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  Temporarily out of danger, she found herself pausing to examine the place that had been the only real home she’d ever had. But not anymore. Now it was theirs.

  CHAPTER 31

  A SINGLE shot sounded, muffled in a way that suggested it emanated from inside one of the houses ahead. A few seconds later, the response came—this time multiple guns, undisciplined and outside. Probably pistols.

  As a practical matter, Washington, DC, was no longer the seat of government, but its institutions were still critical to the functioning of the country. As such, the intel on the city was still pretty solid. Rapp could easily use his phone to pull up a feed of everything happening in the area—from demonstrations to functioning aid stations to fires. But it didn’t seem worth the trouble. What he’d heard wasn’t coming from trained government operatives or military. More likely just a skirmish between the gangs that were reportedly taking over the city’s residential areas. Unfortunately, it sounded like it was coming right from where he was headed.

  The intermittent gaps in the cloud cover had widened, providing enough starlight for him to make out the sidewalk beneath his feet. Not enough to safely run, but enough to sustain a moderate jog.

  A few more shots rang out as he cut left, skirting a vacant lot and then turning onto the street that was his objective. There was a flickering glow that looked like it came from a fire about two hundred and fifty yards ahead, dim, but obvious in the dead city. Based on the map in his head, he registered that if it wasn’t coming from Sonya Voronova’s apartment, it couldn’t be more than a door or two away.

  Gleeful shouts were discernible, as was movement in the shuddering gloom. He retrieved his Glock and screwed a silencer to the end. With a little luck, this wouldn’t have anything to do with his target and he’d be able to stick to the shadows until these idiots moved on.

  Staying on the opposite side of the road, he slowed enough to allow him to take in the scene. A man carrying a box ran up from a below-ground apartment, tripping on the top step and losing his grip on the container. He stared at the contents strewn across the ground for a moment before heading back down, nearly knocking over another man in the process.

  It was something Rapp had seen more times than he could count. A group of looters had found a fat target and were still in the ecstatic frenzy phase. In a few minutes they’d start to realize that there was no realistic way to transport the stuff they were stealing and that they had no use for about half of it. Shortly thereafter, they’d start to fight among themselves. No matter where you were in the world, it played out exactly the same way. Like it was a law of nature or something.

  Rapp stopped next to a tree and went completely still as the men continued to haul things up the stairs. There was also activity in a few of the windows around him, but he didn’t pay much attention. Just people wanting to know what was happening and whether there was potential for them to get dragged into it.

  Unfortunately, the architecture in this area was pretty monotonous and the illumination wasn’t sufficient to differentiate one below-ground flat from another. He was going to have to get closer.

  Waiting until all the men were inside, he jogged across the street and jumped an iron fence to access the small front garden. It took a few seconds to find the number on the building but when he did he swore under his breath. Five twenty-three.

  A man carrying an armload of dried beans ran up the steps and dropped them alongside the rest of the booty. When he turned, he spotted Rapp standing at the far edge of the garden.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” he said, pointing a menacing finger. “This is our shit and you don’t even get to look at it.”

  “The woman who was living in that apartment. Where is she?”

  “Woman?” the young man said incredulously. “Who the fuck do you think you are asking me questions?”

  Rapp aimed his Glock at the man’s chest. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  A condescending smile, barely visible in the flickering light, crossed the man’s lips. “You think that makes you a tough guy? Everybody’s got a gun.”

  “But not everybody’s got one with a silencer, dumbass.”

  Rapp fired a single round and the man crumpled to the ground just as one of his companions hit the lower steps. He hadn’t heard the shot and was looking down at the box in his hands, not paying attention to what was going on around him until he tripped over the body.

  Rapp watched him fall forward, bouncing off the box and landing face-first on the brick walkway. Finally noticing his dead companion, he went for the gun in his waistband but then froze when he found a silencer pressed to his forehead.

  “Where’s the woman who lived in this apartment?”

  “What?” he said, sounding genuinely confused.

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “She… She’s gone, man!”

  “Gone because she ran or gone because she’s dead?”

  Another man came up the stairs and Rapp reoriented his weapon, firing a round through the duffle he was bear-hugging and sending him toppling backward through the open door.

  The man on the ground took the opportunity to go for his gun again, but was thwarted when the butt of a Glock slammed into the bridge of his nose.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Rapp reminded him.

  “She ran!” he said, starting to choke on the blood running down the back of his throat. “She went out the back.”

  “There is no back,” Rapp said, pushing the end of his silencer to the man’s forehead again. “Just a courtyard surrounded by walls.”

  “She climbed the drainpipe and went over the roof.”

  Rapp pulled the trigger before descending the stairs and stepping over the body in the threshold. Muted flames in the gas fireplace accounted for the unsteady light and illuminated a small, simply decorated space.

  Voices were audible near the back and a moment later a man carrying a suitcase appeared in the hallway. Like his comrade from earlier, he wasn’t paying much attention and completely missed Rapp standing in the kitchen with a carving knife.

  The CIA man stayed in the shadows next to the refrigerator, only reaching out when the man came even with him. He ran the knife across his throat, opening a deep gash that immediately began pulsing blood. Messy, but he’d only brought a few extra magazines and his day looked like it was going to be longer than planned.

