The movement had come from the last doorway, at the end of the hallway.

  Tacoma moved down the hallway, aware of the fact that whoever it was knew he was coming.

  And yet the killer had moved. It was the only way to explain the shadow.

  Tacoma swiveled his head, looking back at the stairs, pausing. A seemingly endless moment of utter silence, darkness, and lack of movement inhabited the hallway and stairs. Then, Tacoma saw another undulation in the light.

  There was another person. He or she was now at the end of the hallway, coming toward him.

  Tacoma looked back to the bedroom doorway where he’d seen the flicker of shadow, just as he heard the tuft of rug being slid on one of the stairs.

  Tacoma’s nostrils flared slightly as he recognized that he was hemmed in, one man left, one right.

  He heard a footstep and then, down the hallway, heard the sound of metal scratching against clothing. Tacoma ducked left, into a room, shutting the door behind him. He searched the wall for a light switch, then turned on the lights. It was a bedroom, neat and tidy, a guest room that probably hadn’t been used in years.

  The footsteps were louder now.

  As Tacoma turned, he felt dull steel at the back of his neck.

  “Plokhoy vybor,” came a low voice, in a thick Russian accent.

  Bad choice.

  Someone came through the door. Tacoma swiveled the P226R at the door. A woman entered, clad in black, training a gun on Tacoma, even as he acquired her in the crosshairs.

  He felt the muzzle of the rifle against his neck. He craned his head and took in the sight of a tall man with a strange, monstrous face. The man was pale, with a long nose. In his hands was an AR-15 rifle, which he kept pressed hard at Tacoma’s neck.

  Tacoma noticed that the man’s clothing was drenched in blood from the stomach down.

  Tacoma was in the crosshairs of both weapons, but he held the woman in his own and a tense silence loomed in the bedroom.

  The room was small and tight, the lights bright and unpleasant.

  The woman was tall, thin, and gorgeous, with short-cropped brown hair and bangs, and a very pretty face. Tacoma had seen her kind before. Her gun was a Stechkin, a silencer jutting from the muzzle. She had a cut beneath one of her eyes, and a wash of red dripped down her cheek.

  “Ty srazhalsyas nim,” said Tacoma in flawless Russian, taunting them. “Vy ne budete srazhat’sya so mnoy?”

  You fought him. Why won’t you fight me?

  Tacoma moved his gun slowly away from the woman, so as not to scare them with sudden movement. He lowered the pistol and tossed it to the floor.

  Out of the corner of Tacoma’s eyes he watched as the female agent kept her gun trained on him. She reached to a sheath at the base of her back and removed a large knife—a KA-BAR, black steel, extended version, military issue.

  Tacoma made eye contact with her.

  Timing is everything is a myth perpetuated by the weak. The time is now. There is no other time unless you confront the task at hand.

  With the steel of the rifle muzzle at the back of his neck, Tacoma lunged his elbow back in the same moment he ducked left and grabbed the muzzle, fighting against the gunman, yanking the muzzle, and aiming it in the direction of the woman. The gunman behind him panicked and pulled the trigger. The bullet shot past Tacoma’s ear and barely missed the woman, who stepped toward him. He lashed a foot wildly at her arm, kicking the Stechkin from her hand. Tacoma gripped the muzzle tight as the man behind him kicked at the back of his legs, then tried to wrap his arms around Tacoma’s neck, just as the woman lunged, blade out. Tacoma launched a fierce elbow behind him, into the man’s collarbone. A dull snap was followed by a groan and the big man crumpled to the ground, gasping for air.

  Tacoma registered the oncoming knife blade as the woman slashed the black knife at him, cutting the air, grunting a high-pitched yelp as she thrust the sharp steel. Tacoma caught her with his fist, meeting her strike, blocking her at the wrist. His other hand reached for her shoulder, clawing at her upper arm. Suddenly, Tacoma thrust forward and kicked the woman’s knee. She let out a pained groan, then teetered sideways, off balance. As she fell, Tacoma held his entire arm in a viselike grip beneath her armpit. The woman’s own weight and momentum did the rest of the work. She tumbled sideways, down to the floor, screaming, as every tendon, nerve, muscle, and ligament in her shoulder ripped so loudly it could be heard, followed by the dull twang of her elbow snapping.

