Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

The violent shock wave knocked S?lvi straight back into the pantry, where she crashed into Grechko. As the pair tumbled to the floor, five more explosions rocked the apartment.

Her training kicked in and she rolled over, completely covering the Russian defector with her body. They were under attack. There was no time to figure out by whom. Her only job was to keep Grechko alive.

She waited for a seventh explosion and when it didn't happen, she leapt to her feet, pulling a 9mm CZ pistol from her holster. Her head was throbbing from the blasts. The air was obscured by smoke and debris.

After quickly assessing Grechko, she gestured for him to stay put and stay quiet, while she peeked out into the kitchen.

Approaching the pantry door, she readied her weapon, held her breath, and risked a glance.

The kitchen and dining and living rooms were on fire and had been completely ripped apart. The bloody, shrapnel-riddled upper half of Martin's body lay only feet away from the pantry door. Where his bottom half lay was anyone's guess.

Fighting back her shock, she glanced in the direction where she had last seen him—standing by the large living room windows. But as the curtains of smoke parted, she received an even bigger jolt.

A black-clad, four-man assault team, complete with ballistic helmets, full face masks, and H just the other side of the island. Whoever it was, they were standing only inches away.

She gripped her pistol tighter and applied pressure to the trigger. Planting her feet, she prepared to spring. The moment she fired her weapon, it was going to be like a starting gun going off. Unless some of Martin's men were still alive, she was going to draw all the heat down on her.

But she had no choice. She and Grechko were trapped. The assaulters would search every room until they found what they were looking for. And she felt pretty certain as to what it was they wanted. They had come for him. She was determined not to let them succeed.

There was another crunch of glass and then another. Looking up at the toaster, she could see one of the black-clad men approaching. He was so close, she could hear him breathing behind his Kevlar mask.

In a tense microsecond, her mind processed all of the data available to her and formulated a plan. She'd be lucky not to catch a bullet in the skull, but there was no time left. Action beat reaction every time. When the assaulter's left boot became visible, she sprang her trap. Her first shot went through the man's foot.

As he screamed in pain, she popped back around the end of the island and shot him twice in the groin. The screaming grew even louder.

The assaulter wildly fired his weapon, chewing up the cabinets and countertops, as he stumbled backward to get away.

S?lvi didn't give him any quarter. Popping out once more, she drilled him twice through each kneecap and was on top of him before he even hit the floor.

Placing the muzzle of her pistol just under his Kevlar helmet behind his left ear, she fired, killing him instantly.

Slamming the butt of her weapon against the man's chest, the solid thunk confirmed that he was also wearing a chest rig with a bulletproof ceramic plate. Probably had one in back too. She had been right to aim for his lower extremities. It was the only Achilles heel the assaulters had. At least until you could get in close enough to finish them off.

Working fast, she stripped the man of his rifle and one spare magazine, just as one of his colleagues came around the corner and began firing.

S?lvi raced back behind the island and kept moving. Her new attacker seemed to have known exactly what she was up to because he went full auto, tearing up the island and everything around it. If not for the marble cladding, she never would have made it back to the pantry.

The assaulter from the kitchen was going to be on them any second. Worse still, she had no idea if the other two were still alive and if they were, where they were. She needed to come up with a plan, fast.

Covering the doorway, she gave Grechko a set of rapid instructions. As the Russian sprang into action, she pointed the muzzle of the dead assaulter's rifle into the kitchen, depressed the trigger, and raked the room back and forth with bullets, sending their current attacker diving for cover.

Moments later, Grechko held up what she had asked for. "Like this?"

S?lvi nodded. "Take the cap off and light it," she instructed as she inserted her one and only fresh magazine into the rifle.

The Russian did as she asked, dragging the scratch strip across the black flare igniter button.

Holding the rifle in her left hand and snugging the stock against her left shoulder, she used her right hand to accept the improvised explosive device from Grechko. The next step was the most dangerous part of her plan.

Tilting the barrel of the rifle around the door frame, she exhaled, pressed the trigger, and charged into the kitchen as soon as the weapon started firing.

She only needed to clear the island. It was a meter and a half, tops. She could cover the distance in three strides. The only question was whether her ammo would last.

She saw two assaulters, partially behind cover, who were actively returning fire. Adjusting the rifle, she focused her shots on them, keeping the pair pinned down.

As she neared the island, she drew her right arm back, and then—just as she cleared it, she snapped her arm forward and released the IED.

Like a granite stone in the sport of curling, the twenty-pound propane tank slid across the polished marble floor of the kitchen, the red road flare duct-taped to its side burning brightly.

The moment she let it go, she spun and raced back toward the pantry. Her weapon ran out of ammo halfway there.

Without losing a step, she dropped the rifle, pulled her pistol, and continued to rain down rounds on her assailants.

The IED had just drawn parallel with the assaulters as she reached the pantry door. Gaining a rapid sight picture, she fired two rounds and dove for cover.

