Chapter 5
5
May 11, 3:07 A . M . MSK
Saint Petersburg, Russian Federation
Tucker Wayne pursued his target through a maze of dark alleys. It was still hours before dawn, but the city remained in a perpetual twilight. At this northern latitude, the sun barely sank below the horizon during the warmer months. Though, warm was not a term he would use for this spring night.
His breath frosted with each exhalation. His cheeks and nose were numb from the cold. He wished he had dressed more appropriately, but he had wanted his clothing to be nondescript: worn jeans, a battered olive-green coat, a wool cap tugged low. He hoped to pass as a laborer, returning home from a nightshift. With his sandy blond hair, he certainly looked Russian enough.
Still, he kept his six-foot frame hunched as he headed down the alley. He caught glimpses of the Neva River between buildings. Its waters were shrouded in heavy mist.
An hour ago, he had followed his target over a bridge and onto Aptekarsky Island. The night's hunt had begun in the industrial Vyborgskaya District, a corner of which was run by Russia's mafiya .
He didn't know why the man had come to this island. Tucker had familiarized himself with the area after arriving in Saint Petersburg a week ago. Back in the eighteenth century, Aptekarsky Island—or Apothecary Island—had been transformed by Peter the Great into the site of the country's Medical Clerical Office and laboratories. It continued in that respect today, with many research institutions dotting the large island, but a majority of the land was now filled with apartment complexes that formed a labyrinth of pedestrian walkways, pine-lined avenues, and narrow alleys.
As Tucker headed deeper into the maze, he periodically checked a digital tablet that he kept close to his chest. Its display glowed with a street map. A tiny blip moved down a neighboring thoroughfare. The street ran alongside the Neva River and paralleled the alleyway.
Tucker kept pace with his target along this backstreet.
Where the hell are you going?
His target—Arkady Radi?—was a thirty-two-year-old Serbian with ties to extremist groups across the Balkans. He served mostly as a courier. According to Sigma, the man had periodically worked for the Neo-Guild—what Sigma had unimaginatively come to call Valya Mikhailov's new organization. The Serb's location in Saint Petersburg, versus his usual haunt in the Balkans, had made him a person of interest.
Still, even with this intel, it had taken Tucker until two nights ago to track the man down. Tucker had been forced to work carefully. He couldn't risk being caught—not by Radi?, and certainly not by Russian authorities. Last night, the Serb had drunk himself into a stupor at a bar and ended up snoring in the bed of a mistress or girlfriend.
But that's not where he's headed now .
This stoked Tucker's suspicions.
A few hours ago, Director Crowe had informed him about what had transpired yesterday in Moscow—and about the possible involvement of Mikhailov. Painter had wanted Tucker to immediately head south to the capital city, but he had refused.
He trusted his gut.
Radi? must be in Saint Petersburg for a reason. If it had anything to do with Mikhailov, then whatever was transpiring in Moscow would likely get the man to stir, to possibly lead Tucker to other operatives of the Neo-Guild in the city.
And from there, hopefully to Valya herself.
Tucker touched his throat mike and radioed his partner. "Kowalski, you receiving the tracking information?"
A gruff voice filled his ears. "I'm circling ahead of his position now."
"Keep your distance. Don't want to spook him."
"It's not me you should be worrying about."
Tucker scowled. "Kane knows what he's doing."
Tucker studied the video feed flowing across the top half of his tablet. It showed a low-angle view of the misty river. His other partner ran through the parkland bordering the Neva's banks. White-barked birches, leafless and skeletal, flashed past. Manicured bushes were skirted, benches ducked under.
Kane needed little guidance from Tucker.
He definitely knows what he's doing.
The Belgian Malinois—a former military working dog—had been Tucker's partner throughout multiple deployments in Afghanistan. After leaving the service, he had taken Kane with him, but it seemed the duo's unique skills were still needed. Back in the Army Rangers, the pair had served as trackers: for search-and-rescue operations, for extractions, for hunting down targets of acquisition.
Like now.
He pictured Kane's seventy pounds of lean muscle, flowing swiftly, ears stiff, tail low. A K9 Storm vest—waterproofed and Kevlar reinforced—covered the dog's body, camouflaged to match his black-and-tan coat. Hidden in its collar were a thumbnail-size wireless transmitter and a night-vision camera, allowing the two to be in constant visual and audio contact with each other.
Not that any further communication was needed.
Earlier, in the shadow of the bridge behind him, Tucker had identified the target. He had pointed two forked fingers at Radi? and gave a simple command: TRACK . Tucker then qualified this order by bringing those fingers to his lips: COVERTLY .
