Then he heard the knock at the door.

  Tacoma went to Volkov’s desk and started opening drawers. He found a .45 caliber Glock. He slammed in a mag and chambered a bullet, then walked to the door. He paused, then opened the door. Victor was standing in the hallway, alone, holding a large pile of money. Tacoma fired, sending a bullet through Victor’s chest, killing him instantly.

  The sound of unmuted gunfire ricocheted out into the port.

  Tacoma dragged Victor’s body inside Volkov’s office as shouting began, then a siren was sounded. He heard footsteps.

  Tacoma popped his earbud in and tapped it three times.

  “Katie? Igor? I’ve got a problem. Volkov found me out and I had to kill him. I’m trapped here in his office, but I’ve got an idea.”

  Without waiting for a reply, or even an acknowledgment that they had heard him, Tacoma pulled the earbud out and dropped it into his pocket. He went to Volkov’s corpse and placed the Glock in Volkov’s hand. He then grabbed the punch knife and put it into Victor’s hand. Both men were dead, and it looked as if they had done it to each other.

  Finally, as the drumbeat of footsteps drew closer, Tacoma lay down on the floor, holding his bloody arm. The wound wasn’t that serious, all he needed was a few stitches, but he needed to play a part right now.

  When a small crew of security men from the port opened the door, Tacoma was on the ground, holding his bloody arm. There were three men, all clutching Uzis. They found Victor on the ground, his chest a riot of blood, and then they found Volkov, his blue eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling.

  They looked at Tacoma.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, it was so fast.”

  “Are you okay?” said one of the gunmen.

  Tacoma just nodded, as if in shock.

  “Tell us what you saw.”

  “They argued over some money,” said Tacoma.

  “And how did you get cut?”

  “Victor pulled out a knife and charged Mr. Volkov,” said Tacoma. “I tried to defend Mr. Volkov but Victor slashed my arm, then he cut Mr. Volkov’s neck.”

  As if anticipating the man’s next question, Tacoma spoke.

  “Mr. Volkov grabbed his gun and shot Victor,” said Tacoma. “Victor would have killed me next but Mr. Volkov saved my life.”

  One of the gunmen came closer to Tacoma and knelt. He took his T-shirt and ripped a strip off. He tied it above Tacoma’s knife wound, a tourniquet to stem the blood loss. He then went to find a first aid kit.

  One of the other security men pulled out a phone.

  “I have to call the emergency number and report this.”

  “You’re calling the police?” Tacoma said.

  “Not that kind of emergency number,” he said. He stepped out into the hallway and began speaking to someone in hushed tones.

  Someone returned with a first aid kit. He bandaged Tacoma’s arm.

  “This will hold you for a while, but you’re going to need stitches. We should get you to a doctor.”

  The other man hung up the phone and turned to the others.

  “He needs a doctor,” said the man who’d just bandaged him.

  “Not yet, I’m afraid. This one is going on a flight,” said the gunman.

  Tacoma looked startled and pulled back. Even injured, he knew he could take all three of them and get away, but he needed to find out who was on the other end of that emergency phone call.

  “What do you mean? I did nothing wrong.”

  “No one says that you did,” said the gunman. “I told the man how heroically you defended the boss. But I do as I am told.”

  “Where am I going?” said Tacoma.

  “Even I don’t know the answer to that question.”

  CHAPTER 62

  Commonwealth Tower

  1300 Wilson Boulevard

  Arlington, Virginia

  “I think I have something,” said Igor.

  Katie, Jenna, and Calibrisi all gathered behind Igor as he put up a video on one of his computer screens.

  It showed the port, and the human ring. An orange circle was painted on Tacoma as he walked out into the middle of the ring and removed his shirt.

  “Where is this from?” said Katie.

  “I sent a drone overhead,” said Igor. “Technically, it’s against the law, but I figured, why not? Know what I mean?” Igor looked back at Katie. “Impressive, don’t you think, gorgeous?”

  Katie met eyes with Igor for the briefest of moments, then rolled her eyes backward and shook her head.

