Full Black - Brad Thor [12]
A good portion of the man’s suit coat and the shirt beneath were shredded. Once Ralston had ascertained that he had no pulse, he began peeling the strips of cloth away around his right armpit. He heard the closet door unlock, and seconds later Salomon was behind him.
“Who the hell are they?” he asked.
“Spetsnaz,” replied Ralston. “Russian Special Forces, I think.”
“How can you tell?”
Ralston lifted the dead man’s arm and pointed to the blue-black Cyrillic tattoo. “That’s how they mark their blood type.”
“What the hell are they doing here? Why would Russian Special Forces soldiers want to kill me?”
“You’re not the only one they came for.”
“Oh, my God,” said Salomon. “Chip and Jeremy. They were downstairs. I heard two shots.” His voice trailed off.
“They’re both dead. What were they doing here? And what the hell happened to your office?”
“We were working on a film; a documentary,” Salomon said, and then changed the subject. “We need to call the police.”
“No. We need to get someplace safe,” said Ralston. “We’ve got to think.”
“Think?” replied Salomon. “This guy killed Chip and Jeremy and was trying to make me the third. He could be some homicidal maniac, for all we know. We need to call the cops.”
Ralston stood up. “This is a professional wet work team. A Russian wet work team.”
“Team?”
“There was a driver outside and at least two others inside the house.”
Salomon was trying to piece it all together. “And you killed three of them?”
Ralston nodded.
“How did you know?”
“I saw tire tracks leading up the service road. I tried to call you, but I couldn’t get a signal.”
“My cell was down, too,” said Salomon.
“They must have some sort of jammer. Like I said, these guys were professional.” Ralston stepped off the towels and out of the bathroom. Reaching for the shotgun, he repeated, “There may be more of them. We need to get going.”
The producer shook his head. “I know how this plays out. If we don’t stay here and wait for the cops, we’ll look guilty.”
“And if we do stay and wait for the cops, we’ll both be dead. I’m not going to let that happen. The Russians have infiltrated a lot of police departments across the country.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” said Ralston. “We’re not trusting anyone else at this point. When these guys fail to report back in, whoever sent them might send more. They’re going to use every contact, every means they have at their disposal. We need to disappear.”
Salomon began to object, but Ralston was already making his way across the bedroom. “Are you comfortable using this?” Ralston asked as he handed his friend the suppressed pistol.
“I’d rather have the shotgun.”
Ralston nodded and handed it over. Raising the pistol, he prepared to enter the hallway and said, “Stay close. And if you see anything move at all, you pull that trigger. Got it? Don’t even worry about aiming.”
Salomon nodded and the pair slipped into the hallway and down the back stairs. They stopped at the dining room long enough for Ralston to grab his shoes. He thought about wiping his fingerprints off the handle of the knife that lay only feet away, but decided it wasn’t worth the time. They needed to get out of there as quickly as possible. His damaged Porsche was already going to tell the world that he had been there.
In the garage, Ralston grabbed a flashlight and walked over to the key box. He bypassed all of Salomon’s luxury automobiles and selected the keys for his vintage navy blue Wagoneer.
Disengaging the overhead opener, he rolled up the garage door and told Salomon to get in the truck. Hopping in beside him, he fired up the Wagoneer and pulled into the motor court.
The gates at the bottom of the drive were on a separate circuit from the house and opened as the Wagoneer rolled over the pressure plates. The marine layer had turned into a thick fog. That would work to their advantage and it helped Ralston decide in which direction to head.
“You’re bleeding,” said Salomon as they turned out onto