“Like I got some place better to be?” Rusty quipped, smiling at the granny in orthotic shoes and a head scarf who scowled at him like he was crazy.
She mall-walked by him, her shoes squeaking in her rush. Considering it looked like he was standing on the corner of a not-so-nice neighborhood talking to himself, he couldn’t blame her for the frown or the quick retreat.
Shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, he leaned against a lamppost sporting what looked to be no fewer than fifty coats of paint. Craning his head toward the west, he kept a weather eye out for the beat-up VW Bug.
Triple chocolate ice cream for sure. Too bad he would likely have to wait until he got back to Chicago before indulging.
He’d followed Popov for nearly thirty minutes down winding streets and narrow alleys. Always staying far behind the man, ducking into doorways and slipping behind dumpsters when Popov turned to glance behind him.
The circuitous route spoke of Popov’s cunning. He’d attempted to make sure no one tailed him after the drop. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t slick enough to outfox, or outrun, a former marine. Especially one whose teammates used to teasingly call him Bloodhound because he had a nose for tracking.
According to Angel, the Russian thieves he’d been chasing were in possession of twenty-six canisters of enriched uranium. Over the years, Angel had helped to take fifteen of those off the black market. Today’s canister was number sixteen. That meant ten canisters from the original heist were still out there. Still a threat to all good and civilized people, and it was Angel’s hope that Popov would lead them back to—
Rusty’s thoughts cut off when the Bug idled to a stop at the curb beside him. Ozzie, crammed into the back seat, reached forward and swung open the passenger door. “For the love of Jean-Luc Picard, man! Why are you standing there twiddling your dick? We got ourselves a bona fide hot pursuit! Get your ass moving!”
Rusty snorted and folded his six-and-a-half-foot frame into the passenger seat. No easy task, but somehow he managed. “Asshole” was his comeback to Ozzie, because they all knew that so far on this mission he’d done the lion’s share of the legwork. Literally.
Behind the wheel, Ace made a buzzer sound like the ones on Jeopardy. “Oh, I know this one. Who is Rusty Parker?”
Rusty scowled over at the former Navy pilot, using what he hoped was telepathy to send a sarcastic retort since he couldn’t seem to come up with one to say out loud. He must not have been successful because Ace smiled and wiggled his eyebrows.
“Any trouble attaching the tracking device?” Ace asked as he shoved the VW into gear.
“Just one,” Rusty admitted. “First shot I took, I missed. Had to reload, and by that time, Popov’s car was almost out of range. Nearly caked my pants.” From his jacket pocket, he took out the short-barreled “gun” that shot tiny, magnetic tracking devices. He scowled down at the weird-looking thing in accusation.
“Didn’t realize the tracking device would have that kind of arc once it left the barrel.” He shuddered at the memory of how adrenaline had soured his stomach when his first shot missed its mark. “Had to aim the thing more like an archer shooting an arrow than a marksman shooting a bullet. Should’ve taken some practice shots before we left this morning. Almost screwed up everything.”
“But you didn’t,” Ace told him, his voice softening.
“But I nearly did.”
“Learn how to take a compliment, will you?” Ace ground the gears on the VW before he found the one he needed.
“Tall order since you so rarely send any my way. Can you blame me for not recognizing one when you finally do?”
“Aannnd they’re at it again,” Ozzie grumbled. When Rusty turned to glare at him, Ozzie tossed his hands in the air. “Sorry! Just pointing out—you know, in case neither of you is aware—that shitty attitudes are starting to become the rule, as opposed to the exception, with you two.”
Rusty decided a change in topic was in order. “How’s the signal? Everything copacetic?”
“For now, yes.” Ozzie studied his screen. “But the range on that device is only about fifteen miles. Ace, my man, you need to hang a left up here at this next intersection and punch it. Looks like Popov is headed for the highway. We could lose him if we’re not hot on his tail by the time he makes it there.”
“Right.” Ace hung a left at the crossroads and shifted through the gears. The transition from second to third sounded like he was giving the ancient little car a colonoscopy without any anesthetic. “The clutch on this thing is about as useful as a one-inch dick,” he complained.
“And you’d know, wouldn’t you?” Ozzie grinned at Ace in the rearview mirror.
Rusty felt his lips twitch. During the last few months living and working with the operators at BKI, he’d learned the guys were always looking for opportunities to malign one another’s manly parts.
“Please,” Ace scoffed. “You wish you had a fifth of what I’m packing. I feel so sorry for Samantha.” He made an Oscar-worthy face of sympathy when talking about Ozzie’s fiancée. “Just how do the two of you compensate for your woeful lack of man meat? Toys? Strap-ons? Inquiring minds want to know.”
“They say deflection is the best way to tell if you’ve struck a nerve.” Ozzie continued to stare at his laptop.
“More like you struck out,” Ace said. “But if it’s proof you need, I’ll happily whip it out. Although…” He made a face. “This is a pretty small car. I’m not sure it’ll be able to accommodate the anaconda once he’s unwound.”
Rusty couldn’t resist a snort. The entire conversation had veered hard toward the absurd.
As Ace pulled the Volkswagen onto the highway, the Soviet-era-style buildings of Chisinau gave way to a landscape littered with run-down factories. Those soon moved aside for a little town that looked like it’d been largely left to ruin. And then, in a snap, they were in the countryside.
Goat-speckled grasslands stretched as far as the eye could see across Moldova’s small hills. Horse-drawn hay carts rattled along on access roads, and Rusty couldn’t shake the feeling they’d been transported back in time, pre–Industrial Revolution.
