THE GIRL NEXT DOOR
Chapter Five: Ambush
Steve dove forward instinctively, tackling Nicolayev, burying him under his own form, listening to the percussion of the shot echo from warehouse wall to wall. The tackle must have knocked the wind out of him, because he was having a lot of trouble catching his breath. Nicolayev squirmed under him, struggling to rise, but he held him down forcefully, reaching across between them for the butt of his pistol. The movement awoke a burning blossom of pain low on his ribs and he stopped again, his breath squeezed from his chest. Well, damn. Now that he thought about it, he could remember having a little help with that tackle - something like a kick of a mule hurtling him forward and into Nicolayev. He must have stopped one. Thank God for Kevlar.
He reached more slowly for his gun, breathing in ragged, careful gasps, ear cocked for the next shot. Nothing so far, but they could just be waiting to see what the damage was. Now that the pain in his back had made itself known, it was pushing relentlessly at him, wrapping around his ribs and stabbing through them. Kevlar was a blessing - it had saved many a cop's life - but his real gratitude would be for the guy who figured out a way to absorb the impact so that when a vest stopped a bullet it didn't feel like somebody had taken a wide swing at you with a crowbar He curled his hand around his gun and forced Nicolayev to meet his eyes. "On my count of three," he hissed, as loudly as he dared. "The warehouse."
Nicolayev looked like he wanted to object, but Steve didn't give him a chance. "One" He sucked in a Spartan portion of air. "Two." He had his gun out of the holster and at the ready, hidden under his chest. "Three!" He swung up onto his knees, almost keeling over at the surprise thrust of white heat from one side of his back. He sensed Nicolayev scrambling into a crouching run, fired twice. He managed a shambling climb to his own feet, fired again. There was an answering shot and he tried to place it, but the empty echo among the buildings made it sound as if it was coming from everywhere at once. The next shot was easier to track: it plowed into the macadam at his feet, kept him moving forward, pushing Nicolayev in front of him. They slammed through the warehouse entry and a dark, damp quiet closed around them.
Steve braced himself just to the side of the door, gun cocked and ready, waiting, huffing sporadic puffs of air, trying to remember the trick of steady breathing. He let the wall take his weight at the shoulders, peered through the entrance into the yard. For the moment all was quiet. He noticed something lying on the scarred tar outside the warehouse, groaned inside. The envelope. Just great. Wonder if it's worth making a run to nab it. As if the sniper had read his mind, another shot pinged through the night, followed by another. Tiny shreds of paper danced in the air, settled. Steve swore quietly but emphatically, staring at the tattered mess of paper where the envelope had been. All right, well, Nicolayev would just have to tell him what was inside it. Quick as a snake, his right hand shot out and grasped Nicolayev's lapel, pulled him close.
It would have been an impressive demonstration of intimidation if his legs hadn't chosen that moment to protest sudden movement, dissolving underneath him and sliding him down the wall to deposit him ignominiously on his knees. His grasp on Nicolayev didn't loosen, and he brought him along to the floor.
"You are hit" Nicolayev's voice sounded fuzzy and faraway, then things sharpened again and he drew a more normal breath.
"My vest stopped it. It's just a bruise." The mother of all bruises, from the feel of it.Hopefully he hadn't cracked anything. Oh, well. Plenty of time to worry about that later. He tightened his grip on the lapel and gave it a shake, his voice sharpening. "And buddy, you better not have set me up, or you'll be wishing that you were the one who stopped that bullet"
. . . . . . .
Mark stood riveted to the monitors. It was ridiculous, of course, to think that his vigilance would somehow keep everything under control and everyone safe, but he did feel that - that if he looked away for even a minute, terrible things would happen. He watched carefully as Steve entered the small yard between the warehouses, almost gasped with surprise when Nicolayev appeared suddenly from the shadows in front of him He blew out a soft breath of relief as he saw Nicolayev brandish an envelope. Everything was going all right, then - this was all going to end peacefully. His squeezed his eyes shut and massaged the lids. There was a smothered exclamation from Ron, and then suddenly everyone seemed to be moving at once. His eyes sprang back open in alarm.
"What happened? What - ?" He didn't really expect an answer. The command area was suddenly abuzz with activity, Ron barking questions into his head mike, the surveillance team feeding him quick answers. They were all doing what he would want them to be doing - taking care of the situation - he turned his eyes almost painfully back to the screen to see what had happened. His heart gave an anxious bump. Steve was lying on the ground, on top of Nicolayev. For a moment they were so still that he feared the worst, then he saw Steve lift his head and relief whooshed through of him. Oh, thank God. I'm really getting too old for this, Steve. Have you ever thought about a career in accounting?
