front of his headquarters. Despite the weather, he was wearing a thick coat made of bear fur and a hat of the same material.
“Bolshe!”
he barked into a satellite phone. He listened to the response, then said,
“Ne vazhno!”
into the mouthpiece, and thumbed off the phone.
He signaled to a group of men standing close by. A line of five identical midnight-blue Audi A8 sedans pulled to the empty curb. As Viktor prepared to enter the back seat of the middle car, the satellite phone in his hand seemed to change color, as if a shroud of shadow had been draped over it. A low sound, outside the human hearing threshold, came, short and sharp:
“!”
JUST BEFORE daylight, a Chicago cop stared through the windshield of his cruiser. “Holy Jumping Jesus Christ! I’vebeen on the force since before you were born, kid. And I’ve never seen anything like … that.”
Both the retirement-age sergeant and the rookie sitting next to him were staring at bodies draped over a row of identical dark-blue sedans. Each body had been skinned, graphically displaying that all were missing large bones, from femurs to skulls.
Neither cop noticed the city-camo shark as it slipped past the scene. Running without headlights, it looked more like a shifting shadow than a car.
Inside that shark, Buddha said, “Someone got to him first, boss.” His gloved hands delicately fingered the thickly padded steering wheel as his eyes checked the instrument display projected on the lower windshield.
“Viktor always was an optimist.”
“Huh?”
“He was a HALO jumper,” Cross said. “Absolutely positive his chute would open whenever he decided to pull the cord. This time, the ground got there first.”
“Chang sees a picture of this, he’ll think you worked some magic, getting it done so fast.”
“Yeah. So will the Russians.”
“
They
paid, too?”
“More than Chang. The Russian Bear is a sacred icon to them. In their eyes, Viktor was looting a national treasure.”
“But it had to be some of their own people doing the actual poaching.”
“Sure. But that’s their problem, at their end. We only got paid to solve the one at ours.”
“Comes out perfect, boss. It’s like Viktor’s number came up, and we
hit
that number at the same time.”
“Yeah,” Cross said. “Perfect.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Come on, Buddha. You saw those bodies yourself. All of a sudden we got partners?
Silent
partners?”
THE ROUND screen in the War Room flickered. “What the hell is he up to now? More damn driving around the city?” the blond man muttered, moving a joystick to control the screen images.
With the camera’s eyes, the team saw Cross step out of the camo car, which immediately pulled away. They watched as he walked to the back of the shack on the pier, grabbed a pole thick enough for a firehouse, and slid smoothly down until he disappeared from sight.
The pole itself went all the way into the water, but Cross only dropped about halfway down—slowing whenever his boots made contact with the stops jutting out of the pole.
Cross then jumped lightly onto a short landing which had been laboriously constructed under the pier. Within seconds, he was inside his hideout.
The blond man was busy at his private computer, tapping in coordinates, watching the screen for data translation. All of a sudden, his expressionless face lit up:
“Got him! Son of a bitch lives in a goddamn
cell
, can you believe it? Let’s see, now.…” He continued to work the computer as street maps flashed on his screen, from macro to micro, zeroing in.
“Yes!” the blond man half-shouted in triumph. “The waterfront, not far from where the ore boats come across the lake. Let’s get rolling. We’re looking for a spot on the north side of Pier 29.”
THE INSTANT the team’s van began to move, it dropped even the vaguest resemblance to any ordinary vehicle. Its sheer mass of “military” and “futuristic” radiated menace.
Cross stepped out
“Bolshe!”
he barked into a satellite phone. He listened to the response, then said,
“Ne vazhno!”
into the mouthpiece, and thumbed off the phone.
He signaled to a group of men standing close by. A line of five identical midnight-blue Audi A8 sedans pulled to the empty curb. As Viktor prepared to enter the back seat of the middle car, the satellite phone in his hand seemed to change color, as if a shroud of shadow had been draped over it. A low sound, outside the human hearing threshold, came, short and sharp:
“!”
JUST BEFORE daylight, a Chicago cop stared through the windshield of his cruiser. “Holy Jumping Jesus Christ! I’vebeen on the force since before you were born, kid. And I’ve never seen anything like … that.”
Both the retirement-age sergeant and the rookie sitting next to him were staring at bodies draped over a row of identical dark-blue sedans. Each body had been skinned, graphically displaying that all were missing large bones, from femurs to skulls.
Neither cop noticed the city-camo shark as it slipped past the scene. Running without headlights, it looked more like a shifting shadow than a car.
Inside that shark, Buddha said, “Someone got to him first, boss.” His gloved hands delicately fingered the thickly padded steering wheel as his eyes checked the instrument display projected on the lower windshield.
“Viktor always was an optimist.”
“Huh?”
“He was a HALO jumper,” Cross said. “Absolutely positive his chute would open whenever he decided to pull the cord. This time, the ground got there first.”
“Chang sees a picture of this, he’ll think you worked some magic, getting it done so fast.”
“Yeah. So will the Russians.”
“
They
paid, too?”
“More than Chang. The Russian Bear is a sacred icon to them. In their eyes, Viktor was looting a national treasure.”
“But it had to be some of their own people doing the actual poaching.”
“Sure. But that’s their problem, at their end. We only got paid to solve the one at ours.”
“Comes out perfect, boss. It’s like Viktor’s number came up, and we
hit
that number at the same time.”
“Yeah,” Cross said. “Perfect.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Come on, Buddha. You saw those bodies yourself. All of a sudden we got partners?
Silent
partners?”
THE ROUND screen in the War Room flickered. “What the hell is he up to now? More damn driving around the city?” the blond man muttered, moving a joystick to control the screen images.
With the camera’s eyes, the team saw Cross step out of the camo car, which immediately pulled away. They watched as he walked to the back of the shack on the pier, grabbed a pole thick enough for a firehouse, and slid smoothly down until he disappeared from sight.
The pole itself went all the way into the water, but Cross only dropped about halfway down—slowing whenever his boots made contact with the stops jutting out of the pole.
Cross then jumped lightly onto a short landing which had been laboriously constructed under the pier. Within seconds, he was inside his hideout.
The blond man was busy at his private computer, tapping in coordinates, watching the screen for data translation. All of a sudden, his expressionless face lit up:
“Got him! Son of a bitch lives in a goddamn
cell
, can you believe it? Let’s see, now.…” He continued to work the computer as street maps flashed on his screen, from macro to micro, zeroing in.
“Yes!” the blond man half-shouted in triumph. “The waterfront, not far from where the ore boats come across the lake. Let’s get rolling. We’re looking for a spot on the north side of Pier 29.”
THE INSTANT the team’s van began to move, it dropped even the vaguest resemblance to any ordinary vehicle. Its sheer mass of “military” and “futuristic” radiated menace.
Cross stepped out
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