Page 83 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

M OSCOW , R USSIA

K RIS Henrik wasn’t sentimental.

Much to her husband’s delight, she didn’t swoon over romantic movies or pack away keepsakes in stacks of cardboard boxes. She was a practical Midwestern girl who wasn’t overly given to displays of emotion, but as her vehicle pulled onto the airport’s tarmac, her eyes filled with tears.

It was really there.

A beautiful business jet painted in a familiar blue and white livery with the words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA centered above a row of porthole-style windows. And just to make sure there was no misunderstanding, a stenciled version of Old Glory was affixed to the plane’s tail.

She was going home.

The car stopped and the two men she was sharing the back seat with exited. In a final bit of humiliation, she’d been forced to ride between the Russians as if she were a little girl who’d lost the battle for a window seat to her older brothers.

She didn’t care.

Kris would ride on the car’s hood if that’s what it took to get out of this country.

A biting Moscow wind swept into the car, ruffling her hair. She wasn’t normally one for cold weather, but she wouldn’t have traded the breeze’s icy fingers for anything. There were low points during her captivity. Moments when she began to wonder whether she would ever leave her detention cell.

The breeze felt like freedom.

“Do you need assistance, Miss Henrik?”

She probably could use some assistance getting out of the low-slung sedan, but she wouldn’t accept it.

Kris would fall flat on her face before she allowed another Russian brute to touch her.

Instead of answering, she ignored the Russian’s outstretched hand in favor of grabbing the seat in front of her.

Then she pulled herself from the vehicle.

“This will be over in just a moment, Miss Henrik. Then—”

Kris stepped past the Russian attempting to talk to her and started walking toward the plane. She knew she was supposed to wait for some kind of ceremonial exchange, but she didn’t care. Kris was done listening to Russians. The business jet with its extended stairway was just twenty yards away.

She was getting on it.

A pair of men in suits flanked the bottom of the airstairs. She assumed they were State Department Diplomatic Security Service agents. One of them appeared familiar. She thought his name was Frank. Or maybe Fred?

The second man looked… different.

“Miss Henrik—you will stay with us until told otherwise.”

A meaty hand grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around. Tears filled her eyes again, but for a different reason.

They weren’t going to let her go.

“Take your hands off her. Now.”

Kris shivered, and this time not from the cold. The command had been given in a calm, even tone, but it somehow dripped dangerous intent. Turning, she saw that one of the DSS agents had somehow covered the sixty feet that had been separating them and now stood at her shoulder.

The different DSS agent.

“This is Moscow,” the Russian said. “You are not in a position to—”

The agent’s hand blurred. The motion had been too fast for her eyes to follow. All she knew was that one moment the Russian had been gripping her shoulder with thick fingers, and the next he was cradling his hand with a look that promised murder.

“You don’t want this. Believe me.”

Again, the DSS agent spoke almost deadpan.

Again, the frigid air seemed laced with menace.

The American couldn’t have been much older than she was.

Mid- to late twenties. Certainly not yet thirty.

In contrast, the Russian who’d grabbed her shoulder was at least ten years more senior and fifteen pounds heavier.

He should have laughed off the DSS agent’s threat.

He didn’t.

Up close, Kris could see what was different about the American.

His thick, uncombed head of black hair and beard were at odds with the buttoned-down image DSS agents typically conveyed, as was his deeply tanned, olive skin.

His face looked a bit swollen, almost as if he’d been in a fight, but his penetrating eyes were what had drawn her attention.

Eyes so dark as to be black.

The Russian half-heartedly edged forward, but halted when his companion commanded him to stand down. The FSK officer looked almost relieved to be put in check.

“Come on, Miss Henrik,” her DSS savior said. “It’s time to go home.”

Resting his arm gently on her shoulder, he shepherded her to the staircase.

This time, no one tried to stop her.