  Then Tacoma let go.

  As the woman fell, Tacoma grabbed the KA-BAR from her weakened clutch, then turned, instinctively ducking just as the tall killer stood back up, took aim, and fired, missing Tacoma. Tacoma dived at him before he could get off another round. Tacoma stabbed the blade into the gunman’s thigh as hard as he could. The blade cut through skin and muscle until it found bone deep inside the thigh. Tacoma ripped up, gutting even more tissue. The man screamed as he dropped to the floor. Both of his hands found the blade, now embedded deep in his thigh, and he tried to pry it out as blood flooded down and he let out a horrible groan.

  The smash of breaking glass was sudden. Tacoma pivoted, watching as the female assassin crashed through the window, letting out a low scream as she broke through the panes of glass and went flying out, falling to the ground outside the home, a floor below.

  Tacoma got to his feet, grabbed the AR-15 from the ground, then started firing at the black shadow of the woman as she ran into the woods and disappeared.

  Tacoma turned to the lone remaining killer. He was a mess, drenched in blood, pulling weakly at the KA-BAR sticking out from his thigh. He was too weak to pull the knife out—or else the serrated top edge of the blade was caught on something, a tendon or bone perhaps. He was moaning something in Russian, something even Tacoma couldn’t understand, as blood coursed from his stomach and leg, creating a puddle on the hardwood floor.

  In Russian, Tacoma spoke to the killer.

  “You try anything, I shoot,” said Tacoma, pointing the gun. “You move, I shoot. I won’t kill you, but I’ll blow a hole in you, understand? If I were you I would stay still and shut the hell up.”

  “No. Please don’t. Just shoot me,” he moaned as he pulled at the long blade embedded in his thigh.

  Tacoma spoke quietly to the man as he stepped forward:

  “Hold still,” said Tacoma.

  “Fuck you,” the man muttered.

  Aiming the gun at the man’s head, Tacoma reached down and grabbed the KA-BAR. He stepped on the man’s knee, then pulled up, fighting the blade out as the Russian yelped a low, horrible scream and blood spilled down on the carpet of the bedroom.

  Tacoma went to the doorway and stepped out into the hallway. He dropped the bloody knife on the carpet outside the door, then put the AR-15 next to it. He went back in the room, picked up his shoulder holster, and pulled it on, then picked up the silenced P226R and aimed it at the man. The Russian said nothing. Instead, he just stared at Tacoma, in agony at first, and then with a resigned stare, the look of the prisoner, close to death; a cold, blank stare. The stare of an operator, a good one, the moment in time when, in order to survive, one swallows the pain in order to live to fight again.

  What have you gotten into?

  The man spoke in Russian.

  “Mne nuzhen vrach,” he said. “Ya sobirayus istech krov’yu.”

  I need a doctor. I’m going to bleed to death.

  “Vy dolzhny byli podumat’ ob etom, prezhde chem ubit’ yego,” snapped Tacoma.

  You should’ve thought about that before you killed him.

  “You won’t be able to interrogate me if I die,” the Russian coughed.

  “Good point,” said Tacoma.

  “I want a lawyer,” he whispered.

  “I’ll get right on it,” said Tacoma.

  “It’s my right,” he said.

  “Why’d you kill him?” said Tacoma.

  The man said nothing. His face was contorted, anguished with pain, but he said nothing.

  “Why?” Tacoma repeated softly. “Who sent you?”

  Tacoma looked carefully at the man. He knew he was a professional. It would take a team from Langley and some electricity to find out who he was and how in the hell he found out about Cosgrove.

  But one thing was clear: someone in a very small, very tight pocket of American government had leaked Cosgrove’s identity to someone.

  Tacoma’s eyes caught the man’s abrupt movement, but a second too late. The killer’s wrist shot out and a small silver-sheen blade was suddenly in the air. The killer hurled the blade at Tacoma. The knife swiveled across the room, reflecting the chandelier as the blade edge pivoted. It had torque but missed, though not because Tacoma avoided it. The killer had timed it perfectly. But he threw wide. The blade cut into the wall behind Tacoma, stabbing deep into the wood.

