Cliff Ryder - Black Widow

"Why do you not simply take the weapons?"

The man sighed. "You are too suspicious."

"I don't think I am suspicious enough."

"I am not set up to make deals with anyone in this country. I have been a go-between."

"For Pasternak and this Kirinov you mentioned?"

"For a number of people. Pasternak came to me when the deal fell apart in Istanbul."

Taburova took a deep breath and tried to figure out how things could have gone so wrong.

"You must make up your mind," the man said. "I do not have much time. Therefore, you do not have much time. Another day or two, then these weapons — and your money — are gone."

"Why are you so interested in doing business?"

"I want the money that is outstanding. I need to get out of Moscow. I can leave at any time, but I would rather have something to show for my time. And you? You need the weapons."

"What about the FSB agents?"

"They are being taken care of as we speak. Do not worry about them. Think about what I have said. Figure out a way to take delivery of these weapons. Then call me." The man gave a number. "You can leave a message there. I will call you back."

Taburova didn't like the idea of the other man calling the shots, but he had no choice. He needed those weapons.

He agreed and the connection clicked dead in his ear.

Taburova folded the phone and put it away. If he hadn't already made a deal with the devil, he would have felt certain he'd done so now. He turned back to the window and gazed out at the camp.

All his life, he'd lived in similar surroundings. He'd given the lives of his friends and family, his eye, his youth to fighting. Now he had a chance to get away from all that, to live some of the good life he saw on American television when he was in Moscow.

In order to accomplish that, all he had to do was betray his people. Looking at the feral men who filled the camp, knowing that more of them waited in the mountains and preyed on the weak, he felt little guilt over what he had planned.

* * *

Moscow

"Do you need anything?"

Startled by the voice, Sergei looked up from the straight-backed chair outside the operating room where surgeons labored over Vasily Mikhalkov. A nurse old enough to be his mother looked down at him with gentle eyes.

"No. Thank you," Sergei said. He shifted the cup of coffee that had gone cold in his hands. "I'm just waiting to see how my partner is doing."

"Were you injured?"

Sergei knew she referred to the blood that spattered his clothes, face and hair. "Scratches. Nothing to be concerned about."

"We have a triage center."

"Perhaps later."

The nurse nodded unhappily and walked down the corridor. His police identification had gotten him past the hospital security, but the emergency room moved rapidly as the injured were ferried to different areas. The smell of medicine, blood and death made the semirefrigerated air thick and stale.

Sergei got up and threw his coffee cup into the trash. Inside his jacket pocket, his cell phone vibrated. He took it out and studied the viewscreen. WE NEED TO TALK

It was the woman. Sergei knew it could be no one else. She had tried to call him several times during the last hour. He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't trust her. At the moment he didn't trust anyone.

He'd forced his way onto the ambulance that had brought Mikhalkov to the hospital. He'd watched as the rescue workers tried to staunch the old man's bleeding and get him stabilized.

Sergei had never lost a partner. He didn't want to lose one now.

He started to put the phone back into his jacket pocket. The readout changed.

LOOK AT THE SECURITY MONITOR AT THE NURSES' DESK

Unable to stop himself, Sergei looked. The view switched from the outer waiting room to a parking area outside the hospital. Three hard-faced men stepped out of a sedan parked near an ambulance. The driver remained at the wheel.

All of the men wore jackets. The way they walked and kept their right hands close to their hips told Sergei they were armed. None of the hospital staff noticed the men approaching the entrance.

His phone vibrated again. This time he opened it and answered. "Yes."

"You see the men on the monitor?" the woman asked.

"Yes."

"We've identified them as mercenaries."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"One of them was in the building across the street this morning. He was the sniper who killed Pasternak and his two bodyguards."

The man who would have killed me, Sergei couldn't help thinking. Fear stabbed through him as he watched the men go into the hospital. The view changed and showed them entering the lobby.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"We hacked into that building's records and identified him with facial-recognition software. We've identified the two men with him, as well."

"What are they doing here?"

"I don't see any flowers or teddy bears, so I'm betting this isn't a get-well visit."

The woman's sarcasm cut through Sergei's fear and indecision. He went to the nurses' desk.

"Bring security up here," he ordered the nurse who had spoken to him earlier. "Get them here now."

"You don't have time to wait for security," the woman said over the phone. "Those men are there to tie up loose ends from this morning."

Sergei held the phone tightly to his head and repeated his orders to the nurse. He flashed his identification at her to get her moving, but he knew he looked like an insane person.

"You need to get moving," the woman said.

"I cannot leave Mikhalkov." Sergei refused to abandon his partner.

"If you stay there, those men will kill you both. And anyone else who gets in the way. Do you want to bring that kind of bloodshed into the hospital?"

Helplessly Sergei glanced at the nurses' station. All of them would be victims. The violence of the past few days weighed heavily on him. He didn't want to see it erupt inside the hospital.

"Move or die," the woman said.

Sergei fled, but his mind had focused on a dangerous course of action. He dreaded what he had to do, but he couldn't leave Mikhalkov for the wolves. Either way, he knew his life was going to change.

Moscow

Sergei bolted through one of the hospital's side exits. He listened for gunfire but there was none. He hoped he could pull off what he intended before anyone inside the hospital got injured.

Outside in the bright sunlight, he strode toward the car. His jacket whipped around him. His pistol felt heavy in his hand. His other hand held the phone to his ear. He kept his eyes focused on his target.

Ahead of him, the driver who'd brought the gunmen to the hospital waited and watched the building's entrance.

"What are you doing?" the woman on the phone demanded.

"Saving my partner if I am lucky," Sergei growled. He folded the phone and put it away. The woman had his number. She would call back when she was ready.

Without breaking stride, Sergei walked up to the driver's side of the car like he was back on patrol. He stayed just far enough away for the driver to not easily turn around and confront him.

Shaking slightly, Sergei tightened his grip on the gun. He'd shot men before. Had even killed them. But never in cold blood.

He thought about calling out to the man, giving him some warning, but then thought that might be even crueler. This way the man wouldn't even see it coming.

Holding his breath the way he'd been trained, Sergei steadied himself and fired. The pistol bucked against his palm, then bucked twice more as he fired again and again. The whole time, he prayed that he hadn't just killed an innocent man.

Head leaking blood, the driver slumped forward. The horn bleated and the sedan started to roll forward.