During his tours in Afghanistan, Tucker had worked withtwodogs, littermates, Kane and Abel. Abel had been killed, slaughtered during a fierce firefight, a loss that still debilitated Tucker at times.
Then eight months ago, while Tucker had been recuperating alongside Kane, an old friend—a former army veterinarian—had dropped off a pup, a Belgian Malinois who had flunked out of the military war dog training at Lackland AFB. The pup had been judged to be too feral, too irredeemable.
Tucker had intended to prove otherwise.
No dog is irredeemable.
He patted his newest brother and reassured him again. “Well done, Marco.”
“We should get going.” Kowalski waved his pistol for Radic to move. “Get this guy to talk. But first, I still have to finish changing a tire. And there’s the matter of a drugged woman in the back of the SUV.”
Tucker had forgotten about the captive and stood up. “I know who can help us—maybe with both mysteries.”
11:45A.M.
Seven hours later, Tucker paced before a panoramic window of a sprawling penthouse. The view overlooked a curve of the Neva River and the spread of the Hermitage Museum.
He barely noted the breathtaking sight. He had showered and had his bullet-grazed arm bandaged. The doctor who had been summoned to the penthouse had also given Tucker an injection that left his head fuzzy but had dulled the fire in his shoulder.
To the side, Kane and Marco were sprawled on the curve of a window seat. The younger dog rested his muzzle on his paws, snoring softly, adrenaline-weary. Kane matched that pose, except his eyes were only half-closed, feigning inattention. Tucker knew better. Kane missed nothing:posture, hand-and-eye movements, respiration rate, perspiration.The older dog had picked up on the anxiety in the air and continued to keep watch.
A gravelly voice rose behind Tucker. “How much more assistancemust I provide before we consider our debt settled,moy drug?” Bogdan Fedoseev asked.
Tucker sighed and faced the Russian oligarch. The man, in his mid-sixties, sat on a velvet sofa, one leg up on it. He wore a thick robe, which barely constrained a prominent belly, but no one would mistake him as soft. He puffed on a Cuban cigar, casting redolent swirls of smoke around the room.
This was his penthouse. It occupied the top four floors of a high rise, one situated at the heart of the city’s Golden Triangle, the richest section of Saint Petersburg.
“I guess it matters how much value you put on your life,” Tucker answered.
Five years ago, Tucker had been hired by Bogdan, as both bodyguard and security adviser. There had been an assassination attempt on the man’s life by Vladikavkaz Separatists, political terrorists whose main victims were the prominent Russian capitalists. And Bogdan certainly fit that description. The industrialist controlled hundreds of holdings across Russia: oil fields, mining operations, a shipping conglomerate. Tucker had saved the man during a coordinated attack during a worker’s strike. Tucker had been paid well afterward, but he knew Bogdan still appreciated what he had done, even sending him Christmas cards and Russian dog treats each year.
“Speaking of my life,” Bogdan said. “I still value it very much. Enough that I do not wish to find myself accidentally falling out a window. To help you Americans, I risk much,da?”
Tucker frowned at him, knowing the man was all but untouchable.
This drew a grin from the stern man. “Okay, I only risksome,” he admitted. “Still, you come a week ago. You want information aboutmafiyaand other gangs. I help you,da? And now you land to my doorstep this morning, hauling in two others. And don’t even bring coffee.”
Tucker looked across the penthouse. The space was too gilded for his tastes, decorated with Old World oil paintings on the walls. On the far side, a large gold fireplace danced with flames. Next to it, a closed door marked Bodgan’s bedroom.
Inside, a physician still attended to the rescued woman. From hername tag, they had deduced she was a research botanist. The doctor and a nurse had established an IV and run a bag of electrolytes to help clear the sedatives out of her system. Shortly after, she had woken from her drugged stupor, aided by smelling salts. Initially, she had been frantic and panicked. It had taken some convincing to assure her that she was safe.
Unfortunately, Tucker still had no clue as towhyRadic and the others had snatched the botanist. Any explanation awaited the not-so-tender mercies of Yuri Severin—Bogdan’s head of security. He was in the kitchen with Kowalski. The two were continuing to question Radic, trying to discern how much he knew.
The bastard had been uncooperative at first, stubborn and close-lipped, but Kane had loosened his tongue. A hand signal from Tucker had sent the shepherd into a savage snarl, bearing fangs and snapping at the man’s nose. After being mauled by Marco, Radic needed no further convincing.
Afterward, Tucker had withdrawn to the great room with Kane to give the others space.
Bogdan sat straighter, stubbing out his cigar. “You Americans cause me much hardship of late. That I must consider, too, when it comes to weighing our old debt.”
Tucker turned to him.
Bogdan counted off on his fingers. “Sanctions, then more sanctions. Then the sabotage of gas pipelines.”
“That wasn’t us,” Tucker said.
The industrialist wagged a finger. “Maybe, maybe not.”
Tucker rolled his eyes, unwilling to argue—not because he feared offending his Russian benefactor, but because he cared nothing about geopolitics. Not any longer, not after all he had seen. He knew only one certainty.
