Darré knew that the only way to do it was to be the most cunning and ruthless of them all, even as he hid in plain sight. The government would eventually find almost anyone, but not him. That would be his ultimate accomplishment.

  Also, he couldn’t complain. The year before, he had earned $477 million from the Darré Group. But as astonishing as that was, he’d made more than a billion dollars from the Odessa Mafia. On one day the year before, he had received notice from one of his banks in Switzerland that, that day, fully $815 million had been wired into his bank account. As much as he hated it, as much as he didn’t need the money anymore, Darré couldn’t help but be astonished at the size of the empire he controlled. That it was but a fraction of the Odessa Mafia was an ineluctable fact he found hard to fathom. He wasn’t even Russian. Yet his own empire was immensely interwoven with the Russians’, as he could only now see. It was hard, as an American, to watch. The fact that he was helping make it happen only made his guilt feel worse. He needed to hide it.

  He lifted his phone and dialed. Soon, he heard Volkov’s gruff voice.

  “Bruno,” said Volkov.

  “Andrei,” said Darré, staring out at the Manhattan skyline.

  “Did you see the news? The team succeeded,” said Volkov.

  “Yes, I saw it,” said Darré. “But we have a more pressing issue, and I need you to focus.”

  “What is it?” said Volkov.

  “The CIA was given permission to operate on U.S. soil,” said Darré. “The sole mission is to kill members of the Russian mafia. That includes you.”

  “And you, too,” said Volkov.

  “Yes,” said Darré. “I know. We’re in this together. Don’t ever forget that. But now is the time when your value takes center stage.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “I have the name of the first man on the CIA unit. Presumably, he lives in the Washington, D.C., area. I’ll find out the address and text it to you. When you get it, send one of your D.C. thugs over and kill him. Okay? I have to go.”

  “Hold on,” said Volkov. “This is a guy the CIA just recruited?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I can’t just send anyone in, Bruno,” said Volkov. “These guys don’t go down easy.”

  “You can do it.”

  “Listen to me,” said Volkov calmly. “We can go and try and kill him right now with a couple minor-league pieces of shit, but if one of them gets caught, they find me, and then they find you. Get it? Stay in your fucking lane.”

  “However you do it, just get it done,” said Darré. “I didn’t ask you how to make a watch, Andrei; I asked you what time it was.”

  “Understood,” said Volkov, his Russian accent thick. “We’re on the same page, Bruno. I’ll get it done.”

  CHAPTER 17

  APQA Cargo Terminal

  Miami, Florida

  Volkov tried to understand what he had begun, but he was lost in a prism of paranoia and weariness.

  He dialed his cell.

  “Where are you?” he demanded.

  “I’ll be there soon,” said a female voice.

  Outside, in the canyons of warehouses, a high-pitched whistle screamed as the clock hit 5 P.M.

  Volkov stood up from his desk.

  The whistle—signifying the end of the shift—roared for another few moments, then stopped.

  Volkov’s office was in a large warehouse, one of literally hundreds in the labyrinthine metropolis that was the Port of Miami. He moved to the door and opened it. Outside, a walkway, a parapet, clutched to the outside of the steel gray warehouse. Volkov stepped out onto the steel grate.

  Below, the men had already started to gather.

  At shift’s end, the ritual was always the same.

  The workers would gather around, in a large circle. There were more than four hundred workers at APQA Cargo Terminal, and others from neighboring terminals would come over to watch.

  Hundreds of men gathered in concentric circles in between the warehouses.

  Volkov stared at the tarmac crucible below, where four or five hundred men had gathered, pushing toward the front of the human scrum, to get a better view, to throw more money down.

  The ritual was simple.

  Each night, there would be a fight. People threw money in. How much they threw was based on the anticipated quality of the fight. The reigning fighter had to pick someone to try and beat the shit out of in a bare-knuckled fight with no rules other than weapons were not allowed. If the reigning champion chose a small, unworthy man, only a few bills would pile up. But when the reigning fighter chose a worthy adversary, the money always tumbled in as the two men squared off against each other in the human square.

