Ammunition, but not the firearm itself.
Very little personal was here. Shaw was itinerate. He was on the road most of the year. Yet, the Winnebago contained artifacts that connected him with family. A photo of the Compound, preserves hismother had put up, photos of the children on hikes, Ashton holding the trout he’d caught not with rod and reel but with a simple line and hook he’d made himself, paintings that Dorion’s two daughters had done for him, documents his father had sent that had launched Shaw on the quest to find the people who had killed the man.
He glanced again at the papers he’d riffled through when he’d first gotten inside. Like the bullets, they were evidence of impending murder.
A text hummed and he read it.
He replaced what he’d found exactly in the order he’d discovered the items. He then rose and stepped into the corner of the room. He reached to his right hip and drew the black Glock. Held it firmly.
There was only a faint click when the key card slipped into and out of the lock slot. The door swung open slowly and the man walked inside, eyes on his phone.
When the door closed, Shaw said calmly, “You’re targeted. Don’t move.”
Leggy Sergei Lemerov stopped.
Did his shoulders sag slightly? Shaw wasn’t sure.
“Mr. Colter Shaw.”
“Drop the phone. Raise your hands.”
“Maybe I am talking to beautiful woman. That will make her unhappy.”
Shaw was silent.
Never banter...
The Russian muttered, “Ah, all right.”
The Apple bounced when it hit the carpeted floor.
“Turn.”
He did and the dots of black eyes in the angular face looked Shaw up and down.
“With your right hand, thumb and forefinger, remove the gun.” Lemerov was predominantly left-handed, he could tell, but the Russian military teaches ambidextrous shooting.
With no inclination for heroics, he went through the prescribed routine. The weapon ended up on the armchair Shaw had just been sitting on. Shaw tossed a zip tie to him. He grimaced but pulled the band on. He didn’t play the looseness game. They efficiently secured his wrists.
Shaw indicated a chair and the man sat, tossed his head to get a stray shock of long blond hair from his eyes.
The Russian did not seem particularly troubled. Shaw was a reward-seeker and a troubleshooter for Harmon Energy. There was no risk that Lemerov would be taken into an alley and treated the way the GRU disposed ofitsprisoners.
Shaw glanced at the papers he’d been through earlier. Maps, photos of himself and of the Winnebago, notes, names and addresses he did not recognize. Shaw had taken time with them, looking specifically for any reference to Allison Parker. It wasn’t logical that Lemerov knew of her personally, but it was her brainchild he wanted. And Shaw had to make certain that there was indeed no connection between Jon Merritt’s mission and the S.I.T.
And there was not.
He now said to the Russian, “All of your homework. You have a destination plan. And I’m the traveler.”
A faint frown. Lemerov would be curious how Shaw had come to know the euphemisms used by Russian security services for a targeted kill. He had learned this from his brother, who swam in the current of intelligence.
He recovered. A smile. “What you talking? Everything you say is news to me. All that?” A nod at the paperwork. “Just about surveillancing you, when you went looking for that S.I.T.”
Shaw didn’t reply that the pictures were takenafterthe scam with Ahmad, Rass and LeClaire.
Yes, this might have to do with Marty Harmon’s reactor trigger, but if so, it was afutureplan to steal it. Shaw would have to beeliminated; the message would be clear to Harmon: There’ll be consequences if we don’t get the device.
Then too this might be personal. Maybe Lemerov was just a very sore loser.