  The man took another two steps, seemingly unaware of what had happened, and then dropped.

  Rapp continued down the hallway, finding only a single bathroom and bedroom. In the latter he spotted a lone man with a penlight in his mouth, going through a chest of drawers.

  He glanced back, squinting into the narrow beam of light for a moment before realizing that the man in the doorway wasn’t one of his. He’d left his gun on a desk to his right and went for it, but Rapp shot him in the stomach before his hand could close around it.

  He went down, writhing and groaning in pain as Rapp picked up his penlight and swept it across the room. They’d torn through her closet and most of the drawers had been dumped, but there wasn’t much more than clothes. The door at the back was open to the courtyard he’d been briefed on and he glanced out into it.

  No Sonya Voronova.

  Rapp returned to a small desk that contained a microphone and what was left of a rudimentary amateur radio setup. On the floor next to it, he found a notebook with a feminine scrawl covering the first few pages. It made for interesting reading. Essentially, Voronova’s life story—from her early life in a Romanian orphanage to her infiltration into the United States. Toward the end he found the names of personnel at the Russian embassy and the admonition to “speak some Russian.” He ripped out the pages and stuffed them in his pocket.

  “You shot me,” the man on the ground moaned. “You gotta take me to the hospital! I’m bleeding bad.”

  Rapp ignored him and walked out into the courtyard. The drainpipe was an easy climb and he quickly found himself on
the roof of the neighboring house. It was scattered with partially frozen leaves, making it easy to follow Voronova’s footprints to where she’d climbed down to the street. Her current location was anyone’s guess.

  He pulled out his phone and dialed.

  “Do you have her?” Irene Kennedy said by way of greeting.

  “I was too late.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “Probably not, but she’s gone. What I did find, though, is a bunch of notes about her life and how she’s a Russian agent. It looks like something designed to build her credibility.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They were sitting next to an amateur radio setup. If I had to guess, I’d say she knows something but hasn’t been able to find anyone to listen.”

  “We’ll check to see if there’s any record of her broadcasting. The military’s monitoring radio frequencies in Washington. It’s possible they heard something but dismissed it. There’s a lot of chatter out there.”

  Rapp looked up at a half-moon revealed in a break in the clouds. “What I haven’t found yet is her cell phone. It’s possible that she’s got it with her. Is there any way we can track it?”

  “Hold on, let me loop in Marcus.”

  The CIA’s tech guru came on a moment later. “Mitch! Did you find her?”

  “No,” Kennedy answered for him. “But he thinks she might have her phone on her. Is there anything we can do with that?”

  “I authorized her on the network right after we found out about her. But we haven’t been able to get anything. It’s turned off.”

  “Can you turn it on remotely?”

  “No, but I bet I know someone who can.”

  “The Russians,” Kennedy said.

  “Yeah. They’re pretty obsessive about keeping tabs on their people.”

  “Then call them,” Rapp said. “And remind that piece of shit Boris Utkin that if I don’t find her, I’m flying to Russia and finding him.”

  CHAPTER 32

  NEAR LURAY

  VIRGINIA

  USA

  JOHN Alton stared through stinging eyes at the computer monitor. He was exhausted but the man on-screen didn’t seem to be. He continued to dig through the rubble of the house above and had now been joined by his wife and young son. Together they were doing an inefficient but energetic search for the bunker entrance. Desperation was the ultimate motivator.

  His name was Burt Simmons, but it pissed Alton off that he remembered it. He had brought America to its knees. The government was using water as a weapon against its own citizens. Reliable reports were coming in about the lights flickering in Moscow and speculating that it was part of a US retaliation. He had unquestionably joined the ranks of history’s greatest men and now he was being threatened by a construction worker, his fat-ass wife, and their retarded-looking-son. Genghis Khan and Caesar hadn’t had to deal with people named Burt.

  Alton had legal residency in Mexico and a house there owned by a maze of offshore corporations that also held millions in investments designed to do well in an economic collapse. Beneath the basement floor was a stash of gold, pesos, and euros. Ocean view, palm trees for shade, and servants who worked for peanuts. The good life by any standard.

  He chewed his lower lip for a moment, thinking about basking in the warm sun with a margarita in his hand and a señorita’s face in his lap. Maybe he should have triggered this thing from the comfort of his Saltillo tile veranda. Maybe the romance of sitting in his bunker command center right under the noses of the authorities had overpowered his logic.

  There wasn’t much he could do about that now, though. Crossing into Mexico was exactly the clusterfuck that he’d predicted. The Mexican government wasn’t any more sympathetic to American refugees than the US government had been to Latin American ones. All official crossing points were completely jammed and there were credible reports of particularly desperate Americans trying to make it to Mexico illegally. A number had already died in the desert and, ironically, others had been stopped by the US-built wall—now guarded by gleeful Mexican vigilantes.

  He had no choice but to wait until everything died down. Literally. Within the next year or so, the majority of Americans would be worm food. At that point, it would be easy for a well-equipped Mexican visa holder to drive through the empty middle of the country and cross the border. Then it’d be nothing but coconuts and paddleboard.

