It seemed Radic had been hired for his usual services—to be a courier—but he was not being asked to be a drug mule or a money man. Instead, hispackagewas trussed up in the back of the truck.
“I don’t move people,” Radic emphatically argued. “At least not without first being told. Preparations have to be—”
“You say no then,” one man said. “You refuse.”
“I didn’t say that.” A note of fear laced Radic’s words.
Tucker reached the end of the alley and peeked around the corner. Thirty yards away, the bulk of the truck was just a larger shadow. One of the men from the vehicle puffed on a cigarette, a single red ember in the dark. The man paced near a gate into the gardens. A chain lay on the ground, likely cut through to gain access.
The two in the SUV must have ambushed and grabbed someone working at the gardens.
But why?
Tucker subvocalized to Kowalski. “What’s your position?”
The answer came in gasps. “Two minutes out. Maybe three.”
“You take the truck,” one of the men instructed Radic. “Go now. You’re expected at the rendezvous by noon.”
Radic swore, but he didn’t object. There was a jangle of keys, and a dark figure—Radic—circled the front of the truck, rounding toward the driver’s door.
Tucker cringed, knowing Kane was hiding beside the rear tire. But his partner needed no warning to act. A small shadow ducked under the back of the truck and vanished beneath it.
Still, that protection would not last long.
Radic popped the driver’s door, climbed inside, and slammed it shut. A moment later, the engine roared. The truck headed away from the curb, aiming in the river’s direction.
Tucker had no time to strategize.
He yanked a Makarov PMM pistol from under the fall of his jacket. He radioed two commands, one to each of his partners.
“Kowalski, stop the truck heading your way.” Tucker rolled out of hiding and ordered Kane. “TAKEDOWN BRAVO ONE.”
The truck cleared the shepherd’s position. It took the two men on the sidewalk a moment to react—to both the dog lunging out of hiding and to the figure racing down the street at them. Still, they moved swiftly, suggestive that they had combat training. Both reached for holstered weapons.
Tucker ran with his Makarov leveled, arms out, cradling the butt of his pistol in both hands. He centered on the cigarette’s red emberand squeezed off two rounds. The first went wide; the second 9-mm hollow-point struck the man in the right eye. The Russian flew back and crumpled to the ground.
Kane made no sound as he struck the other. The only noise was a sharp scream and audible snap of bones. The shepherd’s bulk took the target down. As they crashed together, Kane kept hold of an arm and rag-dolled the man with ferocious strength.
The Russian lost his pistol, but he yanked out a long knife from a sheath at his waist. He stabbed it into Kane’s side—only to strike the camouflaged Kevlar vest.
Fuck that.
Tucker reached the pair, skidding to a stop. He leveled the Makarov at the man’s head. He shouted an order, half-panicked. “RELEASE. TO ME.”
Kane let go and spun away, evading another desperate swipe of the blade. The shepherd panted over to Tucker’s side and paced away his adrenaline, tail whipping low.
Tucker closed on the man, intending to question him on the night’s events. “Don’t—”
The Russian sneered and stabbed his knife into his own throat, driving it deep.
Tucker lunged forward, but then stopped, recognizing the futility of any intervention. The man choked and frothed blood, then sprawled onto his back.
A loud boom forced Tucker into a crouch.
He twisted around and watched the departing truck swerve wildly. A front tire smoked and chattered off tread. The vehicle leaped the sidewalk and struck the garden’s fence, crashing through a section of it.
Beyond the truck, a large figure ran toward the site.
