Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Rogue

To ears that had become attuned to silence, the scratching of loose rock sounded like the applause of a crowd of thousands. Floyd tried to move more quietly, but it was hard to do when crawling. He approached the end of the tunnel and used his forearms to inch forward and pull himself to the lip. He poked his head out and saw nothing but snow and the trunks of cedar trees. He hauled himself out carefully and slowly.

“Don’t move,” a voice said in a thick Russian accent.

Floyd glanced round to see a man in blue, gray and white snow camouflage and a gray ski mask standing on a rocky outcrop above the cave mouth. He had a Vityaz-SN submachine gun aimed at Floyd’s chest.

“Get on the ground,” the gunman ordered, before saying something in Russian into a handheld radio.

Floyd knew other men would soon join them, and his odds would diminish with every new arrival. He also knew that if they wanted him dead, he would have been shot already. He was alive for a reason, and he was determined to play that to maximum advantage.

The gunman jumped off the rocks and landed in the snow a few feet away from Floyd.

“I said get on the ground!”

Floyd rushed him, aiming his shoulder at the man’s midriff. People with guns are accustomed to being obeyed, and Floyd knew he would have the element of surprise. The gunman raised the submachine gun as if to strike, but Floyd reached him before he could do so. He felt a satisfying compression as his shoulder hit the man’s abdomen. The Russian groaned as he was thrust back into the rocks around the cave mouth. Floyd stood tall, grabbed the man’s head and forced it back. There was a loud crack as it hit the rock and the man’s eyes rolled back in his head. His body went limp and Floyd allowed him to fall to the ground. He searched the man and took the Vityaz, along with three spare magazines of ammunition and the radio.

“Hey!” a voice yelled, and Floyd turned to see other men moving through the trees toward him.

He flipped the safety off and fired a short burst from the Vityaz, which he swung in an undirected arc. The gunfire had the desired effect, the men scattering for cover. Floyd seized the moment he’d bought himself and ran west, heading into the thickest part of the forest.

Snow-covered branches whipped at him and huge clumps of powder pelted him as he pressed through the trees. There was an eruption of gunfire above and around him, and the air filled with woodchips and the smell of cedar. He knew they were aiming high and wide in an attempt to frighten him into stopping, but he wasn’t that dumb.

Memories of Beth, Maria and Danny gave his exhausted spirit a much-needed boost, flooding his battered body with an infusion of energy. Floyd knew that if he stopped and allowed these men to take him, as soon as they had whatever they wanted from him, he’d be completely expendable. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to escape.

I told them a condensed version of my story: how a supposed relative of the downed airman had hired me to find people close to him and how I’d discovered my client was a liar, using me to gain leverage over Floyd. I kept things vague so I didn’t compromise Beth and the children.

“You’re being sketchy on the details,” the Englishman said. “Is that because you don’t trust us?”

I smiled. “Just being cautious.”

“But I’m still not convinced,” he replied. “Any one of the men who attacked us could have told that story.”

I studied him and the American woman carefully. They were outsiders. Not just in this village. Whatever had driven them to these mountains had made outcasts of them, by choice or necessity. I didn’t think they were living at the edge of the world because they were on the run from the law. They were too open and empathetic. I believed they were good people, and hoped I was right.

“I used to fly Sea Knights in the US Marine Corps,” I said. “I flew them in Afghanistan. Over these mountains. I was shot down here, so I know exactly how Floyd feels. I know the grief he’s carrying for his comrades, for his brothers. I was lucky enough to be rescued but he is alone out there, hunted by men who will stop at nothing to capture him. Men who are also hunting his family.

“When I left the military, I took over my deadbeat father’s detective agency — Private — and I’ve devoted my life to building it into the most successful detective agency in the world. I sacrificed everything for it. Why did I do that? Because I want to help people. Semper fidelis . It’s the motto of the US Marine Corps. It means: Always faithful. That spirit doesn’t leave a person just because they take off the uniform.”

I paused.

“You want me to convince you with physical proof? I can’t do that. I can show you my ID, you can check out my backstory, but I can’t show you proof of my motivation for finding Joshua. All I can do is lay it all out and hope you recognize the sound of the truth when you hear it. I need to find this man because I made a promise to his wife that I would bring him home safely.”

“Everything he says is true,” Dinara said. “Use Google. Check him out.”

“No Internet,” the Englishman said. “Not till the phone line comes back, at least.”

It was the American woman who came to my rescue. “I’ve heard of Private,” she said. “From my days in the Bureau.”

She studied me closely and I held her gaze. She was sizing me up, and I was wondering how an FBI agent wound up in the Hindu Kush mountains.

“I believe him, John.”

“I do too,” John said, looking at the woman and nodding. “Give him the route, Chris.”

The woman walked over to a set of drawers and took out a map of the region that she handed to me. It was marked with a route through the winter passes, which could get a person to Pakistan.

“This is the route Joshua is taking to the border,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said.

“And if you run into the men who did this,” Chris indicated John’s bandaged shoulder, “send them our regards.”

I nodded. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

We hurried out of the house and ran back the way Vosuruk had led us.

“That was well done,” Feo said. “The way you told your truth.”

I nodded my appreciation. I didn’t often open up, particularly about my father. My family have been a huge source of pain and betrayal in my life, and I try to think about them as little as possible.

We made it back to the chopper and were airborne a few minutes later. I navigated, guiding Feo along the route plotted out on the map given to me by Chris and John.

Our flightpath took us over some rough terrain. We flew over a forest, then above the treeline and through a pass between two high peaks, across a valley and up into another pass. This was a long journey on horseback, but in the chopper we were clocking 150 knots, or about 170 miles per hour over ground, so we covered what might have taken Floyd days in a matter of minutes.

“I’ve got something,” Dinara said through the comms system. She was using a radio scanner to monitor the airwaves. “Encrypted chatter. A lot of it. Multiple signals, rapid communications and quick responses.”

“Down there, two o’clock,” Feo said as we came out of the pass into another valley.

I saw what he was pointing at immediately: the flash and flare of machine gunfire. Even at a distance, it was clear multiple gunmen were converging on a single shooter, who was trying to fight them off. They were moving in on him quickly, and judging from their relative positions, we didn’t have long before the single shooter, who we assumed was Floyd, would be overwhelmed.

“Take us down,” I said to Feo. “Fast!”