  This night was the seventeenth night in a row for Tikkar, the six-foot-seven giant from Kiev. He was the first man in more than a year to get into double digits.

  All of the men were drenched in sweat and grime after a twelve-hour shift on the docks.

  A tall man with a beard emerged.

  “Serdityy Medved!” someone shouted.

  Angry Bear.

  The man entered the center of the human ring as the chanting from the four-hundred-plus gathered men grew louder. He was tall, thickly built, with a broad, dark face that sent shivers through many of the men. Tikkar stalked into the human circle. He pointed at a stocky bald man and they entered the human scrum, as workers threw money down and men started howling and screaming.

  It would be a nasty fight. Tikkar had chosen an animal, one of the freight managers, a fierce Serbian named Egorov, whom everyone feared. Egorov was much shorter than Tikkar, but he was built like a tank and he was perpetually red-faced, looking for a fight.

  Egorov entered the ring and tried to rile up the crowd, lifting his arms up triumphantly. Egorov swooped closer to Tikkar without looking at him, smiling at the crowd, and then abruptly lunged. But Egorov’s arm was met with Tikkar’s fist. The giant grabbed Egorov’s arm at the elbow as it swung. The crack of Egorov’s elbow was low but loud enough for everyone to hear. Egorov screamed in pain. As Egorov reached for his broken arm, Tikkar sent a crushing fist into Egorov’s chin, knocking him back and down, his head falling hard against the tar, totally unconscious.

  Shouting and clapping erupted as Tikkar moved to the ring of bills that awaited him.

  A few men moved to Egorov, whose broken arm was bent unnaturally sideways.

  Volkov took the steel fire escape down to the ground and found Tikkar.

  “Not bad, Tikkar,” said Volkov.

  “I am honored that you watched, Mr. Volkov.”

  “You have a fearsome style,” said Volkov. “But always beware. You grow arrogant, Tikkar. You want to beat my record? A little humility.”

  Tikkar’s eyes cut hard, fueled in anger, staring daggers at Volkov, then he fought to control it.

  “I am always trying to learn,” said Tikkar.

  “Good,” said Volkov.

  * * *

  Volkov climbed back up the steel stairs and entered his office. When he did, he found himself looking at a young brown-haired woman with an elegant, sculpted face.

  She was dressed in a knee-length tweed skirt and a red blouse, and had on a pair of shiny white Gucci boots.

  “Hello, Audra,” said Volkov.

  “Andrei,” she said emotionlessly.

  “I need you to do something,” said Volkov. “I don’t trust anyone else. It’s a two-person job.”

  “So killing John Patrick O’Flaherty wasn’t enough?”

  “The CIA is coming after us. We need to kill someone, one of the men.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, otherwise, in six months or a year, we will both be dead,” said Volkov. “Get the sniper you hired.”

  “I want a million dollars, Andrei, otherwise I’m not interested.”

  “You’ll do it, Audra, or else I’ll drive to your house—”

  “And do what?” said Audra. “Kill me? We both know what would happen if you tried to kill me. So do we agree?”

  “Yes. A million.”

  “Wire it and I’ll leave. By the way, where is it?”

  “Washington, D.C. I’m texting you his address.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Director’s Office

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Calibrisi stared out the glass-walled office, looking at the trees in the distance, lost in thought. A knock on the door startled him from his reverie. Tacoma stepped inside.

  “Hey,” said Tacoma, smiling.

  “Rob,” said Calibrisi. He stood and walked round the desk. He shook Tacoma’s hand and they sat down across from each other on the leather sofas in the middle of the office.

  “What’s up?” said Tacoma.

  “I want you to come back into the Agency.”

  Tacoma had a look of disbelief on his face. He started laughing.

  “No way,” said Tacoma finally, shaking his head. “I’m not dealing with the bureaucracy over here.”

  “It’s a self-directed unit. You’ll have in-theater command control and autonomy. Obviously, Bill and I will be involved.”

  “Hector, I’m trying to save up,” said Tacoma. “I can’t exactly do that on a government salary.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of how much you and Katie make,” said Calibrisi. “And I know you give every nickel of it away, so don’t try and bullshit me.”

