The 14th Colony_A Novel Page 5

  “The time to strike,” he said, “is soon. There will not be another opportunity for years.”

  “But is it relevant anymore?”

  “You hesitate?”

  Belchenko frowned. “I merely asked a question.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “The zero amendment,” his guest muttered.

  “That’s part of it. What I need is what you personally know. Tell me, Vadim. Let me be the one to use what’s out there.”

  For so long he’d felt like a man buried alive who suddenly wakes and pushes against the lid of his coffin, all the while realizing the futility of his efforts. But not anymore. He now saw a way out of that coffin. A way to be free. And this was not about the pursuit of his own legend or politics or any specific agenda. No other purpose existed for what he was about to do save vengeance.

  He owed the world.

  “All right, Aleksandr, I will tell you. He lives in Canada.”

  “Can you direct me to him?”

  Belchenko nodded.

  So he listened as everything was explained. Then he stood from the bench and checked his watch. Sequins of sweat glistened across his skin.

  Only 56 hours remained.

  An urgency enveloped him, choking, yet electric, quick spasms to his muscles and brain urging action. The years of dull, nerve-grinding non-accomplishment might finally be over.

  “I have to go.”

  “To find out why that American is here?” Belchenko asked.

  “What makes you think I will see him?”

  “Where else would you be going?”

  Indeed. Where else? But an American being here at this precise moment was no coincidence.

  “I might require your help with him,” he said.

  “An adventure?” Belchenko asked, doubt in the voice.

  He smiled. “More a precaution.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FRANCE

  Cassiopeia stared at the phone and saw a second text appear from Stephanie Nelle, this one with a phone number and the words CALL ME.

  The past few weeks had been anything but calm. Life for her had taken a 180-degree turn. She’d made some major decisions that had deeply affected others, particularly Cotton. At first with all that happened in Utah she’d thought herself on the side of right, but hindsight had allowed her to see that she may have been wrong. And the results? A man she’d cared about in her youth was dead, and a man she loved now had been driven away.

  She’d thought a lot about Cotton. His last phone call came a few weeks ago, which she’d not answered. Her reply by email—LEAVE ME ALONE—had obviously been heeded since there’d been no further contact. Cotton was a proud man, never would he grovel, nor would she expect him to. She’d made her feelings clear and he’d obviously respected them.

  But she missed him.

  Everything still weighed heavy. Part of her psyche screamed that Cotton and Stephanie had simply done their jobs and circumstances had left them little choice. But another part of her was tired of the lies that came with working intelligence operations. She’d been used. Even worse. She’d used herself, thinking she could keep things under control. But she’d been wrong and people had died.

  She read Stephanie’s first message again, hoping the words might be different. No mistake, though. Cotton was in trouble. Stephanie had been the one who’d drawn her into Utah. She blamed Stephanie more than Cotton for what ultimately happened. In response, she’d cut off all contact with Stephanie, too. If she never spoke to the woman again that was fine by her. But where was Cotton? What was he doing? And why had Stephanie felt the need to call for help? She should follow her own directive and leave it alone, but realized that was not an option.

  She retreated from the commotion in the quarry, back down a tree-lined path toward her château. Bright rays of morning sun rained down from a cloudless sky through bare winter limbs. In summer the leafy oaks and elms high overhead closed into a natural cloister that cast a perpetual evening-like gloom. Purple heather, broom, and wildflowers would carpet the dark earth on both sides. But not today. All was winter-dead, the air brisk enough to warrant a coat, which she wore, now streaked in limestone dust. She knew what had to be done and tapped the blue number in the text, allowing the smartphone to dial.

  “How have you been?” Stephanie asked her.

  She wasn’t interested in small talk. “What’s wrong?”

  “Cotton is in Russia, doing something for me. He was piloting a small plane that was attacked from the ground. He went down.”

  She stopped walking, closed her eyes, and bit her lip.

  “I’ve lost all contact with him.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “I have no way of knowing.”

  “Send an agent.”

  “I don’t have any more agents. The Magellan Billet is over. All my people are gone. Our new president has different priorities, which don’t include me.”

  “Then how did Cotton get to Russia?”

  “We have a developing situation here, one that warranted action. The White House okayed me hiring him to have a look. He’s done a couple of jobs for me since Utah. But something went wrong.”

  That seemed a recurring theme in her life, particularly when fate was so consciously tempted. Luckily, she wasn’t fooling herself anymore. The past few weeks of quiet reflection had brought things into sharp focus. She now knew that she bore as much responsibility for what had happened as Stephanie and Cotton. Which, more than anything else, explained why she’d called.

  “The Russians asked for our help,” Stephanie said.

  “Help with what?”

  “A look at some living, breathing relics from the past that might be a big problem.”

  “If you want my help, tell me everything.”

  And she hoped Stephanie understood what had not been said. Not like last time when you held back, then lied to me.

