Two of his HRT comrades congratulated him. “Good work, buddy. Scratch one bad guy, it’s time to head for home. You should think about joining us. You’re a natural.”

  He dismissed the praise, mumbling stuff about teamwork, and they strolled to rejoin the rest of the unit. As soon as he saw the Team Leader’s expression, he knew something was wrong. “What is it?”

  Marcus Anderson, an HRT veteran, frowned. “The place is littered with corpses. It looks like the aftermath of a big battle.”

  “So what’s the problem? It means the bastards won’t be joining another cartel.”

  “They weren’t all narcos.”

  He felt a stab of apprehension. “Tell me.”

  “The place they were shooting from, it’s a school.”

  “How many?” His voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Children?”

  “Yep. There’s no question some of ‘em went down with our bullets inside them.”

  He didn’t reply but walked across to the school. They were laid out in a line in the playground. He made no comment and couldn’t talk to anyone on the ride back. He refused to undertake another operation, resigned from DEA, and worked his last few weeks behind a desk. On the last day, he handed in his badge and said goodbye for good. There was no need to hand in his gun. He’d handed it back on the return from Colombia.

  She heard him out, listening without interrupting. When he’d finished, she said, “I’m sorry, it must have been terrible. You’ve carried a gun since?”

  “No.”

  “You may need one now.”

  “No, I don’t. No guns, I made a vow.”

  She nodded, and her face was solemn. “I understand your reasons, but I want you to make another vow.”

  He stared at her, and her face glowed with intensity. “Go on.”

  “Keep me alive.” She held up a hand to cut off his comment. “No, wait. I know what you’re going to say. Go to the police.”

  He gave her a rueful nod. “It’s the sensible move. They need to take that guy down before he gets to you, and kills a whole lot of other people along the way.”

  “You think the police could handle this man, before he kills more innocent bystanders?”

  Her eyes challenged him to give an honest answer. “Long-term, they’d get him, but in the short-term, no.”

  “Which means he’ll find me and kill me. Cris, I need you to help me.”

  “I told you, I don’t do that stuff anymore. You need someone who’s prepared to go armed, and I mean well armed. That killer will take some stopping.”

  “I want you. I’m begging you, Cris. I know how you feel.” She touched him on the arm, and he felt intoxicated by her closeness. “But don’t say no.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “I want you to carry a gun.” Her eyes were even more intense, as if trying to win him over by the force of her will. It was working. “Hear me out. I have a message for the Russian people, those who are crushed by the brutal corruption at the top. If this man succeeds, no woman in Russia will ever be safe again, and our children will continue to go hungry. The greedy politicians and oligarchs will carry on stripping the country of its assets, leaving the masses in poverty and virtual slavery.”

  He was already shaking his head. “It’s not my fight. Believe me, I can’t do it.”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s my fight, and I can’t do it alone. I’m a woman, and I’ve never carried a gun, never even fired one. Cris, I’m not talking about children getting in harm’s way, I’m talking about keeping them out of harm’s way. If you want to honor those poor dead children in Colombia, help keep children in this country safe from that monster. Help me. Keep me alive, just for one more week while I finish what I have to do in America.”

  She waited for his answer. He felt the magnetic compulsion of her powerful personality.

  “Okay, I’ll do it. One week. On one condition.”

  She smiled and hugged him to her. Her warmth felt like nothing he’d ever known, but his mind was in turmoil. He’d gone back on everything he’d vowed to avoid. Yet strangely, he felt good about it.

  “You haven’t heard my condition.”

  She jerked her head up, and her eyes narrowed. “Go ahead, tell me.”

  “We call the cops. There’s no way I can do this on my own, and we’re gonna need police involvement to track down and stop this guy.”

  A pause. “Okay, you got it. Call them.”

  He took out his cellphone to put through the call. A male voice answered after a few rings. “Chicago Police.”