  Tacoma aimed the gun at the man’s hand—the hand that had thrown the blade—and fired a single blast. A dull metallic thwap hit the air as a bullet ripped into the goon’s thumb. Blood, skin, and bone spat across the wall behind him.

  He screamed in pain and agony as blood coursed from his hand.

  “That’s about as close as you’re going to get to a lawyer,” said Tacoma. “A lot less expensive, too.”

  Tacoma stepped back into the hallway, at all times keeping the gun trained in the direction of the bedroom. He stood in the hallway for several minutes. He heard the sound of the door opening downstairs, then felt his cell vibrate. He picked it up and looked at the text. It was from Calibrisi. He heard the heavy baritone of Calibrisi’s voice from downstairs.

  “Goddammit,” he heard him say in a low voice that seemed to echo up the stairs.

  Tacoma—the gun trained through the doorway—stepped to the banister and looked down at Calibrisi. Calibrisi was kneeling beside Cosgrove. He looked up and caught Tacoma.

  “I told you not to touch him,” said Calibrisi. “There’s important evidence that you may or may not have compromised.”

  Tacoma looked quickly back at the injured Russian, holding him in the crosshairs. He stared into the thug’s eyes as he responded to Calibrisi.

  “I think I got some even better evidence, chief.”

  When Calibrisi arrived at the second floor, he registered the silenced P226R in Tacoma’s hand and followed the trajectory of where it was aimed. He walked past Tacoma into the room, assaying the bloody scene.

  Just behind Calibrisi were three men in suits from the Agency, one of the forensics units. Another was on its way, along with a cleanup crew.

  “Stop the bleeding,” said Calibrisi to a medic. “Nothing too fancy. Put him in a van and get him out to West Virginia.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Bal Bay Drive

  Bal Harbour, Florida

  Volkov felt the outline of his cell phone in his pocket as he looked across the dining room table at a crowd of people, six couples in all. Across from him was his wife. She was voluptuous, with bottle-blond hair and fake breasts, and wore a mesh tank top to accentuate her figure. She was also beautiful.

  The mood was boisterous, fueled by alcohol and THC. Despite the fact that Volkov’s workers at the Port of Miami oversaw the import of cocaine by the kilo, often in forty-foot containers, there were no drugs at the party harder than a few pens filled with sativa oil. Volkov didn’t let harder drugs enter his body or his inner sanctum.

  A wineglass and place setting filled with food in front of him sat undisturbed. Without saying anything, amid the din of laughter and raucous conversation, Volkov stood up.

  Outside, he lit a cigarette as he opened a text from Audra with photos. They showed the American, Cosgrove, badly beaten, hanging by a rope, a railroad spike driven through his chest. One of the photos showed the mercenary Audra had hired, Slokavich, in the corner of the frame, his beard visible. He appeared to have a smile on his face.

  But there had been no communication since the photos.

  “Why hasn’t she fucking called?” whispered Volkov aloud, to himself.

  Volkov had responsibility for all operations in the U.S. for the entity he worked for. They were, genealogically, a bastard splinter child of the Odessa Mafia. They had set themselves apart, and the group was new and mysterious. Darré, Volkov knew, was a mastermind of the highest order. This meant Volkov needed to run the most brutal, savage, and profitable crime enterprise possible—or else Darré would simply replace him, or someone would replace Darré.

  Darré owned large companies in almost every state in the U.S. Their intersection was the conduit between Darré’s legitimate business and crime, and Volkov was the other side of the crossroads. Volkov had absolute freedom as to how he ran the affairs of the entity, that is, that part of it that broke laws. Volkov worked out of one of the companies that the entity owned, a large cargo terminal at the Port of Miami, through which flowed all drugs the entity brought into the U.S.: cocaine, heroin, fentanyl, meth.

  Neither Darré or Volkov worried about law enforcement. The FBI was an agency of, for the most part, bumbling idiots. The smart ones were corrupt.

  Volkov was six feet tall and packed with muscles. He shaved his head and had a rough demeanor, pale skin, and a wide nose that had been broken before. His arms, chest, torso, and legs were jacked, like a running back’s.