  “Not to say you aren’t also a fetching woman,” said Igor, pivoting to Jenna, though Jenna did not return Igor’s look. She was focused on the video.

  The video showed Tacoma and Volkov engaged in face-to-face combat. They watched in silence as the two men exchanged blows.

  “He infiltrated the fight,” said Jenna, her English accent crisp and elegant sounding. “The question now is, what does it mean?”

  Calibrisi, Katie, Jenna, and Igor watched the fight on Igor’s screen, from a perspective high above the fight, and watched as ultimately Tacoma went down and lost to Volkov.

  “Rob did what you said,” said Calibrisi. “He lost. He could’ve killed Volkov at several points, three by my count.”

  “Five,” said Katie.

  They watched as Volkov extended a hand and the two wounded fighters went up to Volkov’s office.

  “I’ll tell you what it means, it means Tacoma is now on the inside,” said Jenna.

  “I don’t about the rest of you, but after that, I need a drink,” Katie said.

  Just then, they heard Tacoma’s voice come over the speaker.

  “Katie? Igor? I’ve got a problem. Volkov found me out and I had to kill him. I’m trapped here in his office, but I’ve got an idea.”

  And then the tone went busy, as if the call had ended.

  “Fuck,” Katie said. “Rob, are you there? What’s going on?”

  But there was only silence.

  The four looked at one another in shock, until Katie turned to Jenna and said, “Well, what now, Miss Genius Architect?”

  CHAPTER 63

  Darré Estate

  Greenwich, Connecticut

  Tacoma was blindfolded and flex-cuffed. He was placed in the back of a black sedan. After an hour of driving, the car stopped and Tacoma was led to a plane. From the stairs, he knew it was a Gulfstream.

  He was pushed into a seat in the cabin, a large, luxurious leather seat, but then he felt a steel rope between his hands, and heard the sound of a lock. Someone pulled off the blindfold. Tacoma winced at the pain, as part of the material had stuck to his eye, sopping up the blood but hardening. It was like having a Band-Aid torn off. The steel rope between his flex-cuffed hands was wrapped around the chair itself. He couldn’t move. He recognized the cabin of a Gulfstream G650.

  The plane soon took off. In addition to the pilots, there were two gunmen, a young, scraggly-looking man who held an Uzi trained on Tacoma, and an older man, in his late thirties or early forties, with a crew cut.

  “Where are we going?” said Tacoma.

  He repeated the question several times, in both English and Russian, but was not given an answer.

  Tacoma shut his eyes, willing himself to go to sleep. Wherever they were flying, it would take time. These two were not going to kill him. They were supposed to transport him. It meant he could sleep without worrying about being killed. Tacoma shut his eyes and thought about his brother, Bo, a random thought—playing checkers in the lodge at Stowe, after a day of skiing. They were just boys then. He fell asleep as he tried to remember the moment.

  He awoke as they unlocked him from the steel rope, though he was still flex-cuffed.

  Near the stairs leading down from the jet, Tacoma was met by a man in a gray suit. He led Tacoma to an idling BMW limousine. The man rewrapped the blindfold over Tacoma’s eyes, then shut the door and hit the roof twice, telling the driver to go.

  An hour later, the vehicle came to a set of majestic iron gates in the Greenwich countryside.

  After passing through the gates, the driveway went on for nearly half a mile, through manicured fields, lawns, and sweeps of beautiful trees. At the end of the driveway was a four-story mansion, white stucco, slate roof, and surrounded by precisely coiffed boxwoods and flower gardens and lawn.

  Tacoma was led inside and down a hallway. He was pushed down into a chair.

  “Evgeny,” came a man’s voice. He wasn’t Russian. He sounded friendly, an American accent, even a little southern. “I’m going to have them remove your cuffs and your blindfold. Don’t do anything stupid. There are three gunmen with guns aimed at you.”

  He felt his flex-cuffs loosen. Finally, the blindfold was removed. Again, Tacoma felt the pain as the cloth detached from his injured eye.

  Tacoma looked around, assaying the environment. It was a fancy and spacious room. The walls were lined with bookshelves. A large desk was on one side of the room. Behind the desk stood a man with longish blond hair, dressed in white pants and a white button-down shirt. There were three gunmen flanking him.

