Day of Wrath

CHAPTER SEVEN RED STAR

Dmitry Rozinkin leaned against the station’s rough, cement block wall, scanning the passengers coming off the Murmansk train while pretending to read the local rag. He flipped through the thin, poorly printed pages and sneered to himself. It was pathetic, a weekly with fewer than ten pages. Why, Moscow had dozens of daily newspapers now — some of them pretty slick-looking.

He didn’t read any of them himself, but he saw them stacked up at newsstands.

He shifted uncomfortably, feeling the shoddy workman’s cloth coat he wore tighten across his shoulders. He’d be damned glad once this job was over and he could get back into his city clothes — the brown leather bomber jacket and American-made blue jeans that marked him as a young man on the way up. As one of the “new class” — those with enough guts and the right connections to prosper in today’s Russia.

Rozinkin glanced up from a sports article, stared indifferently at the passengers alighting from the closest car, and then quickly lowered his eyes. There they were! Right on time. They were making his life easy.

Two of the three were relatively inconspicuous. Just a well-dressed man and woman. Although the woman was a real looker, the Russian decided.

He licked his lips. She was trim, lithe, and curvy. Just the way he liked them.

The second man walking close by her side stood out like a sore thumb.

Before he’d wound up in prison for theft, Rozinkin had done a short-lived stint in the armed forces. He could spot a military uniform two hundred meters away. But this man’s uniform was not Russian, it was American.

Something about the American soldier caught Rozinkin’s attention as the trio walked right by him. It was his eyes, the Russian realized. They were the eyes of someone who had seen Death come in many guises. Someone who had stared back at Death without blinking.

He shivered slightly — suddenly glad that he had drawn lookout duty only for this job.

He folded his newspaper under his arm, settled an old blue cap on his head, and swung in behind them. They headed straight for the taxi stand — or what passed for one in this miserable flyspeck of a town.

Two cabs sat idling outside the station — both weather-beaten sedans that were probably being held together with baling wire and chewing gum. He was close enough to them to hear the youngest, the Russian man in civilian clothes, tell the lead taxi driver their destination.

Rozinkin waited until the beat-up cab turned the corner, then took out a portable phone and punched a button.

“Yes.”

“They’re on the way,” he reported. “And they’re alone.” He broke the connection.

Major Alexei Koniev let the door to the harbormaster’s office swing closed behind him. Still angry, he strode out onto the pier to where Helen Gray and Peter Thorn stood waiting.

“Any luck?” Helen asked.

Koniev frowned. “Not much,” he admitted.

Harbormaster Cherga was all too typical of Russian officialdom, he thought sadly ― corrupt, lazy, and amoral. There were such people everywhere they turned in this case. People who would sell their honor or their country without batting an eyelash.

Koniev shook his head tiredly. He’d become a policeman to help pull Russia out of its wicked past. To make the words “law and order” stand for something more than tyranny and mass murder. But sometimes it seemed a futile task something akin to mucking out a stable with the aid of a toothbrush and nothing more.

What must Helen and this Colonel Thorn of hers think of his country and his countrymen? They both came from a nation where public officials generally respected the rule of law. He felt the hot flush of shame on his forehead.

“Alexei?” Helen Gray asked again.

Koniev pushed his emotions to the side and refocused his attention on the case in hand. “According to Harbormaster Cherga, Arrus Export loaded the last consignment of jet engines aboard a freighter called the Star of the White Sea.” He nodded toward the ship berthed at the end of the pier. “That’s it. The ship has just returned from Bergen.”

“Bergen, Norway?” Helen wondered. “Why there?”

“It’s a major port,” Koniev said. “One with many, vessels entering and leaving each day.”

“A place where a small cargo could get lost in the shuffle?” Thorn suggested.

“Perhaps.” Koniev shrugged his shoulders. “This Cherga also claims he dealt with a man named Peterhof.”

“Imagine that,” Helen said flatly. “Any description?”

“Gray hair. Gray eyes. Middleaged. Distinguished. looking.”

Koniev snorted. “At least it matches what Colonel General Serov told us about this Peterhof.”

“Which wasn’t much,” Thorn commented dryly.

