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“Sukha!” Bitch,
A desperate man with nothing more than will, a submachine gun with a half-magazine load of 9-millimeter hollow points, a dumb plan, and a prayer.
Zoya’s tactical brain had no trouble formulating and delivering the bad news. She was fucked.
He’d just gotten to Wall Street Station, had just begun walking down the stairs, when he received a text from a number he didn’t recognize. The single line of characters was in Cyrillic, Russian, and translated they read, The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. Instantly Mozgovoy stopped, turned, and ran back up the steps, hearing the curses of several commuters while doing so. Once back at street level, with a shaky thumb he tapped out a response. The second best time is now. It was the challenge response, a fail-safe way for him to receive information from the GRU in emergencies,
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There was something slimy and insincere about Sebastian Drexler.
“We’re working with the GRU now.” “In this delicate and very crucial matter . . . correct.” “On the streets of New York City.” “In this delicate and very crucial matter . . . correct.”
“Are you saying Russian military intelligence is our ally?” “Right now, they are.”
“You’ll have to excuse my bafflement, sir. It’s a lot to take in that we are working with Russian assassins on the streets of the United States.”
Her mouth quivered a little as she sat there, transfixed as if a spell had been cast upon her. Her words came out hoarse, like she had not spoken in months. “Is . . . it . . . you?” Court Gentry gave her a nervous smile, his hands quivering a little where they cradled the coffee.
