Kill Switch (9780062135285) (7 page)

Evade
.

So he kept hidden,
following the whiff of gun smoke, the musk of the hot skin, ever down toward the flow of water and creaking ice.

There, beyond the woman, he sees his partner out on the ice. He holds back a whine of concern, wanting to call out.

Then movement.

A hand raised.

A command given.

He obeys that now.

The woman turns, fear bursting from her skin. As she swings
,
her gun barrel dips slightly.

He sees and explodes with his hind end, springing high.

As Tucker watched, Kane slammed into Felice like a linebacker, his jaws clamping on to her arm before the pair hit the ice. Felice screamed and thrashed, but she held tight to the rifle's stock.

A sniper to the end,
Tucker thought.
Lose your rifle, lose your life.

He shoved up, ready to help his partner—­only to hear a sharp
crack
erupt beneath him. A rift snaked outward from his body and headed toward Kane and Felice. Dark, icy water gushed through the fault line.

“Felice, stop struggling!” Tucker called. “Lie still!”

Panicked, deaf to his warning, she continued to struggle, her left hand still clenched around the rifle stock.

He forced himself to his knees, then his feet. The ice shifted beneath him, dipping sideways. He leaped forward, balancing on the teetering slabs as the river broke under him. He hopscotched toward Kane and Felice.

The crack reached them, then spider-­webbed outward, enveloping them. With a whoosh, the ice opened up. The pair dropped headlong into the water.

With his heart thundering in his ears, Tucker stumbled forward. Fifteen feet from the hole, he threw himself into a slide, on his belly, his arms extended, trying to distinguish between the two shapes thrashing in the icy water. He saw a pale white hand slapping at the ice, spotted Kane's head surge from the water, his snout pointed at the sky.

The shepherd gasped, coughing.

Sliding parallel to the hole, Tucker grabbed Kane's vest collar and jerked hard, plucking the wet dog from the water.

From the corner of his eye, Tucker saw Felice's rifle jut out of the water; the barrel swung toward them.

Even now, she hadn't given up the fight.

She slapped at the ice with a bloody arm, while trying to bring her rifle to bear with the other hand.

Tucker rolled onto his side and kicked off with his heel, spinning on his hip. He snapped out with his other leg and struck the rifle, sending it skittering across the ice and into the snow along the opposite bank.

With a final, spasmodic flailing, Felice's arm vanished underwater, her body pulled down by the current, and she disappeared from view.

Together, Tucker and Kane crawled to the bank, but both kept watch on the shattered hole. He half expected Felice to reappear. Only after two minutes did he feel confident enough to state, “I think she's gone.”

Still, he kept a vigil at the bank, probing his neck wound. The gouge was narrow but deep. Beside him, Kane did a full body shake, casting out a shower of icy water, his tail wagging off the last few drops.

Tucker checked over his partner for injuries. For his efforts, he earned a warm lick to his cold cheek, his dog's message easy to read:
Glad we're still alive.

“I know, pal, me too,” he muttered.

He shrugged off his rucksack, unzipped the side pocket, and dug out his first-­aid kit. Working from feel alone, he squeezed a thick stripe of surgical glue into the wound and pinched the edges together, clenching his teeth against the sting.

Once finished, a shiver shook through him. Kane's haunches also quaked against the cold. In this weather, the effects of cold water were amplified. Hypothermia couldn't be far off.

“Let's go,” he said, ready to set off, but not before completing one last duty.

Moving fifty yards downriver, he found a patch of thicker ice that easily bore his weight, allowing him to cross to the opposite bank. He walked back upstream and retrieved Felice's rifle. He examined his prize. It was the Swedish Army's standard sniper rifle: a PSG-­90—­variant D. After a quick inspection for damage and followed by a few quick twists and turns, he had the weapon broken down into its four component parts, none of which was longer than eighteen inches.

“Now to get warm.”

He and Kane found a cluster of trees and made a temporary camp. An abandoned bird's nest and some scraps of birch bark served as perfect kindling. Within a few minutes, he had a fire blazing.

He stripped off Kane's vest and hung it over the fire to dry.

With no prompting, the shepherd stretched out beside the flames and gave a contented
hmmph
.

Settled and warm, Tucker did a quick check of his GPS unit, pinpointing their location. “Time to find out how big of a mess we're in,” he mumbled.

