5
May 11, 3:07A.M. MSK
Saint Petersburg, Russian Federation
Tucker Wayne pursued his target through a maze of dark alleys. It was still hours before dawn, but the city remained in a perpetual twilight. At this northern latitude, the sun barely sank below the horizon during the warmer months. Though,warmwas not a term he would use for this spring night.
His breath frosted with each exhalation. His cheeks and nose were numb from the cold. He wished he had dressed more appropriately, but he had wanted his clothing to be nondescript: worn jeans, a battered olive-green coat, a wool cap tugged low. He hoped to pass as a laborer, returning home from a nightshift. With his sandy blond hair, he certainly looked Russian enough.
Still, he kept his six-foot frame hunched as he headed down the alley. He caught glimpses of the Neva River between buildings. Its waters were shrouded in heavy mist.
An hour ago, he had followed his target over a bridge and onto Aptekarsky Island. The night’s hunt had begun in the industrial Vyborgskaya District, a corner of which was run by Russia’smafiya.
He didn’t know why the man had come to this island. Tucker had familiarized himself with the area after arriving in Saint Petersburg a week ago. Back in the eighteenth century, Aptekarsky Island—or Apothecary Island—had been transformed by Peter the Great into the site of the country’s Medical Clerical Office and laboratories. It continued in thatrespect today, with many research institutions dotting the large island, but a majority of the land was now filled with apartment complexes that formed a labyrinth of pedestrian walkways, pine-lined avenues, and narrow alleys.
As Tucker headed deeper into the maze, he periodically checked a digital tablet that he kept close to his chest. Its display glowed with a street map. A tiny blip moved down a neighboring thoroughfare. The street ran alongside the Neva River and paralleled the alleyway.
Tucker kept pace with his target along this backstreet.
Where the hell are you going?
His target—Arkady Radic—was a thirty-two-year-old Serbian with ties to extremist groups across the Balkans. He served mostly as a courier. According to Sigma, the man had periodically worked for the Neo-Guild—what Sigma had unimaginatively come to call Valya Mikhailov’s new organization. The Serb’s location in Saint Petersburg, versus his usual haunt in the Balkans, had made him a person of interest.
Still, even with this intel, it had taken Tucker until two nights ago to track the man down. Tucker had been forced to work carefully. He couldn’t risk being caught—not by Radic, and certainly not by Russian authorities. Last night, the Serb had drunk himself into a stupor at a bar and ended up snoring in the bed of a mistress or girlfriend.
But that’s not where he’s headed now.
This stoked Tucker’s suspicions.
A few hours ago, Director Crowe had informed him about what had transpired yesterday in Moscow—and about the possible involvement of Mikhailov. Painter had wanted Tucker to immediately head south to the capital city, but he had refused.
He trusted his gut.
Radic must be in Saint Petersburg for a reason. If it had anything to do with Mikhailov, then whatever was transpiring in Moscow would likely get the man to stir, to possibly lead Tucker to other operatives of the Neo-Guild in the city.
And from there, hopefully to Valya herself.
Tucker touched his throat mike and radioed his partner. “Kowalski, you receiving the tracking information?”
A gruff voice filled his ears. “I’m circling ahead of his position now.”
“Keep your distance. Don’t want to spook him.”
“It’s notmeyou should be worrying about.”
Tucker scowled. “Kane knows what he’s doing.”
Tucker studied the video feed flowing across the top half of his tablet. It showed a low-angle view of the misty river. His other partner ran through the parkland bordering the Neva’s banks. White-barked birches, leafless and skeletal, flashed past. Manicured bushes were skirted, benches ducked under.
Kane needed little guidance from Tucker.
He definitely knows what he’s doing.
The Belgian Malinois—a former military working dog—had been Tucker’s partner throughout multiple deployments in Afghanistan. After leaving the service, he had taken Kane with him, but it seemed the duo’s unique skills were still needed. Back in the Army Rangers, the pair had served as trackers: for search-and-rescue operations, for extractions, for hunting down targets of acquisition.
Like now.
He pictured Kane’s seventy pounds of lean muscle, flowing swiftly, ears stiff, tail low. A K9 Storm vest—waterproofed and Kevlar reinforced—covered the dog’s body, camouflaged to match his black-and-tan coat. Hidden in its collar were a thumbnail-size wireless transmitter and a night-vision camera, allowing the two to be in constant visual and audio contact with each other.