There was an enormous explosion as fire engulfed the living and dining rooms and kitchen. Shrapnel from the ruptured propane tank sliced through the flame-filled air.

S?lvi didn't wait to see what had happened to the attackers.

Getting to her feet, she swapped out the magazine in her pistol for a fresh one and led Grechko into the laundry room.

After having him stand back, she cracked the door and checked the hall once more. It was clear.

Repeating her previous command, she told him to stay right behind her. There was no telling what kind of reinforcements the assaulters had. They needed to get moving. Now.

Slipping into the hallway, they headed toward the apartment's front door. With each room they passed, S?lvi did a quick peek inside and then positioned herself on the opposite side of the doorway to protect Grechko as he moved safely past. The bodies of Martin's security team members lay everywhere, their corpses littered with shrapnel, bullets, or both.

S?lvi and Grechko were approaching the final bedroom when her eyes picked up something—the briefest glimpse of motion.

Pressing Grechko against the wall, she motioned for him to be silent and crept forward. The fourth assaulter sprung before S?lvi was even fully at the door.

Releasing her left hand from her weapon, she leapt forward, grabbed the barrel of his rifle, and pinned it against the frame, making sure to position her body outside his line of fire. As she did, she pumped round after round into his Kevlar face mask, hoping to penetrate one of the eyeholes and take him out.

The man was much bigger than S?lvi and used his size against her. Ducking his head, he pivoted off the door frame and brought the butt of his rifle crashing into her exposed rib cage.

A white-hot pulse of pure pain shot through her body and caused her to let go of the rifle.

No sooner had she done so than the man began to raise the muzzle to finish her off. S?lvi, however, refused to cooperate.

Her training had drilled into her never to surrender her advantage. And, if it was ever taken from her, to recapture it. Immediately.

She renewed her attack, launching herself into him, firing anywhere she might be able to avoid his armor until the slide of her pistol locked back, empty. There was no time to insert a fresh magazine. It was hand-to-hand now.

Unable to bring his weapon to bear, the assaulter wrapped himself around her like a giant crocodile and rolled her to the floor. There he began hammering her in the head with his Kevlar helmet.

With her arms pinned to her sides, there was no escaping the blows. Her only hope lay in a small Kydex sheath along her belt. In it was a backup knife, known as Sgian Dubh.

Using her thumb to hook the curved, steel handle, she pulled it from the sheath, drove the scalpel-sharp blade deep into the inside of the man's wrist, and ripped the knife down his forearm toward his elbow. The assaulter howled in pain.

As the man released her from his grasp, S?lvi didn't waste a single second.

Pulling out the knife, she used her opposite hand to drive the man's head straight back, exposing his throat.

She plunged the knife into the left side of his neck and, in one fluid motion, ripped it straight across to the other side.

With both his carotids severed, the assaulter began spurting blood all over the place. S?lvi scrambled quickly away from him.

Picking up her pistol, she inserted a fresh magazine and, ready to engage any additional threats, slipped back into the hallway.

The expression on Grechko's face said it all. S?lvi could only imagine what a mess she looked like.

She hadn't even bothered to assess her own injuries. There wasn't enough time. Her number one priority remained. She needed to keep Grechko alive at all costs. It was imperative she get him out of the building and move him someplace safe.

"Let's go," she ordered.

With the Russian following tightly behind her, she led him to the front of the apartment, only to find that the heavy oak door had been blown completely off its hinges. The vestibule beyond was also destroyed and smoke was pouring out of the charred elevator shaft.

Judging by the looks of it, their attackers had not only used explosive-laden drones to attack the apartment from the outside but had also sent up a pretty good-size explosive via the elevator. Who the hell were these people? And how the hell had they found this location? The whereabouts of the safehouse, and the fact that it was occupied, were two of the most closely guarded secrets of the Norwegian Intelligence Service.

Figuring that out was going to have to be put on hold. Right now she had to concentrate on their escape. The only way down was going to be the stairs.

As they descended, the building's internal fire alarms continued their earsplitting blare. They were joined in the stairwell by streams of frightened evacuees. Not wanting to add to the panic or draw additional attention to herself, she concealed her weapon.

Floor by floor, she moved Grechko deliberately, carefully, paying attention to every face and every set of hands they encountered. There was no telling who was friend and who was foe.

When they got to the ground level and everyone else pushed out into the lobby, she kept descending. There was no way to know who or what was waiting for them out on the street. She didn't want to find out. She would take their chances in the garage. In the garage there was cover. And if there was cover, they wouldn't be sitting ducks. They'd at least have a fighting chance of getting away.

At the garage level, she opened the door and scanned the vicinity. It looked safe. Nothing but parked cars and fluorescent lighting, but even down here, the fire alarms were still blaring.

