His hand rose hesitantly, activating the throat mike Rapp had given him. “I’m fifteen minutes from the LZ.”
The silence that ensued dragged out long enough that his mouth started to go dry. Then, finally, Claudia Gould’s voice cut through the static.
“Copy that. Our chopper’s inbound. ETA twelve minutes. I’ll slow it down a little.”
It was enough to get him stumbling forward again.
The slope turned steeply downward as it plummeted to the roadbed below. Azarov used one hand to keep Cara on his sweat-soaked shoulder and the other to grab trees in an effort to slow his descent. He slipped on a loose rock and managed to avoid falling only by intentionally colliding with a low stone outcropping.
In the moment it took him to regain his balance, a dull hiss behind him began to rise over the pounding of blood in his ears. He froze, listening as the barely audible static transformed into the familiar slap of wet leaves and breaking branches.
Someone was coming up behind him. Fast.
He moved into a dense tangle of bushes, laying Cara on the ground and gripping the MP7. The speed that his pursuer was sustaining over the difficult terrain would have normally been telling, but now it meant nothing. Rapp was one of the few men alive who could maintain it in a combat situation—something Azarov had been unlucky enough to experience personally. Unfortunately, Nikita Pushkin was one of the others.
Azarov moved to a defensible position behind a tree and aimed through the branches. When he did, though, the footfalls slowed and then disappeared into the light rustle of the breeze. It seemed impossible, but he’d been heard.
He continued to aim through the foliage, but there was nothing to see in the filtered moonlight. It was a stalemate that he couldn’t afford. If he wasn’t there when the chopper arrived, they’d turn back. The risks of landing and waiting would be too great.
“Mitch!” Azarov said in a harsh whisper.
The answer came a few seconds later, but instead of emanating from where the footfalls had gone silent, they came from behind him.
“Yeah.”
The CIA man emerged from the jungle a moment later, crouching to again take Cara’s wrist in his hand—something Azarov hadn’t found the strength to do. His stomach tightened but then Rapp lifted her onto his shoulder and tossed Azarov the night-vision-equipped helmet.
“Lead us out.”
Azarov started down the slope again, maintaining a better pace without Cara’s weight. Rapp, who hadn’t been burdened by her during his run through the jungle had no problem keeping up.
“I’ve rejoined Mitch and we’re five minutes out,” the Russian said into his radio.
“Copy,” Claudia said simply. A more elaborate response wasn’t necessary. The beat of chopper blades was already becoming audible.
The small sightseeing helicopter was only a few meters from the ground when they burst from the jungle and onto the poorly maintained road. Scott Coleman jumped out before the skids had fully touched down and helped put Cara inside.
“Only one of you can come! We’re getting too heavy!” he shouted before jumping inside and cutting her shirt off, leaving her naked except for the stained bandage on her back. There was a blood bag hanging from the bulkhead and the former SEAL was already working to get the IV catheter into her arm.
Rapp grabbed Azarov and shouted into his ear. “You go.”
“What about you? Do you need a pickup?”
“No. We need everyone at the hospital. I doubt the Russians will move on it but I’d have bet against that shit they pulled at your house, too. I’ll find my own way.”
CHAPTER 9
QUEPOS
COSTA RICA
“HEY, we’re here, man!”
Rapp woke, lifting a hand to shade his eyes from the lights illuminating the hospital’s modest grounds. He pushed back a surfboard that had tipped onto him and climbed out of the open bed of the pickup.
“You sure you’re gonna be all right?” a young American said, leaning out the driver’s side window.
Rapp grabbed some cash from his pocket and shoved it in the breast pocket of the kid’s shirt. “For gas. Thanks for the lift.”
“No worries, man. I hope your friend’s okay.”
Rapp stepped back and the vehicle pulled away, leaving him standing in front of the Max Terán Valls Hospital. They were only running about half the lights to keep pressure off their generators, but the glare was still a stark contrast to the darkness Costa Rica had been plunged into.
He saw a shadow move on the roof, but didn’t worry about it. Undoubtedly Charlie Wicker clutching the Galil he favored. Joe Maslick was partly visible behind a brick planter, his eyes sweeping back and forth. Bruno McGraw and Scott Coleman were nowhere to be seen but undoubtedly close.
Rapp started along the outdoor corridor leading to the doors, finally finding Coleman in a dimly lit corner of the waiting room. He had one hand pressed to his earpiece and was nodding perceptibly.
“What’s our situation?” Rapp said, grabbing a paper cup and filling it from a cooler. There were three other people in the room, but all appeared to be locals and likely had limited English.
“She’s still alive. This is actually a pretty good facility and they had a surgeon on call. Our medical team is on its way from Bethesda but they’re still five hours out. Claudia’s melting down that she didn’t have people in country when we arrived. Says it’ll be her fault if Cara dies.”
“Bullshit,” Rapp responded. “What were the chances of us showing up at the same time as the Russians? Ten thousand to one?”
“Exactly what I told her. You can’t stack the local hospitals every time you get on a plane. But it wouldn’t hurt for her to hear it from you, too.”
Rapp let out a long breath and drained the cup in his hand. Dealing with the emotional well-being of the people who worked for him wasn’t why he got into this business. Claudia had handled logistics for this op the way she always did—flawlessly. If every eventuality could be anticipated beforehand, the world wouldn’t need people like him.
“Cops?”
“Irene’s been onto the ambassador and asked her to make sure everything gets swept under the rug,” Coleman said. “But so far it hasn’t been necessary. We told the staff that Grisha was cleaning his gun when it went off and hit her. Pretty lame story, but he’s so freaked out they seem to be buying it. I’m guessing it’s been reported, but with the power outage, I think a Russian accidentally shooting his American girlfriend is pretty far down their priority list.”
“With a little luck, we’ll be out of here before we get anywhere near the top of it. Where is he?”
“We put him in an empty room in the back.”
Rapp tossed the paper cup and started down the hallway. He got a few curious looks from the staff, who undoubtedly wondered where all these muddy, humorless foreigners had come from, but nothing more.
He finally spotted Azarov through the glass panel in a door near the end of the corridor. The Russian was standing at the foot of an empty bed, staring up at the television bolted to the wall. The volume was turned up high enough for Rapp to hear the commentary, but his Spanish was virtually nonexistent. Not that it mattered. He’d seen the shaky cell phone footage before.
It depicted an attack on a peaceful protest in Moscow a week ago. For reasons no one could figure out, a woefully inadequate security force had suddenly attacked a crowd gathered in Red Square. Because they had been so badly outnumbered by the demonstrators, the tide had quickly turned, causing the police to use deadly force. Bloodbath was too strong a word, but it wasn’t far off.
No one—not even Irene Kennedy—had any idea what had happened. Maxim Krupin was a vicious dictator, but he was a calculating one. These kinds of images just didn’t play in the industrialized world. If anything, they’d weaken the one thing he cared about: his grip on power.
Rapp pushed through the door and let it close behind him. Azarov’s eyes briefly shifted in his direction before returning to the screen.
“It’s my fault, Mitch. I might as well have shot her myself.”