, if he could be “a friend.”

Another car cut across their path and stopped, preventing their escape to the bus. She could see the driver’s face through the windshield. Alexander Zhomov. The car interior illuminated as Zhomov slid from the vehicle holding a weapon. He took aim.

“Down.” Arkhip shoved Maria to the pavement between the parked cars just before a shot rang out. The bullet sparked off a car’s side mirror. Zhomov fired again. Again the bullet hit a car, puncturing its tire.

For a moment, none of the other commuters moved, paralyzed by fear or confusion. Their minds tried to place the sound, perhaps wondering if a car had backfired. Arkhip squatted between the row of vehicles, looking for a way out. The two Velikaya men advanced. Zhomov blocked Maria’s and Arkhip’s escape in the other direction. Either way, they were sitting ducks.

In the second it took Maria to process their situation, the retort of automatic weapons and the spray of bullets punctured metal and shattered glass. Pandemonium ensued. No mistakes now as to the sound. The commuters scurried in all directions. Some, too scared to move, remained crouched behind cars. Others fled back to the train terminal.

Zhomov returned the shots. One of the Velikaya men fell. The second sprayed Zhomov’s car with more automatic gunfire and moved to assist his fallen comrade, finding refuge behind a vehicle; Zhomov’s only option under the barrage of return fire was to also retreat behind his car door.

Arkhip used that second to their advantage. He pulled Maria toward the train terminal. At the final row of vehicles, their last cover before the six meters of open space to the terminal doors, he paused, reached inside his coat and removed a pistol. Maria wondered again if he could be “a friend.” Was that the reason he had first approached her on the train?

“When I say, ‘Go,’ you run for the terminal.” He glanced behind him. Zhomov lifted his head above the car door. Arkhip fired a shot, forcing Zhomov to retreat.

“Go,” he said.

As Maria scurried into the unprotected divide, another car skidded to a stop and cut off her approach to the terminal. The passenger door flung open. The man behind the wheel reached his hand across the seat. “Get in, Ms. Kulikova.”

Maria hesitated, confused. She knew this man. She knew him from years working at Lubyanka, but she had trouble placing him here. Then it clicked. “Viktor Federov,” she said.

“Get in, Ms. Kulikova. I am a friend.”

Maria felt Arkhip’s hand push at the small of her back and they rushed for the car. Federov aimed the barrel of a pistol at Arkhip. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“No,” Maria said. “It’s all right.”

No time to debate, Federov swore and lowered the weapon. Arkhip pushed inside and slammed the door shut. Maria looked over her shoulder. Zhomov hurried back inside his car as Federov punched the accelerator, swerved between cars and around pedestrians, and made a hard right turn onto the main road, tires squealing.

Maria gripped Arkhip, who held the door handle to keep from toppling over.

Federov reached across her and again pointed his gun at Arkhip. “Tell me who you are?” he said.

Maria reached to lower Federov’s arm, but it was rigid. “He’s a friend from the train,” Maria said.