As soon as he rolled behind the car, he began taking fire.
The Volvo he’d taken from the young CIA officer was instantly perforated with dozens of holes. Steam spewed from the hood and glass shattered in the windows.
Court was on his knees now in the alley behind the car, trying to make himself as small as an engine block, and as concealed as he could be. He was screwed out here as long as he was stuck in this location, and he needed his own way out. He dumped an entire magazine from the .300 Blackout in a “spray and pray” fashion over the hood of the car, shot through and above the roof, then dropped the rifle and pulled his Glock 19. He spun and fired into a darkened window on his right, the same building Zoya had just escaped into. He reached over the Volvo again, this time with the handgun, and fired a dozen or so rounds, hoping to get these assholes to look for some temporary cover.
He rose to his feet and ran for the broken windowpane, diving through it, chased along by gunfire. He landed hard and awkwardly on a school desk, flipping it and himself over several times before coming to a stop.
He rose in the darkened room and fired back through the two windows into the alley, emptying his weapon into a man who appeared there with a submachine gun.
Court reloaded his last mag and fired another eight rounds through all the windows in the room, back towards the alleyway, trying to buy himself some time.
With only a half magazine in his hot pistol, he spun around and began running.
Looking at the layout and the size of the desks in the classroom, Court could tell he was running through a primary school. He bounded out into the hall, his gun ahead of him. He had no idea if the men from the alley would pursue him in here, but he wanted to get as much space as possible between himself and them as quickly as possible.
He slowed to listen for the sounds of other footfalls, hoping to track Zoya, but his ears were shot for the time being and he heard nothing. He started running again, searching for some sort of an exit on the far side of the building.
Within moments, however, he heard the shouted voices of men behind him. The surviving goons from the alley were clearly pouring through the windows. He had a few seconds on them, no more, so he decided this large and dark school might afford him a decent place to hide if he just looked for one.
Turning down a narrow corridor darker than the main halls of the school, he found a door, barely visible until he was just feet away. He turned the latch and was pleased to find it unlocked, so he entered the perfectly darkened room, shut and locked the door, and listened till the racing footsteps of at least four men passed by up the main hall.
* * *
• • •
Jon Hines virtually never left his boss’s side, but as Fox watched his surviving men climb through the windows in pursuit of Zoya and her unknown accomplice, he turned to his big bodyguard. “I want you in there, too.”
“Sir, I watch over you.”
Fox snapped now, “If one of our guys hurts or kills Zoya, Mars will have me killed. Believe me, you preventing that will be the best protection you’ve ever given me.”
Hines zipped up his light leather jacket to obscure his white shirt, then walked over to one of the broken windows. He stepped easily inside and began moving through a series of dark rooms and hallways.
He could hear the other men running and banging their way through doors, and he could tell almost immediately they weren’t clearing every room of this building; instead they seemed to assume the fleeing pair had just shot out an exit onto the street. But Hines himself took his time, moved with silent footfalls, and thought about what he might do if half a dozen gunmen were on his heels as he ran through this building.
He stopped suddenly. What would he do? He’d find a place in this darkened warren to wait for the danger to pass.
He stepped over to a stairwell, moved into complete blackness there, then leaned back against the wall. He was one man; he could not search the multistory school alone, but he could listen for the moment Zoya and her friend decided the coast was clear, and that was when he would pounce.
Hines had a pistol, but he left it in its shoulder holster. Hand-to-hand fighting was more than just his forte; it was his singular passion, so he was determined to get close enough to the male rescuer of Mars’s crazy daughter to snap the man in two. His senses were acute due to some adrenaline, but he wasn’t amped up about the thrill and the danger. Hines had killed many times, yet he’d never been seriously hurt in a hand-to-hand fight, and since his confidence was born out of success, he had no doubts about his prospects tonight.
He’d kill the man with Zoya, and he’d scoop up that little Russian bitch and carry her back to Fox so he could take her home to Daddy.
* * *
• • •
Court stood in the darkened room, waiting perfectly still for a full minute, the only sound his measured but heavy breath. But even after that minute, there wasn’t enough faint light for him to get his bearings. It was clear there were no windows in the room, so he decided to turn on a light.
He felt along the wall for the light switch. As he put his hand on it and started to flip it, another hand slammed down on his, pinning it to the wall.
At the same time he heard the hammer of a pistol being pulled back, just a foot from his head.
Court froze. His left hand was free, but his pistol was on the right side of his body. He could go for it and draw it faster than most anyone on Earth, but not faster than it would take for that hammer behind him to slam forward and ignite a bullet in the gun that was certainly pointed at the back of his head.
He remained perfectly still.
The hand wore a glove, and it clasped around Court’s fingers, then used them to flip on the overhead.
A fluorescent bulb flickered on after a few seconds. Court continued looking towards the wall, even when the gloved hand let go, slid down his body, reached into his right waistband, and drew his pistol out of his pants.
He heard soft footsteps moving backwards several feet in the room.
And then, speaking English, he heard the voice that had been on his mind unceasingly for the past four months.
“Turn around slowly or I blow off your head.”
Court did so. He knew it was Zoya the instant he’d felt her hand on his, so there was no surprise on his face. Only uncertainty. A lot of uncertainty. He didn’t know what she was doing, who she was working for, or why the fuck she was here.
Zoya’s face, in contrast, showed the astonishment she clearly felt. She was nearly ten feet away now, a stainless steel revolver held on Court’s chest, and she peered over the top of the weapon, almost uncomprehendingly.
Court thought she looked exhausted to the point of being ill; sweat beads covered her cheeks and forehead and her hair was soaked. She wore no makeup, and there were dark circles under her eyes, clearly from protracted lack of sleep. Her chest rose and fell noticeably from the exertion of the past minutes.