Oath of Office

Osin grimaced. “At least we don’t have to spend another minute with that pig.” He nosed the Toyota into traffic as he spoke. “It is ironic that da Rocha would work so hard to be involved in our project, all things considered.”

Another shrug. “Ironic indeed.”

Leskov nestled down in his seat and closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. These delicate missions for the motherland were becoming more tedious by the moment. This one would require a great deal of cleanup — and since it was extremely close-hold, that cleanup would fall to them.

* * *

Lisanne Robertson walked across Estrada do Farol after Jack dropped her off. It was still early in the season, with few outsiders on the street, but the bus stop in front of the hotel portico gate gave her an inconspicuous place to wait. She kept her back to the stucco pillar, scanning the area while trying to keep an eye on the Audi as Jack made his way up the lane toward the motorcycle. There was always a chance it was just another Ducati, unrelated to the assassination, but she agreed with Ryan. They were here. Why not check it out?

She couldn’t help but wonder about him. He was a nice guy. Smart, kind eyes, good heart — the traits her mother had told her to look for in a man. The fact that he was rugged and athletic didn’t hurt. Still, they worked together.

She turned to look to the south just in time to see a blond man jump out the passenger door of a gray Mercedes ten feet away. He kept a black pistol close to his body, half hidden by a leather jacket, and hooked his hand toward the car, barking an order in French to get in.

She raised her hands and stepped forward, closing the gap as if to comply. Shorter than the man by a head, Lisanne knew he probably underestimated her. A drastic mistake on his part.

Boot camp at Parris Island and the police academy had only honed the natural affinity for fighting that she’d inherited from her father. She bowed her head when the man reached her, eyes wide, looking as subservient as she could.

“You killed the wrong person, bitch!” the blond man said, still speaking in French. He reached to shove her into the waiting Mercedes.

She sidestepped, moving into him rather than toward the car. Her left hand parried the pistol away as her right shot upward, catching him under the nose with the heel of her palm. She rolled up and over, intent on peeling the big thug’s nose off his scowling face. He backpedaled, striking out with the pistol instead of firing it. Wasting no energy on excess movement, she brought her right hand down, delivering a hammer fist to the bridge of his already injured nose.

The blows were painful but not incapacitating — and the man had been in a fight or two himself. He snatched her wrist as it went by his face, jerking her sideways and throwing her backward. She hit the pavement hard, landing on her butt, stupidly trying to catch herself. A wave of nausea washed over her as something snapped in her wrist.

“Salope!” the man spat, aiming the pistol at her face — just before Ryan roared across the street and plowed into him with the Audi.

Ryan kept going, dragging the body past the bus stop, through the gate, and into the hotel courtyard. The Mercedes sped away, abandoning the big Frenchman. Tires squealed as Ryan threw the Audi into reverse and shot out into the street, reaching across to fling open the passenger door. Lisanne scrambled in and he drove east down Estrada do Farol.

John Clark’s voice came across the net after Ryan brought everyone up to speed.

“Dom and Adara, stay with me on the Russians. With Gaspard dead, they are our only remaining lead. Ding, you link up with us as soon as you pick up Junior and ditch his ride.”

“Copy that,” Chavez said. “Midas got a screen grab of the girl from the mini-drone footage. I’ll send it off to Gavin and have him try and get an ID.”

“Finally,” Clark said. “Some good news.”

Lisanne flipped the switch on her radio, changing it to push-to-talk mode so she wouldn’t broadcast to the rest of the team. Teeth clenched, she was obviously in pain, her face pale. She cradled her right wrist in her lap but reached across with her left to touch Ryan on his hand where it rested on the steering wheel. “Thank you, Jack,” she said. “I gotta tell you, you’re a pretty handy guy to have around.”

8

Some people were born spies. Others found themselves deceived by the lure of international travel. Erik Dovzhenko was shamed into it by his mother.

The slap of Dovzhenko’s scuffed leather shoes pinged off the concrete walls of the stairwell, sounding like a handful of coins dropped into a wishing well. Wishes were wasted in Evin Prison. The Ministry of Intelligence, or VAJA, made certain of that. The Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps stomped out any hope they missed.