nothing, but thought of FBI agent Aaron Pilcher. Don’t use the C word.
His creeping feeling of dread had caught up to him. Confusion or fear or paranoia, he couldn’t be sure which, but he was feeling it. The panic rat was back, chewing on his intestines. He struggled to stay calm, to focus on what was happening and not shift into analytical mode. There would hopefully be time for that later. Now he had to find out as much as he could and stay on top of the risk factor. He shoved aside his confusion.
“Who are you with?” he asked.
She shook her head again. “When we get to the safe house. Then I’ll answer your questions. We’re almost there.”
There turned out to be a five-story apartment building made of dirty gray brick. It wasn’t inviting. To Derek it looked like an upscale tenement, if there was such a thing. He suspected that in Washington, D.C., there were. On the street, people were out and about, but not many and he had the sense that most of them were beginning their evening prowl, looking for trouble. The neighborhood projected that feeling. She found a spot to park the Blazer on the street and told him to follow her.
Evaluate, coordinate, investigate , he thought.
Derek followed her. A block away somebody shouted in Spanish. Further off he heard music, a heavy bass beat. Even further away, a siren. The sounds of the nation’s capital. There was nobody at the door of the building, just a buzzer console Khournikova ignored, letting herself in with a key. She headed for the stairwell. He followed, keeping his hand near the Colt on his belt, senses highly attuned to the environment. There were the background sounds of TVs and radios and muttered conversations. The stairs were bare concrete, the metal handrail showing peeling white paint. It smelled of dampness and insect repellant.
She stopped at the third floor and led him down a long hallway with poor lighting, every fourth bulb burned out. The carpet was a worn blue, the walls a dingy white. Fading lower-middle-class, he thought. Welcome to the American Dream.
She stopped at apartment 302, jabbed another key into the door and walked in, flicking on a light.
He followed, pulling the Colt as he stepped into the entryway. When she turned he had it aimed directly at her face. She did not seem surprised.
“Who are you?” Derek demanded.
“Lieutenant Irina Khournikova. Directorate T, Russian Federal Security Service.”
“Directorate T?” He did not lower the gun.
“Anti-terrorism. We need to talk about Richard Coffee. If you put the gun away, we can.” Her hazel eyes met his gaze, not flinching.
Yeah, tough, he thought, confirming his initial assessment. He lowered the gun but didn’t put it away.
“Turn around,” he said.
She continued to stare up at him, then slowly turned.
“Take your gun out—two fingers—very slowly and drop it gently on the floor.”
For a second he didn’t think she’d comply. Then she reached gingerly into her jacket and removed the gun, holding it with two fingers. She bent over and dropped it on the floor.
“Kick it back to me.”
She did without comment. He crouched, gun still aimed at her, and picked up her weapon.
“Go on in. Slowly. Hands on head.”
She did. He followed her. It was a two-bedroom apartment, the living room off to the right, the kitchen/dining area to the left. Straight ahead were three doors: the bathroom and two bedrooms. The carpet was the color of a rotten avocado, the walls a single coat of egg shell. There was battered furniture that looked like it came with the apartment: a TV in the living room, two chairs and a threadbare sofa. The kitchen table appeared to be forty or fifty years old, steel tubing and Formica, the chairs a mismatched set of red and blue vinyl and chrome. Derek jammed the gun in her back and pushed her through the apartment. One of the bedrooms had a double bed with two pillows and a gray blanket and thick blue comforter. The second bedroom had a
His creeping feeling of dread had caught up to him. Confusion or fear or paranoia, he couldn’t be sure which, but he was feeling it. The panic rat was back, chewing on his intestines. He struggled to stay calm, to focus on what was happening and not shift into analytical mode. There would hopefully be time for that later. Now he had to find out as much as he could and stay on top of the risk factor. He shoved aside his confusion.
“Who are you with?” he asked.
She shook her head again. “When we get to the safe house. Then I’ll answer your questions. We’re almost there.”
There turned out to be a five-story apartment building made of dirty gray brick. It wasn’t inviting. To Derek it looked like an upscale tenement, if there was such a thing. He suspected that in Washington, D.C., there were. On the street, people were out and about, but not many and he had the sense that most of them were beginning their evening prowl, looking for trouble. The neighborhood projected that feeling. She found a spot to park the Blazer on the street and told him to follow her.
Evaluate, coordinate, investigate , he thought.
Derek followed her. A block away somebody shouted in Spanish. Further off he heard music, a heavy bass beat. Even further away, a siren. The sounds of the nation’s capital. There was nobody at the door of the building, just a buzzer console Khournikova ignored, letting herself in with a key. She headed for the stairwell. He followed, keeping his hand near the Colt on his belt, senses highly attuned to the environment. There were the background sounds of TVs and radios and muttered conversations. The stairs were bare concrete, the metal handrail showing peeling white paint. It smelled of dampness and insect repellant.
She stopped at the third floor and led him down a long hallway with poor lighting, every fourth bulb burned out. The carpet was a worn blue, the walls a dingy white. Fading lower-middle-class, he thought. Welcome to the American Dream.
She stopped at apartment 302, jabbed another key into the door and walked in, flicking on a light.
He followed, pulling the Colt as he stepped into the entryway. When she turned he had it aimed directly at her face. She did not seem surprised.
“Who are you?” Derek demanded.
“Lieutenant Irina Khournikova. Directorate T, Russian Federal Security Service.”
“Directorate T?” He did not lower the gun.
“Anti-terrorism. We need to talk about Richard Coffee. If you put the gun away, we can.” Her hazel eyes met his gaze, not flinching.
Yeah, tough, he thought, confirming his initial assessment. He lowered the gun but didn’t put it away.
“Turn around,” he said.
She continued to stare up at him, then slowly turned.
“Take your gun out—two fingers—very slowly and drop it gently on the floor.”
For a second he didn’t think she’d comply. Then she reached gingerly into her jacket and removed the gun, holding it with two fingers. She bent over and dropped it on the floor.
“Kick it back to me.”
She did without comment. He crouched, gun still aimed at her, and picked up her weapon.
“Go on in. Slowly. Hands on head.”
She did. He followed her. It was a two-bedroom apartment, the living room off to the right, the kitchen/dining area to the left. Straight ahead were three doors: the bathroom and two bedrooms. The carpet was the color of a rotten avocado, the walls a single coat of egg shell. There was battered furniture that looked like it came with the apartment: a TV in the living room, two chairs and a threadbare sofa. The kitchen table appeared to be forty or fifty years old, steel tubing and Formica, the chairs a mismatched set of red and blue vinyl and chrome. Derek jammed the gun in her back and pushed her through the apartment. One of the bedrooms had a double bed with two pillows and a gray blanket and thick blue comforter. The second bedroom had a
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