The russian, p.28
The Russian,
p.28
“The problem is,” said Kaiser, “we both heard your mag click empty. You are done. I’m almost sorry it had to end this way.”
Kaiser held the suppressor up, targeting Tacoma’s forehead, and stepped closer to Tacoma, who stared back with a cold, emotionless look. The sound of breaking glass came a second before Kaiser let out a howl, as a bullet from outside the house struck him in the right shoulder, kicking Kaiser sideways and down to the carpet. He didn’t move.
Tacoma was frozen for a moment and then looked to the door. Dewey was dark faced with camo. He held Kaiser in the crosshairs of his Colt .45, but Kaiser didn’t move. He was dead.
Dewey walked to Tacoma.
“Hector said you needed some adult supervision,” said Dewey.
Tacoma grinned, and for a split second felt a deep sense of relief. Then his eyes saw movement on the floor. Kaiser. Tacoma tried to push Dewey out of the way just as a low, brassy thwap echoed in the room. Tacoma felt the bullet hit him in the chest, mostly the pressure, because the pain went from acute to surreal quickly. He fell backward. Tacoma looked down at his chest and saw dark blood, gurgling from a hole in his chest.
When he looked up, he saw Dewey with a look of horror on his face. Dewey reached for him. As Tacoma was about to lose consciousness, he looked past Dewey to Kaiser. Kaiser climbed to his feet, dripping blood from his hip and shoulder. He was a monster in size. Kaiser charged out the back door to the terrace just as the wind picked up and the noise level elevated. The Super Puma pivoted down and touched the terrace just outside the room, the skilled pilot leaving mere inches between the ends of the blades and the roof. Kaiser climbed aboard and the helicopter lifted up into the air.
Dewey tapped his earbud, then said: “Hector.”
“Yeah.”
“Rob’s been shot in the chest. We need to get him under a surgeon in the next hour or so. He’s bleeding badly.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Yes.”
“That means they didn’t hit his heart,” said Calibrisi. “I’ll line someone up. Tell the pilot to bring him to Columbia Presbyterian.”
“You got it. See you there.”
CHAPTER 70
Columbia Presbyterian Hospital
New York, New York
The helicopter soared toward Manhattan, carrying Tacoma, who was unconscious and bleeding badly. Dewey kept his hand over the wound, pressing down to try and keep the blood inside Tacoma.
The chopper landed on the roof of Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, in the middle of the night. A team of medics was waiting, holding a stretcher. They ran Tacoma into a brightly lit operating room, populated by a number of nurses, surgeons, and anaesthesiologists. As soon as they moved Tacoma to the stainless steel operating table, a tall man with blond hair, one of the surgeons, pounced and took control, slashing into Tacoma’s chest as various people injected Tacoma with needles and someone else slammed an oxygen mask on his face.
“What do you got, Roger?”
“He’s alive.”
“How alive?”
“Heartbeat is strong.”
“Let’s get some designer blood in there, Carol,” said Page as his fingers started to dig around inside the cavity he’d just cut. “It’s in the lung. Someone get me an XS. Get the sutures ready. We’re going to do this quickly, before his heart starts giving up.”
CHAPTER 71
Vertag Avenue
Berlin, Germany
By the time Kaiser was driven to the clinic, he appeared pale.
They put him down on the table and two separate surgeons cut in, despite the fact that there was no anaesthesia. One cut a bullet from his shoulder as the other surgeon removed one from Kaiser’s hip. Kaiser let out not even a groan, even though he wasn’t in shock. After they sutured him up, he climbed off the stainless steel table.
“Vodka,” Kaiser panted, sweat dripping from his face. “Get me a bottle of vodka!”
CHAPTER 72
Columbia Presbyterian Hospital
New York, New York
Tacoma lay in bed, with a network of wires, IVs, and various other apparatuses meshed around him.
He was awake. He looked around the hospital room. He saw Katie first, reading a magazine. Then Calibrisi, seated on a chair, legs crossed, looking at him. Igor was in a chair in the corner, typing into a laptop. Finally, Tacoma’s eyes found Dewey, standing next to the bed. Tacoma realized that Dewey’s hand was clutching his arm, shaking it, digging his fingers in. He’d been shaking Tacoma.
“Hey, bud,” said Dewey.
Tacoma nodded, barely getting out a whisper.
“Hey.”
“I’ve got some good news and some bad news. What do you want first?”
Tacoma stared back at Dewey with a blank expression, various tubes and IVs sticking into him. He was dazed.
“Okay, I’ll make the decision,” said Dewey. “Let’s start with the good news. The good news is you’re alive and—when they were digging around in there—they found out you have a heart. The bad news is, the surgeon left his phone in there and is going to have to go back in. Also, everyone in the Russian mafia wants to kill you.”
Tacoma grinned, feeling a sharp pain in his chest.
“You’re not supposed to laugh for a few weeks,” said Dewey. “They’re apparently afraid your padookis might fall off. They had a hard time finding it. They needed a magnifying glass.”
Tacoma laughed, then immediately winced again.
“Where am I?” he whispered.
“Columbia Presbyterian,” said Calibrisi.
“Did you get him?”
Dewey shook his head, no.
“No, Kaiser got away,” said Calibrisi. “But now we know who we’re up against. For someone who’s been invisible, that can’t make him happy.”
“Kaiser might not be dead, but he’s no longer a ghost,” said Katie. “We also avenged O’Flaherty, Blake, and Cosgrove.”
“It was a damn good start,” said Calibrisi.
Tacoma couldn’t hide his disappointment.
The door opened and a tall man with a shock of blond hair stepped in. He was young, in his thirties, and wore light-blue surgical garb and a white surgeon’s coat.
“Sorry to interrupt but I heard you were awake, Rob. I’m Fred Page,” said the doctor. “I’m the one who operated on you.”
