She took another breath and adjusted the zoom, peering through the lenses as she conducted a sweep of the area. Through the trees she had a clear visual of the safe house—where two armed men stood guard at the back door.
Shit. Orlov’s people hadn’t evacuated yet. Probably waiting around in case their targets foolishly decided to return.
Which they had, except Juliet didn’t care how foolish it was. She wasn’t going anywhere until she made sure Ethan was safe.
But what she saw next burst any bubbles of hope she may have been harboring. Anyone else might have been difficult to spot in the darkness, but Alisa Baronova’s platinum blond hair made it easy to pick her out amid the shadows.
“I’ve got two guards at the back door and Baronova KIA on the ground,” she murmured over the comm.
“The rookie?”
“Nowhere in sight. But there’s some blood near the sled.”
“How much blood?” Sullivan asked grimly. “Enough for someone to have bled out?”
“No.” She swallowed. “If he was shot, he didn’t die here.”
She shifted her gaze, studying the tracks in the snow.
“There’re two sets of footprints going toward the Yam, but only one set heading away from it.”
“They carried him.” Relief trickled over the line. “That means he was alive when they captured him. They wouldn’t have carted off his corpse, especially since they left Baronova on the ground like that.”
She didn’t know whether to be relieved or scared. On one hand, it was encouraging that Ethan probably hadn’t been shot to death. On the other, he was now in the clutches of Dmitry Orlov, a man known for torturing his enemies.
“Any chance they’re keeping him inside the house?” she asked Sullivan.
“Doubt it. But give me a sec. I’ll go around front and see what’s doing.”
Juliet waited not so patiently as Sullivan went to investigate. She tried to distract herself by focusing on that small puddle of blood near the sled, reassuring evidence that Ethan hadn’t bled to death out on the snow, but it did nothing to relieve the panic churning in her stomach.
“Only one Humvee out front,” Sullivan’s voice reported a few minutes later. “The other vehicles are gone. I’m going to check the house, just in case.”
Alarm flared inside her. “You need some backup?”
“Nah, I’ll be fine. Maintain your position. Lemme know if the two dumb-asses in the back make a move.”
She didn’t argue with him—she knew Sullivan was perfectly capable of taking out a few guards. Which he did with zero complications, because less than five minutes later, he appeared directly behind the men in the backyard and put two swift bullets in their heads. The silencer on his weapon ensured that no gunshots echoed in the night. Through the field glasses, Juliet watched as the two men toppled to the ground, one after the other.
They hadn’t even heard Sullivan come up behind them, which was slightly comforting. Maybe Orlov’s other men were equally incompetent. Wherever he was, Ethan could use that to his advantage.
“See me, love?” Sullivan gave her a little wave.
“I see you. Any problems out front?”
“Nada. Only two tangos out there too. And one manning the interior. I did a quick search—he’s not inside.”
An odd rush of despair filled her body. “Any chance of us following their tire tracks to wherever they took him?”
“Can’t imagine it. I doubt they’d leave a bloody trail of breadcrumbs for us to follow.”
“Fine. Then get back here, Sully. We’ll meet up with Liam and figure out something else. But we can’t take too long.” She battled a fresh rush of fear. “We don’t know how much time he has.”
Chapter 20
At just past ten o’clock that night, Orlov’s driver parked the armored car inside the large, empty barn, while two armed soldiers quickly dragged the two halves of the massive wooden doors together and latched them. The old barn housed the entrance of a bunker, which had been dubbed the Crow’s Nest back when the country was still part of the Soviet Union, a slave to Russia.
Constant war had necessitated the building of bunkers, and many connected via tunnels to the Moscow subway system. This one, however, stood isolated several miles south of the Russian border, and although most of the wartime bunkers had lain abandoned since the Cold War, Orlov maintained two: one in an official capacity, used by the ministry as an interrogation facility, and the Crow’s Nest for his own personal use. Both bunkers were considered black sites, which meant they were lightly guarded and off the books in order to preserve a high level of secrecy. The Crow’s Nest was small in comparison to other Soviet bunkers. It had been used primarily for storage purposes and offered only one point of entry, located in this nondescript barn.
Orlov got out of the car, his excitement rising as he thought of what awaited him in the bowels of the facility. Kirill had reported that the man still refused to talk, but Orlov knew that would change. Not many men stayed quiet during a visit to the Crow’s Nest.
Unfortunately, before he reached the steel doors situated in the floor, his government cell phone rang.
Suppressing his exasperation, Orlov stalked a short distance away from the two guards. He’d planned on giving Karin a report after he met with his captive, but he supposed he might as well get the conversation over with now.
“Mr. Prime Minister, I was just about to call you,” he said into the phone.
“Did you find my daughter?”
“I’m afraid the answer to that is no. But I do have some good news.” He paused. “As well as some bad news.”
“What is the bad news?”
“Durov’s men, working in tandem with a military unit I assigned, discovered the site where your daughter was being held. Her captors, however, managed to escape during the raid. Sadly, the body of Erik Baronova’s wife was found on the premises. Our men believe she was shot during an escape attempt.”
“I see. And my daughter?”