“True, Colonel.”

With that, Koniev turned on his heel and led the way down the pier.

This was his investigation, and the tramp freighter Arrus Export had chartered was the next link in the chain they were building.

The hull of the old ship loomed over them as they drew nearer. Star of the White Sea looked more like an abandoned building than a merchant ship to Koniev. It was big enough, and gray and dirty enough.

Inch-thick mooring lines held her to the pier, while a gangplank near the stern led up to the main deck. A forest of cranes covered the front two thirds of the deck, while the superstructure sat almost all the way back on the stern.

Koniev went up the gangplank first. It angled steeply up to the main deck. The Star of the White Sea was empty, and with the tide in, they climbed almost two stories crossing the gap between the pier and the side of the ship.

A darkhaired man in worn overalls and a filthy jacket lounging against the bulkhead straightened up as Koniev reached the top.

Koniev flashed his identity card. “Major Koniev. MVD.” He nodded toward the superstructure. “I want to see the captain of this ship.”

The sailor, unsmiling, nodded silently and sauntered over to an intercom built into the bulkhead. He punched one of the buttons.

“There’s an MVD officer here to see you, Captain.”

The sailor had a thick Georgian accent, Koniev noted. Odd.

Few natives of that mountainous republic went to sea.

He heard Helen and Thorn reach the top of the gangplank.

He wondered how much of the conversation the two Americans were going to catch if this ship captain didn’t speak English fluently.

Few people outside Moscow and the other major cities did.

It was inconvenient.

The intercom squawked something unintelligible.

“Yes, sir.” The sailor turned to Koniev and muttered, “He’s in his cabin. Come with me.”

He led the three of them to a set of steeply sloped stairs on the aft end of the ship’s superstructure and climbed up to the second deck.

The three decks of the superstructure were arranged like the layers of a wedding cake, each smaller than the one below it.

Glancing up to the third deck, Koniev could see a glassed-in space — almost certainly the bridge — topped by a small mast, radio aerials, and a radar antenna. A small funnel for the engines’ exhaust grew out of the aft end of the superstructure.

The entire superstructure was painted white, with the funnel in blue.

Close up, he could see the effects of the harsh Barents and Norwegian Seas on the vessel. Rust, dirt, and grease streaked the sides. More used to the signs of neglect than his American friends, he still wondered about that. Was this captain abnormally sloppy or careless?

If so, that could be a useful clue to the man’s character.

Their guide opened an exterior door in the center of the second deck and entered, with Koniev close behind.

Down a short corridor, they came to a passageway running fore and aft the length of the deck. Doors lined both sides. Stenciled signs showed that they were in the crew’s quarters. The smell of burnt grease and overcooked potatoes wafted out from under the door marked “Galley.”

The captain’s cabin was at the forward edge of the second deck, right under the bridge, Koniev realized. Logical.

The Georgian sailor rapped three times on the door, then waited until a gruff voice from inside called, “Come.” Then he opened the door and stepped aside — allowing Koniev and the two Americans in first. He followed them inside and shut the door.

The cabin was fairly large but sparsely furnished. A cot bolted to one wall showed where the ship’s captain slept. A desk and single chair in the middle of the compartment showed where he handled his paperwork when he wasn’t on the bridge.

One sailor, a thin and rough-looking sort with dirty blond hair, stood facing the desk holding his cloth cap in his hands. A second man got up from behind the desk when Koniev and the others came through the door. He offered his hand. “I am Captain Tumarev.”

Again, Koniev caught the faint trace of another accent underlying the Russian words. Was Tumarev from one of the Baltic States?

Certainly the captain of the Star of the White Sea contrasted sharply with his crewmen. Better dressed, he was also better groomed. He was short, even shorter than Koniev, and powerfully built. He was also younger than the MVD officer would have expected, in his late thirties at most.

Was this ship his first command?

Automatically, Koniev shook the other man’s hand, aware that Helen and Thorn were right at his back. Large by shipboard standards or not, six people crowded the cabin.

He showed his identity card again. “My name is Major Alexei Koniev, Captain.”