  His Bal Harbour mansion was in a gated community on a cul-de-sac of large homes, all built recently, all enjoying two-acre lots and privacy. It was meant to look like a French château. It had a pool, a three-car garage, a wine cellar, and eight bedrooms.

  A dinner party was going on inside.

  Volkov stood in the driveway, a gravel showpiece where Volkov and his friends all had parked their Ferraris and Lamborghinis. He was smoking a cigarette.

  Volkov was twenty-seven years old.

  Now, he waited for the call. It had been hours, and he sensed that something was wrong.

  He’d sent Audra to kill the CIA agent, Cosgrove. As he smoked his third cigarette in less than a half hour, he realized how vulnerable he was. If they had her, he could be in imminent danger.

  From the driveway, he looked down across the lawn to the ocean. The waiting was like a ticking time bomb.

  He felt the vibration of his phone.

  Finally!

  It was Audra.

  “What,” said Volkov, putting the cell to his ear. “What happened?”

  “I’m hurt,” she breathed. “There was another man who came in. He has Slokavich.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On a bus,” she said. “I’m going to Philadelphia. I’ll fly back to Miami.”

  “What does Slokavich know?” said Volkov, his voice inflected with anger.

  “He knows me, that’s all.”

  The dinner party was breaking up. An older man, Volkov’s mentor in the Russian mob, Dmitri, approached. He was with a much younger woman. He brushed his hand toward one of the Ferraris, telling her to get into the car. He approached Volkov.

  “What’s wrong, Andrei?” Dmitri whispered.

  Volkov looked at the old man with a scornful air. He covered the phone.

  “Nothing,” said Volkov. “I hope you enjoyed dinner.”

  “You look like someone urinated on your cornflakes,” said the old man with a thick Russian accent, smiling.

  Volkov managed a polite grin, then cupped the phone.

  “Fuck off, asshole,” said Volkov smiling. A fake smile.

  “Andrei,” came a female voice. It was his wife. Volkov took another puff of his cigarette, then flicked it down.

  “I have to go,” he said to Audra.

  He hung up the phone.

  “Be right there,” he said.

  His wife was standing in the front entrance. In the light, her tank top looked sheer. She was standing and holding a glass of red wine.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “Nothing,” said Volkov.

  She walked down the front steps to her husband, who was leaning against a bright yellow Lamborghini.

  “Did you just talk to her?”

  “Who?” said Volkov.

  “You know who. Audra, the whore you fuck!”

  Volkov swung his arm and struck his wife with the back of his hand, hitting her cheek with a brutal slap. She screamed and nearly fell over, but then lurched at him with both fists flailing. He caught her arms and overpowered her with ease, then threw her down onto her back, onto the ground.

  He walked to the Lamborghini and opened the door. It scissored up. Before he climbed inside, he looked at his wife.

  “Watch your tongue,” he said calmly, “or next time I’ll cut it out with a dull butter knife.”

  CHAPTER 22

  118 Partridge Lane, N.W.

  Palisades

  Washington, D.C.

  Tacoma and Calibrisi remained at Cosgrove’s house as two teams of CIA forensics experts and a six-person sanitization crew made it look as if nothing had happened at the house. The plaster wall where the bullet that had passed through the Russian’s thumb was embedded had been sanitized and patched up. All traces of blood upstairs and down were gone. Even an experienced investigator would have found nothing more than some molecular-level DNA. The cleaning process had included a thorough cataloging of all fingerprints in the house, followed by a methodical washing of every surface, followed by a radiological burst, in which every room in the house was exposed for a brief time.

  Cosgrove’s home had a two-car garage, and this was where Calibrisi decided to fix the surviving Russian up before his short trip to the mountains of West Virginia, where there was a CIA property down a long, country road. This property looked, from the outside, like a large, brick homestead on a hill, surrounded by more than a thousand acres of land. Calibrisi made the decision to not take the Russian to a medical facility, even though there was a CIA clinic within a half mile of Cosgrove’s home. The more people who knew what had happened, the greater the odds that they would never figure out who had sent the killers—and how they found out. Calibrisi already knew why they’d come for Cosgrove. It was obvious. A warning to Langley and, by extension, the U.S. government: