Rapp sprinted forward, weaving as the man swept his weapon back and forth. He hit him low, taking out his legs and twisting the rifle from his grip. A hard blow from the butt caved in his forehead and then Rapp pulled back, straining to hear anyone who might be coming to their comrade’s aid. Nothing.
“Is everyone all right?” he asked, backing toward the group still lying on the floor. Their pale skin and gowns made for surprisingly effective camouflage against the tile and had probably saved a few lives. Unfortunately, the sterile white of the corridor also made blood stand out as though it had its own power source. A woman had been hit in the chest and was lying on her side, staring sightlessly at the wall. Behind her, a man who had barely been making it as it was, had taken a round to the thigh. He clearly wasn’t getting up again but Rapp’s two shooters—Lebedev and the old woman—looked unharmed.
Rapp tossed Lebedev the rifle and then turned his attention to the girl with the sunken eyes. “Help this man back to the medical area. See if you can stop the bleeding in his leg.”
Lebedev translated and she nodded, looking a little shell-shocked. Whether she’d be able to pull it together and give the man the first aid he needed was probably no better than fifty-fifty. But Rapp couldn’t make that his problem. Not until this was finished.
CHAPTER 50
AZAROV paused when he heard gunshots echoing through the building, but then decided to ignore them. Rapp would do what he always did. Kill everyone who got in his way and then somehow come out the other side alive.
The hallway widened as he continued down it, newly hung drywall still stinking of the white paint that covered it. He crept up on a doorway that had hinges installed but no door, rotating smoothly into it with his weapon held out in front of him.
The space was no more than three meters square, with exposed, rusted girders and decaying electrical wires dangling from the ceiling. Oddly appropriate. Like Krupin himself, the entire building was nothing more than a rotting husk beneath a hastily applied veneer.
Azarov slipped back out and continued moving cautiously down the corridor. The blank white of it helped him focus, but nothing could turn him into the man he once was. The indifference that had steadied his hand through so many operations was gone forever. He was driven now by the desire to make Krupin suffer. To look into his eyes as the life drained out of them. But even more overwhelming was the desire to take Cara home and spend the rest of his life making up for what he had done to her.
She’d never hidden the fact that she considered him a man who desperately needed to get in touch with his emotions, but now wasn’t the time. While hate had been effective tools for Rapp and his mentor Stan Hurley, it was something he had no idea how to use.
“Azarov!”
The voice preceded the man, but only by a split second. Nikita Pushkin appeared from a door twenty meters away, wearing a bulletproof vest undoubtedly made by Azarov’s former armorer. Worse was the custom pistol that would be light, perfectly balanced, and deadly accurate. Particularly in his hands.
Pushkin paced back and forth across the broad hallway, keeping his opponent in his peripheral vision. At that distance, a hit center of mass would be a simple matter, but the head shot necessary to end the confrontation would be extraordinarily difficult. Even at the height of Azarov’s training and with his own weapon, the chance of a clean kill would have been less than fifty percent.
“You’re nothing but a traitor, Grisha.”
“To what? Maxim Krupin isn’t Russia. He’s a dying old man who’s spent his life perpetuating his own power. Any promise our country had after the fall of the Soviet Union is gone now. He’s stolen it.”
“He gave you everything!” the young man shouted.
“Money. Women. The fear and deference of powerful men. All things that don’t matter.”
The boy was young, as Azarov had once been. Dazzled by everything he’d become and bowed beneath the weight of the debt he believed he owed Krupin. But it was more than that. Azarov had recognized Krupin for what he was from the beginning. His successor seemed to lack that clarity.
“I served Maxim faithfully for years, Nikita. I killed countless people, most of whom were guilty of nothing more than threatening his power and privilege. But then it came time for me to pursue a life.”
“With hundreds of millions of his euros in your bank account. It wasn’t your house in Costa Rica that burned. It was his.”
Azarov felt his anger flare, but he didn’t allow it to get a hold of him. “You attacked me and the woman I love. But I understand your position and don’t blame you for it. I’m here for Krupin. Not you.”
“The ice prince, Grisha Azarov. Did you ever even care for him?”
Azarov inched forward as he considered the question. The greater the distance between them, the greater Pushkin’s advantage.
“No.”
The walls on either side of the corridor seemed to be the boundary of his operating environment, but was that really true? Was it possible that this part of the building was covered in the same flimsy drywall shell he’d seen earlier? And if so, was there any way to determine where the studs were?
“How many of his colleagues and former friends has he asked you to kill or intimidate, Nikita? Do you believe you’re different? That he thinks of you as a son? Of course you do. It’s one of Maxim’s greatest gifts. He makes everyone around him feel as though they have a special place in his inner circle and in his heart. You’re just a tool like I was. Something he’ll use up and discard.”
“Liar!” Pushkin shouted. “You have no idea how he feels about me!”
“This is all meaningless now, Nikita. He’s a fading old man. When he dies, your power base will die with him. You’ll be hunted by the men who succeed him. They fear you.”
“He’s stronger than you ever gave him credit for, Grisha. He’s going to survive. And imagine my reward when I drag your bleeding corpse to his rooms.”
Azarov continued to inch forward. Pushkin didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps was just too confident to care.
“You may well kill me, Nikita. But you won’t survive a confrontation with the man I came here with. Believe me when I tell you this. Don’t die here. Not for Krupin. Take the money you’ve been paid, find a woman, and have children. Die fat and old surrounded by them.”
The head shot was doable now, but only vaguely. A miss would open him up to return fire that he’d be unlikely to survive. And that left him with no choice but to do something unexpected. His talent, experience, and training were no longer enough. He’d have to rely on luck.
Pushkin stopped pacing and faced him. The time had arrived but Azarov didn’t feel the fear he’d expected to experience after so many years of numbness. Only regret. He didn’t want to kill this boy. But even more, he didn’t want to die. It wasn’t time for that. Not yet.
“Step aside, Nikita. Let me do what I’ve come here to do.”
Pushkin’s speed was exactly what one would expect of a young man with his history and devotion. His hand came up in a blur, but Azarov was already lunging to the left. The inexplicable move caused Pushkin to hesitate. His indecision lasted only a split second, but it was enough for Azarov to get off a shot before colliding with the wall.
He struck full force and, as he had prayed, the thin drywall gave way. His unlikely plan worked, but the execution was less than perfect. A stud caught his left shoulder, spinning him into a steel barrier that likely made up the building’s east wall.
The gap between metal and drywall was less than a meter wide, but extended into darkness in every direction. Options were limited. He could move into the gloom and wait for Pushkin to come after him, but it would leave him with no room to maneuver. Trying to squeeze through the narrow space in hopes of finding an escape was a possibility, but relying on blind luck twice in one day seemed unwise.