FATAL eMPULSE (3 page)

“Pull back. Disengage,” he yelled into the radio.

“Roger that. On our way down. The targets GOA.”

Gone On Arrival. More bad news. “Get out and meet at our secondary location.”

Several clicks let him know his men understood.

Just as he fired up the engine, three people rushed into the garage—a woman and two men. He recognized all three from surveillance photos. Gerrit O’Rourke seemed wobbly as he ran, the others helping him toward the car. At the same time, Devon heard sirens wailing as cops drew closer.

He flung open the car door and stood, yanking out his weapon.

“Alena. Watch out!” Gerrit pointed across the garage at a man standing next to a black Porsche. “Gun!”

The first shot took a chunk of concrete from the wall near Gerrit’s head as he dove behind a parked car, weapon in hand. The others crouched near him. Alena pulled out her semiauto .40mm Sig from her purse.

The woman knows how to pack.

Gerrit rose up over the hood of the car and fired three quick rounds, then dropped back behind the car. Waiting for a moment, he decided to take a chance and peer through the driver’s window toward where he last saw the gunman. As he raised his head, Gerrit saw the armed stranger hesitate, then jump into the sports car and peel out of the parking space, tires screaming for traction. He watched the taillights disappear as the driver squealed onto the city street.

Breathing slower, he turned to Alena. “We can’t let the cops catch us here. Still too many unanswered questions. I don’t know if all those BOLOs with my name have been recalled.”

Kane’s people planted evidence after Gerrit’s home blew up that suggested he was responsible for the murders of his partner and girlfriend. Alerts went out that claimed he was a person of interest. Cop-speak for
we think he’s guilty as all get-out.
Richard Kane hoped this misinformation campaign would result in Gerrit’s capture or death. So far, he stayed one step ahead of the law while Beck Malloy and others tried to clear the system.

She nodded. “Let’s get out of here.”

They made it to the van parked a few spaces away. Alena took the driver’s seat and Gerrit climbed in next to her. Willy positioned himself behind them, looking over their shoulder. “Joe has a plane standing by at Sea-Tac. We can be there in just a bit.”

“Where are we headed?” Gerrit glanced back toward the hospital, watching patrol cars choking the entrance.

A knowing smile gleamed on Willy’s face. “Wait and see, Mr. G. I think you’ll love it.”

Gerrit looked for anyone who might be tailing them. He could not pick up any surveillance. Either they lost the gunmen, or the bad guys were so good he couldn’t see them. A feeling of uneasiness remained; that and something else.

The shakiness he felt earlier hung on like a bad cold, centered in the pit of his stomach. From the corner of his eye, he watched Alena. Suddenly, he knew that weakness inside was not brought on by his physical condition. Something seemed to snap back there in the garage when he realized Alena stood in the line of fire.

He flashed back to their gunfight at the lab in Albuquerque just a few weeks ago when Redneck
—
one of their own, turned traitor—held a gun to Alena’s head. Back there in the garage, Gerrit let his feelings get in the way as his subconscious brought back that image in New Mexico, making him freeze for just a moment.

He glanced down at his hands, spreading the fingers out to see how steady they might be. He detected a slight tremor and squeezed his fingers into a tight fist.
Get a grip
. He had to shake this off, or the next time he might freeze a moment too long and someone he cared about might die.

In war, he only had to worry about himself and his fellow Marines. Sure, he cared about his teammates, but this was different. Feelings for Alena seemed to be getting in the way of the job. He had to focus on the target next time.

Gerrit glanced up to see Alena watching him with a look of concern.

“Everything okay?”

He shrugged and turned to stare out the window. No, everything was not all right, but he had to keep it to himself. She and the others must have confidence in his ability to get the job done. This was not a time to confess his weakness. It was time to take those feelings and bury them deep inside. In the same place he put his feelings of loss, guilt, and remorse. This was not a time to dwell on the past. It was a time to pull out everything he’d learned in war and take the battle to the enemy. Without remorse. Without fear.