Keeping Grechko close, she wove a path through the vehicles, ready to drop down at a moment's notice if they heard or saw anything at all suspicious. They just needed to put a bit of distance between themselves and the apartment building. Once they had done that, she could take a moment to catch her breath. They were almost there.

Suddenly, tires squealed. The noise was accompanied by the roar of an engine. S?lvi looked over her shoulder to see a van racing toward them.

"Get down," she ordered Grechko, pulling out her pistol.

As she did, the van's driver flipped on his high beams and picked up speed. Another figure leaned out the passenger-side window. When S?lvi saw the gun in his hand, she began firing.

The shooter returned fire with a bigger, fully automatic weapon, which shattered the windows, windshields, and mirrors of the cars all around her. S?lvi, however, was relentless.

Alternating her rounds between the passenger and the driver, she didn't let up. She used her cover as best she could and held her ground.

When she ran her pistol dry, she slammed home her final magazine and got right back in the fight. With the van almost on top of them, she changed her point of aim, taking out the right front tire.

The vehicle careened wildly as the driver lost control and slammed into a row of parked cars.

The impact was so severe, the passenger was jettisoned from the cab. He slammed against a concrete support and landed only fifteen feet away. Motioning for Grechko to stay put, S?lvi crept forward.

She used parked vehicles for cover for as long as she could. When she stepped out into the open, it was only long enough to check the defenestrated passenger for a pulse. He didn't have one. He also didn't have a phone, any identification, nor any pocket litter that might give her a clue to who was behind the attack.

Leaving the man where he lay, she raised her pistol and cautiously approached the van.

The driver was still alive, but only barely. Blood ran from his nose and both ears. He wheezed as he drew in short, painful gasps of air. The van was older and didn't have airbags. The steering wheel had crushed his rib cage and likely punctured both of his lungs. No doubt there were all sorts of other internal injuries as well.

Seeing her approach, the man lifted a Beretta 9mm and arced it in her direction. S?lvi shot him in the head, killing him instantly.

Quickly she patted him down, but once again she came up empty. No phone, no ID, no nothing. The glove box and the van's rear cargo area were also a bust.

Leaving everything where she had found it, she hurried back to Grechko.

"We're not safe yet," she said. "Follow me."

The Russian did as he was instructed. They wove their way through the honeycomb of parking areas, careful never to step out into the open unless they absolutely had to, and even then, only for as long as was necessary.

Finally, they arrived at a large set of steel doors, which S?lvi pushed her way through before walking over to an elevator call button.

When the elevator doors opened, they stepped inside. S?lvi pressed a black keycard against a reader and selected the fourth floor.

"What is this place?" Grechko asked.

"Plan B," said S?lvi, motioning for him to be quiet. She wasn't in the mood to answer questions. Her mind was spinning, trying to put together everything that had just happened to them.

At the fourth floor, the elevator doors gently chimed and opened onto a sumptuous, carpeted hallway. The walls were covered with blond wood and each numbered door was painted a glossy black. Theirs was a corner room at the end of the hall. S?lvi used her keycard once more.

When the lock released, she stepped inside to make sure everything was okay and then waved Grechko in, telling him to take a seat on the couch.

Opening the sliding glass door to the balcony, she dissembled her phone and threw the pieces into the water below. Already she could hear the Klaxons of police and first-responder vehicles approaching. Closing the door, she locked it and drew the drapes.

Grechko was studying the directory of services that he had picked up off the coffee table.

"The Thief," he stated matter-of-factly. "Interesting name for a hotel."

"Stand up," S?lvi responded.

"Why?"

"Just do it," she ordered.

When he complied, she patted him down from top to bottom.

She went over every square inch of him, searching for anything her people might have missed—any sort of subcutaneous tracker that might have led the assaulters to the safehouse. She couldn't find anything. They had already swapped out his clothes and provided him with new shoes. A male operative had even checked his anal cavity, or his "prison wallet" as it was colloquially referred to. By whatever means the attackers had found the safehouse, Grechko, it would appear, hadn't led them there.

That brought S?lvi back to the unimaginable possibility that someone inside Norwegian Intelligence had betrayed them—all of them, including Martin and his security team.

She had a lot to untangle, but now wasn't the time. Prebooking a room at the Thief under a false name and credit card had only been a just-in-case contingency and was only meant to provide a short-term sanctuary. They couldn't stay here. Not for very long.

Walking into the bedroom, she slid the bench away from the foot of the bed, removed her blood-caked knife from its sheath, and sliced along the seam where she had expertly reglued it.

In the shallow cavity inside were several items she had prestaged, including a burner phone. Powering it up, she waited for a signal and then sent a text message to the only person right now she could trust.

Moments later, Scot Harvath texted back.

They had a shorthand that, even if someone was intercepting their communications, no one would be able to decipher.

He told her to sit tight. He was on his way.

S?lvi urged him to hurry. She was concerned that they hadn't seen the worst of things yet. Not by a long shot.