“Christof,” Taras said, using his operational alias.
The guard grunted and slid the glass door closed. They watched as he picked up a black telephone handset and spoke into it, waited, and then nodded and set it back in its cradle. When he returned, his demeanor was only slightly less gruff. “Loading docks are on the far end. You’re expected,” he growled, pointing into the gloom.
Taras nodded and waited as the old man rolled the gate open, and then he eased through, trailed by the other car. The tires crunched on gravel as they drove toward the building, and Yulia absently fingered the butt of the Makarov pistol in her jacket pocket as the oversized loading dock doors came into view. For all her tough exterior and recent combat experience, her role as a clandestine operative was still new, and her life as a political activist at university felt like inadequate preparation for the part she now played. She silently reminded herself of the many who were depending on her, and she squared her shoulders as the Lada ground to rest in front of a loading dock.
Taras killed the engine and waited for the second car to arrive. The men got out and the group moved to the steel loading dock door, Yulia in the lead. Another, smaller door opened by its side, and a swarthy man with a sour expression eyed her like she’d stolen his wallet before barking at her.
“You have the money?”
Yulia nodded, not trusting herself to speak, her heart suddenly jackhammering in her chest in spite of her outward calm. The man looked her up and down and then waved at Taras and her entourage. “What the hell is all this?”
“My people,” Yulia managed.
“It was supposed to be just you and the driver,” the man snapped.
“Right. And it was supposed to be just Yakov and Sasha. Who are you?” Taras fired back.
The man gave him an ugly grin and spit to the side. “Hospitality committee. All right. Come in.” He moved to the side and held the door open. Yulia brushed by him into the gloomy interior, followed by Taras and their men.
The door slammed shut behind him, and a bank of powerful spotlights illuminated, blinding them. Yulia squinted in the glare and was raising her hands to shield her eyes when an amplified voice boomed through the cavernous space.
“Freeze. Keep your hands where we can see them. You’re under arrest.”
One of the men behind Taras turned and grabbed for the door handle as he fished a pistol from his pocket. A burst of deafening automatic rifle fire exploded from behind the lamps, and the man jerked like a marionette before slamming against the cinderblock wall and collapsing in a pool of blood. The voice spoke again. “I repeat: you’re under arrest. Anyone makes another move and you’re all dead. There won’t be another warning.”
The sound of boots running toward them echoed off the rafters, and then Yulia was pressed facedown against the hard concrete floor, and a heavyset man who stank of onions and alcohol cuffed her. Taras lay next to her, abject failure twisting his face. Their noble romantic adventure had abruptly ended, replaced by the prospect of a lifetime in a Russian prison and the reality of a dead colleague barely out of his teens lying footsteps away.
Chapter 4
Four days ago, Pristina, Kosovo
Hannah ran delightedly along the stone path that wended through the main city park, chasing a flock of pigeons that lacked her enthusiasm for her game. Her light brown hair bounced with each step, and her fingers waved above her head.
Matt watched with a smile as he trailed the little girl, marveling at the amount of energy she had. To be three years old again, he thought, with that kind of stamina and the constant wonder at the newness of her experiences…
The pigeons flapped skyward and made their way across a clearing to a more tranquil area. Hannah slowed as they escaped into the air and then stopped, panting slightly, hands on her hips and a pout firmly in place.
Matt approached, smoothed her hair, and took her hand.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Fun,” she said in faint agreement.
Hannah had adjusted well after a rocky start in Pristina, the trauma of her recent past waking her most nights with nightmares. He and Jet had taken to having her sleep in their bedroom on a makeshift corner bed for several months and then moved her into her own room when she’d normalized. Now, ten months later, she was a typical kid, growing into her body, her vocabulary developing, any memories of the past crowded out by more recent ones.