ill hit you up when were go out

Cloud’s cell phone started beeping. He looked at the number, took a deep breath, then smiled.

“How was tonight’s performance?” he asked.

“Wonderful. Thank you for the necklace.”

“You’re welcome, Katya. Do you like it?”

“Do I like it? It’s magnificent. It must have cost a fortune.”

“It is only the beginning of the gifts I will give to you, my love.”

“I have to go,” she said. “There are fans. I must sign autographs. I will call you from the hotel.”

“Please—” he began, then stopped.

Cloud stared at the computer screen. He felt his heart race.

He wanted to warn her: Don’t go near the red Mercedes.

“Please what?” she asked.

“Please be careful,” he whispered.

35

REKI FONTANKI

SAINT PETERSBURG

Bond nodded to Oliveri in the rearview mirror. Oliveri put the Mercedes in gear and started driving.

“Roger that, Bill,” said Bond, tapping his earbud. “We’re moving into position. We’ll attempt recon as soon as she exits the theater. What about the SEALs?”

A voice came on commo for the first time; the reception was poor and he sounded like he was in a tunnel.

“Roger, Langley, this is Jacobsson, over.”

“Are you guys ready?”

The Mercedes moved quickly down Reki Fontanki toward the queue of limousines waiting at the stage door entrance. Oliveri, in the passenger seat, steered it up alongside a pair of young blond women strolling down a cobblestone sidewalk in tight, nearly see-through white dresses, one of them holding an unlit cigarette, laughing as they held arms. The gorgeous, slightly inebriated girls were giggling and singing a song.

“Roger that,” said Jacobsson. “We’re in harbor awaiting your recon. Repeat we are in harbor and good to go. Over.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll hit you up when we’re go. Out.”

As the Mercedes pulled into position at the rear of the line of limousines, the girl on the left caught a heel of her stiletto sandals on a cobblestone and stumbled awkwardly. She fell sideways as her companion tried to catch her, but it was too late. She toppled to the ground, her head slamming into the curb as she tumbled awkwardly into the street in front of the moving Mercedes. She let out a terrified scream as the car was about to run her over.

Oliveri slammed on the brakes, which screeched, drawing the attention of everyone within a hundred feet. The vehicle came to an abrupt halt, its right front tire stopping just as it pressed into her arm, bumping the girl, but ever so slightly.

Bond tapped his ear, shutting off commo.

“Goddammit!” he snapped. “Watch where the fuck you’re going.”

“I didn’t see her.”

Several pedestrians flocked to the girl.

“We need to clean this up,” said Bond, frustration in his voice.

“Just get her out of the way before the woman gets here.”

Bond opened the rear door and climbed out.

“Ne dvigayutsya,” Bond yelled, his Russian flawless. “My dolzhny ubedit’sya, chto ona ne ranen prezhde chem my pereydem yeye.”

Don’t move. We must make sure she’s not injured before we move her.

Bond jogged toward the girl, his eyes shooting right, to the stage entrance, knowing that Katya would soon be coming out.

Several pedestrians were also coming over, seeing if the girl was all right. Her friend had her arm and was trying to lift her up from the street.

Bond glanced at Oliveri, still seated behind the steering wheel. Oliveri shook his head; he didn’t like the distraction.

Suddenly, a commotion ensued behind Bond. The excited yells and giggles of young girls came from the theater’s side door. Bond turned. Katya had emerged and was now signing autographs and talking with her fans.

He needed to clean up the situation, and he needed to do it quickly.

Bond pushed aside a man who was helping the injured girl to her feet. Bond knelt just above her. She looked up at him and their eyes met. Her head had a gash and was bleeding badly. Bond took the handkerchief from his pocket and placed it against the wound.

“Thank you, sir,” she whispered in Russian.

“Are you okay?” Bond asked.

“I feel dizzy,” she whispered.

“I am so sorry,” said Bond. “My driver was not paying attention adequately enough.”

“It was my fault,” she said, slurring her words.

“Nonsense. I will pay for everything.”

“May we have a ride to the hospital?” asked her friend. “I don’t know if she can walk right now.”

Bond lifted the girl up by her right arm.

“Sir, may we have a ride to the hospital?” she asked again.

Bond glanced to the stage entrance. Katya was nearly to the end of the line of autograph seekers. He looked back at Oliveri. He was making a circular motion with his right index finger: hurry the hell up.

“No,” said Bond shifting and looking again at Katya, “I’m sorry. We will pay for a taxi to take you, but I have a situation that requires my immediate attention.”

For the first time, Bond saw bodyguards flanking Katya’s path—one behind her, one in front. The eyes of the guard in front swept across the sidewalk, back and forth, looking for signs of danger. When he saw Bond, his eyes focused in on him.

Bond glanced to Oliveri, signaling him with his right hand.

She has two bodyguards. Get the weapons ready and prepare to engage.

*   *   *

Inside the Mercedes, Oliveri stared out the passenger window, beyond Bond and the two girls, watching as Katya signed a last autograph, then turned and waved with both arms at the crowd, which were still gathered.

“Come on, Pete,” he whispered.

Beneath a blanket, Oliveri’s right hand clutched the grip of a Desert Tactical SRS-A1, a compact, concealable sniper rifle with a thick black suppressor screwed into its muzzle and a scope mounted on top. Without looking, he flipped the safety off.

Oliveri knew full well the danger of having witnesses. But it was unavoidable now.

Emergency Priority.

A higher mission classification did not exist. It meant the achievement of the mission’s objective was paramount to U.S. national security.

Leaving the blanket on top, Oliveri raised the SRS-A1 until the snub-nose of the suppressor was pressed against the passenger-side window. He leaned down and, without looking through the scope, targeted the guard in front of Katya. He placed his finger on the trigger, preparing to fire.

Suddenly, the back door to the limousine opened.

*   *   *

“Here’s my card,” said Bond, handing the girl an alias business card. “I will pay for everything. You need to go to the hospital.”

Bond leaned forward, into the limousine, a desperate look in his eyes. He registered Oliveri, then the blanket raised across the front seat. He glanced right; Katya was now less than fifty feet from the line of limousines, walking quickly.

Bond ducked and leapt into the car, yanking the door shut.

But as the steel of the door was about to close tight, both of the injured girl’s hands shot out and stopped it. Bond turned, a stunned look in his eyes as the girl ripped the door open.

“No!” he screamed, just as the second girl blew into the cigarette that had been dangling, unlit, from her lips. A small dart the size of a toothpick tore from the cigarette and stuck into the center of Bond’s right eyeball. His hand shot up to his eye as he groaned in pain.

The injured girl ducked and stabbed forward into the back of the limousine, followed by the other girl, whose hand reached inside her leather purse as she too infiltrated the vehicle.

Oliveri, hearing Bond’s groan, turned from the sight of Katya and the two bodyguards. Before his head could swivel all the way around, the girl tore a Glock 18C from her bag. Oliveri’s eyes went wide as he registered the weapon. He ducked and tried to reach for the door, but he was too late. She pumped the trigger. A dull thud sounded as a slug tore through the back of the leather seat, then ripped into Oliveri’s neck. A mist of blood splattered the steering wheel and windshield as Oliveri was kicked forward. His hand shot to his neck as he tried to scream. She fired again, this time sending the bullet into his head.