“That’s the good news. She wasn’t on the premises.”
“How is that good news?” Karin demanded angrily.
“Would you have preferred we find her corpse?”
Silence.
Then the prime minister spoke up wearily. “What do you know about the people who took her?”
“We’ve received confirmation that this is the work of the PRF,” Orlov lied.
As expected, Karin was absolutely livid. “Those goddamn terrorists abducted my daughter? Why?”
“Probably for the same reason they orchestrated the car bombings earlier in the year, and the same reason they murdered Oleg Harkov’s daughter last week. They are seeking vengeance on the government.”
“But Anastacia is still alive.” Karin sounded desperate now. “Do you think they will demand a ransom?”
“Perhaps.” He pretended to hesitate, all the while hiding a smile. “But we both know the PRF has never been receptive to our negotiation efforts. You and President Belikov might not believe in violence, but I’m afraid the rebels do.”
“I don’t give a damn what you have to do to get her back! Kill every last one of them for all I care,” Karin snapped. “Just find my daughter!”
The angry click in his ear only caused his smile to widen. Karin was panicking. Good.
As he slipped the phone into his pocket, he suddenly thought of his son. Of how proud he’d been when the doctors placed the red-faced infant in his arms all those years ago. He’d had so many plans for Sergei. His son was supposed to follow in his footsteps, perhaps even rule the country one day.
But Sergei was gone now. His heir, his legacy, gone. All because people like Leo Karin were too scared to get a little blood on their hands.
Once Karin’s daughter was eliminated, Orlov’s thirst for vengeance would finally be sated. He’d be able to bask i
n the satisfaction of knowing that the men he’d once considered friends were suffering as greatly as he had.
His thirst for power, however . . . that would not be quenched until he got the prime minister firmly on his side. For that to happen, Karin needed to be presented with his daughter’s corpse, to believe that the rebels were to blame and to agree that action must be taken. But first, Orlov had to locate the girl, and immediately.
Perhaps his hostage could shed light on the girl’s whereabouts . . .
Setting his jaw, he crossed the barn and gestured to the two guards. “Open the door. I must pay a visit to our prisoner.”
• • •
Ethan was woozy as hell, his head spinning like a carousel as he gave his surroundings another thorough examination. He’d been out cold when Orlov’s men brought him here, so he didn’t know what the exterior of his prison looked like, but judging by the concrete walls, steel door, and dampness of the air, he suspected he was underground. Maybe a bunker or trench, though the former seemed likelier. Probably one of the black sites Alexei Mironov had told them about during their meeting.
The small room was empty save for the chair he was tied to and the large, industrial lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. His wrists had been secured to the back of the chair with barbed wire. Barbed fucking wire, which left bleeding gashes in his flesh whenever he flexed his hands. Christ, he was going to need a damn tetanus shot after this.
At least the wound in his leg had finally stopped bleeding. The dried blood caked to his calf made his skin itch, but his feet were tied to the metal legs of the chair—also with barbed wire—so scratching away the itch was impossible.
Son of a bitch. He couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to get captured by these bastards. Juliet had been right. He should’ve left Alisa Baronova behind, but he’d chosen compassion over cruelty, and now he was paying the price for it.
His back still ached from the two shots to his vest; he could feel his skin slowly turning purple from the bruises. And to make matters worse, after Orlov’s thug had knocked him unconscious from behind, the man had rid Ethan not only of his weapons, but his tactical watch, which featured a nifty little SOS button Ethan could’ve triggered to broadcast his location to his team.
But he was on his own now. Off the map and at the mercy of a crazy politician who wasn’t above using torture to glean information.
Wonderful.
No sooner had the thought entered his mind than he heard the scraping of a lock. A second later, the heavy door swung open with a creak and two men strode inside. The blond and bulky one with the vacant expression was unfamiliar to him.
The second was none other than Orlov himself. Ethan recognized him from pictures and press conferences, neither of which did justice to the man’s good looks. Orlov was tall and fit, boasting black hair with distinguished streaks of gray, sharp bone structure, and dark, intelligent eyes. He wore a tailored gray suit and shiny black loafers, and looked completely out of place in the musty space.
“Hello,” Orlov said in Russian, the pleasant smile on his face belied by the predatory gleam in his eyes. “I see you’re awake.”
Ethan didn’t answer.
“You’ve already met my associate Kirill,” Orlov went on, “but we have yet to be introduced. My name is Dmitry Orlov, but I’m sure you already know that. Would you care to introduce yourself?”
Ethan’s lack of response triggered the man’s irritation.
“Kirill informed me you’re not willing to talk. I see he wasn’t exaggerating.” Orlov turned to his soldier. “Cut his shirt off.”
Without a word, the man named Kirill extracted a deadly steel blade from his hip and approached their hostage. He bent down and placed the tip of the eight-inch knife on Ethan’s collarbone.
Ethan didn’t even flinch as the man sliced his sweater from the collar right down to the hem. Kirill proceeded to make two more cuts, one on each sleeve, before putting the knife away and ripping the scraps of fabric off Ethan’s torso in one effortless motion.
