Cold War Reprise. Don Pendleton

      “I’m glad we understand each other,” Price replied. “Don’t worry. Help is on the way.”

      Laserka packed a bag, slipping her Makarov back onto her belt’s inside-the-waistband holster. She draped her sweater over the handgun’s butt to conceal it, then she tucked another weapon, a tiny Glock 26, into her purse. She added two spare 15-shot magazines originally designed for the slightly larger Glock 19. Technically, the tiny Austrian pistol was considered a better design than her trusted old Makarov, smaller in length and height, chambered for a more powerful cartridge, and holding eleven shots. Still, the Russian Mak was flat, and its butt had room for all of her fingers on its comfortable grip. It just felt nicer than the teeny Glock. The 9 mm Mak had never let her down. Laserka knew sentimentality toward a tool meant to keep her alive was considered foolish, but she had an attachment that translated into comfort and superior skill.

      Barbara had the right idea. Sticking around her apartment would only make her a sitting duck. If the men sent to kill her could find her while she was hunting for a dress on the black market, then they could easily be able to make a move on her in her own home. She tucked her purse tight under her arm and was ready to leave through the front door of her apartment. She heard the floorboards creak on the other side.

      Since she wasn’t expecting visitors, she pivoted, scooped up her overnight bag and rushed for her window. A shadow fell across the fire escape and she put on the brakes, reaching for her Makarov. She looked toward the kitchen and saw that the light through the window in that room remained unbroken. Of course there wasn’t a fire escape at that point on the ledge, but Laserka hustled into the kitchen, drawing the sliding door shut behind her.

      As it closed, she heard the front door rattle violently under a ferocious kick. She moved to the kitchen window. The front door shook again. When she heard the window just off of the fire escape rise, she opened the kitchen window at the same time. From the front, she heard the apartment door crack on the third kick. She saw the back of a man pulling through the fire-escape window as she slid out onto the ledge.

      Laserka’s overnight bag was small and light, thankfully. If she’d been burdened with heavier luggage, balancing on the slender lip of cinder block would have been impossible. She let it hang on its shoulder strap, freeing her hands to grab the railing on the fire escape. She swung her legs down to the next landing, lowering herself to stand on the rail. Popping in front of the window that the second intruder had just gone through would have just been asking for a fight. She braced on the wall, then stepped onto the landing with a minimum of rattling metal.

      “Where the hell is she?” she heard one man grunt.

      She paused. “Oleg, is there anyone on the street?”

      “The kitchen!” another voice swore. Whoever these men were, they had coordination, but no inkling of operational communications security. Laserka padded down the fire-escape steps, putting layers of grating between herself and her apartment. Laserka’s legs ached from the tension between speed and stealth on the metal steps. Still, she reached the bottom, apparently without being noticed. She clambered down the ladder, then cut away from the street, aware that Oleg and his friends might be watching her from above.

      She walked four blocks before she walked down into the subway. By the time her hunters finished clearing her apartment and surmised that she was in the wind, she was stepping onto a train car, heading for the hotel to await “Special Agent Matt Cooper.”

      Then, she’d start her own hunt, turning the tables on her tormentors.