An odor of fresh brewed coffee was coming from the kitchen, and he went in. A man was singing badly, an almost unrecognizable version of an old pop song, a hit from the 1980s, from the Swedish group ABBA. He swung round with a smile on his face when he heard Cris' footsteps. Said something in Russian, and when he saw who it was, his hand flashed to the gun in the shoulder holster. He got it halfway out when Cris put two bullets into him. He slumped to the floor, and he raced through the house, ensuring it was empty.

  They’d all gone, and he had to reach Borodino before they killed her. He didn't know where they’d be in Borodino, when he had an idea and raced outside. Most of the cars had gone. All that remained was the yellow Lamborghini Espada. He was lucky. The keys were inside, and he switched on the ignition and started the engine. With a throaty roar the V12 engine burst into life. His next move was to check the satnav, and he managed to negotiate the menu and bring up the English version. Within minutes, he found what he was looking for. A record of the destinations they’d put into memory over the past weeks and months, and he found it there. Hit the button to bring up the route, and the blue line on the screen crawled toward the place known as Borodino. And went further, until the blue line stopped at a small lake, a tiny blotch of blue amidst a sea of green and brown. That was it, and the only designation on the map was the name, ‘training camp.’

  He took a few minutes to race back into the dacha and picked up food, chunks of bread, sausage, cheese, and bottles of water from the fridge. Took them out to the car and put them on the passenger seat. Restarted the engine, and told the satnav to start the route. Started to drive out to the road, but the bellow of the loudhailer stopped him.

  “Mr. Rhodes, you will stop the car, and get out with your hands up. This is FSB, and you are under arrest.”

  A big, shiny-black, UAZ Patriot SUV had parked across the driveway entrance, and he brought the Lamborghini to a stop. Two people got out of the car, a man and a woman. He recognized them instantly. Konstantin Demidov and Lina Yezhov, the two FSB agents he’d bumped into at Sheremetyevo airport. Lina Yezhov, the wife of the man who’d died under the wheels of the subway train beneath Fifth Avenue. Somehow, they’d tracked him to this place. Not difficult for the organization that had inherited the mantle of the KGB.

  He knew what they wanted, what she wanted. Revenge. A life for a life, and what better place to take it than out in the boonies. No witnesses, otherwise they’d have brought more people with them. He considered his options. They were State Security, and he couldn’t do them any harm. But if he didn’t get past them, Maria would die.

  “Get out of the car, Mr. Rhodes. Or we open fire.”

  His options were reduced to just one. Escape and evade. But he had to do something about that vehicle in the process. He kept his hands low where they couldn’t see what he was doing, picked up the Makarov, and pointed it out the window. Taking a careful aim, he fired two shots over their heads. Then he slammed the gear lever into reverse and went skidding backward across the snow. There wasn’t anywhere for him to go, but they didn’t know that. The FSB agents ran for their car, and the engine started. A moment later, they were racing past the dacha, leaving the driveway entrance clear, if he could get past them.

  They didn’t see him waiting behind the dacha until they’d gone past, and it was too late. Another two shots spat out the barrel, and a 9mm slug buried itself in a rear tire. The rubber became a shredded mess, and the Patriot dropped to one side. He didn’t wait to see any more, but stabbed down on the gas, and after a brief pause for the limited slip differential to gain traction, shot up the driveway and out onto the road.

  The car was as unsuitable as any car could be for the rough, snow-covered roads. No wonder they hadn't bothered to take it to Borodino, but he had nothing else. The drive was an unending series of skids that threatened to finish him almost before he'd started. Keeping traction, keeping the rubber on the road, was a nightmare. For mile after mile, he fought the wheel, swinging every which way to keep the car on the road.

  Eventually, he got the hang of it and settled into a pace that was faster than most sane men would drive, yet not so crazy as to crash into the forest that flashed past. As he drove, he munched on the bread and meat, and downed bottles of water. He felt better, his strength returning, more in control of the supercar with the 3.9 liter, V12 engine.

