Don Pendleton - Domination Bid

McCarter nodded and gestured for his team to do as instructed. He then squeezed his muscular frame into the small sports car that was fully loaded and boasted genuine leather interior. “Pretty nice ride the Company offers these days.”

“It’s my own,” she said. “Bought and paid for during my layover in Italy. I had it shipped here.”

“Seems like some serious dough to lay out for a CIA case officer.”

If the comment offended Mishka, she didn’t show it—cool under pressure and relatively unemotional. McCarter filed the information for future reference.

“My father ran his own company,” she replied. “Physicist for a defense contractor. That’s partly why they transferred me here.”

“So you were going to tell me how much you knew about our purpose here.”

“Enough that it might surprise you,” Mishka said. “You’re here at my request. Imagine my surprise when the Agency replied less than twenty-four hours later to let me know they were sending you.”

“We don’t work for the CIA.”

Mishka offered a light laugh. “I knew that the moment you stepped off the plane.”

“How?”

“You’re not the typical crew. I’ve been in this business long enough to know the difference between a standard tactical unit and black ops. You’re obviously troubleshooters of a different breed, and that’s fine by me.”

“Glad to hear it,” McCarter replied. “Because we were promised we’d have your full cooperation.”

“And you will.”

“So give me the rundown on what you know to this point.”

Mishka blew out a sigh through pursed lips. “Unfortunately, I don’t have much more intelligence outside of what you probably know.”

“No worries. I’ll start with whatever you give me.”

“Well, I think it goes without saying this city’s crawling with Russian heavies—mostly FSB and maybe a few contacts that were already in-country.”

McCarter nodded. “Agreed. Our people informed us they showed up in force as soon as Dratshev disappeared.”

“Right. From what I’ve heard, his abduction was most likely an inside job.”

“We were told that, as well, but we had a little trouble buying it.”

“Because?”

“Something just doesn’t bloody wash,” McCarter replied with a shrug. “There’s no logic behind staging an abduction of one of their own and then publicizing it.”

“I agree. Although I probably don’t have to point out the FSB has always placed great importance on propaganda. It could be they staged this for the purposes of security.”

“You mean, take Dratshev off the radar and then divert attention by blaming some outside, mysterious party.”

“You have to admit, they’ve done it before,” Mishka said.

“True. But despite their efforts, most competing agencies have been able to see through such attempts with relative ease. This time around the fact an outside party really did manage to kidnap Dratshev has merit.”

“I think you’re right.”

McCarter couldn’t resist a grin. “Glad we’re on the same level.”

“Why?”

“Takes less convincing when I tell you our plan.”

“Which is?”

“I’ll keep the details close to the vest for now, if you don’t mind. But what I will say is that we plan to pick up the FSB’s trail and see where it leads us.”

“Let them do the legwork for you.”

“Right. Plus, if this is a legit snatch, it won’t take the grabbers long to touch base with the Russian government.”

“Unless they have their own purposes for Dratshev.”

“That’s another possibility and I wouldn’t be so naive as to dismiss the theory out of hand.”

“If you—”

“Watch out!”

Mishka had turned to glance at McCarter and missed the dark sedan that rolled alongside the driver’s side of her coupe. They were traveling along a four-lane road that led to the Old Town part of the city.

McCarter reached beneath his coat and quick-drew a Browning Hi-Power from shoulder leather. He aimed at the small window behind Mishka’s seat as the dark sedan swerved toward the coupe and tried to collide with them in an attempt to force her to crash into the cars parked along the road.

Mishka saw McCarter’s reaction and smartly tromped the accelerator to bring the tail of the vehicle up enough to offer McCarter a clear shot at the vehicle.

“Sorry ’bout the window, love!” he shouted before squeezing the trigger twice.

The first bullet shattered the coupe’s window and the second took out the passenger-side window on the sedan. The outline of the man’s face was all McCarter could make out in the dark, but he didn’t have trouble discerning the surprised whites of his eyes. McCarter fired a third shot and the mask disappeared in a crimson spray. The sedan swerved off its intended course as the driver whipped the wheel hard left and put the sedan into a one-eighty.

McCarter whipped a small walkie-talkie from his belt.

“Gray One to team. You got that?”

“Saw it all, Gray One.” Encizo’s voice came back immediately. “Should we pursue?”

“Hell, yes,” McCarter muttered.

McCarter checked the side mirror and saw the van slow suddenly and then begin to swing to the right so Carnes, the driver, could perform a U-turn.

The next minute seemed to happen in slow motion as another sedan approaching from the oncoming lane swerved straight into their lane and picked up speed.

“Shit!” Mishka double-clutched, popping the gearshift to neutral and then reverse as she put her vehicle into a power slide.

The sedan brushed past them, missing by a margin so narrow it made McCarter shudder to think about it. Despite the ferocious attack, Mishka was performing admirably and McCarter felt staunch confidence with her behind the wheel even as his stomach rolled with the turn of the vehicle. In a car with a higher profile the maneuver would’ve caused them to roll but the low center of gravity kept all four wheels on the pavement. Mishka jerked something down and McCarter realized he’d not even noticed she’d managed to somehow engage her parking brake at some point.

The Phoenix Force leader heard an interesting hiss as Mishka disengaged the air-powered brake. That didn’t come standard in any sports car he knew of, which meant she’d had it installed after market. Without being told, Mishka laid in a pursuit course of the sedan that had tried to ram them head-on but the effort proved futile. The sedan had continued on course and smashed into the back of the van carrying the remaining members of Phoenix Force. McCarter felt a ball of rage form in his gut and ordered her to stop short of the sedan on its right flank.

As she braked to a screeching halt, McCarter bailed from the coupe and made a beeline for the van—it had bounced onto the sidewalk and come to a smashing end in one of the storefronts—while he fired at the sedan on the run.

Four men exited the sedan, unaware McCarter had anticipated their moves. As a champion pistol marksman and veteran combatant, McCarter had never missed from that distance, which the first man out of the enemy sedan learned the hard way. Two 9 mm rounds caught McCarter’s target in the chest, puncturing his right lung and driving him backward. The man flopped against the sedan, bounced off and came to rest on the pavement.

The front-seat passenger managed to get clear before McCarter could track him, and opened up with an MP-5K on the run. Bullets buzzed past McCarter’s head like angry hornets, but the gunner hadn’t led the Briton correctly and none of the shots landed.

McCarter made the cover of the van just as Hawkins and Manning burst from the sliding door, both toting weapons from their equipment bags.

“Anyone hurt?” McCarter inquired.