  “Uh, yeah, I’m calling about the shooting at the Newport Plaza Hotel a couple of hours ago.”

  He sounded wary. “You witnessed the crime, Sir?”

  “Yeah, I did. Thing is, I need to speak to a senior detective. I have information that may be of use.”

  “Give me your name and address, Sir, and I’ll put you through.”

  He told him Cris Rhodes and gave the name of the hotel. The line went quiet, and then a new voice came on.

  “This is Detective Doug Mason, is that Rhodes?”

  “It is.”

  “What do you have on the Newport Plaza shootings?”

  He spelled it out from start to finish. Maria Tereshkova, the Russian plan to kill her, the death of the bodyguard, and their escape. He didn’t mention the R8. They had enough to deal with, without adding grand theft auto to the mix. He sensed the guy was taking notes as he spoke, and when he finished, he said, “Detective, I’m worried he’ll come after her again. I’m asking for protection for Miss Tereshkova, and the best way to do that would be to find and arrest this shooter. Until you do, her life’s in danger.”

  * * *

  Inside the detective’s room, Detective 3 Doug Mason finished writing down the details and then finished the call.

  “We’ll come right around to the hotel and take your statements, you and Miss Tereshkova. Don’t go out, and don’t open the door to anyone but me and my partner. We’ll be along soon, Mr. Rhodes.”

  He hung up the phone, and his partner shot him a questioning glance. “What gives, Doug?”

  He recounted the conversation. “We’re going straight out there, see what they have to say for themselves. This could be the break we need, Larry. The Mayor’s already screaming for action, and if we strike lucky, we could wrap this up.”

  Detective 1 Laurence Cullum winced. He’d lost count of the times he’d said, ‘Don’t call me Larry.’ But nothing ever changed. Doug Mason had Larry fixed in his head, and that was that. “Where are they staying?”

  “Chicago Court Hotel. You ready to leave?”

  “I need to make a quick call. Give me one minute.”

  “Make it snappy. Who’re you calling?”

  He grinned. “The wife, who else?”

  When he reappeared, Mason led the way down to the first floor and stopped at the desk. The desk sergeant was talking to a man who looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. Sharp suit, good haircut, so he couldn’t be a reporter, apart from which he knew Traub regarded the journos as bottom-feeding pond life. Or worse. The stranger moved aside, as if to put space between him and the Sarge, and the long-term friend and veteran cop nodded a greeting. “You going to talk to that witness about the shooting? The Chicago Court, unless I heard wrong.”

  Why is Phil Traub looking worried? Or is that guilt on his face? Not Phil, no. I’m tired, and I’m misreading his expression.

  “We’re headed there right now. Make a note, would you, Phil.”

  He smiled. “Consider it done. Good luck, Doug, and watch yourself out there.”

  He nodded. “Always do.”

  Twenty-two-year veteran Sergeant Phil Traub watched them go out the door. Doug Mason would be careful, of that he was certain. Not like himself. They’d been good friends, him and Mason, and often worked the same shifts together. Drank together afterward, and spent time in each other’s homes, watching sport, drinking beer, and chilling out. Their feet were firmly on the ladder of promotion through the police department, both fast tracked and destined for great things. First, a detective’s gold badge, and Mason got their first. Traub bided his time, maintaining he had a path mapped out all the way to the Chief’s office.

  Until a gangbanger put a .38 bullet into his leg which ripped away several vital muscles. Now he limped everywhere, and was grateful they’d kept him on manning the front desk, grateful but bitter. The pain was always there, and sometimes it came in waves that were hard to bear, unless he took powerful drugs. Drugs he needed in increasing quantities to ease the pain, and which his physician refused to prescribe. Fortunately, he had other ways to get what he needed. Cops were resourceful and street smart if nothing else. They had to be.

  * * *

  Several minutes later a producer at a local TV news station listened with interest to the call. “You’re sure it’s the same guy, this maniac from the Plaza? Good, okay, I got that, and thanks. We owe you.”