February 20
Venice, Italy

B
ells from a cathedral chimed their resonating music across the city. Cup in hand, Richard Dunsmuir stepped out onto a narrow balcony. Below, a motorboat purred along the Grand Canal as the hum of pedestrians and beating wings of pigeons stirred the morning air with expectancy.

He savored the richness of his cappuccino, gently placing the white porcelain cup back on its matching saucer. The strong aroma of coffee, heated until the foamed milk vanished, carried him back to more pleasant times. And this city—with its secrets and passionate beauty—gave him a feeling of peacefulness for the moment.

He reached into his inside pocket and extracted two passports, one bearing the name of Richard Dunsmuir. Several other passports, hidden in a wall safe in his bedroom, could make him very vulnerable if they fell into the wrong hands.

The other passport in his hand linked him to his Bulgarian past that few people knew about. His parents died in the Russian juggernaut in the midst of WWII. From that rubble, he grew and survived on his own, becoming a political chameleon, creating a power base across all ideologies that made him a formidable friend—or foe. His life would be in jeopardy if his next visitor learned of his hatred for Russians.

Enough of the past. He lived in one of the most beautiful and exotic cities in Europe. Venice was only one of many places around the world in which he chose to live. Since the Cold War, he’d learned to be able to slip from country to country, taking on identities as easily as a man puts on a new coat.

A doorbell jarred him back into the present. He set down the cup and saucer, strode across the room, and opened the door.

Ivan Yegorov
.

The Russian—brutishly handsome, cold blue eyes, close-cropped hair that once was dark—entered without a word, giving Richard a tight-lipped nod. He watched Yegorov pace the room as if he could not decide whether to stay or go. He finally settled into an armchair facing the balcony.

Richard took the chair opposite Yegorov. “Thanks for coming all this way, my friend. It is important we discuss these matters face-to-face.” He studied the other man. Not a blink or twitch hinted as to what the Russian might be contemplating. He continued. “As mentioned in our last communiqué, I am proposing a mutually beneficial operation that will interest your government as well as certain political interests I represent.”

Yegorov impassively stared back.

“This is the first—and last—time we’ll meet. For security, you understand.” Richard waited for a response. Faced with more silence, he went on. “We both share contacts within many intelligence communities. Based upon our prior transaction, I felt your country might like to see it put to good use—without endangering your country.”

“I know who you work for in past.” Yegorov leaned forward, staring into Richard’s eyes like a world-class poker player. “Who pays you now? And why should we trust you?”

“Fair questions, Ivan. You know I carry out my promises—”

“Like the labs you just lost? Who lost on that deal? We watch.”

Feeling his stomach tighten, Richard tried to control himself. His left eye started to twitch. How did the Russian know about that fiasco? Did he make a link between Richard Dunsmuir and the Washington lobbyist Stuart Martin? He would try another approach. “I proved myself in the last deal I made with you. That went well, did it not? You acquired very important technology that gave you credibility in Mother Russia. No?”

Ivan nodded.

“And you learned I carry through on my word. Now, I’m proposing an operation—a very big operation—that will allow the balance of power to shift in your favor. Russia and other interests I represent will greatly benefit. And the United States and her lapdog, Israel, will suffer. A good thing, right?”

“Maybe you did not hear me. Who do you represent?” Yegorov asked.

Richard shook his head. “You already know about two of those interests. And the benefit to Russia. That is all you need at this time.”

Ivan’s face tightened. “I know that you represent certain Americans who seek a different path for that country. This is good, but my country is…how you say, skeptical.”

Richard relaxed. He finally piqued Yegorov’s interest. “First, I cannot give you their names for obvious reasons. But I can tell you they want to join with Russia and other countries in creating a global community, a larger government entity in which our differences can be mutually worked out—even if that means America must waive some of its sovereignty to achieve these goals. They are taking a big risk.” He began to lay out the plan.

Yegorov nodded as he listened to the plan unfold. “I understand our part. But how do you plan on achieving this?”

“You must trust me, Ivan. The only way this plan will work is if each of us does our part, knowing what the ultimate goal will be. The less each of you knows about the other’s part, the greater our chance of success. That gives you plausible deniability.”

