Tucker got Kane inside, then dropped back down next to Misha.

“Give me a minute,” he said and walked a couple meters away from the sub.

Pulling out his phone, he dialed Sigma.

Harper came on the line immediately. “That was one hell of a cryptic message you left me,” she said. “Had me worried.”

“I’m in the wilderness, if you get my drift.”

“Been there myself. I take it you don’t want to go straight to the rendezvous as planned?”

Tucker recounted the helicopter attack. “I can’t swear to this, but I suspect Felice let the sub go. Her attack was focused solely on me and Kane.”

“With you gone, the rest would be easy pickings. Plus Bukolov is the prize. They don’t dare risk killing him.”

“Since I took out the sub’s radio, it’s been quiet, but I don’t want to take any more chances. Better to disembark as soon as we’re within sight of Astrakhan.”

“Agreed. I’ve found an aircraft that suits our needs.” She passed on the coordinates. “They’re part of a charter fishing company. They fly clients south into the Volga delta on a regular basis. With a little incentive, the pilot will take you to the new rendezvous.”

“Which is where?”

“An island. Just outside Russian territorial waters—or what passes for marine borders in the Caspian Sea.”

“Who’s meeting us?”

“They’re trustworthy. I’ve worked with them personally in the field. You reach them, and your worries are over.”

“So says the woman who described this mission as a simple escort job.”

25

March 17, 3:33 P.M.

Astrakhan, Russia

As promised, Misha reached the outskirts of Astrakhan by the afternoon. With the sub still submerged, he announced this quietly to Tucker, who squeezed into the cockpit. They studied the nautical chart together.

Checking coordinates, Tucker tapped a spot where the Volga’s main channel branched into Astrakhan.

“Stop there?” Misha asked.

“Turn there,” Tucker corrected. “Follow it for three miles, then call me again.”

It took forty minutes to reach the branch.

Tucker returned to the cockpit and pointed to another spot a mile farther west.

“You are being very cagey,” Misha said. “I see a small cove. Is that our destination?”

“No. Call me when you reach the next waypoint.”

After another twenty minutes, Misha summoned him again.

With a smile, Tucker placed his finger on the small cove that Misha had mentioned before. “That’s our destination.”

“But you said—oh, I see. You are very untrusting.”

“It’s a recent development. Don’t take it personally. How long until nightfall?”

“To be safe, two hours. I will pull us into the undergrowth along this bank. It should shield us further as we wait.”

It turned out to be the longest two hours of his life. The others attempted to question him about what he was doing, but he only gave cryptic reassurances, allowing them still to believe the sub was parked underwater at some destination near Volgograd.

Finally, he ordered everyone to collect their belongings and disembark. With Tucker directing, they gathered in a clump of bushes on the shore of the cove.

Overhead, the dark sky hung with low clouds, turning the waning moon into a pale disk. Aside from the trilling of insects and the occasional croak of a frog, all was quiet.

Across the cove, a few hundred yards off, a trio of squat cabins hugged the water. A lone light burned beside the door of one. Moored to its dock floated a pair of small seaplanes.

That was their ticket out of here.

“This is not Volgograd,” Utkin whispered, scrunching his face. “The air smells too clean.”

Tucker ignored him and joined Misha alongside the sub. The two shook hands.

“This is where we say good-bye,” Misha said. He let go of Tucker’s hand but continued to hold out his open palm.

With a smile, Tucker understood. He pulled a wad of rubles from his pocket and counted out what he owed the sub’s pilot—then he added an extra ten thousand on top of that. “Hazardous duty pay.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason, my friend.”

“You’ll be able to get back to Volgograd safely?”

“Yes, I think so. And I hope you do the same—wherever you are going.”

“I hope so, too.”

“Because of the extra pay, I will wait here until you take off. Just in case you need me again.”

“Thank you, Misha. If I don’t see you again, safe sailing.”

With Tucker in the lead and Kane bringing up the rear, the group headed around the curve of the cove, sticking to the trees and taller bushes.

Once near the cluster of cabins, he called a halt, knelt by Kane, and pointed forward. “SCOUT AND RETURN.”

Kane skulked off and disappeared into the darkness.

Several minutes passed, then from back the way they’d come, a whispered call reached him.

“Tucker!”

It was Misha.

His heart thudding with worry, Tucker told the others to stay out of sight. He made his way back down the trail to where Misha was crouching.

“What is it?”

“This.”

He passed over a black plastic object roughly the size and shape of a narrow bar of soap. A pair of insulated wires dangled from either side, ending in alligator clips.

Misha explained, “I was cleaning up after you all left, straightening and doing a systems check while I waited as promised. I found this tucked beneath my seat in the cockpit. Those clips had been spliced into the sub’s antenna feed.”

“It’s a signal generator,” Tucker muttered, his belly turning to ice. “It sends out frequency-specific pulses at regular intervals.”

“Like a homing beacon.”

“Yes.” Tucker felt icy fingers of despair close around his heart. “That’s how the enemy was tracking us.”

He remembered Misha describing how he would surface the sub at regular intervals to get a GPS fix on their location, especially as they neared one of their ports of call. Each time he did it, the generator gave away their location, allowing the enemy ample time to set up an ambush once they figured out Misha’s routine.

“Who put it there?” Misha asked.

Tucker glanced toward the trio hidden by the cabins.

Who indeed?

He ran everything he knew through his head—then his whole body clenched with a realization.

It couldn’t be . . .

Misha read his reaction. “You know who the traitor is?”

“I think so.” Tucker stuffed the signal generator into his pocket. “I suggest you shove off right now and put as much distance between you and us as possible.”

“Understood. Good luck, my friend.”

Tucker returned to where the group sat crouched in the darkness. By now, Kane was waiting for him. The shepherd’s posture, the tilt of his ears, and the softness of his eyes told Tucker all was clear.

Like hell it was.

He crouched and draped an arm around Kane’s neck, struggling to keep his composure.

Now what?

How much information had already been funneled to General Kharzin?

Since surfacing here, he had to assume the enemy knew where they had stopped. Surely Felice was on her way.

He didn’t have the time to properly interrogate and break the traitor. That would come later. For now, by hiding his knowledge, he still had a slight upper hand.

He stared toward the seaplanes. The enemy didn’t want to kill Bukolov, and with their agent sitting next to him on the plane, they’d be even less likely to try to shoot the craft down once it was airborne. In that way, both men could serve as unwitting human shields, increasing the group’s chances of reaching the rendezvous point safely. But first he had to get them all into the air.

He also intended to keep a close eye on the traitor, an eye sharper than his own. He shifted next to Kane. Shielding his hand signals, he pointed and touched the corner of his own eye.