The man calling himself Tumarev smiled, showing a mouthful of perfect teeth. “And what can I do for you, Major?”

“You carried a shipment of jet engines from this port on May 28,” Koniev stated.

The other man nodded. “Yes, that’s true.” He shrugged. “What of it?”

Koniev frowned. Tumarev’s informal, indifferent attitude irked him.

He should show more respect to an officer of the law, especially one asking questions about a shipment that, at best, skirted the edge of legality. Perhaps it was time to show this seaman who was in charge here. He sharpened his tone. “Then I want to see your manifest for those engines, Captain. And I want the name and address of the firm you delivered them to in Bergen. Immediately. Understand?”

Tumarev seemed unfazed. Instead, he simply nodded. “Of course, Major.”

He moved back around his desk and pulled open a drawer. “I have those records in here.”

But the ship captain’s hand came out of the drawer holding a pistol aimed squarely at Koniev’s midsection.

The MVD officer heard Helen gasp and reflexively reached for his own weapon.

“Don’t move, Major!” Tumarev said sharply. He included the two Americans in his next order. “Put your hands up! All of you!

Now!”

Koniev obeyed slowly, mentally cursing himself for his carelessness — for focusing so much on the hunt that he forgot that one’s prey could sometimes turn and fight. He should have asked the local militia for backup. Out of the corner of his right eye, he could see another pistol in the darkhaired Georgian’s hand.

Tumarev nodded pleasantly. “That’s better.” He motioned toward the MVD officer with his empty hand. “This pig first.”

The thin, blondhaired sailor, moving quickly and efficiently, roughly frisked Koniev — first taking his identity card and then yanking the Makarov out of his shoulder holster.

Grim-faced now, Koniev stood motionless as the when vanished behind him. Rustling cloth and a muttered American swear word told him Helen and Thorn were getting the same treatment. He tried frantically to sort through the situation — looking for some way out. What the devil was happening here?

What was Tumarev’s game? What did he hope to gain by taking a law officer and two foreigners captive? The man was acting more like a bandit chieftain than a ship’s captain.

More like a bandit chieftain. The phrase echoed in his mind.

Koniev studied Tumarev more carefully, suddenly chilled to the bone.

The blondhaired sailor moved back into his line of sight, still holding Koniev’s gun. “That’s all. The others were clean.” He looked at Tumarev expectantly.

The captain shook his head. “No, not here.” He smiled coldly.

“Use the tape.”

The sailor slid the pistol into his pocket, produced a roll of duct tape, and took a step toward Thorn — the nearest of the three to him.

Colder than he’d ever been in his life, Koniev half turned to look at Helen and the American colonel. They looked surprised, angry, and somewhat baffled. But did they truly understand the peril they faced?

Tumarev’s brutal, dismissive “not here” could have only one meaning.

Koniev breathed out, his thoughts suddenly reaching toward his older brother. Their parents were dead. And now perhaps Pavel would be left all on his own. The possibility of that pierced him with regret, but there were no options left no other doors to open. He must act. Or none of them would make it out of here alive.

Flatfooted, Koniev launched himself across the desk — straight at Tumarev. He was counting on surprise, on doing something totally unexpected. He was also counting on the fact that a bullet would have to hit something vital to kill him quickly. With luck, he could give Helen and Peter Thorn a chance to react.

Thorn exploded into action — spinning to the left, poised for a round kick with his right leg. He glimpsed Helen moving at the same time, whirling toward the darkhaired sailor who’d brought them here from the gangplank.

Three deafening gunshots erupted — two in rapid succession, the third a split second later.

His foot missed its intended target — slamming into the blond sailor’s hip instead of his stomach — but the kick still had enough energy to knock the man down. The roll of tape skittered away across the steel deck.

Thorn threw himself across the sailor, pinning one arm. He chopped down hard twice — aiming for the man’s exposed throat.

Something crunched on the second blow, and he saw the sailor’s eyes widen in horror.

The man suddenly stopped fighting and gasped, struggling desperately for oxygen that couldn’t get through the larynx Thorn had smashed. His arms and legs quivered as he flopped on the deck like a dying fish tossed into the bottom of a boat.

