The hallway was narrow and devoid of exits, forcing them to trade caution for speed in search of room to maneuver. Azarov was bringing up the rear, his footsteps inaudible through the ringing in Rapp’s ears.
Despite their precarious tactical position, Rapp slowed when the wall to his right turned to glass. On the other side was a large room full of patients, all meticulously secured to their beds. Some were unconscious, others were hooked up to IVs, and a few had machines breathing for them. The ones who didn’t look like they were on death’s door had their eyes on him, shouting silently and straining at their bonds.
He’d seen a lot in his time at the Agency, but nothing like this. Azarov had called it. Krupin was performing medical experiments on his own citizens in hopes of extending his life. Rapp locked gazes with a muscular, tattooed man in his early fifties, causing him to thrash even harder, rocking his bed back and forth on the tile floor. Whoever he was, he understood that the two filthy men on the other side of the glass represented a shift in the balance of power. And he wanted to be part of that shift.
Rapp started out again, leaving the window behind and approaching a gap in the hallway probably ten feet across. He scanned the ceiling and couldn’t find any cameras. It was possible that they were just well hidden, of course. But why bother? More likely, Krupin’s security people never expected a breach and so they hadn’t prioritized electronic surveillance. Still, Rapp made certain that his subtle hand signal would be visible only to Azarov.
The Russian understood and immediately started sprinting toward the gap. Just before he broke into the open, Rapp slipped his gun around the edge of the wall.
The passage wasn’t empty, as he’d hoped. There was a lone man standing about fifteen yards away, wearing an expensive suit and holding a custom pistol similar to the one Azarov had favored during his career. The precision and speed of his movements immediately identified him as Nikita Pushkin.
Azarov dropped to the floor and slid across the gap with impressive speed, but not as impressive as it would have been a few years ago. Pushkin ignored his predecessor, leaping to the right and adjusting his aim toward Rapp. They fired simultaneously, Pushkin in midair and Rapp trying to compensate for the unfamiliar Russian weapon while tracking Azarov in his peripheral vision.
Pushkin landed on one shoulder, rolling gracefully around a corner and out of sight. Rapp’s shot was pulled off line when Pushkin’s—fired from midair—caught the edge of his sleeve and jerked his hand off target. He was starting to get really fucking tired of these Russian supermen.
Azarov, safe on the other side of the gap, was scrambling back toward it when the barrels of two assault rifles came around the corner near where Pushkin disappeared. Rapp pulled back and waved Azarov off as a spray of rounds began pulverizing the wall to his right.
Rapp shook his head, indicating the obvious—that no one else was crossing that gap in anything less than a tank. Azarov turned and started to run in the other direction while Rapp took a moment to try to figure out how this wasn’t going to turn into a complete clusterfuck. The hope that they could slip in and slip out without being identified had never been particularly realistic, but now it had completely disappeared into the rearview mirror. He hoped to hell that Kennedy and Alexander knew what they were doing.
The guns went silent, maybe reloading, but probably just waiting for him to show himself again. It was a stalemate he couldn’t afford. If he was going to complete his mission and have even a snowball’s chance in hell of getting out of there, he needed to tilt the playing field back in their direction. And to do that, he’d need some help.
Rapp ran back the way he’d come, passing by the glass wall he’d seen earlier and pushing through a door at the far end. “Does anyone here speak English?”
He got a few assents, with the one from the big, tattooed man at the back being the most intelligible. Rapp cut him free, speaking slowly so that he could simultaneously translate for the others. “I need to kill pretty much everyone in this building.”
Based on the voices that rose up around him, everyone was on board.
Rapp handed the man the knife so he could finish freeing himself and went for a scalpel that was sufficient to sever the bonds of a thirtysomething woman who looked to be in pretty good shape.
With some haphazard teamwork, it took less than two minutes to free everyone capable of standing. Rapp surveyed his army, taking in the pale faces, questionable balance, and squeamish way they disconnected themselves from IVs and monitors. Most were over fifty, some had evidence of recent operations, and others seemed partially sedated. It wasn’t the worst group of allies he’d ever had—none would shoot him if he turned his back on them—but it was close.
“What’s your name?” Rapp said to the big man as he helped a teenage girl to her feet. She had eyes that were in danger of being swallowed by the dark hollows around them, but managed to stay upright when he let go of her.
“Yuri Lebedev.”
“Army?”
The man nodded. “For twenty years. Before I got sick.”
“Can anyone else here handle a weapon?”
Lebedev translated and the only affirmative response came from a formidable looking woman who was unquestionably north of seventy. Not exactly Scott Coleman, but she’d have to do.
“Does anyone know if Maxim Krupin is here?”
The name elicited angry murmurs from the group, but Lebedev managed to silence them. “He often stands at the window. The last time was a few hours ago. Are we to kill him, too?”
“Hell yes. The only man who’s off-limits is about my height and just as filthy. Light brown hair. Understand?”
He translated and one woman protested.
“She wants to know about the doctors and nurses.”
“You tell me.”
“I think they’re trapped here like we are.”
“Then let’s see if we can recruit them. Does anyone know the layout of this place?”
“Only some of it. The area between here and the place where they do medical procedures.”
“Fine. Take me there.”
The group was large enough to fill the hallway, creating an easy target for anyone with an automatic weapon. Rapp and Lebedev moved out front and the rest of the group started to spread out based on ability. His hearing had fully returned from the gunfight earlier but he was starting to wish it hadn’t. The sound of shuffling feet and someone vomiting was less than confidence inspiring.
They were twenty yards from the gap Azarov had crossed when a man with an AK appeared from around it.
“Down!” Rapp shouted, dropping to his stomach as the deafening roar of machine gun fire erupted.
Lebedev turned and plowed through the people behind them, knocking the frozen ones to the floor. They were in a kill box and Krupin’s man knew how to use it. He was wearing a ballistic vest, forcing Rapp to go for his head, which was partially hidden behind the assault rifle he was sighting along. His first attempt missed and he swore at the unfamiliar Russian pistol. A woman behind him screamed when she was hit but he ignored her, concentrating on the weapon’s imprecise sights. His second shot struck the body of the man’s rifle and the shrapnel from the shattered round hit him full in the face. He was still on his feet but now he was firing blind.