  “My name is Bruno Darré,” he said. “You witnessed Andrei Volkov dying earlier?”

  Tacoma nodded, yes.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “Victor,” said Tacoma. “Mr. Volkov accused him of stealing and they were shouting at each other. Victor cut him with a knife. He then stabbed me.” Tacoma looked at his biceps, which had a makeshift bandage and tourniquet over it. “Mr. Volkov shot Victor. Then everyone came. We were merely having a drink. He invited me there.”

  Darré stared at Tacoma for more than half a minute. He studied Tacoma, as if attempting to find a flaw in his narrative.

  “Tell me, Evgeny, do you have any prison tattoos?” said Darré.

  “No. I was in prison, yes, but I was young and I made sure to avoid the gangs.”

  Tacoma felt the outline of the lightning bolt on his shoulder. He didn’t react. He recognized that there were three gunmen there.

  “I have one tattoo on my shoulder, it’s a lightning bolt.”

  Darré smiled and seemed to visibly relax. He went to the bar and poured himself a bourbon.

  Tacoma watched him carefully and pieced it all together. This was the man that Volkov reported to, his boss. Tacoma was now just feet from the man who had ordered it all. The man who orchestrated the assassinations of Blake and O’Flaherty, the man who told Andrei Volkov to kill Billy Cosgrove.

  And though he wanted to kill him, this man Darré, Tacoma recognized something in Darré’s eyes. He sensed another presence, a shade of outright fear, and he knew that Darré wasn’t the one in charge. He couldn’t be. Jenna was right, there was someone even bigger, hiding behind him. He saw that in Darré’s eyes, in his actions. What it told him was, he needed to keep playing his part.

  “Will I be able to still work at the port?” said Tacoma sheepishly. He spoke with a hint of a Russian accent. “I only just arrived in the United States. I like the work. I wish I had not seen the fight. I tried to defend Mr. Volkov. I’m sorry I failed, sir.”

  Darré stepped over to Tacoma and stood before him.

  “You did nothing wrong,” said Darré. “We just need to be careful. I need to be careful. Of course you still have a job. But maybe you could work directly for me. Security is an important issue in my life. I heard that you and Andrei fought, that you almost won. I could use someone with that kind of skill.”

  “Of course, I would work for you. I’m saving up to bring my sister to America,” said Tacoma.

  Darré grinned and snapped his fingers. An older woman stepped into the room.

  “Put Evgeny in the guest cottage,” said Darré. “And call the doctor. We need to get our friend’s wounds looked after.”

  CHAPTER 64

  Darré Estate

  Greenwich, Connecticut

  Inside the small guest cottage on Darré’s estate, Tacoma didn’t sleep. He lay on the bed, thinking.

  He needed to act now. Time was working against him. His improvised story would only hold together so long. Eventually they’d learn that his story about Volkov and Victor wasn’t true. Something would tip them off. They were still searching for him, and whoever tipped off Volkov would eventually—inevitably—find him.

  He couldn’t count on backup. He didn’t know if Katie had even heard his last message, and she couldn’t know where he was. Even he wasn’t sure where he was.

  It was a race against time. He didn’t have a weapon.

  Always know where your weapon is.

  Tacoma believed his greatest weapon was his fists, followed very closely by his feet. But lying in wait without a gun was not easy.

  He thought about something someone said at the Farm one day.

  Don’t wait. Act immediately. If you think tomorrow night would be a much less risky opportunity to kill, and tonight is fraught with peril for various reasons, choose tonight.

  There was somebody larger out there, a man above even Darré and Volkov.

  When that man learned of Volkov’s death, he would find out where Volkov’s killer had gone. The story of Victor and Volkov’s fight would be seen as what it was, a charade.

  Tacoma needed a weapon. Not for the feeling of security, but because they would be coming. He would be coming. The one behind it all. The fact that Darré didn’t know that Evgeny was really Tacoma spoke volumes. It meant the one in charge of it all didn’t trust him.

  Tacoma had at most a few precious hours.