He became peripherally aware of Ron's voice nearby and, his most urgent concerns settled, tried to listen more carefully, never taking his eyes from the screen.
"…can you tell me where the hell that shot came from? I want a lock on it!"
He saw Steve roll onto his knees in shooting position, saw his gun jerk as it fired. Nicolayev gathered himself into a half crouch and scuttled toward the door, hesitated.
"Well, somebody has to be able to tell! The angle, at least, should tell you something!"
Steve backed toward the warehouse door again, pushing Nicolayev none-too-gently before him. Mark winced as a short burst of bullets buried themselves near Steve's feet, hurrying him to the entrance. Or maybe teaching. I always thought you'd make a fine teacher.
"Look, you're telling me I have seven topflight men out there and they can't locate one, single sniper? I don't need history right now, I need results! I want somebody to figure out where that fire is coming from and to take the shooter out or, better yet, into custody!"
The warehouse door swung shut, blocking both Steve and Nicolayev from his sight. Mark continued to stare at the screen, as though the mere act of will would force it to show him what was unavailable by camera. He frowned slightly, registering something that had been nipping at the edges of his conscious observation. Something was funny about . . . that's it. Steve was limping. Of course, he had hit the pavement pretty hard . . . He reached up to rub at the furrows in his forehead. Even a garbage man. Garbage man would be fine. Nice, steady work . . .
"Damn." He turned in surprise. He hadn't heard Ron come up behind him, saw that he was staring at the screen over his shoulder. "Phillips and Jasper - I want you on the ground and in that warehouse - find and secure Nicolayev and Sloan." Ron frowned at the image of the warehouse yard. "Off camera. We can't see a damn thing they're doing in there."
"But they're safer," Mark pointed out. "Out of the line of fire."
"Yeah . . . " Ron did not look cheered. "Maybe. I don't know. Seems to me like he could have taken them out a dozen times over, though, if he had a mind to. Almost like he was - pushing them into the warehouse. Herding them."
. . . . . .
"Me!" Nicolayev tried to dislodge Steve from his lapel. "You think I would be foolish enough to let someone fire a gun so close to me? You think maybe I have a wish for death?"
"Death wish," Steve corrected without thinking. "I think that a good sharpshooter wouldn't have any trouble missing you and getting me. Or -" Damn. A good sharpshooter wouldn't have any trouble hitting him either - and would know enough to aim for his head. After all, he was a cop alone on a high-risk job - what were the odds that he wouldn't be wearing a vest?
He used the wall to force himself back to his feet, dragging Nicolayev with him and ignoring the protest from his back. "Come on -" he said abruptly, pushing Nicolayev in front of him. "We have to keep moving. Is there another way out of this warehouse?"
Nicolayev shrugged elegantly. "There is the dock, of course - one or two other doors, too, I think. I own them, but I do not memorize the floor plans. I leave that to my managers"
"Great." Steve glanced around hastily at the dusky interior. "A real hands-on kind of guy, huh? Let's try this way."
Nicolayev balked. "I do not see the need," he pointed out flatly. "In here we are safe from bullets. Why would we want to leave?"
"You mean aside from the fact that we can't stay here forever?" Steve turned him forcibly around and gave him a shove to get him started. "I'm not so sure we're safe at all. Stay as quiet as you can."
. . . . . . .
"Herding . . . ?" Mark turned his eyes back to the screen, though there wasn't much to see. The warehouse yard remained quiet. Oddly quiet, now that he came to think about it. Surely there should be some sort of activity? Even at this hour? He took a step closer to the screen as though he might be able to shake the truth out of it. "What are you saying? That it was some sort of setup? A trap? You think that Nicolayev . . . ?"
"Maybe Nicolayev" Ron shook his head. "Maybe somebody else. Look, Dr. Sloan, don't get yourself worked up - I don't know anything about what's going on here - I'm just trying a few different equations to put the pieces together. If they can find that sniper and bring him in alive, then we'll know a whole lot more."
There was a sudden burst activity among the agents and Mark swung back to the monitor, searching
Ron barked into his mike, "What was that about? Everybody okay? Sound off!" He gestured to the audio surveillance agent to flip the switch that would broadcast the sound, instead of limiting it to the headsets. Mark nodded his thanks.
"We're okay."
Mark could hear a voice he didn't really recognize crackle over the soundboard where the agent was adjusting the sound level.
