“Give her time." He looked out the jet window. "You think we’ll hit any trouble?”
“I hope not, but I wouldn’t put it past whoever is doing this. We haven’t found the leak. The two low-level guys hired to retrieve the baby were stupid and knew nothing. They screwed up, but there’s another person involved out there. He was careful, kept his head down, avoided the cameras. He may be the same intruder from her townhouse. We ran a sketch through facial rec—nothing. The military databases, even with high clearance, are slow. That baby holds answers, and he is coming home with us.”
“Do you have any clues from the bombing?”
“A few. We found Russian ammunition, and the explosive was RDX. Martin also got photos.”
“I’m sorry about that. Your XO was very adamant about leaving.” Christian shrugged.
“I seem to surround myself with strong-willed people. Speaking of Cassie, does she have any ties to someone in Russia?”
“When she was active with Ellis Art Finds, she traveled quite a bit, including Russia. She put together an exhibition of new Russian artists. Noah went with her once when she worked with a gallery in Moscow. He said the owner was sleazy, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. You think that’s why she’s speaking Russian?”
“Possibly. What about Mark Devereaux?”
“Typical stuffed shirt, but he’s been there for Cassie.”
* * *
Crunch. Crunch.Ian and Christian stood solemnly as two cemetery workers lifted the tiny blue casket decorated with Raphael’s cherubs from the earth. They looked over the sea of flags set out to honor the approaching July fourth holiday. As the group approached the waiting hearse, a shot rang out. Dirt clods exploded inches in front of Ian.
“Everybody down,” Christian called out.
Another shot struck their vehicle’s tire. Diving for cover, Christian withdrew the MK 25 Ian provided him from his waistband and crawled toward their SUV.
When another shot rang out from the opposite direction, one of the cemetery workers cried out in pain. Two snipers were stalking them.
Ian rolled onto his back, taking aim at the lighting with his own gun. His shots plunged the group into darkness. He rose to his feet, drawing the attention of the first sniper. As he ran in a zigzag pattern, changing his speed with every few steps, bullets danced around him. The snipers were unable to get the right lead time down for a successful shot.
The cemetery workers were not skilled in evasive maneuvers; a bullet struck the second cemetery worker, followed by another shot to the other SUV tire. The SUV's tires were non-pneumatic and non-flattening, but that wasn’t true of the hearse’s wheels. Two more bullets took out a front and rear tire.
Christian hustled, sliding under the SUV and out the other side. A shot from the second sniper struck the ground in front of him. The sniper’s aim was getting better with each shot. Finding cover, Christian noted a flash from the woods east of his position.
Christian grabbed a rock, throwing it behind him. In the darkness, he waited for the next shot, inching toward the muzzle flash. When the sniper appeared in his sight line, Christian waited for the sound of a round being chambered before he yelled, “Freeze!”
The man, shrouded in black, pointed what Christian would later identify as a Browning M1911 at him, but Christian fired two shots to the chest and one to the head in rapid succession. As he cleared the rifle and searched the shooter, a barrage of bullets was fired from the southwest.
Ian rolled and scrambled, trying to keep the shooter off balance. This time, his luck ran out. A shot struck his upper arm, setting it on fire. The bullets kept coming as he worked to keep the sniper engaged and away from the two injured workers, but there was no cover. The infant section held only flat grave markers. Ian was into his second clip and running out of ammunition.
In the heat of the bullet exchanges, two distinct pops sounded from another weapon. “Clear,” a female voice called. Mia Donnelly, with a jet-black bob, not a hair out of place and her gray eyes ablaze, jogged out of the woods. “Tony thought you might need some backup, Boss.”
Tony Olivetti followed, a Remington sniper rifle over his shoulder. He pushed a bleeding man, secured with zip-ties, ahead of him. “You okay?”
Christian tore free his shirt sleeve and covered Ian’s wound as Ian muttered, “I’ll live. Tony Olivetti and Mia Donnelly, this is Christian Paulsen. Who’s our friend?”
Tony poked the remaining sniper in his bullet-injured shoulder. “He’s not talking.”
Sirens wailed in the distance. “I called it in. Police and ambulances are coming.” Mia took the rifles from Tony and Christian. Two of Olivetti’s level-three operators were already tending to the injured cemetery workers.
A third man approached Tony. “Sir, the casket is secure.”
“Thank you. Get it out of here. Ian, Christian, you go too,” Tony ordered.
* * *
Three hours later, Ian winced while Chase Security’s San Diego-based trauma physician, Dr. Kathleen Darnell, cleaned the wound. “You’re lucky. This was military-grade ammo. An inch over—and you would need a coroner.”
“How much longer?” Ian asked. A forensic physician was extracting DNA from William.