Another pistol shot rang out.

Thorn crouched low as the round whined over his head, ricocheting off the metal bulkhead in a shower of sparks. Jesus! His hands tore through the dying sailor’s clothing. Where the hell was Koniev’s Makarov?

There. His hand closed around the shape of the pistol inside a jacket pocket. He tugged frantically, feeling the cloth give way.

Yet another gunshot erupted behind him.

Come on! Come on! Thorn worked the slide — chambering a round. He rolled, bringing the Makarov up, looking for a target.

The darkhaired sailor Helen had attacked was down — lying twisted and broken on the deck. He rolled further … Too late he saw Tumarev swinging toward him, weapon in hand.

Three more shots cracked out — one right after the other. One round slammed into the freighter captain’s chest. The second hit him in the throat. The third caught him in the forehead.

His face a red, ruined mask, Tumarev fell back and slid down behind his desk. He left a trail of blood smeared across the metal bulkhead.

Helen Gray lowered the Tokarev pistol she’d seized, breathing hard.

She checked the room swiftly. Nobody was moving. Nobody but Peter.

They exchanged glances, unspoken communications that said “We’re both all right,” before simultaneously turning to Alexei Koniev.

The young Russian lay slumped over Tumarev’s desk. Two separate red patches covered most of his back. Oh, God … Helen moved toward him, aware of Peter doing the same thing. They each took an arm, turned Koniev over, and gently laid him on the deck. She knelt beside him, cradled his head, and pressed her fingers to his neck — searching for a pulse.

“He’s gone, Helen,” Peter said grimly.

His voice seemed far away, and Helen realized she’d known there was no pulse for some time — only a minute, probably, but it seemed much longer.

Still cradling Koniev’s head, she looked down at his chest and saw the dark red ruin where two bullets had struck him, spaced only inches apart. A third opening, this one an ugly exit wound, showed where the darkhaired sailor had shot him in the back while he struggled with Tumarev. That bullet should have been fired at her, she knew.

Alexei Koniev had bought them time with his own life.

She stared down at the young Russian major. Why had he done it? He must have known the price he would have to pay.

She heard Peter searching the compartment, gathering weapons and spare clips. She looked up.

Peter was right to force his emotions to the side for now. They were still in danger. If they survived, she would have time to mourn later.

But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to let her grief over Koniev’s death go, to close it off for a while longer.

Helen fought for control, and took a deep breath.

As she stood up, Peter came over to her and pulled out a handkerchief.

Taking her face in one careful hand, he tenderly wiped her cheeks dry.

She hadn’t even known she was crying.

Then he offered her Koniev’s 5.45mm Makarov and two spare magazines.

Helen shook her head quickly, fighting back more tears. “You keep it.”

She picked up the pistol she’d used to kill Tumarev. Three shots there plus the bullet the darkhaired sailor had fired at Koniev added up to three 7.62mm rounds left in the magazine and one in the chamber. Not enough. She tore it out and snapped in a fresh magazine.

Some people would have called the Tokarev she carried a piece of obsolescent junk. It was single-action, not double, and it didn’t have a real safety — just the half-cocked hammer. Still, she’d scored three-for-three with it against that son of a bitch Tumarev.

And right now, that made this pistol the sweetest piece of hardware she’d ever fired.

Peter handed her three extra magazines and watched as she tucked them in her jacket pocket. “Ready?”

Helen nodded.

He grimaced. “We’ve got to get off this damned ship and get the militia out here, pronto.”

True, she thought. Staying put meant ceding the initiative to any bad guys left outside the cabin. It was high time to get out of this blood-soaked rat pit. “You think the whole crew’s in on this thing?”

Peter shook his head, more in puzzlement than disagreement.

“I dunno anything for sure right now.” He prodded one of the dead sailors with his foot. “But somehow I don’t think we’re going to have an easy stroll back out to the pier. Whoever planned this wants us dead real bad.”

Helen joined him near the door to the passageway. She glanced back at Koniev’s body, then turned away.

“The feeling’s mutual,” she said grimly.

Thorn took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, readying both his mind and body for instant action.

Now.

