“Well?” Bishop demanded. “Is it done?”
“The Carlsons are dead.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “But Major Jackson and Agent Beacham still live. I’m injured and fleeing the scene.”
A few seconds of silence sounded on the other end of the call. Finally, Bishop said, “You, uh, you need to do more than flee the scene. You need to get out of the country. There’s a shitstorm coming and I’m going to have to retreat and retrench. The last thing I need is you getting caught.”
Bishop didn’t need to addand making a deal or handing over intel that might potentially lead to me.Pavel could read between the lines.
“What sort of shitstorm?” he asked.
“The kind where the FBI and BKI know where I’ve been getting my information. The kind I was helpless to mitigate. So now I have to play defense. You’re close to Canada, right? Cross the border and disappear.”
“Did you hear me say I’m injured?” Pavel was usually a patient man. But agony had a way of shriveling up his composure like salt on a slug.
“Is it fatal?” Bishop’s tone lacked even a hint of sympathy.
Not that Pavel expected any. Not only did their working relationship preclude such sentiments, but their shared goal meant there was no time for it. Sympathy was a luxury afforded to those who were not trying to rearrange the world order.
“I’ll live.”
He’d live. But would he ever work again? He could feel the squish of the blood that filled his shoe. If the bullet had hit bone, if he was crippled for life, his stint as the world’s most prolific assassin was finished.
His job required grace. Agility.
“Good.” Bishop’s voice had lowered, and that one word was even more clipped than usual. If Pavel had to guess, Bishop was worried about being caught on the call. “Call me when you’ve found a place to lay low. Once you’re there, I’ll help you in any way I can.”
Click.The line went dead.
Pavel placed the phone in the cupholder, glad it was too dark to see the floorboard. He highly suspected it held a puddle of blood. And when he glanced back up, his heart skipped a beat.
A single headlight rounded the bend behind him and reflected in the rearview mirror. Below thehumof the rental’s tires, he could hear the louder, throatier rumble of a big engine.
Major Jackson.
The man had no quit in him.
31
Sandhill Crane Rd,
six miles east of the Carlson residence
Shock and awewere simply layman’s terms for what the military liked to callrapid dominance.
When governments did it, they used a big ol’ bunch of bombs. When spec-ops guys did it, it required three things: stealth, surprise, and lightning-fast action.
Luckily, the twisty, turny country road had afforded Hunter the first two. It’d concealed Canteen Green’s headlight from Orpheus until he was right up on the murderous sonofabitch. Similarly, the denseness of the forest and the proximity of the trees to the road had muffled the roar of the motorcycle’s V-twin.
Which left that final piece of the puzzle.
Lightning-fast action.
He pulled the pin on the grenade and lobbed it with all his might.
There were two ways to turn a car into a fireball. One, put a block of explosives on the battery and wire it to the ignition. Or two, blow up the gas tank.
Option two was his intent while simultaneously hoping the grenade still worked. After all, it was fifty years old, and—
BOOM!