  Tacoma leaned back.

  “At least let me tell you about it,” said Calibrisi.

  “That’s fine,” said Tacoma, “but nothing you say is going to get me to change my mind.”

  “This morning, SSCI authorized the CIA to create a unit that will have full lethal protocol on U.S. soil,” said Calibrisi.

  “‘Lethal protocol’? What the hell does that mean?”

  “A kill team.”

  “How big is the team?”

  “Two people, with some support.”

  “Who’s the other guy?”

  “His name is Billy Cosgrove. SEAL Team 4, a little older than you.”

  “What if we get caught?”

  “You don’t,” said Calibrisi.

  Tacoma shook his head.

  “What if we do?”

  “You have a preemptive presidential pardon,” said Calibrisi. “For anything you do on U.S. soil. It can’t be taken away.”

  “So I can do whatever I want?” said Tacoma.

  “Yes,” said Calibrisi, shaking his head, “but it’s based on trust.”

  Tacoma laughed, then nodded, surprised, even a little impressed. Then he remembered.

  You don’t want to do it.

  “No, thank you,” said Tacoma. He stood up. “I like my life the way it is. I like traveling, Hector. Also, I like giving it away. There are people out there I served with who now have nothing. Maybe some of it’s getting to them, know what I mean?”

  “Think of the people you’ll be helping by getting rid of this scourge.”

  “Look, I’m flattered and all that,” said Tacoma, turning. “There are other guys out there who can do what I do.”

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  Tacoma was at the door. He turned to Calibrisi as he pulled the door open.

  “What about Dewey Andreas?” offered Tacoma. “You know he’s the best, and he’s certainly a hell of a lot better at this shit than I am.”

  “This requires the kind of subtlety I’m not sure Dewey is capable of,” said Calibrisi. “Not to mention, Dewey doesn’t speak Russian.”

  Tacoma turned. His eyes cut into Calibrisi’s, a hint of emotion behind them, curiosity mixed with anger. A single moment of seriousness.

  “Rob, we’re going after the Russian mafia.”

  “I get it,” said Tacoma. “The bastards who killed my dad have now just shot Blake in the head and poisoned O’Flaherty. It’s very tempting, but no thanks.”

  “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t need you,” said Calibrisi.

  He wrote out Cosgrove’s address on a slip of paper and handed it to Tacoma.

  “Go meet with Cosgrove,” said Calibrisi. “He’s a good guy. If you still feel like you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to. I’m just asking you to have an open mind.”

  Tacoma nodded as he took the paper.

  “I can do that, I guess,” said Tacoma. “But the answer is still going to be no.”

  CHAPTER 19

  118 Partridge Lane, N.W.

  Palisades

  Washington, D.C.

  As Cosgrove pulled his pickup truck into the driveway, Slokavich was already inside the garage, Audra in the house. Both were waiting as Cosgrove lifted the garage door from the outside. Slokavich was stashed to the left, down in a crouch, a suppressed handgun targeted on the door as Cosgrove lifted it up.

  Audra was in the living room. She, too, was gun ready, ostensibly as backup, but she doubted Slokavich would need it; Slokavich had Cosgrove at the crossroads of the garage door and the driveway, like a sitting duck.

  As Cosgrove lifted the door, Slokavich waited, hoping that Cosgrove would pull the door back down after he went inside. It would be much cleaner that way, with no chance of a neighbor accidentally seeing something suspicious.

  When the door was all the way up, Cosgrove stepped inside and reached for the inside handle to pull it back down. Slokavich aimed and—

  In that moment, there was a pause in the door’s downward track, as if it was stuck. For Slokavich, it was a moment of confusion, and light from outside masked Cosgrove’s shadow inside the garage. Then it happened. Cosgrove ducked and—in the same fluid motion—flicked his hand from ten feet away. Slokavich caught a glint of reflected steel and then felt the ripping shock of a knife blade stabbing deep into his stomach. Slokavich fired, but the abrupt trauma from the blade—the horrible pain, the sight of crimson spilling like water—interrupted his actions. The Russian’s arm moved ever so slightly as he fought for breath. The suppressed pistol spat a bullet—a low metallic thwap—but the bullet hit the wall behind Cosgrove, who was gone, charging for the door into the house at the far side of the garage.

