That Time in Moscow Logan Ryles (book suggestions .txt) 📖

Koslov allowed Megan and Wolfgang to lift him by the arms and shove him feet-first into the chute. A moment later, he slid out of sight into the dark tube, leaving behind him nothing but the stench of household garbage.

Wolfgang grabbed Megan by the hand and steadied her as she wrinkled her nose and poked one foot into the chute, then the other. Around the corner, a fist pounded on a door—Sparrow’s door, no doubt—then Wolfgang recognized Ivan’s pissed-off tone demanding entry.

“Go!” he said.

Megan wiggled her hips into the chute, then crossed both arms over her chest as though she were a kid at the top of a water slide. Wolfgang gave her a little push, and then she was gone. He lifted one foot and stuck his leg in, then contemplated for the first time exactly what he was about to do. He thought about the mucky inside of the tube, coated with rotting garbage and maybe broken glass. At the bottom—assuming the tube wasn’t jammed and Koslov and Megan weren’t already stuck halfway down—there would be more garbage, and maybe more glass. Maybe a broken bicycle with its handlebars jammed upward, ready to slide between his legs and—

Sparrow’s door exploded open, and Russians shouted. Wolfgang threw his other leg into the tube and wriggled inside. At six one and a buck eighty, Wolfgang wasn’t a big guy, but he was bigger than Koslov and a lot bigger than Megan. He felt his hips grind into the edges of the chute, and momentary panic clouded his mind. He wriggled farther in, wincing as sharp metal scraped against his pants as it moved across his hip bones.

Wolfgang pushed and grunted, grabbing the inside of the chute and pulling himself until his hips slid inside. Both of his feet were in the clear now, kicking against the inside of the chute, but the metal mouth now ground against his elbows.

His eyes watered, and he twisted. Then he heard another shout and looked to his left to see Ivan burst around the corner.

The big Russian paused mid-step as their gazes met. Ivan’s eyes blazed with fury, and his face flushed red, then he shouted something in Russian and lunged forward, reaching for his gun.

Wolfgang grinned and winked, then jammed his elbows against his ribcage and dropped through the chute. The dirty inside of the tube smacked against his sides, but there wasn’t time to worry about glass or tetanus or whether Megan was trapped beneath him. He hurtled downward like a bullet, his butt riding along the bottom of the tube and only partially slowing his descent. The sound of shouting Russians faded away, and then his feet hit something soft and bright light flashed in his eyes.

Wolfgang crumpled into the dumpster, where black trash bags surrounded him on all sides. Megan clambered over the bags and held out a hand, shouting something about guns.

Pistol shots rang from overhead, and Wolfgang scrambled over the trash. He climbed to the top of the mound, then rolled over the side of the dumpster and landed on concrete as bullets smacked into the dumpster, ringing like cowbells. His knees hit first, then his hands. Megan yanked him up by the collar and pushed him forward, then the three of them broke out across the parking lot in a mad dash for life.

He ran like he hadn’t run since he was a kid, blasting through the hills and trees of West Virginia. He imagined his bare feet pounding over rocks and sticks without pause, the thick callouses on his soles protecting him. As a kid, he’d often imagined he was running for his life—not in West Virginia, but in the Amazon jungle or the deserts of South Africa.

Or the streets of a big city, someplace far away.

Be careful what you wish for, fool.

The team hurtled through the parking lot and didn’t bother looking for the ambulance. Edric and the others were either long gone or already in Russian Federal custody. Either way, Wolfgang had to get Koslov out of the country.

“How far to the train station?” he shouted.

“Two miles. Let’s move!” Megan led the way around another corner and across a narrow Russian street. Koslov ran between them, already panting and glancing over his shoulder every few seconds as if a pack of wolves was right on his heels.

Not far from the truth.

“Katya?” Koslov managed between pants. “Katya?”

Wolfgang felt a strange weight descend on his chest. He saw Sparrow again, lying on her back in the Russian detention cell, choking for air as her deteriorated lungs finally gave out. He wondered what her final thoughts were and if she thought of Pascha the way he thought of her now.

“Run, Koslov!” Wolfgang said, placing a hand on his shoulder and urging him forward. Each step against the concrete shot waves of pain up his knees, and his head throbbed, but he didn’t dare look over his shoulder. He just followed Megan, winding in and out of alleyways and backstreets.

Wolfgang didn’t hear the wail of Russian sirens behind him, but the SVR wouldn’t use police cars or helicopters. They would use generic black sedans and silenced pistols, ready to assassinate them as presumed terrorists.

He stole a glance at the passing rooftops, recalling the first time he’d encountered Ivan in an apartment building in Paris when Ivan was armed with a silenced sniper rifle. Did he have a rifle now? Had he somehow circled ahead of them and was even now sighting down the barrel of his weapon, watching as his targets crashed toward him in single file?

An ideal setup for a sniper. Three quick presses of the trigger, and we all bite the dust.

“Left turn!” Megan snapped, jerking them suddenly into an alley.

Wolfgang smelled grease and fried pork and felt a sudden craving for egg rolls. As they crashed forward, he realized they were passing behind a Chinese restaurant, and Russian shouts reverberated through the open back door.

They’re close.

Koslov flagged, leaning forward and holding his side.

Wolfgang pushed him,