“No rest for the wicked,” said Felix, trudging out of the water. “We need to steal a boat or a car and get the hell out of here. I’m leaning toward one of the covered docks we spotted inside the cove. Less chance of getting shot trespassing. Most Americans are more heavily armed than the police.”

“I saw tire tracks near the cove entrance,” said Oleg. “Looks like they lead in the direction of the docks.”

“Can’t they just drive our Jeeps over from the airport?” asked Ksenia.

“The people watching over our gear and Jeeps back at the hangar have been diverted to evacuate the camp burning across the lake,” said Felix. “They moved everything away from the hangar, because the helicopters will eventually be traced back to the airport—but that’s all I know. They’ll contact us when they can spare the personnel to reunite us with our vehicles. Until then, I want to get as far from here as possible.”

Felix grabbed his backpack and tossed it in front of the group. He’d volunteered to carry the fifteen- to twenty-pound bag because he was a strong swimmer—and didn’t think anyone else would make it across with the equivalent of an anchor strapped to their back. Boots, socks, pistols, and ammunition. The essentials. He’d sealed his satellite phone and wallet in a waterproof bag and stuffed it in one of his cargo pockets.

They’d thrown everything else—the rifles, body armor, helmets, and night vision gear—into the water, as far off the shoreline on the other side of the lake as possible. Why give investigators a sense of their true numbers? Whoever combed through the property would eventually find Oksana and Valerie, unless the camp’s residents cleaned up their bodies. He’d provided their general location to Pichugin’s contact after the helicopter exploded. Let them deal with it.

“Five minutes. Don’t forget to drain your pistols and work the action a few times. Hold your magazines upside down until they stop dripping. We might not be done using them tonight.”

PART VI

PART VI

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 57

Devin opened his eyes to a dark, unfamiliar room. It took a few seconds to figure out exactly where he’d woken up and why. They’d driven through the night to Nashville, passing through the city and checking into the most nondescript motel he’d ever seen—basically, a two-story rectangle with evenly spaced doors and windows. About as inconspicuous as he could imagine, which was almost as big a selling point as the Cracker Barrel restaurant next door.