“Okay, cowboy,” Kozlov said, raising his hands above his head. “You are the boss.” Slowly crossing the road, Kozlov started whistling a tune Dan recognized as the Russian national anthem.
Cheeky bastard, he thought with a hint of admiration. It was just a hint, mind you. Because following close behind Kozlov, the Contender at the ready, Dan wouldn’t hesitate to shoot the sonofabitch should he so much as look at him sideways. He knew Penni was at his back, even though he didn’t dare take his eyes off his target to verify it. Truth was, he didn’t need to. That weird, wonderful connection they shared meant he could sense when she was near him. And by the sound of a hissed argument, Zoelner and Chelsea were bringing up the rear.
As a group they shuffled past a pair of rusting blue dumpsters that reeked of molding coffee grounds. Something small and furry darted out from under one of the bins, running on fast feet toward the opposite end of the alley. The temperature inside the narrow expanse was markedly warmer, and when Dan spared a quick glance to his left, he realized why. There was a small vent spewing steam from the boiler in the basement of the coffee shop.
“That’s far enough,” he told Kozlov once they were half a dozen paces past the dumpsters.
When the Russian stopped and turned, Chelsea murmured, “Excuse me,” as she squeezed by Penni and Zoelner to come stand beside Dan. A look down into her eager face had him fighting a grin and saying, “Okay, tiger. He’s all yours.”
She nodded her thanks. But before she could say anything, Kozlov preempted her with, “I will not say a word until you tell me who you people are.” The second-to-last word sounded more like pipple. He seemed to be amazingly unconcerned that three weapons were currently aimed at the softer parts of his body. Then again, the FSB wasn’t known to employ wilting lilies.
“I thought I made it clear that we’re the ones asking the questions,” Chelsea spat.
Kozlov shook his head, his busted lips curling back to reveal discolored teeth. “Like you said, my mission is ruined. So why should I answer your questions? Why should I give you anything?”
Chelsea considered him for a second, and Dan took the opportunity to appreciate the Dance of the Spies she and Kozlov were performing. When he worked with the SEALs, information sharing between foreign Intelligence agents wasn’t a big part of his job description. His had been more of the get in, blow some shit up, and get the hell out kind of gig. And the work he did for BKI was so black it gave credence to the phrase If I told you, I’d have to kill you. So watching two spies squaring off, trying to feel each other out, was surprisingly entertaining.
“Fine,” Chelsea allowed. “A little tit for tat isn’t too much to ask. The answer to your question is we’re the ones who’ve been sent in to do what those before us haven’t managed.”
Kozlov lifted a brow and glanced around at the four of them. Dan had to admit they looked like quite the motley crew. Probably especially him. He took another swipe at the wound on his forehead and noticed the blood was congealing in his eyebrow. The cut was finally clotting. So…silver linings and whatnot.
“And what is that?” the Russian asked.
“Bring Winterfield down,” Chelsea finished with dramatic flair.
As if the whole of Cusco conspired to join her in her theatrics, a puff of steam belched from the vent near the trash bins, swirling into the cool air. Somewhere off in the distance a dog snarled and barked before falling silent. A dark cloud moved over the silver crescent moon, casting the alleyway into even deeper, more malevolent shadows. And damnit! There it was again! That creepy, crawly sensation.
Dan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and thought, Seriously? A cold, dark night in a foreign country, a dimly lit alley, and an American agent going head-to-head with a Russian agent while a muddy sense of gloom and doom hung in the air? If Dan was writing a bad spy novel, this is the exact scenario he’d describe. In fact, it was so clichéd it was almost trite. And he suddenly understood why Chelsea had said their new location was appropriate.
“Please,” Kozlov scoffed, the word sounding more like pliz. “That is nothing. The information I have is worth far more than your cryptic answers.”
“Well”—Chelsea shrugged—“the way I see it, you can either tell me what you know, or I’ll have Winterfield do it as soon as we apprehend him. If I have to go with option number two, I can assure you I’ll have my tech guys post your photo, name, and occupation on every social media site from Facebook to Twitter to Tumblr. It’s so hard to do this kind of work when the whole world knows about you, isn’t it?” she asked with feigned sympathy.