The icy snow crunched beneath Kline’s feet. Breath turned to mist in the bitter cold. Kline paused. Rustam Egorov’s colossal estate rested at the end of the cobblestone street. A massive stone wall with cameras, searchlights, and gun turrets ran around the circumference of the mansion. A side street led right up to the entrance gate.
Kline leaned against the exterior of a store in the sleepy little village on the outskirts of Moscow’s intimidating metropolis and watched the heavily armed guards patrol the exterior wall. Rustam valued his own life as much as his assets. Arms dealers who sold to known terrorists didn’t retain power for long. Both enemies and friends wanted what the Russian possessed. The fortune he’d spent on the estate’s defenses bought him a little extra time and peace of mind.
XLS satellite imaging and predictive modeling gave Kline a detailed schematic of the compound’s exterior. The inside remained a mystery. Rumor had it that underground bunkers protected a large weapons stash and Rustam’s own bedroom. Lavish paranoia—such was the life of Russia’s most notorious arms dealer.
“You got a light?”
The redheaded Irish mercenary held out a cigarette. Kline frowned. “You’re late.”
Sean Kelly, a former special ops agent, checked his own pockets and peered beyond Kline.
“You need me an’ the boys ta get in thar?”
“You’re just a distraction. Attack the outer wall. If you break through, take what you want. Just stay out of my way.”
“Fa’r ‘nough. Payment?”
Kline pulled what looked like a loaf of bread from his coat pocket. Kelly checked the weight of the bag.
“The power will be cut off right before we go in,” said Kline, “but the gun turrets and the searchlights will still be functional.”
Kelly nodded. “He’s probably watchin’ us right now.”
“I hope so.”
The Irishman squinted. “Tomorrow night, then.”
“Don’t be late.”
The mercenary tipped his hat, turned, and whistled as he sauntered off down the street.
