Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [66]
Arnoff turned to the sixth man, the stranger in the room. “Do you believe this svoloch, Gutov?”
Gutov looked at Prince in disgust and spit out a single word. “Nyet.”
Arnoff stood up. He was tall and muscular, with a perpetual tan and thick white hair that was combed perfectly in place.
“Anton Antonovich Gutov is your replacement. He doesn’t believe you. I don’t believe you. No one believes you.”
Nathaniel stood there, his pants around his ankles, his legs and genitals burning hot, his dignity and his dreams gone.
“You were the golden boy, Nathaniel,” Arnoff said, a hint of regret in his voice. “Another five years, and you would have been seated among us. But now, the gold is tarnished. The price of your mistake is ten million dollars. If you pay it, you can return to Russia and live out your days without threat from us. Your prior service has earned you that.”
Nathaniel dropped to his knees, more overcome by the blessed reprieve than the intense pain. “Thank you,” he said, weeping. “Thank you.”
Chapter 78
I WAS DESPERATE to find Katherine before Chukov did.
I phoned, e-mailed, and texted. No whining, no pining, no please come back, I need you messages—even though that’s how I felt. I made it clear that the people who were after me could come after her and that I had to get her out of harm’s way immediately.
By midmorning I still had no idea where she was.
But the Fortress was battle-ready. Ty had set up a surveillance post on the roof that gave him clear visuals of all points of access to the building. Zach was on the first floor, waiting in his apartment to flank our enemies and trap them inside when they charged up the stairs. Adam and I were in my apartment, tactical harnesses strapped on, magazines checked, going over our points of cover one more time.
“Déjà vu,” he said. “Takes me back to Phantom Fury.”
“Not a place I want to go back to,” I said.
And yet I go back there in my head all the time.
Operation Phantom Fury had been part of the second battle of Fallujah. A year after Saddam fell, the insurgents had turned the city into a rat’s nest of booby traps, IEDs, and snipers. Adam, Zach, Ty, and I were attached to Third Battalion, 1st Marines—the Thundering Third.
Our mission was to take Fallujah back one block at a time.
I was leading a squad of nine men when we took on enemy fire from the top floor of the Qukayh Hotel. We ducked into an abandoned apartment building and raced up the stairs to get a better shot at the hotel hajjis. As soon as we made it to the roof, two of our guys were hit. The rest of us scrambled for cover, but it was only a matter of time before they’d either pick us off or hit the roof with mortar fire.
I was about to give the order to head back down the stairs, when the insurgents stormed through the front door and started heading up.
Pinned down by fire from above and with the enemy blocking our retreat below, we radioed for an evac team. Tank support was still six blocks away, trying to navigate through a maze of IEDs.
We were carrying two wounded, running low on ammo, and didn’t have enough cover to wait for air support.
There was only one way out. Down the stairs through a shitstorm of enemy bullets. I figured half of us would make it out alive. I was ready to go first.
I’d be dead if it hadn’t been for Middleson. Jody Middleson was nineteen, a kid from rural Kentucky who spent most of his free time thumbing through a dog-eared Bible, playing the harmonica, and writing home to his mother, father, and his four sisters. I’d never seen him drunk, never heard him curse, and rumor had it he was still a virgin.
“No, sir,” Jody said. “The squad needs you. I’ll go first.”
“Thanks, but it’s not your call, Private Middleson,” I said.
The kid had never disobeyed an order until that day.
He didn’t argue. He just pulled the pins on two grenades and ran for the rooftop entrance to the hotel.
I screamed at him to stop but he kept running, miraculously