According to the map, they were within easy walking distance of two villages: Borshchovka and Byankino. It was tempting to head for one of them, but he decided against it. Felice was clever. She surely had given her partners—­or whoever hired her—­a situation report after jumping from the train. If so, the two nearby villages would be the first places any search party would visit.

Of the hundreds of axioms that the army had drummed into his head, one matched this situation perfectly:
Avoid being where your enemy expects you to be
.

So he extended his search on the map. Ten miles to the northeast was the small town of Nerchinsk. There, he could regroup and decide how best to reach Perm and his contact.

He stared at the dog, at the crisp stars.

It would be easy to abandon this mission.

But blood had been spilled.

He pictured the dead porter's ashen face, remembering his smile, his joy while petting Kane. The memory, the responsibility, reminded him of another adage, burned into every ranger's mind:
Take the initiative
,
and get the mission done.

He intended to do just that.

9

March 9, 5:44
P.M.

Nerchinsk, Siberia

Their day hike to Nerchinsk quickly became a slog.

Around them, the landscape slowly changed from highland forest into a series of low, snow-­blanketed hills, one stacked upon another, before dropping into a valley east of the town of Nerchinsk.

For the first five miles, he and Kane found themselves wading through thigh-­high snow punctuated by snowdrifts twice as tall as Tucker. By early afternoon, they found themselves walking into a strong wind that found its bone-­chilling way into every nook and cranny of Tucker's parka. For his part, Kane was in heaven, plowing through the powdery snow, occasionally popping to the surface, his eyes bright and tongue lolling.

Only twice did they see any signs of life. The first was a hunter, spotted in the distance, walking along a tree line. The second was a rusted fifties-­era armored personnel carrier loaded down with dozens of laughing children. The rumble of the diesel engine reached them from a narrow road headed toward Nerchinsk.

Finally, eight hours after they set out and with only a few hours of daylight left, they crested a hill and the first signs of civilization came into view: a gold-­domed, white-­walled Russian orthodox church surrounded by a dilapidated split-­rail fence that marked off a small graveyard. Many of the church's windows were boarded over, and the eaves drooped in several spots.

Tucker found a safe position behind a nearby boulder and pulled out his binoculars. A few hundred yards east of the church spread a collection of saltbox-­style homes, painted in a variety of pastel blues, yellows, and reds. The town of Nerchinsk appeared quiet, with only a handful of pedestrians in view, along with a ­couple of boxy economy cars that puttered down the icy streets spewing clouds of exhaust.

He panned his binoculars beyond the town's outskirts, taking in the lay of the land. To the northwest, he spotted what looked to be a dilapidated airfield.

No, he realized on closer inspection.

Not air
field
, but air
base
.

Several of the base's buildings and hangars bore the red-­star roundel of the Russian Air Force. Had it been abandoned? Focusing on the hangars, he was pleased to see the doors were clear of snowdrifts.
Someone
was maintaining the place, which in turn raised his hope that there might be operational aircraft.

He returned his attention to the small town, searching for either a motel or a general store. He glimpsed a soldier in an olive-­drab greatcoat standing on a corner, smoking. This was no old veteran, but someone on active duty. His uniform was tidy and clean, his cap settled squarely on his head. The man finished his cigarette, tossed away the butt, then turned and headed down a side street.

“Where'd you come from?” Tucker muttered.

He kept scanning, following what he hoped was the man's path—­then spotted a second anomaly. The main rotor hub of a helicopter jutted above one of the buildings at the edge of town. The chopper was big, tall enough to dwarf the building that shielded it. From the hub's mottled gray paint, it had to be military.

He didn't know what such a presence here implied, but either way, he and Kane needed to find shelter. They were both cold, tired, and with nightfall coming, the temperatures would soon plummet below zero.

He returned his attention to the ramshackle church. For the next thirty minutes, as darkness slowly enveloped them, he watched for any signs of life.

Nothing.

Still, he used the cover of snowdrifts and trees to make his way down to the churchyard. With Kane at his side, he crawled through the fence and walked around to the porch. He tried the knob. Unlocked. They slipped through and into the dim interior.

They were greeted by a wave of warmth and the tang of smoke and manure. Directly ahead, a wood-­burning stove cast the interior in a flickering orange glow. A metal flue led upward from the stove toward a second floor.