  Slokavich tried to stand and felt the sharp, searing burn of the blade in his torso. He reached down. It was a small, tactical neck knife, sheep’s-foot-shaped, two finger holes, short and stubby, sharpened to a lethal edge. He yanked it out of his stomach, moaning in agony, then ran for the door to the house.

  In stride, Cosgrove pulled a Glock 19 from the holster beneath his left armpit. He reached the door just as Slokavich fired again. This time, the bullets struck the door just as Cosgrove opened it and ducked inside, gun drawn.

  Cosgrove swept the interior of the kitchen for others. Seeing no one, he moved into his living room. As he turned to take aim at the door to the garage, he saw a woman in black clothing. Their eyes met. Cosgrove pivoted in a fraction of a second. But by the time the Glock’s muzzle was on the woman, she had leapt, sending her foot in a vicious bend that caught Cosgrove in the chin, a hard blow that snapped his jaw immediately. As he fell backward, before he could catch himself against a counter, the woman tracked him and stormed forward, punching Cosgrove with both fists, a flurry of fists, pounding Cosgrove’s nose, breaking it, as Cosgrove attempted to get his hands in the way. He struggled to remain lucid, then saw her leg cock back again. He ducked left. Her foot went inches above his head. Cosgrove slammed the gun wildly, swinging for dear life, and struck the killer’s neck. She went backward.

  Slokavich arrived, the blood now flowing from his stomach.

  As Cosgrove went to kill the woman, Slokavich lunged, tackling Cosgrove to the ground, pulling his gun from his hand just as Audra got back to her feet and converged on the two men. Cosgrove punched fiercely, elbowing, trying to knee at Slokavich’s bloody torso, but Audra came to Cosgrove’s side and kicked him in the head. She kicked him another time, a violent kick to the eye which caused Cosgrove to moan. She kicked him again, and again, until he was unconscious.

  Slokavich looked up from the ground at Audra. He was out of breath and bleeding badly. The ground was spattered with blood.

  “I’ll find a rope,” she coughed.

  * * *

  Slokavich found a steel railroad spike, and by the time Audra returned with a rope, he’d stabbed it through Cosgrove’s chest. They hung Cosgrove from a stairwell rafter, using a rope she found in the garage. Audra took several photos and texted them to Volkov.

  As they prepared to leave, it was Audra who heard the low grumble of the approaching vehicle as it came closer. She went to the window and looked out.

  “What is it?” said Slokavich.

  “Someone is here,” she said. Her cheek was covered in blood. “Lamborghini.”

  “How many people?”

  “A driver, that’s all. He’s getting out of the car.”

  “Upstairs,” Slokavich said, holding his stomach. “Whoever it is, we kill him then get the fuck out of here. I need a doctor.”

  CHAPTER 20

  118 Partridge Lane, N.W.

  Palisades

  Washington, D.C.

  Tacoma knelt on the stair landing on the first floor, next to Cosgrove’s dangling body. The people who’d just stabbed and hung Cosgrove were upstairs.

  Tacoma glanced one more time up the stairs, then removed a blade from a sheath at his torso. He reached up and cut the rope above Cosgrove’s head and caught Cosgrove, setting him down on the landing. He cut the noose off his neck, then pocketed the blade and reestablished his focus on the upstairs.

  From the first stair beyond the landing, Tacoma glanced back and scanned the only windows that brought light to that section of the house, a line of vertical windows in the large kitchen. He looked for a vehicle, seeing nothing.

  Tacoma was now operational. There was only his environment, and that was all—and that was all he had at that moment.

  There had been no external environmental factor to cause the shadow.

  Someone was upstairs.

  Tacoma moved up the stairs, clutching the P226R.

  The upstairs was dark. Whatever light there was came through the windows. The day was slipping into evening, and a bluish, dusky light filled the upstairs. Doorways, a painting, an Oriental runner—and then another flicker of shadow.