He put his arm around her. "I hope you’re right."

  She rested her head against his shoulder, and a moment later turned and kissed him. "I am right. We’re free."

  He’d never seen her so happy and so relaxed. He’d have felt the same way, were it not for the agony in his chest. He saw the speedboat out of the corner of his eye. A Rive Gauche, a beautiful, varnished Italian craft. A thing of beauty, sleek, Italian lines, highly polished and varnished mahogany decks, and a price tag big enough to make the eyes water. It disappeared out of sight, as they passed under the bridge. At the same time, the driver of their boat pushed the throttles forward, and then accelerated.

  When they came from under the bridge, the front of the RIB had lifted out of the water, and it was planing along the surface of the river. He saw the man in the speedboat do something strange. He held something in his hands, and in that instant, Cris knew they hadn’t given up. He recognized the iconic shape of a Kalashnikov.

  He simultaneously shouted "Ambush!" and pushed her to the floor. The roar of the assault rifle firing on full auto echoed across the water, and although the increased speed of the RIB had thrown the shooter off his aim, he walked his burst in. Ten bullets tore into the passengers before the magazine emptied. Cris popped his head up and saw the man slamming in a fresh magazine. To his astonishment, he was looking at Vladimir Ushakov. Another of Maria's days to remember, and they’d remember this one for as long as they lived, if they lived.

  The RIB driver was panicking. He slowed down, shouted to the passengers in the boat, as if none of it made any sense. Cris tapped him on the shoulder. "Drive faster. We have to get away."

  He shook his head in refusal. Cris dragged him off the seat and took the wheel. In time for the second burst to bracket the boat, and more passengers fell to the hurricane of bullets. He bent over, keeping as low a profile as he could, and pushed the throttle to maximum. The boat was skimming over the water and must have been doing almost thirty miles an hour, but the Rive Gauche was faster. He saw Ushakov steering with his knees while he loaded a third magazine into the rifle.

  Jacques had taken out his Walther and was firing at the Russian, but a boat bouncing up and down on the water is a bad platform from which to shoot. Especially when the target is equally unstable. His bullets all missed, and the speedboat came up fast on their right. The passengers on the RIB were screaming in panic, and the driver beating him with his fists to make him slow, but he ignored him. Getting away from the Russian was the sole priority. They were about to travel beyond the Ile de la Cite into open water, with no cover. Adjacent to the RIB was the much smaller island of Ile St Louis. The two boats were racing neck and neck, and at the last possible moment, he spun the wheel. The RIB skidded over and almost capsized.

  Water poured into the hull, but he managed to steer into the narrow gap between the two islands, even scraping the bank as they passed. He steered the boat beneath the narrow bridge that connected the islands, and when he looked around, Ushakov was still struggling to turn the Rive Gauche. They passed the bridge, and he spotted a narrow, decaying dock. Not quite large enough to hide the RIB, but it would do. He glanced behind him, and the surviving passengers had stopped screaming. They were lying on the floor of the boat. Some were trying to treat the wounded with makeshift bandages.

  He rammed the gearlever into reverse, and with a crunch of tortured metal, the boat stopped and started to reverse into the dock. He was just in time. Ushakov was speeding underneath the bridge, and so far he hadn't seen them. As the Rive Gauche appeared in front of the RIB, he slammed the gearlever into forward and pushed the throttle to maximum.

  The boat shot forward, and at first he thought he’d missed the target. He didn’t miss. The craft hit the mahogany speedboat, and it tipped, enough to take on gallons of water before it righted again. Cris reversed a few yards, pushed the throttle to the stop, and rammed again. Although the RIB was an inflatable, the keel and the nose were of solid construction. He aimed at the center of the speedboat again and slammed into the expensive woodwork. Ushakov’s engine had stalled after the amount of water that had flooded in when the boat almost tipped over. The collision tore a huge rent in the side of the wooden hull. Ushakov was thrown into the water, and Cris shouted at the driver of the RIB to take over.