Afterward, Kane had burst away, vanishing into the misty darkness. Tucker trusted the dog to follow this instruction and improvise as needed. A microchip embedded between Kane's shoulders allowed Tucker to track his partner, and in turn, keep tabs on Radi?'s position.
As Tucker continued down the alley, the radio in his ear chirped with a query from Kowalski. "Where do you think that bastard's going?"
"Not a clue. Could be a wild goose chase. If this doesn't lead anywhere, we'll head to Moscow in the morning."
"To join Gray and the others?"
"To drop you off. I've done all I can."
"But—"
"I'm not part of Sigma," Tucker reminded him. "At least not formally. I only agreed to come here because of my local connections—and we've pretty much exhausted those to find Radi?. If Sigma is moving in other players, I'm removing myself from the board."
"What about Valya Mikhailov?"
"Screw that. I don't know the woman. She's your problem." Tucker fingered the puckered scar on his cheek. "And I've got enough problems of my own. Kane, too."
A year ago, his four-legged partner had nearly lost one of those limbs. Kane still walked with a slight limp in the morning, though the tough dog warmed out of it most days.
Still, he pictured Kane's shining eyes when the dog had headed off in pursuit of Radi?. This was what the shepherd had been trained for, took pride in. Tucker knew this. It was why he had agreed to come to Russia. After the long rehabilitation, Kane needed to be out in the field.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I need it, too.
It wasn't a matter of Tucker being an adrenaline junkie, of longing for the whiz of bullets past an ear or missing the cordite smell of a firefight. His last sojourn afield had left him broken and shaken. Like Kane, he had busted up a leg, wore a boot splint for months. He had reason enough to lay low, to find a quieter life—and he might have made that choice.
But back in South Africa, he remembered standing at the porch rail of the lodge where he had been recuperating. Below him, Kane had sat on his haunches at the edge of the grassy savannah, his ears pricked. The dog would occasionally glance back, his eyes shining brightly.
Tucker had understood.
Handlers had a phrase to describe their relationship with their dogs : it runs down the lead . Over time, the two learned to read the other, requiring no communication. Their bond ran up and down the leash that tied them together. And that was certainly true of him and Kane. The pair were bound tighter than any leash, each capable of reading the other, a connection that went beyond any spoken word or hand signal.
In that moment back in Africa, Tucker knew what Kane was telling him.
Let's go already.
The two were not meant to be rooted down. A wanderlust had been growing over their long recuperation. Tucker had always felt the most alive with open roads ahead of him, paths stretching toward unknown horizons.
Kane, too.
So, when Crowe had called and asked for his help, he had agreed. Plus, there was another reason why—
"Something's happening," Kowalski radioed with a note of urgency.
"Heard," Tucker responded.
He focused back on the glowing street map and the blip of his target. Radi? had been approaching the edge of a sprawling park that bordered the river. The landmark was the fifty-acre Botanical Garden of Peter the Great, where medicinal herbs and plants had been grown and cultivated during the eighteenth century. It was the crown jewel of Apothecary Island and Russia's oldest botanical institution.
Radi? left the main thoroughfare, abandoning the river behind him. He took a side street that edged the gardens.
Tucker slowed.
Where are you going now?
Across the top of Tucker's screen, he watched Kane close in on that same corner. The view swept from the riverside park and across the blacktop of the street. At this early hour, there was no traffic. Kane reached the corner and stopped. The view lowered as Kane assessed the situation.
On the screen, the dark figure of Radi? sidled along an iron fencerow that enclosed the gardens. There were no streetlights, but Tucker toggled Kane's camera to night-vision mode.
The image on the screen scintillated into brighter shades of green, revealing more of the street, exposing a parked SUV—a Russian UAZ Hunter. Two men climbed out. Radi? hurried forward and met them. The trio huddled together.
"What are you all up to?" Tucker mumbled.
Only one way to find out.
He radioed a dual set of commands to Kane. "C LOSE IN . L AY LOW ."
Tucker knew his partner would understand. The breed had been picked by the military due to their fierce loyalty and intelligence. Kane exemplified both, with a working vocabulary of a thousand words and an understanding of a hundred hand gestures. Even more impressive was Kane's ability to follow a chained link of commands. Only a few military working dogs could do this.
Pride warmed through Tucker.
Still, as Kane edged around the corner, Tucker held his breath.
Be careful, buddy .
With the commands branded into him, Kane rushes to a raised planter bed on the far side of the street from his prey. He stops and inhales the scents that wash through the narrow street.
He smells the sharp ammonia marker of other dogs that fills the air around the shelter. They are old... layered over the course of many days. Still, instinct stirs his desire to lift a leg, to claim this spot.
He drives that down and pushes the scent away. He draws in others, letting the smells build what his eyes can't see.
—the earthy notes of mold from a gutter.