  He’d been driving for an hour when all it appeared in front of him. Rows of dilapidated, prefabricated huts. Like a military training camp, and beyond the huts, a lake, its surface covered in ice. He drove the Lamborghini off the road into a clearing, and the wheels skidded as they tried to gain traction when they met the deeper, soft snow. It was the best he could do to hide the bright yellow car, and he climbed out and started running.

  There was no gate on the compound; just a gap in the wire fence with two posts that once would have held gates. The place was thickly wooded, and he was able to slip from tree to tree. Conscious he must stay out of sight. With just two pistols, if they saw him, they'd come after him with everything they had. He made the last few yards, darted behind the nearest hut, and peered around the corner. A guard was leaning against the woodwork, a huge man, with his back toward him, watching a procession of people walking down the long track that led to the shore of the lake. Four men, and one of them was Pavel Stolypin. One woman, Maria Tereshkova, her hands fastened behind her back.

  Her head was thrown back, her chin up in a gesture of defiance. The four Russians were chatting to each other, as if they were about to embark on a relaxing stroll around the lake, rather than commit a murder. He held the gun ready, but just to threaten. A single shot would alert them all, and they’d finish her off. Stepped quietly toward the guard and studied him from a yard away. His back was as broad as a small car. He wore a thick anorak, with the hood pulled down, and his neck betrayed vivid scars, as if he’d been the victim of a fire.

  Cris touched the Makarov to his back. “Freeze. Drop the gun.”

  The man turned, slowly, but he didn’t toss away the assault rifle. The weapon mounted a banana-shaped magazine, like that used by the Kalashnikov AKs. But this was no old-tech weapon. They’d been almost a rumor inside Russia, until they started to appear in greater numbers, the AK-15, big brother to the AK-12. A rifle that fired traditional 7.62mm Russian ammo, but much faster and more accurate than the AKM, it could fire single shots, three-shot bursts or on full-auto. The gun had already gained a reputation as a powerful weapon, although he wasn’t looking at the gun.

  The man confronting him was huge, covered in burn tissue, a fearsome sight. He’d tangled with him before, on the shore of a lake up close to the Canadian border. The man with no name; the Russian killing machine sent by the Kremlin to kill her. He’d managed to beat him that time, and the last he saw of the monstrous creature, he’d been riddled with bullets, his body on fire from burning gasoline, and drowning in the lake. Now he was here.

  Back in Russia, and apart from his terrible scars, the same, terrible enemy he’d faced before. The mouth opened, and it was like a rat trap. No lips, just a hole in the face where once a human mouth had been visible. He gurgled something that may have been a word and lashed out with the gun. It hit the PSM with tremendous force and knocked it out of his hand. But he didn’t shoot. Instead, he put the gun down, and his face creased into what may have been a smile. Gurgled another unrecognizable word and shambled forward, hands reaching for him, to kill him.

  Chapter Five

  From the corner of his eye, he could see the men at the shore of the lake, and they turned to watch. But when two of them started to come forward to intervene, Stolypin waved them back. They figured they wouldn’t be needed. The Chechen monster, the man who’d hunted and pursued Maria Tereshkova relentlessly across North America would be more than enough to deal with the irritating interruption.

  The huge man snaked out his fist, and Cris jerked back to avoid the sledgehammer blow, but still it grazed his shoulder, and once again the fiery torment tore through his body. His brain reacted instantly, wanting him to step back, out of range. Yet he knew the man would come at him. He needed a plan to deal with him. Something that would allow him to fight and win.

  He had the small pistol, still tucked into his pocket. It wouldn’t be enough. He’d fought the monster before, and two or three small caliber bullets were unlikely to put him down. Unless he could get in close enough to drill a shot into his brain. Easy to say, and almost impossible to do. He used his arms to fend off the blows and didn’t attempt to land a punch himself. Knew from before the man was like a human tank, and it would be like hitting sheet steel.

