The Emperor's Revenge

FIFTY-THREE

Sitting in the driver’s seat, Golov kept his pistol trained on the cathedral’s front door while Sirkal and O’Connor flung the flat tire aside and slammed the spare onto the hub. He knew that neither of the gunshots could have come from the policemen inside. No one survives a slit throat.

The square was deserted. It was unlikely that any passersby had heard the muffled shots or knew they represented gunfire. Still, whoever was inside with Jablonski could have called the police, meaning their window for escape could be growing narrower by the second.

“What’s taking so long?” Golov shouted.

“It took us a while to get the flat tire off!” O’Connor yelled back. “Some of the lugs were screwed on too tight!”

“Well, hurry up!”

“Two on, three to go!” Sirkal called out with a grunt as he spun the wrench.

As Golov expected, someone pulled the church’s large wooden door back. Golov aimed down the sight, ready to nail anyone who came through.

But at that moment, Golov was distracted by motion out of the corner of his eye by the side of the church. Rapid gunshots rang out as bullets burst through the van’s windshield.

More shots blasted from the trees near the park, peppering the rear quarter of the van, where Sirkal and O’Connor were hunched over. They dropped their tools and dived inside the utility vehicle for cover.

Golov started the van, threw it into gear, and mashed the accelerator. Even more shots came from the front of the church, causing Golov to slew the van around and head in the direction of the river.

He could already tell that the spare tire was poorly attached to the van. The steering wheel threatened to tear itself from his hand as the tire wobbled on its hub. All he had to do was get a mile away, where they could ditch the van and steal another car so they could make their escape out of the country with the trunk of papers.

In the rearview mirror, he saw a police car gaining on them fast.

O’Connor saw them, too. “The cops are coming!”

“That’s not the police,” Golov said. “Kill them.”

Sirkal threw the rear door open, trying to take aim at the driver. He got off three shots before the police car was able to overtake them and pull alongside as they approached the Mindaugas Bridge.

Golov glanced over and couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the driver.

It was the same man who’d been at the gala in Malta. The captain of the Oregon. He was in the car with his fake wife and another man.

The captain smiled as he yanked the police car’s steering wheel over and crashed into the side of the van.

With the hobbled wheel, Golov couldn’t keep the van on a straight track. It veered to the right, aiming straight at the bridge’s steel railing.

By instinct, Golov jerked the steering wheel right to avoid a collision with the railing. He realized too late that it was the wrong choice. He stood on the brakes, but the van was already on the wet grass alongside the Neris River. The wheel carved muddy ruts in the ground as the van slid toward the embankment. It flew over the edge and down the soggy slope toward the water. The van smacked, nose first, into the concrete path, bounced up, and splashed into the river.

The air bag saved Golov’s life, but it didn’t leave him unscathed. Blood coursed down his face. His forehead had struck the wheel as the van hit the water. That was nothing compared to the agony of his three fingers, which were dislocated when he had tried to brace himself on the dashboard.

With water swirling around his knees, he turned to see Sirkal and O’Connor in the back. O’Connor was up, but holding his head in both hands.

A screwdriver had impaled Sirkal in the shoulder. He stood and pulled it out without a word. He pressed his hand against the wound to stanch the flow of blood. The two of them left the trunk behind and leaped through the rear of the sinking van.

Golov jumped through the driver’s door into the river, ready to swim to the shore and use the last of his bullets to fight his way up to the bridge. With any luck, they could hijack a car there.

Then he saw the boat moored under the bridge and he knew Providence was smiling on him. He yelled to the others and swam over to it, clenching his jaw from the intense pain of each stroke.

Sirkal was the one to reach it first. Using his powerful, uninjured arm, he pulled himself in, then reached down and heaved O’Connor and Golov inside with him.

Gunshots punched through the boat’s fiberglass hull. O’Connor returned fire while Sirkal pried open the dashboard so that Golov could hot-wire the ignition. His dislocated fingers screamed as he manipulated the wires with his thumb and index finger until the connection was made. With a spark, the engine roared to life.

Sirkal sliced through the lines tying the boat to the bridge, and Golov hammered the throttle forward. He looked back in frustration at leaving Polichev’s formulas to sink in the river. The van’s rear end slid beneath the surface with barely a splash.

He expected the police car to parallel their course along the river. Instead, the man who’d been in the car with the captain was racing down the stairs toward where the van had gone down, stripping off his jacket as he ran. The Oregon’s captain was hot on his heels.

They must have been trying to save the contents of the submerged trunk. Surely the ink and paper would turn into a sodden mess, but if it were saved quickly, the formulas might still be legible.

Golov slowed and spun the wheel, bringing the Sea Ray around in a U-turn.

“What are you doing?” O’Connor yelled, incredulous. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

Golov ignored him and jammed the throttle to its stops, determined that this operation wouldn’t be a complete failure.