In one smooth motion, he pulled the door open, ducked forward, scanned the passage, and then pulled his head back in.

Nothing. He glanced at Helen. “Clear.”

She nodded tightly, holding her pistol ready in both hands.

Thorn glided out into the corridor, keeping low. It ran straight aft to a door standing wide open into the sunshine. Helen followed right behind him, sliding off to the other side.

Feet clattered on the metal stairs leading up from the main deck. A man’s head and shoulders appeared in the open door.

“Watch left!” Thorn warned softly. He dropped into a shooting stance, but kept his finger off the trigger. Years of Delta Force training had taught him the art of discriminate shooting. The guy coming up the stairs could be anyone — all the way from the ship’s cook to a Russian militia officer. Instead, he focused on the man, quickly noting a shaggy haircut, a dark leather jacket, and a thin, pale face.

Halfway up the stairs, the stranger spotted them in the passageway and called out something in rapid-fire Russian. Something about wanting to know where “Kleiner” was, Thorn thought — wishing his own Russian were good enough to give him an answer.

Suddenly the pale-faced man got a better look at them. He froze for a single instant, then turned, and dropped back down the stairs out of sight.

“Well, that was useful,” Helen remarked dryly.

They came to a junction. A second passageway crossed theirs, running across the ship with doors to the port and starboard — both closed.

Thorn hesitated. “Portside’s the way out,” he suggested.

“And probably the first place they’ll be waiting for us,” Helen countered.

“Good point.”

They turned the corner into the second corridor.

Helen reached the starboard door first. It was a heavy metal watertight hatch opened by a long handle connected to clamps on both sides. Pull the handle and the clamps would unlatch.

They would also make noise. A lot of noise.

She stopped, pressing her ear against the door and testing the handle.

Thorn controlled the urge to tell her to throw it open, to get moving.

He had to trust Helen’s judgment. He put one hand on the metal wall of the corridor. Shit. He could feel the vibration made by running feet.

“We’ve got company,” he said quietly, already starting back toward the intersection.

The portside door flew open — revealing another man, this one in grease-stained overalls. He held a pistol in his right hand.

Thorn dropped to one knee and took rapid aim — still holding his fire.

Was this one of the bad guys or just somebody investigating all the shooting?

The sailor’s eyes opened wide. His pistol swung up.

Bad choice, Thorn thought coldly. He squeezed the trigger once, then again. Hit by both rounds, the gunman folded over and flopped onto the deck-half in and half out of the door.

He risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Helen had the starboard hatch open now, and she was scanning the outside of the ship.

A voice called something from the aft. Maybe a name? Or maybe an order?

Thorn couldn’t tell. He felt more footsteps through the freighter’s metal skin.

“The natives are getting restless, Helen,” he said bluntly.

“I can hear,” she shot back. “Don’t rush me.”

All of Thorn’s instincts told him to move and move fast, before they were cornered. The two shots he’d just fired had echoed throughout the entire ship.

“Okay, it’s clear,” Helen finally announced. She stepped out onto the walkway that ran around the outside perimeter of the deck and turned toward the ship’s stern. Thorn followed close behind her, pulling the hatch shut behind him to buy them some extra time. He turned, blinking in the bright sunlight, and immediately saw why she’d been so cautious.

The catwalks surrounding each deck were a maze of metal boxes, hose reels, and other objects he couldn’t recognize. Hell, he thought, you could hide a platoon out here.

Without pausing, Helen slid forward — moving smoothly from cover to cover. Thorn came after her, keeping his pistol trained behind and above them, while she searched for enemies ahead.

They were heading for the gangplank, one deck down at the aft end of the superstructure. That was their only real way off the ship. Diving off the side into the oil-stained harbor wasn’t an option not with armed men waiting above to pick them off while they were in the water.

Going off on the pier side would be even worse. That was a long way down. Jump far enough to hit the pier, and they risked breaking legs, arms, or their necks. Jump too short and they’d wind up in the drink anyway — only this time trapped in the shadowed space between the ship and the pier.

No, Thorn thought grimly, it was the gangplank — or nothing.