Tacoma stared at Page.
“The bullet went through your left lung,” said Page. “We were able to repair most of it, but it’s going to hurt for a while, mainly because we had to cut through a bunch of muscle to dig out what was left of the bullet.”
“How long do I have to be here?”
“A week or two.”
“Thanks,” said Tacoma.
“I’m going to continue my rounds, but I’ll check back on you,” said Page, then he turned and left.
The nurse came in with a tray and said, “It’s dinnertime.”
The tray was piled with orange Jell-O, a scoop of mashed potatoes, and an unappealing, unidentifiable gray meat. The nurse set it down in front of Tacoma and said, “Eat up. You need your strength.”
Dewey looked at the tray and shuddered. He turned to Calibrisi and Katie.
“I think Rob needs some rest.”
“Yeah, I agree,” said Calibrisi.
“I could go for a steak,” said Dewey. “A big, juicy ribeye.”
Dewey and Calibrisi started laughing as Tacoma stared down at the tray. They stood up and walked to the door.
“New York City has some excellent steak houses,” said Calibrisi, rubbing it in. “Though if you don’t mind I’d rather not go to Sparks.”
“We’ll bring you a doggy bag,” said Dewey. “A bone. You can chew on it tomorrow while you’re watching soap operas.”
Tacoma smiled, then winced. Katie, however, remained seated with a serious expression.
“I’m going to stay here and keep Rob company,” she said.
“You don’t have to, Katie,” said Tacoma weakly.
Katie put her hand in the pocket of her blazer. She felt the butt of a pistol.
“I know I don’t have to,” said Katie. “Maybe I want to.”
But Katie did have to. Someone had to.
Katie imagined Kaiser, Volkov, and the men at the airport Rob killed, the men who were trying to kill him. She thought of Audra and Slokavich, of Darré and the small army of corpses left at his estate. Katie knew that though this chapter was over, the war with the Russian mafia was only just beginning. They couldn’t rest. As long as Rob Tacoma was on American soil, he was in danger. As long as he was alive, he was in danger. He would always be in danger.
Calibrisi paused near the doorway. He sighed.
“There are four FBI agents posted outside the room,” said Calibrisi, as if anticipating her concerns. “Four more in the lobby, not to mention a bunch of NYPD.”
“As long as there are men like Kaiser out there, there will be traitors like Peter Lehigh,” said Katie.
Calibrisi glanced at Dewey. The odds of someone getting to Tacoma were incredibly small, but they both knew she was right. Suddenly, they lost their enthusiasm for a big steak dinner at a fancy restaurant. They also felt slightly guilty for giving Tacoma flack. They stepped back near Tacoma’s bed and sat down.
A small television showed a college football game, though the volume was down. All four sat in silence, watching the game.
Finally, it was Dewey who broke the silence.
“Hey,” said Dewey, getting Tacoma’s attention. He pointed at the gray pile of meat on the plate. “You gonna eat that?”
Acknowledgments
The Russian is the first book in a new thriller series. As such, it required me to start all over from the beginning. After writing eight books in the Dewey Andreas series, I assumed the ninth would be easy. Instead, it was as hard to write as my first book, Power Down, a decade ago. While I’m not complaining, I would be negligent if I were to not adequately thank the people whose encouragement and understanding enabled me to finish this book.
First and foremost, thank you, Nicole Kenealy James and Keith Kahla, my agent and editor, respectively, for your guidance, support, and incredible patience. I couldn’t have done it without you, and those aren’t just words.
To Sally Richardson, Jen Enderlin, Andrew Martin, George Witte, Martin Quinn, Lisa Senz, Paul Hochman, Jenn Gonzalez, Hector DeJean, Rafal Gibek, Amelie Littell, Mary Beth Roche, Robert Allen, Alice Pfeifer, and everyone at St. Martin’s Press and Macmillan Audio, thank you for your continued confidence in me.
Thanks also to Chris George, Rorke Denver, and Ari Fialkos.
To my family: Charlie, who ten years ago carried coffee to me in his pajamas as I wrote and now is in college and a wonderful sounding board for plot ideas. Teddy, who, when I was working on Power Down, would come in and demand that I take him to Dunkin’ Donuts, and who, as I wrote The Russian, would come in and demand that I take him to Dunkin’ Donuts. Oscar, who, way back then, would climb onto my lap wearing his sleepers to snuggle and keep warm and who now lets me climb on his lap in my sleepers to snuggle and keep warm. Esmé, who was just a smiling little peanut way back then and is a smiling big peanut now, albeit a peanut with a sailor’s vocab and a right hook not to be trifled with. Thank you, guys, I love you.
Finally, to Shannon, my wonderful and beautiful wife, thank you for continuing to be the compass that guides me through it all.
Wellesley, Massachusetts 2019
ALSO BY BEN COES
The Dewey Andreas Novels
Power Down
Coup d’État
The Last Refuge
Eye for an Eye
Independence Day
First Strike
Trap the Devil
Bloody Sunday
About the Author
Ben Coes is the New York Times bestselling author of the Dewey Andreas novels, including Eye for an Eye, First Strike, and Bloody Sunday. The Russian is the first novel in his new series featuring former U.S. Navy SEAL Rob Tacoma. Before writing his first novel, Power Down, he worked at the White House under two presidents and was a fellow at the John F. Kennedy School of Government at Harvard University. He lives with his wife and four children in Wellesley, Massachusetts. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Acknowledgments
Also by Ben Coes
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
THE RUSSIAN. Copyright © 2019 by Ben Coes. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Rob Grom
Cover photograph of man © Anne Ackermann / Getty Images
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-14079-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-14081-4 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250140814
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First Edition: July 2019
Ben Coes, The Russian