  He glanced at the black sky out one of the windows in the small but pretty cottage. He knew what he was about to do was high risk, but it was necessary. Tacoma climbed out of bed and pulled on jeans and a flannel shirt. He remained barefoot.

  He climbed out the window and then waited until his eyes adjusted to the dark. Surprised that Darré didn’t have any security walking the grounds, Tacoma walked quickly across the lawn to the back of Darré’s mansion. He came to a French door off a rose garden and tried to turn the doorknob, but it was locked. Tacoma pressed his leg against the door and tried to create space between the two doors. He managed to get the tips of his fingers in the small opening, then slammed the door handle up. The door opened and Tacoma moved to the upper right corner of the doorjamb, holding his fingers over the sensor. He waited several seconds. The sensor would register it as an anomaly. He waited, then removed his hand and shut the door.

  He moved through the dark mansion, finding Darré’s office. He went to Darré’s desk and opened drawers. Several were empty. Others contained business files. In the top drawer was a manila envelope with no writing on it. He opened it and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  ORLOV, EVGENY

  The sheet had Tacoma’s photo from his fake Russian passport. Other than that and his name, it said nothing. So far, Darré didn’t know who he was. That was good.

  Tacoma went behind Darré’s desk and, in the darkness, felt along the floor. He searched for a false spot, possibly indicating a safe or hiding spot. He found a split seam in the hardwood and ran his finger to a small switch, pushing it. A section of floor opened up and Tacoma reached down. He felt the steel of a gun barrel. It was an MP7. A stack of magazines was next to the hidden weapon.

  Tacoma took the gun and slammed a mag in, then spent a few seconds feeling over a weapon he already knew well. He pocketed three extra mags and then slung the MP7 over his shoulder, training it in a diagonal direction in front of him.

  He crossed the yard and went back to the guest cottage. With no one around to observe him, he went in through the front door, then climbed back in bed, clutching the MP7.

  CHAPTER 65

  White Plains Airport

  White Plains, New York

  Kaiser’s jet touched down in White Plains and he walked down the stairs, where a pair of helicopters were waiting, lights on, rotors slashing the air. One was a Sikorsky S-76C, and the other was an Airbus H225 Super Puma. Kaiser walked to the Puma and opened the door. He looked inside at four highly-trained, black-clad operators. He focused on one man in particular, a bald man whose face was painted in camouflage.

  “You understand the mission?” said Kaiser.

  “Yes. Find the American and kill him. Do we know where he is on the property?”

  “In the guest cottage. Use extreme prejudice. He must die. If you come across one of Darré’s men, kill him. In the meantime, I will be visiting with Darré inside the house. I want all bodies taken away and dropped several miles out in the ocean. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You won’t see me again,” said Kaiser.

  He scanned the men. No one said a word, but every man nodded silently, yes.

  Kaiser slid the door shut and walked to the waiting S-76C, climbing into a spacious cabin and a comfortable leather seat. He was alone in the cabin. The lights inside the chopper cabin suddenly went out and the chopper took air, just as loud thunder from the Puma rattled everything.

  Kaiser leaned forward and watched through the window of the Sikorsky as the dark phantom of the Super Puma cut through a moonlit sky, on its way to the same place Kaiser was headed, though the Puma would get there sooner. The design was simple. Land, then kill him.

  Tacoma, then Darré.

  The news of Volkov’s death didn’t surprise Kaiser, and he had no doubt as to who had done it. There was no question. It was Tacoma.

  The time to go after Tacoma was now. He would kill two birds with one stone. Kaiser knew that the American agent was now chasing Darré. Presumably, he’d gotten Darré’s identity from Volkov before killing him. Rob Tacoma had gift-wrapped it all for Kaiser. He would erase Darré and Tacoma. He would tie off and shut down the entire thing. The objective had been achieved, but even Kaiser felt bad for the loss not only of an important revenue source, but, in Volkov, a youngster who reminded Kaiser of himself and, in Darré, a financial mind unparalleled to anything he’d ever known. He would miss them both, for different reasons. But now it was time to destroy this entire arm of the Odessa Mafia.