The priest patted a pocket and nodded with a look of relief.
Turov pointed toward the far door. “We keep going. Don’t stop.”
They set off, running as a group.
As they passed the church’s entrance, a machine gun strafed inside.Rounds chewed across the floor and tore into the golden altarpieces. Turov caught a glimpse of muzzle flashes through the snow, illuminating the shadowy shape of an Arctic Berkut parked at the curb.
Luckily, their group had been spotted late, and the angle of fire was awkward—or maybe the shooter was merely trying to chase them off.
It worked.
Turov hit the door. Discovering it was already unlocked, he herded everyone into the cramped sacristy. The space was stone-walled with high narrow windows. The door was thick, age-hardened oak.
Oleg threw the deadbolt.
The soldiers shoved a small desk in front of the door, offering further shelter if someone tried to shoot their way inside.
Turov turned to Oleg, whose face was a pale mask of pain. A pant leg was soaked in blood. “Comms?”
“Still down. I’ll keep trying. Some message might slip through.”
He swung toward Sychkin, who was guarded over by Yerik. He pointed toward the door. “Who the hell are those people?”
7:15P.M.
Tucker crouched behind a cot. He had overturned it at the outbreak of the gun battle. Elle and Marco sheltered with him. The firefight had died away, but commandos in combat gear barked orders in Russian out in the hallway. White helmets flashed past their cell.
A steel bar scraped, and the door flung open.
A goliath of a soldier barged in. “What’re you waiting for? Get moving.”
Tucker straightened. “Kowalski?”
Another squattier figure swept up to the threshold. “Got ’em pinned down upstairs. Don’t know how long. Can’t count on the solar storm keeping everything blanketed. One wrong word gets out, and we’re toast.”
Monk...
Tucker struggled to understand how they could be here. He helped Elle up and signaled Marco to his side. “How did you find—?”
Kowalski waved and turned. “No time to chitchat. On a tight schedule. Yuri’s waiting topside. Kane, too.”
Tucker rushed after him with Elle and Marco. In the hallway, another two men in Arctic camo closed behind them, herding them toward the front of the church.
“Wait!” Tucker stopped and barged through the pair behind him.
“Where are you going?” Kowalski huffed but followed him.
Tucker raced down the passageway to an open door. He had to step over bodies, soldiers trapped by the ambush, caught in a crossfire. He pushed into the room. Inside, a steel hearth heated the space. It felt stiflingly hot after the cold cell.
A body was strapped to a chair by leather restraints.
Tucker’s ears still rang with the screams of the tortured.
Blood pooled beneath the seat. The air smelled of burned flesh and loosed bowels. Severed fingers lay on the floor. Worst of all, as the man’s chin rested against his collarbone, the globe of an eye hung by a cord from its socket.
Tucker rushed up to the stricken man. “Father Bailey.”
Elle gasped behind him, having followed him into the room.