  And now all that was being jeopardized in the most asinine way imaginable.

  Simmons tossed aside a charred two-by-four and then stood, looking at the sun rising into a clearing sky. They’d been at it all night and had nothing to show for it. By now, even this idiot had to be wondering if he was wasting his time and precious energy by digging for one of the thousands of half-built and unsupplied bunkers scattered across the United States—victims of procrastination, lack of funds, and wandering attention.

  The man seemed to read his mind, turning and picking his way through the rubble on course for his truck. A surprisingly powerful sense of relief washed over Alton as Simmons climbed in and a cloud of exhaust billowed from the tailpipe. And again he felt his anger rise at the fact that this cretin could have that effect on him.

  “Good-bye, asshole…”

  On-screen, the pickup started to move, but instead of collecting his family and heading back to the main road, Simmons drove it to within a few feet of the ruined house.

  “I got a winch, Mr. Alton!” he shouted as he stepped out of the cab. “And if that don’t work, I got a friend with a backhoe. If I tell enough people about this, I figure we’ll be able to scrounge up enough gas to get it up here!”

  He began playing out cable from the unit on his bumper as Alton swore quietly.

  “They’re still here,” a voice behind him said.

  Alton jerked at the sudden sound and spun in his chair. Feisal Ibrahim was standing in the doorway looking down at him. The two men flanking him did the same, but through dead eyes.

  “It’s only a matter of time before they find the entrance,” Ibrahim elaborated. “And if they don’t, they’ll get help. At that point, the situation will no longer be controllable.”

  As much as Alton hated to admit it, the sneaky Arab bastard was right. Suddenly, bringing the three of them there didn’t feel like as big a mistake as it had earlier. What if he’d been alone? What would he have done? Go out there and help them? If he did that, there would be no end to it. Every time they ran out of supplies, they’d be back demanding more and threatening to tell their friends if he refused. Maybe he could have lured them down into the bunker and killed them, but that would be a messy and unpredictable business. Three wary people—even if one was a woman and another a child—would have been hard to deal with.

  “No shooting,” Alton said. “Someone could hear.”

  The men behind Ibrahim nodded and disappeared back down the corridor.

  Alton focused on the screen again, watching Simmons wrap a hook around a fallen wall and start back toward the truck. His wife and kid had returned to the cab and she handed him the winch’s controller through the window.

  “Last chance, Mr. Alton!” he shouted.

  When he got no response, he pressed the button and began dragging the wall through the debris.

  Alton just leaned back in his chair, fascinated to see what would happen next. The anticipation was strangely powerful. Not as powerful as it had been before he’d knifed Muhammad Nahas or turned America’s lights out, but surprisingly close. Ordering death, it turned out, was almost as exhilarating as bringing it about personally. And a hell of a lot easier.

  The wall was halfway to the truck when the hidden hatch began to open. Simmons redirected his attention to the sudden movement, a smug smile spreading across his lips. A man like him would be unlikely to feel physically threatened by someone like Alton. In his tiny little mind, he was now in charge.

  Predictably, his smile faded when an Arab leapt from the hole, aiming an assault rifle and barking orders i
n broken English. The second ISIS man appeared a moment later, running toward Simmons with a pistol while his companion provided cover.

  Overall, it was a surprisingly professional operation with none of the Allahu akbar crap that Alton had been expecting. After barely five seconds, Simmons was facedown on the ground, begging for mercy. The Arab with the rifle used the butt to smash the passenger-side window of the truck and a moment later, the whole family was lying in a neat row on the ground. Simmons continued babbling, but then went silent when the rifle butt connected with the back of his head.

  The woman screamed and made it to all fours before the man behind her dropped his pistol and drove a hunting knife into the back of her neck. Their son, on the other hand, had the quickness of youth on his side. He bolted, but found his escape thwarted by short legs. And a delicate neck, apparently. The man who chased him down twisted it a good hundred and eighty degrees, leaving him chest down and faceup in the mud.

  Then it was over.

  Alton could feel his heart pounding and double-checked the monitor on his wrist to make sure it was below the threshold he’d set.

  “Oh, shit!” he said when he confirmed he was nowhere near triggering the release of the antidote he’d created. “That was harsh!”

  He could hear Ibrahim breathing behind him but he remained silent.

  “Tell your men to get the bodies in the ground,” Alton ordered. “And to hide the truck in the woods. Oh. And tell them nice job.”

  CHAPTER 33

  WASHINGTON, DC

  USA

  AFTER the miserable failures of Plan A twice, Plan B, Plan C, and now Plan D, Sonya Voronova was on to Plan E. Its chance of success was pretty dismal, but it narrowly beat Plan F. Drowning herself in the Potomac.

  The sun was still low on the horizon, filtering through a cloud layer in the process of breaking up. The neighborhood surrounding her was more than a little sketchy, made up of dilapidated brick houses, empty lots strewn with garbage, and the occasional boarded-up building. Cars lined the street, but pretty much all looked like the one she’d left outside her own house. Broken windows, missing radios, and jimmied gas filler covers.