  He continued to defend himself, dodging, ducking, and weaving, and he fell back slowly. The Chechen pressed forward, and on his terrible, burned and scarred face, the expression filled with rage. The little man in front of him was an irritant, and he wanted to spot him like a fly. Except he wouldn’t standstill and let it happen. They backed out through the gate, and when he saw an opening, Cris finally managed to hit the man with a stunning left uppercut that smashed into his jaw. He felt the bones give, heard the crack, and knew he’d delivered a telling blow. He may as well have used a rolled-up newspaper, for all the difference it made. No matter how much punishment he took, he kept coming, huge and invulnerable.

  He was still going backward and retreated along the track. He glimpsed the Lamborghini fifty yards away, still tucked into the small forest clearing. Something he could use to do some serious damage to the monster. He wondered how fast he’d be. The injuries from before had healed, and he appeared as strong as ever. Yet they must have had some impact. He feinted left, and when the Chechen moved in the same direction, he slammed his right boot against his lower leg. At the same time he brought his right arm around in a stinging blow that slammed him over, and he fell into the snow.

  He was already running. He reached the Lamborghini, vaulted inside, and started the engine. The wheels screamed for traction as he reversed out, and he felt an enormous shadow through the bodywork as the Chechen slammed into it. It became a contest between the big man trying to stop him going backward, the snow refusing to give the tires grip, and the enormous power of the V12 engine.

  Slowly, gradually, the engine started to win, an inch, and then two, and then six. The big fist of the monster smashed into the trunk, just over the housing from the mid-engine, and he ripped off the panel. His next move would be to tear out some vital component in the car. Cris tried a different tactic, slammed the gear lever into drive, and stepped on the gas pedal. The Lambo surged forward, and the Chechen lost his grip. He went forward sliding in the snow ten yards, rammed the lever into reverse, and once again jammed his foot down on the gas pedal.

  This time the car had built up some inertia, and the rear fender slammed into the Chechen, colliding with his knees. Even above the scream of the engine, he could swear he heard something give. He traveled the lever into drive, shot forward, and then back, and this time snaked the car around the huge, scarred body now lying in the snow. Blood streaming from his knees, and although he couldn’t kill him, the weight and power of the supercar had done the next best thing, and smashed his knees.

  Cris stopped the car when it reached the track, dragged out his remaining gun, the tiny 9 mm PSM, and ran to the helpless creature lying on the snow. Eyes stared up at him, blazing in their frightening intensity, and he put the muzzle between his eyes and pulled the trigger. Once, twice, and then a third bullet to be sure. This time, there were no mistakes. Three chunks of lead in the brain, and he wasn’t getting back up. He looked down toward the lake. The Russians were starting to walk away, to walk toward him, and he spun a fast turn in the snow and shot forward in the Lamborghini.

  He drove through the gates and stopped next to where he first met the Chechen. Remembered he carried a weapon, the AK-15. As he reached for it, he was still thirty yards from Stolypin, with his three men and Maria. He put the car between them and the gun, rolled out through the door, and scooped up the AK. Then he disappeared behind the hut and waited.

  The wait was short. “Cris Rhodes.”

  The voice was loud, peremptory, commanding. “What you want?”

  The familiar chuckle reached him. “What do I want? The question is what do you want, Mr. Rhodes. I have the girl, and you can have her. We need to make a deal.”

  “What kind of a deal?”

  He nearly fooled him. He flashed a quick glance around the end of the hut, and there was Stolypin. Maria stood next to him, and behind her, two men. When he’d seen them at the shore, Stolypin was with three men, as well as Maria. He swung around fast, and if he hadn’t moved, the bullet would have taken him in the back. The AK-15 had the selector burst mode, and he squeezed the trigger. Thirty 7.62mm bullets spewed out of the barrel, and the gunmen went down. He ran to the body and picked up the man’s assault rifle, an AKM, and then returned to peer around the corner of the hut. They hadn’t moved, and the Russian boss of the Red Square Assassins was waiting for them to kill him.

  Not today, pal, you messed up.