  He dove overboard with his gun held in one hand. The Russian hadn't surfaced, and then he popped up. Hands reached out to grab him and held him an iron grip. Pushing him down, trying to drown him, and a fist pummeled into his chest. Razor-sharp shards of pain tore through him, and he almost passed out. The Russian sensed his advantage and pushed his head below the surface. Cris reached up, trying to release the grip that held him down, but it was like trying to prize away welded steel. In desperation, he reached up, ignoring the shattering shards of white-hot agony, ignoring his tortured lungs desperate for air. And found the Russian’s crotch. He grabbed for the genitals and squeezed like he was trying to make dough.

  Above him, a shower of bubbles shot to the surface as Ushakov opened his mouth and screamed in agony. The grip on Cris' neck relaxed. He pushed him away and arrowed up to the surface. His mouth sucked in great gulps of air, and then the Russian appeared, less than ten feet away.

  He went after him in a fast, overhand crawl and slammed a fist into the Russian’s face. He ducked away and brought up a pistol from under his waterlogged coat, aiming it at Cris. He pulled the trigger. The water slowed the bullet, so it slammed into his shoulder, but with insufficient kinetic force to penetrate the skin.

  The pain was terrible, hitting him in waves, and he fought to stay conscious. All the while struggling to work out how to defeat this formidable Russian. Ushakov’s face was taut with rage as he hit him repeatedly, and Cris tried to use the man’s rage to his advantage. For a few seconds he rode the blows, working to position himself for when the right moment came. The Russian had forgotten the pistol, or maybe he’d discarded it. In his incandescent fury, he wanted to destroy his opponent with his bare hands, to rip them apart, and tear him into little pieces.

  At the last moment, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness from pain and lack of oxygen, Cris snatched out the Glock that he’d tucked into his waistband when he went into the water. He pushed it against Ushakov’s body. With virtually no water to impede the bullet, he fired. The part of the body he’d put the pistol muzzle against was Ushakov’s already wounded groin. When he pulled the trigger, he put a bullet through the man's balls. He screamed and put his hands down to favor the terrible damage to his ruined groin.

  Cris brought the Glock out of the water, put the muzzle against the man's head, and pulled the trigger again. But the Russian had remembered his pistol, and at the same time, he pressed the gun against Rhodes’ chest. Both weapons fired at the same time. Ushakov’s brains splattered across the water at the same moment as Rhodes felt a slamming below to his chest. It was like he'd been hit by lightning no, worse. There was no more. Only blackness.

  * * *

  He opened his eyes, and he was in a tiny room. Maria was staring down at him. She heaved an audible sigh of relief.

  "I wondered if you'd ever wake up."

  "Where am I?"

  “We’re in Washington. I guess you don't know what happened to you after the fight on the boat."

  "Tell me."

  “You almost died. I didn't realize you had an existing wound in your chest."

  "I thought it could wait. It was nothing."

  She shivered. "It was more than nothing. It almost killed you. Ushakov’s bullet struck you in the chest. The force drove the older bullet in deeper, and you almost bled to death."

  He took a few moments to digest what she’d said.

  “How did we get here?”

  “You were pulled out of the water and rushed to the hospital. A team of surgeons worked on you for a whole day. Afterward, they said it was touch and go.”

  “But how did we get here?”

  “The Americans arranged to fly us back to the States in a private plane. It was all very secretive, and they insisted on massive security. It’s all over, Cris. You’re alive, I’m alive, and the people who were trying to kill me are dead."

  It felt good, like they’d been let out of jail. Although he still didn’t believe it.

  “What about Jacques?"

  “I gave him a fat bonus. He said he might use it to set up his own private security company. Bodyguarding executives, celebrities, people like that. He intends to speak to you. I think he’d like to work with you."

  He held her hand. “Maria, thanks for all you've done."

  She frowned. "No, Cris, you took the bullets, and you killed the bastard, not me.”

  He forced a smile, and it hurt. “As I recall, you played a major part.”

  She shrugged. “It was just money. I didn’t need to use any skill.”

  Just money. That’s what wealthy people always say. Who gives a shit about money? I’d need to think about that one. Or maybe I wouldn’t.

  He was almost a month recovering in the Washington apartment, and she refused to call in a nurse to care for him. Instead, she insisted on looking after him herself. At the end of the third week, when he was almost recovered, she cared for him in a different way.