  He cradled the phone, then picked it up again, and dialed a number. “I need a news truck now. No, I don’t give a shit what else you have going, this is big. The Chicago Court Hotel, got it? It’s the Newport Plaza story. No, not the shooter, but the targets, a man and a woman. He was after them, so I gather, or one of ’em, but who gives a shit? Get the wheels rolling, drive around to the hotel, and record some footage. Yeah, and try to get interviews, know what I mean. I want this on the air within the hour, before the rest of the channels pick it up.”

  * * *

  The knock came on the door, and Cris called out who was there. When he heard the voice of the cop he’d spoken to, he opened the door. Two men entered the room, and he assumed the older was Doug Mason. He was a typical older cop, crumpled suit, crumpled hair, crumpled face, wearing a cynical expression that told of a man who’d seen just about every bad thing the city could throw at him. Tall, around six-two, and a definite paunch marred his otherwise lean frame hidden beneath the baggy worsted.

  In contrast, his partner was shorter, and his expensive designer pin stripe was well pressed and looked new. White shirt, frat tie, and two-hundred-dollar haircut, he looked lean and mean; a man who was going places.

  Mason did the introductions as they shook hands. I’m Detective Mason, this is Detective Larry Cullum.”

  He waved in the direction of Maria. “This is Miss Tereshkova, from Russia. She’s the target.”

  He explained what she’d told him, and then gave a quick rundown of the events at the Newport Plaza. The cops waited for him to finish and then Cullum said, “How did you escape?”

  “Luck. The car was outside, and we broke a few speeding laws getting away.”

  “Uh, huh. And you say this man is coming to kill you, Miss Tereshkova?”

  “Yes.”

  Cullum sat on the bed and wrote up extensive notes. It was almost an hour before they pronounced themselves satisfied. Both cops got to their feet. “We’ll take over now, and I’d advise you not to leave the hotel until this is over.”

  “Impossible,” Maria snapped. “I have to give a speech this evening at City Hall. I cannot cancel.”

  “You’d be taking a huge risk, Ma’am,” Mason informed her. “Stay here until this is over, and you can reschedule later.”

  “I cannot reschedule. If you cannot help me, I will ask the Mayor to provide protection. He is a friend.”

  He gave her an irritated glance. “Your choice, Miss Tereshkova. But I’ll do what I can, in the event you decide to ignore police advice. You’d better tell that to your friend the Mayor.” He wandered to the window to look out, as if for reassurance the shooter wasn’t already staking out the hotel. “Jesus Christ. Fucking media, the vultures, how in the hell did they find out?”

  They joined him at the window, and it was chaos. Three TV trucks parked outside, presenters recording fillers while standing in front of the steps. A cluster of reporters and rubberneckers milled around in the street. He snarled at Cullum.

  “Call the precinct. Tell ‘em to send some uniforms around to secure this place. I want those reporters pushed back, and no one comes in or out without my say-so. Clear?”

  Cullum nodded, took out his cell, and gave instructions to the dispatcher. When he’d finished, Mason started to leave, with a final admonition.

  “You stay in here. I have uniformed officers on the way, and they’ll protect you. I’ll check out everything you told me, and let you know if we find out anything.” He stared at Cris and saw something there of what he had once been. “One more thing. Are you armed?”

  He answered truthfully. “Nope.”

  “Well, okay, but I’m warning you, if you get any heroic ideas about getting hold of a gun and going after this guy, forget it. This is police business, and we’ll handle it. If I find you trying any vigilante stuff, I’ll arrest your ass quicker than you can pull the trigger. Savvy?”

  He opened his arms in an innocent gesture. “I told you. I don’t have a gun.”

  “Yeah, well, keep it that way. We’ll handle this.”

  He stalked out the room, and Cullum followed. In the silence, he looked at her. “He’s right. We should stay put.”

