THE all too familiar din of machine gun fire and shattering glass made everything else around Azarov seem to disappear. He flattened himself against the floor and slithered toward the kitchen island, focusing on staying as low as possible. The shooters had managed to climb the steep, tangled slope north of his house and were now coming across his purposely expansive yard. So far, their rounds were only pulverizing his appliances and cabinets, but that wouldn’t last. Based on an assessment made during the design of the house, he knew that when they got within seven meters they’d be able hit the floor near the island that was his objective. Five and a half meters if they were willing to lift their rifles over their heads and fire blind.
He could feel the turbulence from the bullets passing a few centimeters over his head when he finally reached the island and slid behind it. The dull thud of rounds hitting metal plate was added to the cacophony as the approaching men adjusted their aim toward the armored-enhanced cabinets he’d taken refuge behind. Azarov shoved up against the granite overhang and began tipping the entire island.
It fell, slamming down against the concrete floor, and the thud of steel was replaced by the sound of rounds hitting stone. He grabbed the pistol set into the bottom but ignored the extra magazines. He was wearing nothing but a pair of cutoffs and flip-flops. He had nowhere to carry them.
His phone, though, was still with him. He used it to activate a bank of powerful LED spotlights aimed outward. The glare would blind anyone approaching.
As expected, the incoming fire faltered and he rose from behind cover, firing two rounds in quick succession. Both hit center mass, but to no effect. The men were wearing state-of-the-art body armor designed to protect them from far more hard-hitting weapons than the custom pistol Azarov had designed more for stealth than power.
The sound of shattering glass returned, but this time behind him. The sliding doors that led to the south deck collapsed and a similarly armored man lurched through the hole. A second held back, covering. Trapped, Azarov dropped to the floor again, staying between the overturned island and a line of cabinets that housed what was left of his sink and dishwasher. He managed to get off a round that hit the approaching man’s helmet near the attachment for his face shield, but did little more than snap his head back into the Kevlar collar protecting his neck.
Azarov continued to fire as the shooter swung his assault rifle toward him, but there was little hope. He was inadequately armed and surrounded by a heavily armored, well-disciplined incursion team.
His magazine emptied and he was preparing for the impact that would end his life when a flash of color appeared in his peripheral vision. He tensed even further when he recognized the bright red T-shirt with the ironic letters CCCP across the front.
Cara slammed into the man at a full run, actually managing to do what the bullets hadn’t and knock him over. She rolled awkwardly over top of him and for the first time in his life, Azarov panicked. He was about to break cover to draw the men’s fire when he saw her body jerk with the impact of a round hitting her back. She skidded across the floor and came to a stop, utterly still with a blood streak smeared across the floor behind her.
His stomach revolted at the image, pushing its contents into his throat. He looked right, wild eyed and confused as he saw the two men to the north find their angles and calmly take aim at him. He wanted more than anything to cross that concrete floor and to take her in his arms. To know if she was dead or alive. But it was impossible. His neighbors, distant as they were, would come to investigate and these men had no reason to harm her further. They’d leave when he was dead and the people who lived around him would take her to the hospital. And then she’d be fine. Right? She had to be.
The men’s fingers tightened on their triggers and he found he didn’t even care enough to brace himself. The shot that came, though, wasn’t from them. The chest of the man on the right suddenly exploded as a round passed through his armor and then hit the refrigerator hard enough to slam it back into the wall.
Azarov still couldn’t think clearly, but he managed to wake from his stupor enough to let instinct take over. The man who had come through the back was still struggling to his feet and his aim was partially blocked by a tree growing from the living room floor. He could wait. Azarov went right, charging the surviving man to the north, taking advantage of the fact that he’d turned to fire into the darkness in hopes of hitting the sniper who had taken out his companion.
Azarov grabbed him by the side of his helmet and dragged him down, twisting his head a full one hundred and eighty degrees before sprinting toward the shattered north glass. If he could get to the jungle, they would have no choice but to follow. He’d draw them away from the house and Cara.
His plan was initially hindered by his lack of physical training over the last year and then completely derailed by the appearance of another man to his right. This one was different, though, wearing only jeans and a T-shirt and with hair that partially obscured his face as he swung an MP7 level with Azarov’s chest.
The Russian was about to dive into the shattered glass at his feet, but instead of firing, the man released his weapon. It arced toward Azarov, turning in the air to reach him butt first. He had no idea what was happening but caught the gun and spun toward the man behind him. A controlled burst defeated his armor and he collapsed against the tree next to him.
The long-haired man let his momentum carry him toward Cara and he grabbed her by the shirt, dragging her behind the granite island as Azarov laid down suppressing fire at the remaining attacker now pulled back out of sight to the south. The Russian made it to the island, letting his back slam painfully into the shattered cabinets as the man who had come to his rescue used a dishtowel to cover the wound in Cara’s back. When his head turned, the hair fell away from his face, making it recognizable.
“I’ve got a sniper near that obvious knoll to the northwest,” Rapp said in the sudden silence. “But your friends out there will know that by now and they’ll figure out how to stay out of his line of sight.”
As if punctuating his words, a window on the west side of the house imploded and a grenade sailed through.
“Inside!” Azarov shouted, helping Rapp drag Cara’s limp body into the open bottom of the kitchen island. It was a tight fit with the remaining pots and pans but they managed to get in before the explosion.
The room went dark as the bulbs were blown out but then began to glow with the light of various small fires. Azarov felt the burn of shrapnel in one of his bare legs but it wasn’t serious. Rapp seemed unharmed and the Russian could see that he had Cara’s left wrist in his hand. It wasn’t to comfort her, though. He was checking to see if she was coming with them or staying there.
Azarov found himself unable to breathe until Rapp dragged her out and threw her over his shoulder. “I hope you have an exit, because these sons of bitches don’t look like they’re in the mood to quit.”
The Russian nodded. “Do you have men out there? Other than your sniper?”
A short volley hammered the countertop from the north, forcing Rapp to shout his answer. “Yeah, but I’m not bringing them in any closer. I owe you. They don’t.”
The CIA man adjusted the cloth keeping Cara’s life from leaking out of her and Azarov’s eyes locked on it, becoming trapped in the image. Rapp reached out with his free hand and grabbed him by the hair. “Grisha! Our exit!”
“Down . . .” Azarov stammered. “Downstairs. We have to get to the storage room.”
Rapp activated his throat mike. “We’re headed to the storage room on the lower floor.”