Ace frowned in the rearview mirror at BKI’s resident computer genius. Ethan “Ozzie” Sykes had Einstein-esque hair befitting the huge brain housed inside his skull. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “What’s about the size of Maryland?”
“Moldova.” Ozzie reminded Ace of what had started the exchange in the first place. “But I think its population is only about two-thirds of Maryland’s so that’d make it…what? Four mil or so?”
Of course BKI’s own brainiac would know the answer to Rusty’s question.
“I think outside of Chisinau,” Ozzie continued conversationally, “it’s pretty much rolling fields and tiny villages.”
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t judge the whole place by this little slice of heaven.” Rusty waved out the window. “Can’t understand what anyone sees in Soviet-era architecture.”
Cranes dotted the skyline, proof that even more of the drab buildings Rusty found so unsavory were being erected as they spoke.
“Guess beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Ozzie shrugged.
“These guys used to be Russian. They can claim artists like Kandinsky and Serov. Their former countrymen built St. Basil’s Cathedral and the Winter Palace. Why the hell not try to copy those examples?”
Rusty liked to play the dumb-jock card, but the man had a textbook knowledge of art, architecture, and design. The one time Ace had pointed that out to him, Rusty had donned a mulish expression and said, “Right. And how gay is that?” So Ace kept his mouth shut now.
Chisinau was a brazen and dusty place. The cars on the streets were a testament to its fast economic growth having only benefited a handful of its citizens. There were one or two BMWs and Lexuses among the hundreds of taxis and old streetcars. The sidewalks were lined with pensioners hawking cheap, astringent-smelling soap, shiny samovars, and packages of ladies’ underwear that had likely “fallen off a truck.”
Bleating horns competed with the voices of the vendors, and the air inside the parked car smelled of old exhaust, stale cigarettes, and Rusty’s outdoorsy aftershave. Ace would be damned glad when this mission, the Black Knights’ last mission, was over and done with. Then Rusty would be free to go back to his cod-fishing business in England, and Ace would be free to forget he’d ever met the man.
“They’re here.” Boss’s deep, bass voice sounded in Ace’s earpiece, snapping his mind away from the subject of Rusty Parker—thank the Christ child—and focusing it on the task at hand. “Looks like we’ve got a party of five,” BKI’s leader continued. “I’m seeing Angel, Miss Butler, and a guy I assume is Grafton. Hard to tell since the dude’s wearing a wig, big sunglasses, and a hoodie over his head. There are also three beefy, bearded assholes who are definitely packing heat in shoulder holsters. They keep looking around like they expect a horde of assassins to pop up from the sidewalk.”
Ace leaned over the steering wheel, searching the alley running behind the café. Activating his throat mic, he told the team keeping eyes on the front of the place, “No sign of activity on our end. The supplier might decide to waltz in the front door. Do us a favor and keep your eyes peeled.”
“Roger that, mon frère,” Rock Babineaux’s Cajun accent came over the line.
“What he said,” Nate “Ghost” Weller added.
Ace smiled. If there were two men he could trust not to miss a beat, they were Ghost and Rock. Ghost had an eagle eye, and Rock had a ninja’s instincts. If Victor Popov, Angel’s contact and the man who was supposedly in possession of the enriched uranium, showed up anywhere near the front of the shop, Ghost and Rock would spot him.
“You’re sure the only way in or out of that café is the front and back doors?” Ace glanced at Ozzie in the rearview mirror of the ancient VW they’d purchased just that morning. They’d chosen the Bug because the windows were deeply tinted, perfect for a stakeout, and man-oh-man had the car salesman’s eyes lit up when he saw a fistful of good ol’ American greenbacks in Ace’s hand.
“So say the schematics I found online,” Ozzie assured him.
“Okay then. We wait.” Ace looked down at the photograph of Popov that Ozzie had managed to scrounge up. It was taped to the dashboard for easy reference.
“Yo, home slices,” Ozzie blurted from the back seat. “Is that movement I see at the other end of the alley?”
Ace glanced up from the photo. He could just barely make out the figure winding his way past the overflowing dumpsters and shoddy-looking cars.
“Yeah,” he told Ozzie, squinting his eyes, waiting to see if he could make a positive ID.
The man wore dark pants and a faded jean jacket. Moldova was located smack-dab between Romania and Ukraine. Its northern latitude meant the average highs for August usually stayed in the seventies. A cold front had moved through the area the night before, dropping the day’s temp to ten degrees below that.
As the man moved closer, Ace could finally clearly see his face. The guy’s cheeks were fuller than in the picture. He’d put on about thirty pounds since the photo was taken. But there was no way to mistake the thick, wiry eyebrows shading deep, cavernous eye sockets.
“It’s Popov,” Ace said with certainty.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Rusty whispered. “You think he’s carrying that shit in a grocery bag?”
Ace’s attention snagged on the brown paper bag held tightly in Popov’s right hand. “Were you expecting a metal suitcase attached to his wrist with handcuffs?”
“Well…yeah. Kinda.” Rusty shifted his monster frame. “Is it me, or is anybody else freaked the fuck out by what’s in that sack?”
Ace seized on the opportunity to remind Rusty, “You didn’t have to come on this mission. You could have stayed back in Chicago.”
Rusty turned his attention away from the alley and allowed it to fall on Ace. “Why do you gotta keep bringing that up?”