Helen Gray poked her head around the aft corner of the Star of the White Sea’s superstructure — straining to see the gangplank through the tangle of gear cluttering the freighter’s stern. There were four men standing close to it — all arguing excitedly. At least two had guns in their hands. She couldn’t see the others clearly enough to tell whether or not they were armed.

Before she could draw back into cover, one of them caught a glimpse of her movement and snapped off a shot. It whipcracked past, missing her face by about a foot.

“Shit!” Helen yanked her head around the corner of the superstructure and backed up fast.

“How many?” Peter asked urgently.

She held up four fingers, listening intently for the sound of feet clattering up the stairs toward them. If the bad guys were completely stupid and rushed them. she crouched lower still, aiming toward the corner. Eight rounds in the magazine, she decided. That ought to be enough.

They weren’t stupid.

Instead of men running, she heard only shouted commands in Russian — and then silence.

“We’ve got to move!” Peter whispered urgently in her ear.

It was hell having the same kind of counterterrorist training, without ever having worked as a team before, Helen thought.

Both of them were highly skilled in the combat arms and in close-quarters tactics. But they were each used to leading teams that had lived, practiced, and fought together long enough to know each other’s moves instinctively.

Helen rapidly ran their options through her mind. They were outnumbered by at least two to one. Given the disparity in numbers, constant movement was the best way to keep pressure on the bad guys — to make the bastards dance to their tune.

Staying on this deck was the worst option. That was “horizontal thinking” and too obvious. Combat in a built-up environment was often a lot like an aerial dogfight. Sometimes it paid to go vertical.

She glanced up at the third deck. Moving there would give them better visibility and better fields of fire. But it would also leave them more exposed — and it would limit their ability to maneuver. She shook her head. The day she treed herself was the day somebody could declare her brain-dead and pull the plug.

Helen looked down. Heading for the main deck would cut their fields of fire, but it would give them more running room. And that made it the best choice of all. Closerange firefights were the best matchup for the pistols they were carrying. She hadn’t seen any of the bad guys carrying long arms, but she couldn’t ignore the possibility.

Peter arrived at the same conclusion in the same instant.

“Down to the main deck?” he suggested.

“Yeah,” Helen agreed impatiently. “I’m with you, Peter.”

“Never doubted it, Special Agent Gray.” Then he was up and running lightly back the way they’d come.

She came out of her crouch and followed after.

There were stairs leading down to the main deck right outside the hatch they’d come through. They took the stairs two at a time, staying as quiet as possible while moving as fast as possible.

They needed to put some distance between themselves and the place where she’d been spotted.

When they reached the forward end of the freighter’s superstructure, Helen could see an open deck stretching hundreds of feet toward the bow. Even with the forest of masts, winches, and other cargo-handling equipment, moving out there would leave them too exposed. It was a ready-made killing ground. Besides, she thought, their salvation — the gangplank-lay in the other direction.

Thorn eased around the forward corner of the superstructure carefully — scanning for any signs of movement on the deck ahead.

Nothing. With his left hand he signaled the all-clear to Helen and slipped ahead ― careful to stay close to the metal bulkhead.

His plan was simple. Head for the gangplank, eliminate anyone guarding it, and run like hell for the cover offered by the warehouses at the land end of the pier. Anything more complicated was likely to go wrong — especially since they knew so little about the ship’s layout and the people they were up against.

With his senses extended, and staying as low as possible, Thorn advanced a step at a time — listening, watching, trying to guess where the enemy might be lurking.

Nothing stirred. Nothing except the wind off the Barents Sea whining through the Star of the White Sea’s cargo cranes and radio antennas.

And the sound of water lapping around her hull. He frowned. They were trapped in a nightmare killing house scenario: fighting an unknown number of enemies on unfamiliar ground.

Something scraped against the metal above and ahead of them.

Thorn froze.

Another footfall came a second later. He flattened himself against the bulkhead, listening as the cautious, careful footsteps approached a point directly over his position. There were two men moving on the walkway above. Evidently they still expected to find their prey on the second deck. Not smart, he thought.

Thorn waited until the Russians were past his position and over Helen before moving. He swung around, tracking them by sound. If either of them leaned over the walkway railing, he’d have a good shot.

