With no other choice, Azarov slung his gun hand around the edge of the hole he’d made and blindly fired two of his remaining rounds. The drywall provided little more than psychological protection, so there was no reason not to bring one eye around its edge and peer down the corridor.
Miraculously, Azarov’s desperate shot had found its mark. Not a kill shot, but enough to put the younger man down and make his efforts to rise into a sitting position unsuccessful. The blood flow from Pushkin’s scalp was heavy enough to suggest that his disorientation was real and not just a trick designed to draw in his opponent.
Azarov approached cautiously, crouching to pick up the weapon that the younger man had dropped. He aimed it between eyes burning with fear and hate. It was an expression he’d seen many times before and it always filled him with revulsion. Not because of what it said about his victims, but because of what it said about him.
He squeezed the trigger and felt the beautifully controlled recoil against his hand. The bullet struck just above the bridge of Pushkin’s nose and he fell back, his head making a wet thud when it hit the tile floor.
Azarov shook his head imperceptibly.
Pointless.
CHAPTER 51
RAPP finally seemed to have crossed to the right side of the tracks. Whitewashed hospital walls and fluorescent lights had given way to rich wood paneling, gilt moldings, and chandeliers. The introduction of carpet silenced his footsteps and muffled various bursts of gunfire emanating from elsewhere in the building.
The undisciplined shooting was followed by somewhat more controlled—but clearly desperate—return fire. The ebb and flow of it suggested his ragtag gang of patients had managed to get the drop on at least two people. Hopefully one was Krupin. Not only a poetic end to that piece of shit, but also one that kept America’s hands somewhat clean.
Of course, the actual chances of him being that lucky were around zero. But hope sprang eternal.
He eased up to a door on the right side of the hallway and looked down at the knob. The lack of a locking mechanism suggested he wasn’t going to find Krupin there. More likely a storage room or something similar, but he couldn’t take the chance of someone getting behind him.
He twisted the knob and threw the door open. The screaming started the moment his gun slipped around the jamb and then transformed into terrified whimpers when he penetrated into the opening. There were three women and two men inside, all dressed in medical garb. The room seemed to be their quarters—five cots bolted to the walls and two chests of drawers that probably contained nothing more than clean scrubs. A cart with some basic equipment—a blood pressure cuff, stethoscope, gloves—rounded out the room’s contents. Everything they’d need to keep a round-the-clock eye on their only patient.
“Where’s Krupin?” Rapp said.
Two of them pointed in the direction he’d been going.
There was no reason not to believe it. If the CIA’s analysts were right—and he had to admit that they were on a winning streak—these people had been snatched just like the patients he’d found.
Rapp motioned them out and they took off in the direction he’d come from. The more people he had running around loose the better. His ignorance of the building’s layout put him at a disadvantage, so whatever chaos he could create would work to reduce his opponents’ advantage.
The hallway curved to the right finally dead ending into a heavy oak door designed more for its imposing appearance than any real concern over security. A door befitting the most powerful man in the world? There was only one way to find out.
Rapp dropped to one knee and fired two rounds into the jamb next to the knob. The door swung back a couple of inches and shouting immediately rose up on the other side. Rapp wouldn’t bet much on his ability to identify Maxim Krupin’s voice, but the tone was hard to mistake—a man accustomed to barking orders and having them followed. Another voice became audible—a little hesitant, but still firm. Whoever he was and whatever his argument, it was clear that he was going to lose.
It wasn’t much to work with, but still Rapp could make some fairly solid assumptions. Krupin was cornered in that room with at least one guard, and he wanted the man to go out and neutralize whoever had just shot up his door. The guard, being a top operator and not a complete fucking idiot, wanted to stay under cover and wait for the reinforcements he hoped were still breathing.
More shouting preceded a boot flashing into view and kicking the door open a few more inches. Rapp backed along the curving corridor until he could just barely keep the edge of the doorframe in view. A gun appeared around it a moment later and the shooter emptied half his mag in a random pattern down the hall.
Rapp responded with three carefully placed shots, stitching them across the wall to the right of the frame. They penetrated and at least one hit its target. Not that it did any real damage, but the impact with the man’s bulletproof vest was enough to cause him to stagger across the crack in the door. Starting to get used to his Russian weapon, Rapp managed to put his next shot into the guard’s temple, dropping him onto the plush carpet.
Rapp rushed forward, kicking the door hard enough to push the body out of the way and then rolling into the dimly lit room. A man in a white smock was coming at him but Rapp recognized him from the pre-op briefing Claudia had put together. Dr. Eduard Fedkin—by all reports a decent human being who had the bad luck of being Krupin’s personal physician.
The reason for his charge became obvious a moment later. The Russian president was behind him, crouching for cover and shoving him forward. Fedkin slammed into Rapp, knocking him back as Krupin went for the gun. His hand clamped down on Rapp’s wrist with shocking force as the three of them collided simultaneously with the wall.
Krupin kept Rapp’s gun hand pinned to the wall while he rammed a fist into whatever target he could find. Rapp deflected the frenzied blows to the degree he could while trying to figure out what the fuck was happening. This wasn’t the dying old man the Agency had sent him after. The son of a bitch was faster than most twenty-year-olds, and he hit like a Mack Truck.
When Krupin lined up a roundhouse to the side of Rapp’s head, the CIA man finally reacted, ducking and letting the man’s momentum throw him off-balance. A kick to the side of the knee created an audible crunch as the bones gave way.
Krupin should have collapsed screaming in pain but he didn’t seem to even notice the injury. Rapp hit it again, this time hard enough to fold the joint sideways. The Russian finally dropped, but instead of staying down he crawled frantically for the far wall, dragging his injured leg behind him.
Rapp was starting to wonder if he’d given Kennedy’s brain trust too much credit. No medical equipment was immediately evident. The room was dominated by a four-poster bed, an overstuffed chair, and a bank of televisions silently feeding news from various international organizations. Finally, his eyes fell on the doctor who was partially visible behind a massive armoire.
“What the hell was that?”
Fortunately, Fedkin not only spoke English but understood the question.
“Stimulants,” he said, pointing to a series of pens lined up on a writing desk. Upon closer examination they were syringes—two of which appeared to be empty. “They’re extremely dangerous, but he forced me to administer them.”
“Who are you?” Krupin said, trying to push himself to his feet but finding his shattered knee unable to support the maneuver. His bloodshot eyes bulged noticeably and his hands were shaking.
“You know who I am.”
“Mitch Rapp,” he said through clenched teeth. “What are you going to do? Kill me? And then what? Escape unharmed from this building and then make it across Russia to a friendly border without being captured?”
“Something like that.”