Tucker returned his full attention to his surroundings.
It was early in Vladivostok, not yet dawn, so the docks were quiet, with only the occasional laborer shuffling through the gloom. Still, he did his best to keep a low profile, trying to blend into the background: just another dockworker.
At least, I hope I look the part.
He was in his late twenties, taller than average, with slightly shaggy blond hair. He further masked his muscular physique under a thick woolen coat and hid the hardness of his eyes beneath the furred brim of a Russian ushanka, or trapper’s hat.
He gave Kane a thumb stroke on the top of the head and got a single wag of his tail in response.
A far cry from home, eh, Kane?
Then again, if you took away the ocean, Vladivostok wasn’t much different from where he’d spent the first seventeen years of his life: the small town of Rolla, North Dakota, near the border with Canada. If anyplace in the United States could give Siberia a run for its money, it was there.
As a kid, he had spent his summers canoeing Willow Lake and hiking the North Woods. In winter, it was cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and ice fishing. But life wasn’t as perfect as that postcard image made it seem. His parents—two schoolteachers—had been killed by a drunk driver when he was three, leaving him in the care of his paternal grandfather, who had a heart attack while shoveling snow one hard winter. Afterward, with no other immediate surviving relatives, he’d been dumped into foster care at thirteen, where he stayed until he petitioned for early emancipation and joined the armed services at seventeen.
He pushed those darker years away, down deep.
No wonder I like dogs better than people.
He brought his focus back to the business at hand.
In this case: assassination.
He studied the docks.
From where would the threat come? And in what form?
Against his advice, his principal—the Russian billionaire and industrialist Bogdan Fedoseev—had scheduled this early-morning visit to the port. For weeks there had been rumors of the dockworkers attempting to unionize, and Fedoseev had agreed to meet with the leaders, hoping to quash his employees into submission. If that tension wasn’t enough of a threat, Tucker suspected a fair number of the workers were also Vladikavkaz Separatists, political terrorists whose main victims were the prominent capitalists in the Russian Far East, making Bogdan Fedoseev a high-value target.
Tucker cared little about politics, but he knew understanding the social landscape came with the job—as was knowing the physical landscape.
He checked his watch. Fedoseev was due to arrive in three hours. By then, Tucker needed to know every nook and cranny of this place.
He looked down at Kane. “What do you say, pal? Ready to work?”
In answer, Kane stood and did a full-body shake. Snow billowed off his fur, and the wind whipped it away.
Tucker started walking, with Kane trotting alongside him.
9:54 A.M.
By midmorning, Tucker had located six of the eight workers he suspected of being Vladikavkazists. The remaining two had called in sick that morning, something neither had done before.
Standing in a warehouse doorway, he studied the docks. The port was fully alive now, with forklifts moving here and there, cranes swinging containers onto outbound ships, all accompanied by a cacophony of hammering, grinding, and shouted orders.
Tucker pulled out his phone and scrolled through his list of PDF dossiers and found the two men who had called in sick. Both were former soldiers, petty officers in the Russian Naval Infantry. Worse still, they were both trained snipers.
Two and two equals a credible threat.
He set the men’s faces in his memory.
His first instinct was to call Yuri, the head of Fedoseev’s protective detail, but it would do no good. I do not run, Fedoseev had proclaimed loudly and frequently. But most damning of all, Tucker was an interloper, the American none of the other security detail wanted here.
Tucker’s mind shifted again, visualizing Fedoseev’s route through the docks. He judged the exposure windows, the angles of fire. He surveyed for any likely sniper perches. There were a half-dozen spots that would work.
He glanced at the sky. The sun was up now, a dull white disk above the horizon. The wind had also died, and the sleet had turned to big fat snowflakes.
Not good. Much easier to make a long-range shot now.
Tucker looked down at Kane, knowing they couldn’t sit back and wait.
“Let’s go find some bad guys.”
10:07 A.M.
The six potential sniper nests were spread across the dockyard, some twenty acres of warehouses, catwalks, narrow alleys, and crane towers. Tucker and Kane covered the ground as quickly as possible without appearing hurried, using shortcuts wherever possible, never staring too long at any one spot.
As the pair passed a warehouse front, Kane let out a low growl. Tucker turned in a half crouch, going tense. Kane had stopped in his tracks and was staring down an alleyway between a pair of stacked containers.
Tucker caught the barest glimpse of a figure slipping out of view. Such a sighting would be easy to dismiss, but he knew his dog. Something in the stranger’s body language or scent must have piqued Kane’s interest: tension, posture, furtive movements. Kane’s instincts were razor honed after several dangerous years in Afghanistan.
Tucker recalled his mental map of the dockyard, thought for a moment, then flipped Kane’s collar cam into its upright position.
“GO SCOUT,” he ordered tersely.
Kane had a vocabulary of a thousand words and understanding of a hundred hand gestures, making him an extension of Tucker’s own body.
He pointed forward and motioned for Kane to circle around the bulk of containers to the far side.
Without hesitation, his partner trotted off.
Tucker watched him disappear into the gloom, then turned and jogged directly into the nest of giant container boxes where his target had vanished.
Reaching the first intersection, he stopped short and glanced around the corner of the container.
Another alley.
Empty.
He sprinted along it and arrived at the next intersection, this one branching left and right. It was a damned maze back here among the giant containers.
Easy to get lost, he thought, and even easier to lose my target.
He pictured Kane somewhere on the far side, hunkered down, watching this pile of containers. He needed his partner’s eyes out there, while he hunted within this maze.
Tucker punched up Kane’s video feed on his modified satellite phone. A flickering, digital image appeared on the tiny screen, live from Kane’s camera.
A figure suddenly sprinted out of the line of containers, heading east.