  "Cris, I wondered if you wanted company?"

  "Company? No, I'm good. I don't want to see anybody."

  Her expression was deadpan. "I meant in bed."

  "Oh." He didn't need to think twice. He scooped aside the bedclothes to make a space for her. Her hands flew to the neck of her garment, she unfastened a single button, and the sheer negligée fell to the floor. She was naked when she climbed into his bed, and he’d been wrong. He did want company. Desperately.

  * * *

  After that, his recovery was quick. A week later, he rang the bell at a smart apartment in a block about a mile away, and the door opened. Yuri looked startled, but he recovered fast.

  "Cris, it's good to see you."

  He smiled. "Aren’t you going to invite me in?"

  A shadow marred his expression, just for a fraction of a second. "Sure, sure, come on in. Coffee?"

  "No, I'm good."

  Yuri waited for him to say more, and there was an awkward pause. Eventually, he spoke. "What is it? You must have come here for a reason."

  “That’s right. I finally worked out how Ushakov managed to trace our movements. He had a hacker working for him."

  His eyes widened. "A hacker? That’s amazing. I never knew."

  "Didn't you? What did you do, Yuri?"

  He stared at the Russian for long minutes, and he looked worried.

  "Cris, you don't understand."

  “Tell me what I don’t understand, Yuri."

  He backed up against a bookcase. "You’re right, he did have a hacker. He’s my best friend, Dmitry Novokov, and we were at school together. We stayed in contact on the Internet and swapped ideas. He’s brilliant, more than me.”

  “And you sold us out. I know you gave him the codes to access everything. Cellphones, you name it.”

  Yuri looked despairing. “No. Yes, but not like you think. Dmitry begged me to help him. Either that or Ushakov would have sent him back to the gulag to die. I swear it was just the one time.”

  "Crap. Ever since we went to Paris, he’s known our movements almost before we made them. All our communications were secure. The only way Ushakov could have penetrated them was from someone on the inside. That person was you."

  Yuri’s face was white with fear.

  “You’ve got it all wrong. I wouldn't have done anything like that. It was Dmitry helping Ushakov, at first. Later, he felt guilty about helping him, but he was scared. He contacted me, and I told him to get out of his hotel fast and take all his equipment. I contacted some people here and told them all about what was going on."

  “What people?”

  “You know, important people.”

  “Yuri?”

  “CIA. I sort of hacked into their main frame.”

  “You did what?”

  “It worked, Cris. They rescued you, picked Dmitry up, and helped him get away.”

  “Why?”

  He managed a grin. “They wanted the data on his hard drives and the server. Afterward, when they found out what he could do, they wanted him. What he could do, and for the information he had in his head. They released him last week, and they told him he could stay. He’s here with me now. Would you like to meet him?”

  Afterword

  Each day he felt better, until he’d completely recovered from the wound in his chest. Two months after they’d returned from Paris, she had a surprise for him.

  “Cris, I’ve been approached by the CIA. Apparently, they’ve been in talks with the Russian authorities, something to do with a Russian hacker who knows Yuri. Anyhow, I don’t know exactly what’s been going on, but they assured me I’m safe, and so is my son Alexander. We’re no longer in any danger.”

  “You’re sure about that, Maria.”

  “Yes, absolutely. We’re in the clear with the Kremlin, and Ushakov is history. For the first time in years, I’m free to go anywhere.” She frowned, “Although I’ll been told to give Russia a miss, permanently.”

  He thought back to what Yuri had told him about his friend, Dmitry Novokov.

  I’ll bet it has something to do with him. They must have something pretty big on the Kremlin. I wonder what he brought with him.

  “That’s good news, Maria.”

  “There’s something else. I have a new job, Cris. They appointed me as a Russian Special Envoy to the UN. Isn’t that wonderful? I may not be able to change things at home, but maybe I can try to make a difference from here in the States. This is my home now.”

  He embraced her, and they kissed long and hard. Without the undertones of fear and desperation which had scarred their relationship from the start. He pushed her gently away and stared at her. She was smiling. They were both smiling.

  So it is finally over.

 

 

  Eric Meyer, Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6)

 

 

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