Tucker kept near the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust, then called out in Russian. “
Dobriy večer
?”

No reply.

He tried again, a little louder this time, and again got no response.

Sighing, he followed the faded red carpet runner down to the domed nave. Beyond a small altar, a flaking, gold-­painted wall bore religious icons and tapestries. There, he found a door, one likely leading to the church's administrative area.

He opened it with a protest of old hinges and discovered a spiral staircase. With Kane in tow, he scaled up it, ending in a small office area. Seeing the wood-­slat cot in the corner, the freestanding wardrobe, and a closet-­sized kitchenette, Tucker surmised it also served as a living space.

Judging by the cobwebs, no one had been up here for months. Above his head, the woodstove's pipe gushed warm air.

It would do.

He shrugged off his pack and cold-­weather gear and tossed them on the cot where Kane had already settled. He spent a few minutes searching the kitchenette but found nothing save a few broken plates, a rusty tool chest under the sink, and a tarnished silver fork. In the wardrobe, he discovered an old patched greatcoat, its shoulders piled with dust.

“Looks like it's home sweet home, eh, Kane?”

The shepherd gave a tired wag of his tail.

Starving, Tucker fixed a quick meal of coffee and dehydrated camping rations, preparing enough food for both him and Kane. An upper-­story window, frosted with grime, allowed him to study the village as he ate. A stranger would stand out like a sore thumb here—­and raise too much suspicion—­especially one who could not speak Russian with flawless fluency.

He needed a remedy, a cover.

After a bit of thought, Tucker rummaged through the tool chest and found a spool of wire. He clipped four short pieces and, using duct tape from his rucksack, sculpted the pieces into a crude equivalent of a teenager's orthodontic mouth guard. He slipped the construction between his lower lip and gum, packing it in tightly. He checked himself in the room's grungy mirror, fingering his face.

To the casual eye, it would appear Nerchinsk's latest visitor had a badly broken jaw. It would give him an easy excuse not to talk.

“Time to see a man about a plane ride,” Tucker said, testing out his contraption. The sound he emitted was barely intelligible.

Perfect.

Next, he donned the dusty greatcoat from the wardrobe and tugged his ushanka cap back on. He pulled its brim lower over his eyebrows.

“You stay here,” he ordered Kane. “Out of sight.”

The shepherd, fed and warm, didn't argue.

Tucker climbed back down and slipped out the church's front door. With his shoulders hunched, he shuffled toward Nerchinsk along a road of slush and mud. He adopted what he hoped was the posture of a man who'd spent his life in the gray, frozen expanse of Siberia. The weather made that easier. The temperature had plummeted another twenty degrees. His breath billowed thickly in the air, and the icy mud squelched under his boots.

By now, the streets were empty. The yellow glow of life shone through a few dirty windows, along with the occasional flicker of neon signs, but nothing else. He made his way to the corner where the soldier had been smoking earlier. He did his best to trace the man's steps until he was a block from the helicopter.

He studied its bulk surreptitiously.

It was certainly a military aircraft: an Mi-­28 Havoc attack helicopter. He knew such a craft's specs by heart. It had racks and pods enough to carry forty rockets, along with a mounted 30 mm chain gun.

But this Havoc's exterior bore no Russian roundels or emblems. Instead, it had been painted in a jagged gray/black pattern. He didn't recognize the markings. It could be the FSB—­formerly known as the KGB. But what would such a unit be doing out here, in the back end of nowhere?

Tucker knew the most likely answer.

Looking for me.

Two figures stepped out from behind the chopper's tail rotor. One was dressed in a uniform, the other in civilian clothes.

Tucker retreated out of sight—­but not before noting the shoulder emblems on the uniform. A red starburst against a black shield.

He had been wrong.

These men weren't
FSB,
but rather
GRU
.
Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye
Upravleniye
served as the intelligence arm of the Russian Ministry of Defense. For covert operations, the GRU relied almost solely on Spetsnaz soldiers—­the Thoroughbreds of the already-­impressive Russian Special Forces stable.

If they're after me . . .

He hurried down the street, knowing his departure from this region was even more urgent—­as was his overdue call to Ruth Harper.

7:55
P.M.