"We were just trying to lower ourselves into the yard when they opened fire. More than one - from all directions. I have a feeling somebody doesn't want us down there"
"Yeah? Well I do want you down there! See that two of you make it down and into that warehouse! The rest of you provide cover!"
Mark kept his eyes on the screen, mesmerized. The yard was quiet again, the bright bursts that indicated gunfire for the moment vanished. White scraps of - something - were standing out against the black pavement and he peered more closely, trying to identify them. He pointed. "Can you zoom in on that?"
Ron glanced over to see what he was indicating. "We can on the tape." He nodded to one member of the video surveillance team. "Pull the tape of the last few minutes, will you? I want to look at it on another screen while we wait."
They studied the tiny image while they waited for the tape to cue up. There was another round of gunfire, and Mark turned hastily away, moved his gaze to the agent working on the tape. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to hide their shaking.
"They had two hours, right?" he burst out suddenly. Ron didn't answer right away, and Mark could hear him checking in with his men after the latest round of fire. He followed his own train of thought. "To set things up, I mean. Steve met Nicolayev two hours after he received the call. So if it isn't Nicolayev . . . " He watched the tape spring to life on the screen. "And I'm not saying that it isn't. But if not - then how on earth did they know to get it into place in time?"
. . . . . . .
There is someone else in here. If Steve had ever been sure of anything, he was sure of that Not someone as in a dockworker or a forklift operator - someone sliding stealthily through the shadows, looking for them. Hunting them. The question was, why? It would sure be nice if someone would give him a clue - even a small clue - of what was going on here. The only good news was that a warehouse was a pretty good place to hide: plenty of tall stacks of boxes, plenty of dark corners.
They had decided against trying for the dock doors - too obvious, too likely to be watched - and were looking for a handy fire exit instead. With any luck, they could even set off an alarm. That might discourage their shadowy friend.
There was an intermittent popping sound, like someone had set off a string of firecrackers, and Steve automatically pushed Nicolayev to the floor. He frowned, holding him there. Gunfire? Outside? But they were in here. Maybe Ron's men had taken out the sniper.
He tapped Nicolayev's back. "Stay here," he whispered. "I'm gonna check that out." He lifted his gun. At least he still had that with him.
Using the wall as a guide, he started toward where the sound seemed to be loudest. And made it about three steps.
Something slammed into him, low on the ribs, right where the bullet had struck him, dropping him to his knees, the world humming away from him. He felt his gun yanked from his grasp, the chill of the concrete floor slap his cheek, saw a familiar pair of three hundred dollar shoes hurry past his face. His ribs were on fire, he was half-blind with pain, but none of that could begin to compete with a third sensation. He was mad as hell.
He reached out for one of the expensive shoes and snagged a pant leg instead, pulled with all his might He heard a satisfying smack of flesh hitting concrete, the rough skitter of his gun sliding across the floor. Resisting the urge to feel for his back and make sure it was still there, he dragged the pant leg toward him, rolled himself on top of it and pinned it to the floor, feeling for something on his belt behind him.
"You've got to watch it, Nicolayev," he ground out, coughing to clear his throat around whatever seemed to have settled deep in his lungs and giving a satisfied grunt as his hand rested on what he was looking for. "Running makes you look kind of guilty. I know that's not the impression you were going for"
Nicolayev struggled under him. "If someone wants to kill you, then why should I stay and be in danger, too? I told you the truth before, but I have no interest in dying."
"What makes you think they're trying to kill me? Your conscience so clear? No enemies to speak of?" Steve managed to subdue one wrist and encircled it with a handcuff, snicking it closed. Before Nicolayev could catch on, he slid the other cuff around his own wrist and pushed the lock home on that one, too.
"There." He rolled off of Nicolayev and sat up, wheezing. "Since you're the one who wanted to see me so badly, I know you'd hate for us to be separated. So okay - you called this little tête à tête - you have my undivided attention. Keeping it nice and quiet, I want to know what was in that envelope, and anything - and I mean ANYTHING - you know about the possible whereabouts of my friend."
Nicolayev answered long and volubly in his native tongue, and Steve gave him a wolfish smile in response He didn't understand a word he'd heard, but he was pretty sure of the basic content and that it would have been enough to make a Russian sailor blush. He leaned back against the wall, feeling for the sore spot on his back, one ear cocked for any signs of their pursuer.
"Yeah," he agreed, wincing a little as he found the bruised area. "My sentiments exactly."
