A Murder in Time(7)

Kendra’s mouth tightened at the sarcasm, but she said evenly, “Balakirev’s a cold-blooded bastard. He doesn’t give a shit about the innocent victims who are harmed by what he’s doing. But neither do some corporate CEOs who are aware their products are killing people and yet choose to look the other way because of the bottom line—”

“If you’re gonna go all bleeding heart liberal on us, Kendra, and actually defend a terrorist—”

“I’m not defending him,” Kendra responded sharply, temper rising. She pulled it back with an effort. “I’m simply stating a fact. Balakirev and Greene are in this for money. For greed. They’re not going to want to die.”

“Yeah, I read your profile,” Noone muttered. “Maybe you can do a Wall Street Journal article after this is over. Greed is good, right?”

Kendra narrowed her eyes. “It’s good for us. If either Balakirev or Greene think they’re finished, they’ll want to deal. They’re narcissistic personalities—Greene especially. There’s no way he’s going to risk his precious skin in a potentially toxic environment. This is essentially a business meeting.”

“Let’s hope you’re right, Agent Donovan,” said Carson. He glanced down at his watch and felt the zing of adrenaline. It was time. “I don’t want any itchy trigger fingers.” He looked at each agent. “You’ve been briefed on how Washington wants this to go down. C’mon.”

He reached over, rolled the door open, and jumped down. His boots crunched on the gritty pavement. “I’ll introduce you to the SWAT team commander. Then you’re on your own. Don’t screw up.”

Jonathon Vale, the head of the FBI SWAT team, looked like he’d stepped out of a cyborg movie, his tough, muscular body clad in a dark uniform and loaded down with bulky equipment. It weighed at least forty pounds, but he moved easily back and forth as he instructed the special task force on what exactly he expected of them—namely, to stay the f*ck out of his team’s way.

Putting on the military goggles and breathing apparatus, Kendra clamped down on her resentment when Vale put her in the flank position, all her team members, including Sheppard—Sheppard, who hadn’t been out in the field for six f*cking years—ahead of her.

Still, there was no time to argue. She fell into formation as they jogged as quietly as possible to take up positions of concealment along the walls and corners of the neighboring buildings, facing the warehouse. The warehouse had no windows, so this was only a precaution in case one of Balakirev’s men decided to step outside.

The day’s light was beginning to fade. A soft breeze carried the scent of diesel fuel, strong enough to infiltrate the mask Kendra was wearing. She wished for a stronger wind to cool the sweat popping up on her brow. Her face beneath the heavy helmet, goggles, and breathing mask felt greasy, perspiration sliding beneath the black uniform she wore.

When Vale raised his hand for the signal, everyone’s eyes fastened on his fingers. His voice crackled in their earpieces, counting down.

Five . . . Four . . . Three . . .

Kendra’s nerves tightened in anticipation.

Two . . . One!

Vale’s hand fisted and in the distance they heard the screech of tires, followed within seconds by a tremendous crash; the high-pitched, almost feminine shriek of twisting metal. A thunderous explosion, courtesy of the explosives packed into the decoy car, shook the ground. Vale’s voice reverberated in her ear.

“Go. Go. GO!”

Kendra sprinted toward the front of the warehouse. Already, two men were in position with a battering ram. One quick thrust and the door went flying inward, the SWAT team pouring across the threshold like a dozen black beetles. Kendra followed, taking in the interior in one sweeping glance. It was an enormous, shadowy cavern, filled with row upon row of crates and containers, stacked twelve and fifteen feet high, some almost to the catwalk.

“It’s a f*cking maze,” somebody observed in her earpiece.

The initial shock of the ambush was already over, swiftly replaced by gunfire as Balakirev’s men engaged in battle. Heart pumping, her breath sounding too loud inside the breathing apparatus, Kendra jogged into one of the corridors formed by the stacks of boxes. Fleetingly, she wondered if the ricin was packed within any of these containers.

The sound of gunfire was deafening. Her earpiece cracked with a steady stream of orders, invectives, and curses.

“Fucking Russians!”

“How many? How many d’ya see?”

“—took two of the f*ckers out!”

“Got one of the sons of bitches!”

Kendra rounded a corner, and a heavyset man darted into her path. Spotting her, he swung up his rifle, but Kendra was already firing the SIG Sauer. He crumpled to the ground. She keyed in her voice piece and shouted, “Got one. Four down—”

“Five! I—” A burst of gunfire was followed by a shriek that sent a shiver through Kendra.

“O’Brien?” Silence.

“Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!” Noone was panting like a dog. “My leg. The f*ckers got my leg!”

“Give me your position!”

“—to your left, Noone! Goddamn it, to the left!”

More gunfire.

“Fuck! I see a man to the left. Take him down! Take the f*cker down!” Vale’s voice boomed in Kendra’s earpiece.