Tucker wandered the streets until he found a lively tavern. The neon sign above the door was in Cyrillic, but the raucous laughter and smell of beer was advertisement enough for the establishment.

This was as good a place as any to start.

He took a moment to make sure his mouth prosthetic was in place, then took a deep breath and pushed through the door.

A wall of heat, cigarette smoke, and body odor struck him like a fist to the face. A babble of country Russian—­punctuated by loud guffaws and scattered curses—­greeted him. Not that anyone paid attention to his arrival.

Tucker hunched his shoulders and wove his way through the mass of bodies toward what he assumed was the bar. With a bit of jostling and occasional grunting through his prosthetic, he found himself standing at a long, knotty pine counter.

Miraculously, the bartender noted his newest customer immediately and walked over. He barked something that Tucker assumed was a request for his order.

As answer, Tucker grunted vaguely.

“Eh?”

He cleared his throat and mumbled again.

The bartender leaned forward, cocking an ear.

Tucker opened his lips a little wider, exposing his mouth guard, then pantomimed a fist striking his jaw, ending it with a tired shrug.

The bartender nodded his understanding.

Tucker jerked his thumb toward a neighboring mug of beer. A moment later, a glass was pounded down in front of him, sloshing froth over the rim. He passed over a wad of rubles and pocketed the change.

Tucker felt a wave of relief. Providing no one else demanded a higher level of exchange, this might just work.

Clumsily sipping beer through his mouthpiece, he began scanning the bar for soldiers. There were a dozen or more, all army, but from the state of their clothes, none of these were active duty. In Russia, many veterans kept and wore their uniforms after leaving ser­vice, partly for necessity and partly for economic leverage. It was common practice for citizens to slip a former soldier a coin or pay for a drink or a meal. This was as much for charity as it was for insurance. Having impoverished or starving killers roaming the streets was best avoided.

Satisfied the bar was free of GRU operatives, he returned his attention to his primary interest: getting out of this place and reaching Perm. He searched for anyone who might be connected to the neighboring air base, but he spotted nothing overt. He might have to do this the hard way and—­

“Your dog is beautiful,” a gruff voice said at his shoulder. He spoke passable English, but heavily accented. “German shepherd?”

Tucker turned to find a short man in his sixties, with long white hair and a grizzled beard. His eyes shone a sharp ice-­blue.

“Eh?” Tucker grunted.

“Oh, I see,” the stranger said. “Let me guess, you are a traveling prizefighter.”

Tucker's heart pounded as he glanced around. None of the other patrons seemed to be paying attention.

The man crooked his finger at Tucker and leaned closer.

“I know you are not Russian, my friend. I heard you talking to your dog at the church. You'd best follow me.”

The older man turned and picked his way through the crowd, which seemed to part before him, the patrons nodding deferentially at him.

Nervous, but with no other choice, Tucker followed after him, ending up at a table in the bar's far corner, beside a stone-­hearth fireplace.

With the table to themselves, the man stared at Tucker through narrow eyes. “A good disguise, actually. You have mastered the Siberian stoop—­you know, the hunched shoulders, the lowered chin. The cold grinds it into you up here, bends you. So much so, if you live here long enough, it becomes one's posture.”

Tucker said nothing.

“A cautious man. Good, very good. You have seen the soldiers, I assume? The Moscow boys, I mean, with the commandos and the fancy helicopter. It's the first time in years we've seen anyone like them here. And it's the
only
time an American with a giant dog has set up camp in my home. Not a coincidence, I am guessing.”

Tucker said nothing.

“If I were going to turn you in, I would have already done so.”

He considered this, recognized the truth of it, and decided it was time to take a chance. Covertly he removed his mouthpiece, then took a sip of beer.

“Belgian Malinois,” Tucker said.

“Pardon me?”

“He's not a German. He's Belgian. And for your sake, he better be safe and sound where I left him.”

“He is,” the stranger said with a smile, holding out a hand. “I am Dimitry.”

“I'm—­”

“Do not tell me your name. The less I know, the better. I am Nerchinsk's bishop. Well, for this town and a few other villages nearby. Mine is a small flock, but I love them all the same.”

The old man glanced affectionately across the crowded bar.

Tucker remembered how the others had deferred to the man, stepping out of his way. “Your English is very good.”

“Satellite dish. I watch American television. And the Internet, of course. As for your Russian, well, it is—­”