  She listened as Stephanie told her that after the 1991 fall of the Soviet Union, most communists inside Russia assumed a low profile and kept to themselves. A small group of diehards, though, migrated east and settled on the shores of Lake Baikal. The Russian government periodically kept a watch but by and large left them alone, and the favor was returned. Then something changed.

  “One of them is here, in DC,” Stephanie said. “Luke Daniels is engaging her, as we speak.”

  She recalled the handsome, young Magellan Billet agent who’d been there in Utah with the rest of them. “I thought you didn’t have any more agents?”

  “The president enlisted him.”

  She knew the uncle–nephew connection. “Why are the Russians so cooperative?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that. But I’m about to find out.”

  “You and I have a problem,” she said.

  “I get that. But I did what had to be done. I’m not making any apologies for what happened in that cave.”

  Nor had she expected any. Stephanie Nelle was tough. She ran the Magellan Billet with dictatorial efficiency. They’d first met right here, on her estate, a few years ago. Since then she’d several times been involved with Stephanie, never regretting any of that until a month ago.

  Her nerves were still rattled from the incident on the scaffolding. None of the people who worked for her knew the extent of her extracurricular activities. No one was aware how she could handle a gun and deal with trouble. She kept all of that to herself. That was another reason Cotton had been so special. They were so alike.

  “Why are you telling me this?” she asked Stephanie. “I’m a long way from Russia.”

  She heard the far-off baritone beat of rotors pelting the air, growing louder. She squinted through the trees and saw the outline of a military helicopter sweeping in from the north across the nearby foothills.

  “Did you send a chopper here?” she asked.

  “There’s a French military base not ten miles from you. I made a call and can have you in Russia within five hours. I need you to make a deci
sion. Either get on that chopper or send it back.”

  “Why would I go?”

  “I can give you the practical reasons. You’re highly skilled. More than capable. Discreet. And you speak fluent Russian. But you and I know the real reason.”

  A moment of silence filled her ear.

  “You love him, and he needs you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Luke made a decision. He would follow orders and just observe. Malone had taught him that field agents could pretty much do whatever they wanted, as long as they delivered results.

  But not tonight.

  This was clearly an off-the-grid, unofficial op being done at the personal request of the president of the United States. So he remained a good boy and stayed put as the light played off whatever lay beyond the gash in the wall.

  He heard a series of soft thuds, like something hitting the floor.

  A pause.

  Then a few more.

  Anya Petrova was obviously here for something specific. After all, she’d traveled thousands of miles to this exact spot. He had to admit, his curiosity was getting the best of him, but he kept telling himself he could come back later and see what was there.

  The light beams re-angled toward the makeshift entrance and an instant later Anya appeared, climbing through the gash with nothing in her hand besides the flashlight. He did not linger. Instead, he retreated into a room across the hall and hoped she didn’t come his way. He heard a click and the flashlight beam extinguished, plunging the interior back into darkness. He flattened himself against the wall and listened to her determined steps, one click after another, as she marched back toward the front door. He assumed she was wearing the same pair of leather boots from the past couple of days.

  He hesitated an instant, then peered out to see her about to leave through the front door. He waited a few seconds more, then, making little to no sound, hustled in the same direction, coming to the outside door and expecting to see her departing.

  But no one was in sight and the car was still there.

  Before he could react to the obvious repercussions she pounced, leaping onto his back, wrapping a cord around his throat, forming a garrote, which she tightened, cutting off his breathing. She’d apparently twisted the rope as it had been applied, making it easier for her to choke the life out of him, and he had to admit she was doing a pretty fair job of it.

  Oxygen to his brain rapidly depleted.

  His head exploded in lights and black circles that whirled before him.

  But he was no amateur.

  So he broke with the code of a southern gentleman and rammed his right boot into her knee, moving closer to reduce her advantage, which kept the rope from accomplishing its fatal duty.

  Never pull away when someone is choking you.

  Self-defense 101.

  She absorbed his first blow, but a second gave her pause.

  He spun and jammed his elbow into her shoulder, wrenching her backward and freeing her grip on the rope. She spun on her heels, steadied herself with outstretched arms, and laughed.

  “That all?” she asked.

  He lunged forward swinging his right leg around for a full body blow. But she was quick as a bird and dodged his attack, landing a kick of her own to the small of his back.

  Which hurt.

  He was still recovering from the choking, grabbing as many breaths as possible, and she seemed to sense his quandary, vaulting into the air and planting her right boot into his chest. The blow propelled him backward and he lost all balance, dropping down where the back of his head found something hard.

  Everything winked in and out.

  She fled out the front door.

  He climbed to his feet. That woman was strong and knew how to fight. She also seemed to have enjoyed it, and apparently her orders were not similar to his own.

  “Don’t get made.”

  She’d gone out of her way to engage him.

  He staggered out and heard an engine growl to life, then watched as she made her escape. He grabbed hold of himself and rushed into the night, reaching for the Beretta and a shot at her tires or the rear window, but the receding taillights trailed away like a meteor down the lane.

  He ran toward the Mustang.