But he couldn’t wait for that. Fighting defensively wasn’t going to get them out of this jam. His hunter’s instinct told him to take these men down now — while he could catch them by surprise.

The only question was, how? Should-he make a deliberate noise to lure them into looking over the edge? He discarded that idea immediately.

If only one of the Russians fell for it, the other would be alerted, above them, and in a position to pin them down.

The need for speed pushed at him, too. There were at least two other gunmen hunting them. And what were they doing while he crouched here?

Helen was watching him, waiting for a signal.

Thorn spotted a fire hose coiled around a large metal bracket bolted to the bulkhead between them. The bracket looked strong enough to hold his weight. Perfect.

He pointed at the bracket, then at his foot, and finally toward the men above.

Helen nodded her understanding.

Thorn set one foot on the bracket and slowly shifted more of his weight onto it. It held.

He exhaled slowly, running through a mental countdown.

Three. Two. One. Now!

Thorn stood up on the bracket, grabbing for the edge of the seconddeck walkway with his left hand. He steadied the Makarov, aiming for where he guessed the two Russians should be.

The bracket groaned under his full weight.

Both men were already turning toward the source of the sound, weapons at the ready. They were only yards away.

The closest Russian appeared over Thorn’s front sight. He squeezed the trigger. The man fell to the deck, clutching his stomach.

The second gunman, a big man with thinning hair, fired back before he could shift targets. The round clipped the deck near Thorn’s face — spraying sharp-edged paint chips in a stinging arc across his left cheek.

Moving fast, Thorn swung his pistol toward the second man and squeezed the trigger again. Sparks flew off the railing instead.

Damn it, he’d missed! Suddenly, the coiled fire hose shifted beneath him. The Makarov wavered off target. Shit!

Smiling now, the big Russian leaned out over the railing to get a clearer shot. The smile vanished. Helen’s bullet took him under the jaw and blew off the top of his skull. He staggered, then toppled over the railing and fell to the main deck below.

Thorn stood poised on the bracket long enough to make sure the first man he’d shot was still down. Satisfied, he dropped to the deck.

Blood trickled down his cheek. Impatiently he wiped it off.

Two more of their enemies were down — dead or dying. But that left at least two more to go. And they couldn’t stay lucky forever. He glanced at Helen. “Straight on?”

She nodded calmly. “Let’s press it.”

Thorn took the lead again, moving quickly to the portside of the freighter’s superstructure. He peered around the corner.

There was no one in sight — not even near the gangplank. Sure.

Somehow he doubted the bad guys would leave the only exit unguarded.

At least one of them had to be out there somewhere — sprawled in cover, waiting and watching.

He ducked around the corner and dropped behind a large metal box, an equipment locker of some kind. They were going to have to flush out their enemies the hard way.

Helen Gray followed Peter around the corner.

A pistol shot cracked from somewhere ahead and above. The bullet slammed into the deck at her feet and whirred away — tumbling through the air. She went down on one knee, firing rapidly in the direction the shot had come from, trying to keep the shooter’s head down until she could spot him.

Another round hit the bulkhead above her.

There! Helen saw the gunman. He was on the second deck catwalk, lying prone behind a stanchion. She frowned. With only part of one hand and his head exposed, the Russian was a difficult target. She fired again, mentally counting off her shots.

Two more were left in the magazine.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Peter lifting his head above the equipment locker, trying to spot the man who had her pinned down.

Five meters from the gangplank, Mischa Chabenenko lay flat behind a metal fitting on the rusty steel deck. He saw the American man rise slightly, looking up toward the superstructure towering above — toward Yuri’s firing position.

Chabenenko felt his heart pounding. Sweat trickled down his forehead and puddled under his arms. This was supposed to have been an easy job — a piece of cake. Instead it had all gone wrong.

Kleiner, the German bastard who’d masqueraded as Captain Tumarev, was dead. And so were most of his comrades — all of them killed by these two Americans. Except for that gutless worm, Rozinkin, already on his way back to Moscow, Yuri and he were the only ones left.