—the acrid ripple of street tar.
—the burnt smoke of oil and engine.
—the musky ripeness of sweat and dank skin.
He concentrates on the last and dashes low, sticking to the shadows on this side. He reaches another planter and halts into a crouch.
His ears prick to the pattering timpani of cat paws on a steel balcony overhead. A strained hiss of threat follows, which he quickly dismisses. Instead, he turns the bells of his ears to the voices. They rumble in bass tones of urgency and furtiveness.
He can hear each utterance. But he knows from experience that this is not enough. The command still rings inside his chest.
C LOSE IN .
He leans out and spots the cluster by the truck. He waits until no eyes glint toward him—then sprints low. His ears continue to track for any sign of alarm. He reaches the next planter and keeps high. His muscles tense, claws hard against stone.
The truck now stands between him and the targets.
Voices carry, but not loud enough.
He ducks clear of the planter and stalks across the street to the truck. He drops behind a tire. It reeks of hot rubber and the singed hair smell of its brakes. He slips lower, satisfied with the intensity of others' rumblings.
This is confirmed in his ear. It is not a command, only acknowledgment of the truth.
"Good boy, Kane."
Tucker trotted through a crisscrossing of alleyways, maneuvering farther from the river. He made a final turn and increased his speed. He aimed for where the maze dumped into the narrow street bordering the botanical gardens. According to his map, he should exit thirty yards behind the truck.
He had already coordinated with Kowalski. The big man was rushing down the riverside thoroughfare to close off the other end of the street. Together, they would have the truck and the three men pinned down between them.
He continued to eavesdrop on the trio's conversation. They were speaking in Russian. A real-time translation program converted their talk to English, but with the three men arguing all at once, the program stuttered and lapsed.
Still, Tucker understood enough.
It seemed Radi? had been hired for his usual services—to be a courier—but he was not being asked to be a drug mule or a money man. Instead, his package was trussed up in the back of the truck.
" I don't move people ," Radi? emphatically argued. " At least not without first being told. Preparations have to be— "
" You say no then ," one man said. " You refuse ."
" I didn't say that ." A note of fear laced Radi?'s words.
Tucker reached the end of the alley and peeked around the corner. Thirty yards away, the bulk of the truck was just a larger shadow. One of the men from the vehicle puffed on a cigarette, a single red ember in the dark. The man paced near a gate into the gardens. A chain lay on the ground, likely cut through to gain access.
The two in the SUV must have ambushed and grabbed someone working at the gardens.
But why?
Tucker subvocalized to Kowalski. "What's your position?"
The answer came in gasps. "Two minutes out. Maybe three."
" You take the truck ," one of the men instructed Radi?. " Go now. You're expected at the rendezvous by noon. "
Radi? swore, but he didn't object. There was a jangle of keys, and a dark figure—Radi?—circled the front of the truck, rounding toward the driver's door.
Tucker cringed, knowing Kane was hiding beside the rear tire. But his partner needed no warning to act. A small shadow ducked under the back of the truck and vanished beneath it.
Still, that protection would not last long.
Radi? popped the driver's door, climbed inside, and slammed it shut. A moment later, the engine roared. The truck headed away from the curb, aiming in the river's direction.
Tucker had no time to strategize.
He yanked a Makarov PMM pistol from under the fall of his jacket. He radioed two commands, one to each of his partners.
"Kowalski, stop the truck heading your way." Tucker rolled out of hiding and ordered Kane. "T AKEDOWN brAVO ONE ."
The truck cleared the shepherd's position. It took the two men on the sidewalk a moment to react—to both the dog lunging out of hiding and to the figure racing down the street at them. Still, they moved swiftly, suggestive that they had combat training. Both reached for holstered weapons.
Tucker ran with his Makarov leveled, arms out, cradling the butt of his pistol in both hands. He centered on the cigarette's red ember and squeezed off two rounds. The first went wide; the second 9-mm hollow-point struck the man in the right eye. The Russian flew back and crumpled to the ground.
Kane made no sound as he struck the other. The only noise was a sharp scream and audible snap of bones. The shepherd's bulk took the target down. As they crashed together, Kane kept hold of an arm and rag-dolled the man with ferocious strength.
The Russian lost his pistol, but he yanked out a long knife from a sheath at his waist. He stabbed it into Kane's side—only to strike the camouflaged Kevlar vest.
Fuck that.
Tucker reached the pair, skidding to a stop. He leveled the Makarov at the man's head. He shouted an order, half-panicked. "R ELEASE . T O ME ."
Kane let go and spun away, evading another desperate swipe of the blade. The shepherd panted over to Tucker's side and paced away his adrenaline, tail whipping low.