Yegorov shrugged and stood. “I will convey your proposal to my people.”

Richard rose and shook Yegorov’s hand. “Time is critical. We will stay in contact as before. We must be very careful from here on out. Remember, if they even suspect your people might try to attack U.S. interests, the consequences will be disastrous.”

Yegorov nodded. “For both sides.”

Richard stood at the balcony, watching Yegorov walking along the canal. It was good to know that the Russians still did not know his real name. If they did, they might suspect how he really felt toward them. What they did to his people. He distrusted the Russians almost as much as he did the next person he was about to meet. And this person hated the Russians almost as much as the Americans.

Hate could be a useful tool in the right hands.

February 21
Lake Tahoe, California

G
errit eyed the blue, shimmering waters of Lake Tahoe far below as the jet’s left wing dipped toward the runway. South Lake Tahoe—gambling casinos on the Nevada side brushing next to the California border of motels, hotels and restaurants—straddled two worlds, one side feeding the other. He briefly visited the south shore a few years back while attending a conference on organized crime hosted by the U.S. Attorney’s Office. He enjoyed the crisp, high altitude of this lake and the outdoor activities it offered.

“So this will be our new home?” He glanced across the narrow aisle of the aircraft. “I could suffer through this.”

Alena smiled. “I could think of worse places to work. Joe thought it might be easier to set up operations here.”

Gerrit looked toward the cockpit where his uncle Joe sat in the pilot’s seat. “He did, did he?”

“Joe thought this might be a good place to lay down while we reestablish ourselves.”

“Lay down? Oh, you mean lay low. What about living apart for safety reasons?”

Alena let out a sly grin. “Does that trouble you? Living with me?”

Leaning back, he grimaced. “First, you blow up my houseboat in Seattle just as the bad guys set off their own bomb, and right after you dump a dead guy on my bed. Then you drag me to your place in San Francisco a nanosecond before it’s compromised. Then we traipse back and forth between the U.S. and Europe trying to stay one step ahead of Kane’s death squad.” He gave her a mock scowl. “You nearly get me killed on two continents and half a dozen states in a matter of weeks. Now, why wouldn’t I want to spend more time with you?”

She tsk-tsked and shook her head. “I thought you cared. Change your mind?”

“Huh! The way you and Joe are arranging my future, you’d think we’re married or something.” He regretted those words the moment they came tumbling out.
Idiot!

Alena’s eyes flashed. Leaning closer, she whispered, “I never asked for a wedding ring, Gerrit. It did not even enter my mind. We are just trying to stay alive for one more day.”

He could tell she was not being truthful. They both must have contemplated what their future together might hold. That subject crossed his mind more than once. “Look, I’m an idiot. That just came out wrong. I—”

“This is your captain speaking. Buckle up, folks, we’re about to land.”“ Joe’s voice boomed over the intercom. “Lock your trays in place and bring your seats to an upright position, blah, blah, blah.”

Alena straightened up, staring forward with a scowl. “At least you got one thing right—you are an idiot.”

Locking his seat belt in place, Gerrit studied her for a moment. She continued to look straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. Even an idiot could tell she was one ticked-off woman. Tahoe might turn out to be even colder than the icy lake water below.

Snow still capped the top of the mountains in what appeared to be a mild winter as they approached Hurricane Bay on the lake’s west side. Gerrit and the others all fit into one van, Willy driving and Joe riding shotgun. Alena, sitting next to him in the middle seats, hardly exchanged a word during the long, twisty ride.

As they pulled off Highway 89’s West Lake Boulevard, they continued down a paved single-lane road that cut through a grove of sequoias toward the lake. A few minutes later they came to a meadow where a large chalet—timber and quarry-rock construction—was visible through the black-grated gate and fence. Beyond the dwelling, Gerrit saw the inviting lake.

“Hey, Uncle. Whose place is this?”

Joe turned to face him. “It’s owned by a corporation.”

“And how did you get permission to use it?”

“I control the corporation.” Joe shot him a smile. “There’s a lot I haven’t had time to tell you. Maybe we can get to it while we’re here.”