The Project 04 - Black Harvest

and moved toward the front. A large, life-like painted statue of Mary decked in a blue robe and golden crown shielded him from the altar. In a moment he would have an angle on the Americans.
    The Drotik was an accurate pistol. The 5.6 mm rounds were high velocity, flat trajectory. Korov was an excellent marksman. It was an easy shot. He raised the pistol, flicked the selector to full and touched the trigger. The sound ripped through the air like tearing cloth. Zviad's man cried out and sprawled lifeless on the church floor.
    Behind the altar, Nick turned to Ronnie.
    "What the hell was that?"
    "Don't know. Not an Uzi."
    "Shit."
    More shots. The ripping sound again, a cry of mortal pain. Nick looked out from behind the altar. A large, bearish man rose between the pews. He screamed in rage, firing at someone in the back of the church. The ripping sound came again, accompanied by a brilliant second or two of muzzle flash. The bearish man looked down and put a hand on his chest. He swayed. He fell forward, crashing into the pews.
    Someone ran to the entrance and disappeared outside.
    "Hey!" Nick yelled after him. He heard a car start, tires spinning on gravel, an engine fading into the distance.
    The church was silent as the crypt below. They stood and walked down among the pews. Ronnie pointed at a body spread eagled on the floor.
    "That one over there. Would have had a clear shot if someone hadn't interfered."
    "Yeah. A good Samaritan. With a high end auto pistol."
    "Not American or European."
    "Something we haven't heard before."
    Selena still had the Glock in her hand. She looked down at the dead men. "Who are they?"
    "I don't know. Looking at the clothes, I'd say it might be the same bunch that tried to grab you in Greece."
    He pushed at Gelashvili's dead bulk with his shoe. "Lousy cut. Someone ought to clue these people in about their tailor."

CHAPTER THIRTY

    "Did you have to shoot up a church?" Harker sounded annoyed.
    Nick held the phone in his left hand. His right wrapped around a whiskey. Sofia at night filled the view from the window. The lights were on, the city a fairytale picture of domes and old buildings. The dark shape of the Balkans loomed against a night sky filled with glittering stars. It was like something from a Walt Disney movie. The only things missing were Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket.
    "No choice. They picked the spot. They called the game. They lost. Simple as that."
    Nick contemplated the lights of the city. He was coming down from the fight in the church. He felt edgy, wired. His hand gripped the whiskey. How many more times was he going to do this before his luck ran out?
    "The men you shot were from the same gang that tried to take Selena in Greece. One of them was Zviad Gelashvili. You took out one of the biggest Russian crime bosses in the world."
    "It wasn't us who killed him."
    "What do you mean?"
    "Someone else is in the game. One man."
    "Why didn't you say so before?"
    "Hadn't gotten to it. Now I have."
    "Who?"
    "I don't know. He used a specialized pistol. Full auto, very high rate of fire. Small rounds. Can't be many of those."
    "That sounds military."
    "Has to be."
    "Gelashvili was based in Moscow. Maybe it was Russian."
    "Why would the Russians help us out?"
    "Maybe they didn't. Maybe they just wanted Gelashvili. He was a problem for them."
    "They know who we are. Helping us doesn't make sense."
    Nick heard her sigh over the phone. "What about that urn?"
    "What about it? There's nothing to tell us what happened to it. No leads at all."
    "You're sure?"
    "Unless Selena can turn something up. There wasn't anything under that church."
    "All right. If you can't get any new intel, come home."
    "Roger that." Nick put down the phone.
    Selena came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a white robe. Her hair was unkempt, damp. She'd had several drinks before she went into the bathroom. She had a whiskey in her hand. She drained it and poured another from the bottle. It was her fifth, or maybe her sixth. Nick had never seen her drink that much, especially whiskey. Selena was a wine drinker. Hard liquor wasn't her thing.
    "How you feeling?"
    "Fine." She sat on the couch, drank. He sat down next to her. She smelled of soap and lemon shampoo and some fresh scent that was her. Her breath was strong with whiskey. Maybe she'd had another during her bath.
    "Good whiskey," she said. "Helps, at the end of a busy day."
    She was beginning to slur her words. He said nothing.
    "Another busy day." She raised