  “It didn’t work, Stolypin, you worthless piece of Russian shit. There’s no way you’re getting away from here without me putting a bullet in you first.”

  “You don’t want her to die. Like I said, we should make a deal.”

  “I’ve seen the kind of deals you make. Here’s my price. Send Maria over here, and when she’s behind cover, we’ll leave. We’ll take the Lamborghini, and you’ll never see it again.”

  The answer came too fast; much too fast to believe it was genuine.

  “Very well, you can have the whore. Maria, go to your boyfriend.”

  He watched, and she started walking toward him. It wasn’t gonna be that easy. The Russian wasn’t about to let her slip through his fingers. Nor him to get away, he’d done too much damage, inflicted too many casualties on the Russian boss. But what did he have in mind? She was halfway toward him, when it happened, and he was powerless to stop it. The Russian gave a signal to the man on his left, and he raised his rifle and fired a single shot. It took Maria in the back, midway between the shoulder blades, and she pitched forward.

  “No…” He shouted as he ran forward. Wanting to go to her, and yet the moment he was out in the open, the gunfire would restart. He had no choice but to dive for the ground and snake back behind the hut. Shielded from the gunfire, yet she was still out there. Her red blood staining the pristine snow, and he heard her cry out a single word.

  “Cris…”

  A strangled cry of desperation, and every fiber in his body ached to go to her. He could go back out there and rip Stolypin apart with bullets from the AK, but there were two other men, and they’d be waiting for just such a move. The moment he appeared, the Russian boss would drop flat, and they’d fill him full of holes. Maria was dying. He looked around in desperation, and the brilliant vivid yellow of the Lamborghini offered him a chance. He fired three shots at the Russian and leapt into the driving seat.

  He started the engine and drove out toward her body lying on the ground. The first bullets punched holes into the bodywork, but he reached her prone form, opened the door, scooped her up, and dragged her inside, gasping in agony. The two Russians had appeared behind him, and he wouldn’t be able to escape back through the gates before they riddled the vehicle with bullets. A shut end situation, and he couldn’t drive either side because of the thick snow.

  Stolypin, standing a few yards from the shore of the lake, watched with a cold expression, sensing his hesitation. But he wasn’t hesitating, he was measuring, assessing angles, working out possibilities, and he slammed the gear lever into drive and floored the gas pedal. The yellow car shot forward, and he kept the pedal pressed flat all the way. A second before it hit him, the Russian realize what he planned, and shrieked in terror. Tried to sidestep, but for all its disadvantages, the Lamborghini was one of the fastest things on four wheels. The front fender smashed into him, and Cris kept going, all the way. Felt the bump underneath as he was dragged under the chassis, and still he kept going. He reached the edge of the lake and stopped. Dragged Maria out from the passenger seat and took a quick glance underneath.

  He was still there, half crushed by the weight of the car and the low ground clearance, but still alive. Cris found a small branch on the ground and jammed it against the gas pedal. The engine screamed full revs, and he slammed the gear lever into forward.

  The yellow sports car shot out onto the lake like the four horsemen of the apocalypse were chasing it. Dragging the body as it went, and leaving a long gouge on the ice. The lake was easily a mile wide, and he watched it almost reach the middle, when the ice cracked under the heavyweight of the car. One and a half tons of Italian engineering proved too much for the frozen surface, and the splits darted across the ice, almost in slow motion. The car was still driving forward when the ice finally gave way altogether, and at around a hundred miles an hour, the hood plunged into the icy water. The weight and speed drove it under in less than a second.

  He cradled her with one arm and realized that under the huge, shapeless coat they’d thrown over her, she was naked. He held the AK in the other, searching for the other two hostiles. They’d vanished, and several minutes later an engine started. An SUV drove out through the gates and disappeared at high speed driving away from the camp. He carried her toward the place they’d parked their vehicles. One still remained, a familiar Porsche Cayenne, and he lifted her onto the rear seat. Put his head close to listen to her breathing.

  “Maria, how is it?”