  Cold air seared his lungs and throat, but he kept moving, glad that he maintained a steady physical regimen that included five miles of jogging each week. His thirty-year-old body was mainly muscle and he intended on keeping it that way for as long as the good Lord allowed.

  He made it to the Mustang, hopped inside, and fired up the V-8. Time to put that power to use. Tires spun on the cold ground as he backed out then sped through the wrought-iron entrance to the highway. No cars were in sight either way. He assumed she’d headed back the same way she came, so he turned left and floored the accelerator. Being in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night had advantages, so he gained speed trying to catch up. The road ahead remained devoid of taillights and nothing appeared in his rearview mirror. He recalled from earlier that the highway was fairly straight all the way from the interstate.

  So where was she?

  The answer came with a bang as something popped into his rear bumper. Headlights suddenly ignited in his mirror and he realized the bitch had waited for him.

  No problem.

  He relaxed on the accelerator and veered left into the oncoming lane. She matched his move and slammed once again into his bumper.

  She was about to really piss him off.

  Tires squealed and he was forced back to the right, the steering wheel nearly torn from his grip. He drifted too far and found the road edge, wobbling in the soft shoulder. At this speed that could lead to disaster. He yanked the wheel left and once again acquired hard pavement. Anya had used his moment of distraction to maneuver into the left-hand lane and come parallel. He glanced over but could see little in the pitch dark. The interior cabin light in her vehicle came on and he saw her face, staring at him through the windows.

  She puckered her lips and threw him a kiss.

  Then the lights extinguished.

  And she veered her car into his.

  Now she had pissed him off.

  This was a 1967 Mustang in mint condition. But not anymore. So he jammed the accelerator to the floor and decided to see how fast she wanted to go. He alternated his attention from her on the left to the road ahead. They’d already passed beneath I-66, now heading north into rural Virginia. The road ahead vaulted up a short hill. She was still beside him in the other lane seemingly unconcerned with what might lie over that rise.

  So he decided to amplify her problems.

  He yanked the wheel and started to force her from the road. What did it matter? That side of the car needed a body shop now anyway.

  A guardrail protected her on the left side.

  He heard the grinding screech of metal hitting metal and realized she was pinned. From the corner of his eye he caught movement. A quick glance and he saw the passenger-side window in her car descend. Anya’s right arm extended and he saw a gun. No time to do anything but duck, which he did, shifting right and trying to drop below the window while keeping his foot on the accelerator and hands on the steering wheel.

  He heard a bang, then the driver’s-side window exploded inward. He shut his eyes as glass spewed across the front seats. Fragments stung his face and hands. His foot slipped from the accelerator, which instantly slowed the car enough for her to scoot past. He settled back in his seat and was about to head her way when she veered into his lane and slowed, challenging him to hit her from the rear.

  He spun the wheel left.

  The Mustang hurled into the oncoming lane and he passed her. But as he did, a spray of bullets peppered the car’s right side, thudding into the panels, obliterating one of the rear windows.

  Two loud bangs signaled a new problem.

  Tires blown.

  He jerked the wheel hard right. The rear end swished side-to-side. A curve was approaching that he knew could not be negotia
ted on two tires. The risk of flipping loomed great, and this car came with no shoulder harnesses. Sweat stung his eyes and he eased off the gas, trying to regain equilibrium as his speed slowed. The wheels chattered. A loud clatter of metal against roadway signaled the end of the line.

  Anya sped ahead, then fishtailed around a curve and disappeared into the night.

  He stopped, opened the door, and stepped out to the road.

  He rounded the car and saw smoke billowing from the two gone tires. Bullet holes dotted the entire side, along with massive dents, missing paint, and a shattered window.

  A friggin’ 1967 first-generation Mustang.

  Destroyed.

  He slammed the palm of his hand onto the hood and cursed. He kicked the side of the car and cursed some more. Thank goodness his mother wasn’t here to hear him. She never had liked a foul mouth.

  “Don’t get made.”

  The last thing Uncle Danny told him.

  That hadn’t worked out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Stephanie headed toward the ground floor of the Justice Department building. There was little she could do from here with a dead telephone line as her sole means of communication. She hoped Cotton’s phone was simply broken or out of service, not destroyed in a plane crash. She’d called her Russian counterpart, the man who’d first requested American assistance, who assured her he would have the situation assessed. He also agreed, though, that Cassiopeia could come, acting as American eyes and ears. Whatever was happening seemed unusual, to say the least. But soon none of this would be her problem anymore.

  She buttoned her coat and left out the front doors, past a security checkpoint. Though her watch read 3:40 A.M. she wasn’t the least bit tired. She decided to head back to the Mandarin Oriental and wait for news in her hotel room. At least there she was free of Litchfield, though she doubted he’d be bothering her again until he was truly in charge.

  Normally there would be a car waiting to drive her but that perk went with the end of the Magellan Billet. She was, for all intents and purposes, a private citizen, on her own, which wasn’t so bad. She’d learned long ago how to take care of herself.