The cool air brushed his naked chest, but he didn’t allow any emotion to show on his face. He kept his gaze on Orlov, whose dark eyes had immediately zeroed in on the tattoo gracing Ethan’s left biceps.
“United States Marine Corps,” Orlov mused. “So you’re American. Interesting.”
He still said nothing.
His captor promptly switched to English. “Active duty?”
Silence.
“No, I don’t think so. You’re not here on a government-sanctioned operation. America has no reason to interfere. No, this must be personal.”
“Mercenary,” Orlov’s stone-faced goon grunted out.
Orlov nodded. “I think so too.” His lips pursed as he studied Ethan’s face. “So, are you the one who killed my wolf?”
Silence.
“Why were you protecting Grechko’s targets?”
Silence.
Ethan didn’t miss the annoyance in the other man’s eyes. “I’m going to be honest, Mr. Marine. I find this entire situation quite vexing and inconvenient. I’m the kind of man who doesn’t like delays, especially in regards to plans I’ve set in motion. But your meddling has done just that—delayed me. This makes me very unhappy.”
Silence.
“Where is the Karin girl?” Orlov demanded. “I assume your people have taken her to another safe house. Tell me where it is.”
Ethan’s jaw tensed at the mention of Anastacia.
Orlov, proving to be acutely observant, didn’t miss the reaction. “Judging by that response, I suspect you’re fond of the girl. Perhaps you’d like me to describe to you in detail how I’m going to kill her.”
Anger jolted through him. He hadn’t planned on saying a word, but he couldn’t help himself now. He wasn’t worried about revealing anything Orlov would ever be able to use, but he did feel the need to point out the obvious.
“Killing her won’t bring back your dead son, Orlov.” Ethan’s voice came out hoarse.
“Ah, so he speaks! And no, the girl’s death won’t bring back my Sergei—I’m not an imbecile. But it will cause her father great pain, which in turn will bring me great joy. Karin and my so-called allies deserve to be punished for their ignorance. They need to experience firsthand the pain and suffering that comes from inaction.”
Ethan raised a tired brow. “If you’re trying to punish them, then why blame the deaths of their loved ones on the rebels?”
A humorless chuckle slipped out of Orlov’s mouth. “I might be a grieving father, but I’m also a politician. Do you truly think I would allow my son to have died in vain? No, I plan to use his death to take down that fool Belikov.”
“So that’s the big plan? You’re angling for the presidency?” Ethan had to roll his eyes. “Wouldn’t it just be easier to assassinate Belikov?”
Orlov’s jaw stiffened at his mocking tone. “A quick death at the hands of a faceless assassin is too good for that bastard. He deserves to suffer, as I have suffered, as my son suffered. He will lose his family, his job, his livelihood, and when he has nothing left, he will know who to thank for it. Belikov will pay for what he’s done, as will the rebels who killed my Sergei. This government’s weak policies have given the rebels too much power, but I intend to change that. When my colleagues realize the threat these maniacs pose to our country, they’ll join with me to remove Belikov from office. I’ll use their anger over their losses to crush the rebel movement once and for all. And then, my dear boy, I will have not only my vengeance, but my coup.”
An incredulous laugh slipped out. “So you’re too impatient to wait the three years until the next election—is that right? You’re scaring your colleagues into doing what—calling an emergency election? A no-confidence vote?”
Orlov’s nostrils flared. “You mock me.”
“And you’re boring me.” Ethan f
eigned a yawn. “Might be time for me to take a little nap.”
“I see. You’re determined to be difficult.” Orlov sounded extremely displeased. “I suppose we’ll have to do this the hard way, then.”
Ethan’s gaze shifted to Kirill, who’d taken a menacing step forward.
“In case you’re curious about my friend,” Orlov said in a genial tone, “maybe it would be prudent of me to enlighten you about his background. You see, Kirill was once a member of the KGB. You are aware of the KGB, right? You Americans always mention the organization in your silly television shows.”
Silence.
“Kirill learned quite a lot during his time with the KGB. Many delightful techniques designed to turn an unwilling man into a very willing one.” Orlov cocked his head. “Perhaps knowing this has changed your mind about answering our questions?”
Silence.
“Hmmm. Apparently it hasn’t.”
Kirill took another step.
Ethan didn’t move or react, but a dose of adrenaline had entered his bloodstream. Fuck. This wasn’t going to be fun.
Orlov smiled. “I can guarantee that by the time Kirill is finished with you, you’ll be begging to talk.”
Silence.
“All right, Mr. Marine. Shall we get started?”
Chapter 21
The moment Morgan hung up the phone, D knew that something was wrong. The boss had uttered only three words during the call with Sullivan—fuck and got it—and those three words were enough for D to figure out there was a serious clusterfuck in progress.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
Morgan’s blue eyes flickered with atypical distress. “The rookie got himself captured—that’s what’s going on.”
D cursed. “How the hell did that happen?”
As Morgan filled them in on everything that had gone down in Belarus, D noticed that Noelle’s face revealed not even a sliver of emotion. She simply sat at their café table, one lethal hand gripping the handle of her coffee cup, the other periodically lifting a cigarette to her red lips.