All he’d been told was that the two Americans and an MVD major were poking their noses into places they should not be.

And that the vor, Larionov, wanted them stopped — permanently.

Chabenenko muttered an oath under his breath. Someone should have checked into just who they were trying to stop.

What should he do? It would be easy to let the Americans escape, he knew. All he had to do was just stay in hiding here, let them get clear, and then flee down the gangplank himself. He might have a slim chance of making it safely back to Moscow before the militia picked up his trail.

But then he’d have to answer to the vor.

A bead of sweat rolled down his nose and dripped onto the deck. Felix Larionov did not tolerate failure. Or cowardice.

Chabenenko shook his head. He’d rather take a bullet here than die screaming under the Lariat’s knife. Besides, if he could just take these two, he and Yuri would share the pay once meant for eight.

Driven by fear and greed, he took careful aim, centering his pistol sights on the American man’s head. He pulled the trigger.

Superheated air tore at Peter Thorn’s face as a slug screamed past, only an inch away — way too close. He dropped back behind the locker.

Shit! There was a second shooter out there, near the gangplank — one he couldn’t see.

The gunman above them fired again.

Helen screamed — a terrible, rising wail that tore at his soul.

He whirled around, expecting to see her writhing in agony on the deck.

So did the Russian who’d been shooting at her. He poked his head further out from behind the stanchion — trying to see whether the woman he’d hit needed a second bullet to finish her off.

Instead, Helen still knelt there, perfectly poised and aiming for the upper deck. She fired twice, coolly paused, and then snapped a fresh magazine into her weapon.

She glanced at Thorn and nodded contemptuously toward the upper deck.

He followed her nod and saw the gunman’s shattered head lying cocked at an odd angle over the edge of the catwalk.

Thorn swallowed hard, forcing his breathing back to a normal pace.

She’d scared the hell out of him with that stunt. Another bullet tore across the top of the metal locker he was using for cover, reminding him that at least one of their enemies was still alive and fighting.

Helen rolled in beside him. “Spotted the guy. He’s close to the gangplank — about four or five meters back, behind some kind of rusted-out fitting.”

Thorn ran through the memory of what he’d seen before the latest round of shooting started and nodded. He knew the spot she was talking about. Remembering the round that had nearly taken his head off, he frowned. They didn’t dare move forward.

This Russian was too good a shot to risk rushing him.

But they couldn’t wait here indefinitely. If there were any more bad guys left alive aboard the Star of the White Sea, huddling behind this metal locker was a good way to wind up getting shot in the back.

The gunman fired again.

Why? Thorn wondered. Neither he nor Helen had offered him a target.

So why was he still shooting? Was he trying to keep them pinned here long enough for his friends to close the net?

Another steeljacketed round punched into the equipment locker.

Thorn suddenly realized the Russian was firing at fairly steady intervals — once every several seconds, almost in a pattern. Acting instantly, he rose above the locker with his pistol braced in both hands, aiming just above the metal fitting — right where the shooter would be … now!

He had the fleeting impression of a pale white face, an open mouth, a dark gun.

Thorn fired three times in rapid succession, holding the Makarov down and on target as it bucked upward.

Hit at least twice, the gunman slumped over the fitting. His pistol clattered to the deck. Blood pooled beneath the dead man, blending with the rust, grease, and dirt coating the steel surface.

Silence fell over the corpse-strewn freighter. Nothing moved.

Nothing at all.

Thorn breathed out and looked at Helen. She smiled wanly back. Her hands were shaking now as reaction set in and the adrenaline wore off.

He looked down. So were his.

He set his jaw and rose to his feet. It was time to get off this damned ship. Time to start finding out why they’d been ambushed.

To find out why Alexei Koniev had been murdered.

It seemed to take an eternity to reach the gangplank and dash across.

Nobody fired at them. They stepped onto land just as they heard the sirens screaming — drawing ever closer to the docks. Pechenga’s militia force had apparently woken up.

Peter Thorn and Helen Gray waited until they saw the patrol cars skid around the corner of the harbormaster’s office, then very carefully laid their weapons down on the ground. With their hands out and empty, they went to meet the approaching militia.