Page 124 of Close Pursuit

Alex had been the one to give the FBI Natasha’s name and phone number. It hadn’t taken the bureau any longer than the CIA’s call with her to pinpoint her location.

She always did like to live beyond her means. A superficial look at her finances had apparently shown her to be deep in debt and abruptly the recipient of regular, large cash infusions to her bank account staring about a year ago.

The FBI trace of the fund’s source petered out in Cyprus, a favorite banking center of both the Russian mob and the more clandestine elements of the Russian government.

The FBI couldn’t prove conclusively that she was on the FSB payroll, but she was definitely in bed with someone who was. Alex mentally rolled his eyes. She was one hooker who genuinely enjoyed her job. A natural slut who’d parlayed her proclivities into a nice life for herself. Although, that house of cards was seconds from tumbling down around her.

The SWAT team fanned out around the warehouse, approaching it stealthily. They’d already finished spotting and taking out the lookouts who’d been ranged around the warehouse. Natasha’s men, no doubt. The bitch was nothing if not cautious.

The SWAT team froze all of a sudden…and then turned around and ran full out away from the warehouse.What the hell?

Without warning, alotof black-clad figures rose up on the roof of the warehouse, swung over the side on short lines and crashed through the high windows of the warehouse. More popped up and started shooting at the FBI team below.

Thankfully, the SWAT guys were wearing full body armor and seemed unscathed as they dived for cover and commenced firing back at the unexpected targets.

More shots were fired…and they came frominsidethe warehouse.

Alex’s heart dropped to his feet and he lurched forward. Something big and heavy slammed into his back, knocking him to the ground.

“Stay out of this,” Ian growled in his ear.

“Get off me! They’re shooting in there!”

“She’s my sister, too.” Ian ground out. “But you’d be in the way. Let the pros do their job.”

“Who the fuck are they?” he whispered urgently to Mike, who was wearing a headset beside him.

“SWAT doesn’t know who’s on the roof. FBI’s reporting incoming high-caliber rounds delivered with sniper-like accuracy, though.”

Alex bit out reluctantly, “Any chance my old man’s people got here first?”

Ian showed the white of his eyes over that prospect and he muttered into his headset hastily borrowed from the SWAT supervisors, “It’s possible those are Russian Spetznatz troops.”

To Alex he said, “All the more reason to proceed with caution. They’re badass mo’ fo’s.”

Alex swore and pulled out his cell phone. He punched in the country code for Russia and city code for Moscow. He dialed the number and jammed the phone to his ear.

Without bothering to say hello, he said, “Tell me those aren’t your guys on top of that warehouse.”

“Hello, son. Good…morning, your time. To what do I owe the honor of a call from you?”

“You know damned well why I’m calling you.”

“Did you lose your familyagain?” Roman asked solicitously.

“What do you want?” Alex ground out.

“Whatever do you mean?” Roman asked blandly.

“Don’t fuck with me. Name your price for calling off your goons.”

“They are notmygoons,” Roman snapped, abruptly all business. “They belong to General Shermayev and his flunkies over at the Ministry of Defense.”

Alex frowned. Shermayev was a notable hawk within the Russian regime. An extreme neo-con and zealous patriot who believed Mother Russia was well overdue for a return to the glory days of the USSR. “What the hell does Shermayev have to do with this?”

“I’m sure I don’t know—” Roman started.

“Don’t lie to me. What’s Katie to Shermayev and his cronies?”

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