Private Beijing

Chapter 84

The passenger door opened and I felt hands grab me under my arms and haul me out. I tried to resist but was dazed and weak. I became vaguely aware of words beneath the ringing that filled my head.

Then I understood them.

“Jack! Come on! We’ve got to get out of here.”

I thought I recognized the voice, but my memory couldn’t place it. When I looked up I saw a face I definitely recognized.

Master Gunnery Sergeant Marlon West.

The lean, muscular Marine was in civilian clothes — a dark hooded top and black jeans — and pulled me clear as the driver and his passenger started to come to their senses.

I tried to make my legs work and found some purchase.

West half carried, half dragged me to his pick-up truck, a large Ford F-350. By the time we reached the vehicle, I was able to haul myself into the passenger seat. He ran round to the driver’s seat and started the engine, which growled reassuringly beneath the crumpled hood.

I saw a dazed “Mark” reaching for his phone as West put the truck in reverse and stepped on the gas. When we cleared the intersection he pulled a sharp U-turn and raced north, scanning the road, which was empty in both directions.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Morgan,” he said. He was talking fast, his adrenaline high, but I was having difficulty focusing and took a moment to process his words. “Erin sent me to meet you, but when I arrived those two goons were already there so I had to improvise. You okay?”

I nodded and the world swam.

“We don’t have long,” he said. “If they want you as badly as I think they do, they’re going to set half of Moscow against us.”

West and I had worked together during my investigation into Karl Parker’s murder. My old friend had been assassinated as part of an attempt to cover up a massive Russian Intelligence operation. West had successfully smuggled me out of the US Embassy when the Russians had been tearing Moscow apart looking for me. I knew him to be smart, dependable, and fiercely brave.

“We need to get you to the embassy, sir,” he said.

I tried to reply, but my words were mumbled and indistinct.

“Excuse me, sir,” he replied. “I didn’t catch that.”

I took a breath and composed myself.

“I said, call me Jack.”

“Will do, sir — I mean Jack.”

He smiled and I tried to smile back, but I had a horrible feeling it was a grimace. My chest and back were aching with the pain of the impact.

I took a moment to get my bearings and realized that rather than taking us away from the airport, West was following the approach road to the main terminal building.

He must have sensed my concern.

“We need to ditch the pick-up,” he explained. “They will be looking for it. A taxi will be better.”

I nodded, relieved the gesture didn’t spark another explosion of pain. My muscle control and nerves started to feel as though they were returning to normal. Hopefully there hadn’t been any serious damage from the impact.

West steered the F-350 into one of the airport parking lots and we hurried out to catch a taxi from the deserted rank.

The driver, a taciturn middle-aged man with a perpetual scowl and a cigarette hanging from his lip, nodded when West told him our destination and we set off for home turf.