“You’re welcome,” he smiles supportively.
“Clan,” I say, “in precisely eighteen minutes we’re stopping and boarding this train. It is crucial that there is no outward damage to alert those cum-splats that anything is amiss. We jump in, get the women out, and load that fucker up with the C4. We have precisely six minutes to do this. The engineer has orders to communicate with the compound every thirty minutes. Sync your watches now.”
All fifty men and women lift their arms and click their timepieces in unison. These are good people.
While the Morozov and Turgenev Bratvas have sent ground support for the last six skirmishes as we drove Stepanov to his eventual end, I wanted MacTavish Clan members for the last. They deserve to see the bloody and fiery end after all our organization has given. O’Rourke never offered any of his people and I’m not sure I would have trusted them. In the end, O’Rourke is only for himself.
None of this might have happened, though, without my wife. No one had the location of Stepanov’s biggest compound and central “processing” facility for his human cargo, not even O’Rourke.
Checking my watch again, I want to call her. Afterwards. I’ll have more to tell her then. Still, there’s an insistent nudge in the base of my spine, wanting to call her. Setting it aside, I take a deep breath. Timing has never been more important.
Concentrate, you arse.
Precisely eighteen minutes later, the train rounds the tracks a quarter mile from where I have two huge, military-grade Humvees parked across the track. It will take a quarter mile’s distance for the engineer to slam on the brakes and stop in time to avoid a collision.
“Radio signal jammer’s up,” Dougal announces as the other vehicles close in on the train. We board the train before it’s fully stopped and shoot everyone holding a gun, ten team members are already guarding the two cars with the captives, making sure Ivanov’s guard can’t shoot them, which is standard evil bastard protocol.
“How are we doing?” I query into my headset, hearing the different teams confirm their location. Then Dougal’s voice interrupts.
“Brother, come to car two.”
“What’s up?”
His voice is urgent, “Just come here. Now.”
Tearing through the cars, I kick aside the bodies of the Ivanov soldiers. Bursting into Dougal’s train car, I squint in the low light.
“What is-?”
He’s holding a woman, our medic rapidly pressing bandages on her bleeding stomach.
It’s my Morana.
My wife, bleeding out on the filthy floor, her leg still in shackles.
Chapter Thirty-One
In which the worst place to find your wife is on a filthy train car with a bullet wound.
Morana…
When I was ten, the Ivanov Bratva joined two other families from the Moscow Six for a train ride to St. Petersburg to meet with the major Bratvas there. My father complained bitterly about the stupid sentimentality of such a trip, how a plane or helicopter ride would be so much faster. He was especially irritated that he was expected to bring me since the other Pakhans brought their children.
The only drama was a herd of cows casually grazing along the train tracks, and the locomotive had to stop to shoo them away. I remember how long it took for the train to come to a stop. My father and a couple of the other less civilized men took turns shooting the cows as the train crew struggled to clear the tracks.
So, when we all go sprawling as the train jolts violently, I know the high-pitched screech of the brakes on the rails can only mean an emergency stop. Which,Bozhe pozhaluysta,please God, could mean Cameron found us. Found me.
I hold onto the girl I’d given my sweater when she slides into me, whimpering softly. “It’s okay,” I tell her, hoping she speaks Russian, “It will be all right.” This could be a lie, but I want to believe, I need to believe that this isn’t how the story ends for us all.
When the door is kicked open, the girls all scream, and my heart sinks as I recognize him; Kirill is one of the Ivanov brigadiers, he’s an evil pig and he’s perfect for this job. Torturing and terrifying young girls must be a dream for him.
His gun is out, he’s searching the car and I know he’s looking for me. I can’t let him start shooting randomly, I know he won’t stop. He probably has orders to kill all the girls.
“Hey, Kirill Galkin,svoloch',you bastard!” I stand up so he can see me and the girl in my sweater pulls on my shirt, trying to make me sit down. His eyes are jittering back and forth and his hand holding the gun is shaking.
Kirill’s scared. That can only mean…
“It’s over, Kirill Galkin! If you hurt any of these girls, they will torture you. The MacTavish Mafia is very creative.” He’s staring at me, lips peeled back in a snarl. “Drop the gun, don’t make it worse.”