  “Perhaps, but I’m still going. First, I must return to my hotel and change my clothes. Then I’ll go to City Hall for my speech this evening.”

  He tried to talk her out of it, but she was adamant, and the steel in her character showed through the surface beauty. He considered the alternatives, how to persuade her out of it, but gave it up. She’d go, with or without him.

  “Okay, I’ll be with you, and I’ll do my best to protect you.”

  “Thank you, Cris. You’ll need a gun.”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Yes.”

  He called a cab, and when it was due outside, they left the room. A maid was about to knock to gain entry, and he told her to go ahead as they were going out. Then they hurried down the stairs to the lobby. The desk clerk gave them a curious stare, as they stepped outside to be submerged in the sea of reporters and onlookers.

  “Miss Tereshkova, what do you say to reports the Kremlin is trying to kill you?”

  “Is the Russian Mafiya involved, Miss Tereshkova?”

  “Maria, do you wear an armored vest everywhere you go?”

  He pulled her through the throng and bundled her into the cab. The driver backed away and left, with reporters and cameramen following the vehicle for the first few yards, camera flashes firing like a night artillery barrage. The driver breathed a sigh of relief as they got clear.

  “Where ya going, pal?”

  She interrupted and gave him an address. He darted her a surprised look, but didn’t ask. They leaned back against the scarred upholstery as the cab drove away. Their arms touched, and she wriggled nearer so their bodies touched. He didn’t mistake the gesture for anything other than what it was. She was tough, diamond tough. But she was also clever, and she knew he would come for her again. The big man, the assassin, he’d be back, filled with rage at his failure. He’d redouble his efforts to kill her, even if he had to destroy half the city to achieve it.

  As the cab drove through the streets of the city, he finally asked her where they were going.

  She whispered in his ear. “If you won’t carry one, I will. I need a gun.”

  His eyes closed, and he didn’t reply. The driver stopped outside a shabby, rundown apartment block, and she looked up and down the street. “Stay with the cab. I won’t be long. Were we followed?”

  He’d already checked. “We’re clear.”

  She left the cab and entered the apartment block. Ten minutes later she emerged and climbed back into the cab. He glanced at her.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get what you wanted?”

  “Yes, an old contact, a Russian who sells guns on the black market.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope.”

  She patted the slight bulge under her coat. “Czech Skorpion machine pistol.”

  He gave her a gloomy nod. “That should do the trick.”

  Although he had a suspicion it may take more to finish the monster than a few 9mm slugs, but he didn’t voice that opinion. It troubled him to think of her shooting the Skorpion should the time come. But what could he do? A lethal street gun, able to spew out bullets in a lethal curtain, his mind flew back to Colombia, to the carnage. His brain darkened, and he felt the terrible pain of that action.

  Never again.

  * * *

  “Hey, you need to see this!”

  At Kalinin’s shout, the gunman tucked the Wildey in his waistband, exited his room, and stood to watch the scene unfolding on the big Toshiba LED television dominating the living room. A breathless reporter was shouting at the camera.

  “This is the reported hiding place of Maria Tereshkova, the Russian activist and would-be Presidential candidate. Reports say she was the intended target of an assassination attempt, also here in Chicago. We move over to video recorded by people on their phones that captured some of the drama as the events unfolded.”

  The feed switched to another scene recorded earlier that day. Bodies lay on the sidewalk in black body bags outside the Newport Plaza Hotel, and cops were busy stringing yellow crime scene tape. The feed switched to images that would have been recorded from behind the hotel. A white Audi R8 was speeding away, and a big man raced from the hotel, eyes raking the street looking for his quarry. He held a big pistol in his hand, and when he looked up, almost directly at whoever was recording the scene, Kalinin did a double take.

  “That guy looks just like you. Damn, that’s some coincidence. I wouldn’t have…”

  He faltered and stopped. Looked at the gunman and shook his head, “No, no, it’s okay. I wouldn’t say a word. You don’t need to…”