Tucker closed on the man, intending to question him on the night's events. "Don't—"
The Russian sneered and stabbed his knife into his own throat, driving it deep.
Tucker lunged forward, but then stopped, recognizing the futility of any intervention. The man choked and frothed blood, then sprawled onto his back.
A loud boom forced Tucker into a crouch.
He twisted around and watched the departing truck swerve wildly. A front tire smoked and chattered off tread. The vehicle leaped the sidewalk and struck the garden's fence, crashing through a section of it.
Beyond the truck, a large figure ran toward the site.
It was Kowalski. He held a Desert Eagle at low ready. The weapon's .50-cal round must have taken out the front tire.
The truck's passenger door popped open, and Radi? tumbled out. He staggered a few steps, looked in both directions, then dove through the broken fence and into the dark garden.
Goddamn it...
Tucker turned and ran to the gate with the broken chain. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Kowalski sliding over the SUV's hood on his hip, clearly intending to follow Radi? through the broken fence.
Tucker radioed him. "There's a captive. In the truck. Check on them. Kane and I'll deal with Radi?."
Tucker dashed into the botanical gardens. Kane kept pace alongside him. Tucker turned to his furry partner. Still gripping the Makarov, he touched two fingers to his own nose, then pointed in the direction that Radi? had rabbited away.
"S CENT TRACK ," he ordered.
Kane leaps off the sandy path and into the dark bower of tall trees. He rushes past bushes. He breathes deeply, drawing smells into the very back of his throat and sinuses. After an hour of tracking, the reek of his prey burns brightly behind his eyes. The breeze from the dank river carries that same scent.
He catches it and races along it.
He hears the crash of footfalls behind him as his partner gives chase, too.
Pride fuels him, as does a dark lust. The iron of blood is still on his tongue. His heart hammers with fiery rage. He has not had time to shed that fire. The hunt is still on. He races onward, drawn by the scent as he closes in on his prey.
As he does, a growing pain lances up his right forelimb. He ignores the old injury. It is familiar, known. He refuses to slow.
Especially as branches break ahead of him, drawing him onward.
He hears a panted breath, wheezing with panic.
The bitter salt of fear traces to him.
He aims toward it.
Then comes a faint tinkle of breaking glass—and all sounds muffle away.
Still, he remains confident. He has the trail locked in his nose—then in another three bounds, it all washes away in a single breath.
A sweet, cloying odor fills his senses, wiping out all else.
Kane is forced to slow, knowing he is defeated.
His partner reaches his side.
Kane whines his frustration and shame.
But a hand pats his side.
"It's okay, Kane."
Tucker had chased after his partner, following in the shepherd's wake through a spread of tall trees, flowerbeds, and manicured shrubbery. The path had led into a corner of the park that had been transformed into a Japanese garden, with ponds and arched bridges. A dense grove of cherry trees covered the grounds, all in early bloom. Pink and white petals drifted everywhere, carried on the night breeze. The sweet scent of those blossoms hung heavy in the air.
The smell must've overwhelmed and erased Radi?'s scent.
Tucker cursed the Serb's luck.
"Stay with me," Tucker said and took the lead through the Japanese garden.
After several meters, they finally cleared the cherry grove, but Kane's nose remained bunged by the heavy saccharine smell. From past experience, Tucker knew it would take the shepherd a few minutes to regain his finer senses.
Still, an obstacle rose ahead of them. It was a towering six-story glass arboretum, one of the garden's many elaborate greenhouses. It sprawled the length of a football field, enclosing an acre of grounds.
But which direction did Radi? go? Right or left?
As Tucker slowed, Kane dashed forward.
Believing his partner had recaptured the trail, Tucker followed. The shepherd raced to the side of the main entrance and sniffed at a few shards of glass on the ground. Above, a low window had been shattered, its sill brushed clear of glass.
Bastard didn't go around—he went through .
Tucker crouched and peered inside the window. Humid air wafted out. The arboretum was filled with palms and orchids. It looked as impenetrable as the thickest jungle. Radi? could be holed up anywhere inside, or maybe he was planning on breaking out the far side.
With no other choice, Tucker climbed through the broken window. Kane leaped after him, landing silently. Still, he noted the dog's right forelimb—the one nearly blown off—buckling before straightening again.
Kane was reaching his limit.
Tucker dropped to a knee. "S TAY ," he ordered firmly, then tempered with softer words. "Guard this exit. Can't have that bastard sneaking out behind me."
Kane rumbled, nearly inaudible, just a vibrato in his chest. The dog was not happy with this command.
Still, Tucker reinforced it, pointing at the broken window. "G UARD ."
Kane huffed, circled once, and stood stiffly.
Satisfied, Tucker set off into the depths of the arboretum.
This time I hunt alone.