The Romanov Ransom (Fargo Adventures 9)

“Still here.”

He paused when he reached the second floor, looking down into the courtyard, where a cat, eyes glowing green, padded across. Nothing else moved, and he continued on to Durin Kahrs’s door, inserting the pick into the keyhole, teasing it in and out, until the lock turned.

Once inside, he dimmed his flashlight to its lowest level and took a quick look around, glad to see that nothing appeared disturbed. That, he hoped, meant he was the first in—and this courier bag, if it even existed, was actually there.

The apartment was sparsely furnished with a couch, coffee table, and flat-screen television in the front room, and a small table and two chairs in the dinette area. The faint smell of stale beer drifted in from the kitchen, no doubt from the dozen or so empty bottles dumped in the trash can near the counter. After looking around, he moved to the first bedroom, which was used as an office. A desk and chair were positioned just below the high and narrow window. There was only one drawer in the desk, filled with assorted pens and pencils. A few bills on the top, but nothing important. The other room contained a bed, side table, and footlocker secured with a padlock. It took him less than a minute to pick the lock.

“Sam, you need to get out of there.”

“I may have found something.”

“Whatever it is, forget it. Two cars just pulled up. Four guys, definitely a couple with guns.”

He opened the shutter of the window and saw two compact sedans parked across the street with four men walking from them toward the apartment building. Two held guns down by their sides. No doubt, the other two were armed.

So much for getting out through the front.

He’d come this far, and he wasn’t about to leave without looking. Kneeling, he opened the trunk, dismayed to see nothing but neatly folded clothes inside. Then again, who locked up clean laundry? He reached in, dug around until he felt something stiff beneath the several layers of shirts. Whatever was hidden in there was wrapped in a white sheet. He pulled it off, revealing a narrow, brown leather courier bag. Definitely World War II era. If that wasn’t enough to convince him this was the item taken from

the crashed plane then the residue of red dust on the inside of the sheet was.

He slung the strap over his shoulder and returned to the window, looking out. The street was empty. “Where are they?”

“One’s standing guard out front, the other three are splitting up.”

Definitely not what he was hoping for. “On my way out now.”

“How?”

“Still working on that part.” He walked to the front door, pulled it open about an inch, listening. When he heard them in the courtyard below, he closed and locked the door. Plan B it is . . . Back in the bedroom, he grabbed the sheet that had been wrapped around the bag, knotting it around the metal rail of the bed. Sheet in hand, he climbed onto the sill of the open window—not an easy feat, considering how narrow the space was.

“Sam . . . ?”

“A little crowded in the courtyard. Tell me when it’s clear your way.”

“Clear. For now.”

He squeezed through and balanced on the sill as someone kicked open the front door. Two men rushed in. They saw him as he jumped over the side, the friction heat burning through his gloves as he slid down the sheet.

One of the men leaned out, trying to grab him. When he missed, he shouted something that sounded like Russian. The man at the gate ran toward Sam, gun pointed. Sam swung, then dropped on top of him. They landed on the concrete, Sam on top, the gunman stunned. Sam grabbed the gun, rolled over, and fired at the window.

The two men jumped back. Sam got up, ran in Remi’s direction. “Start the car,” he yelled.

Crack! Crack! The gunshots echoed down the street. Sam fired back as he took cover in a doorway.

Tires screeched as Remi backed the car toward him, the smell of burnt rubber filling the air. Sam fired at the building, then jumped in.

“Cutting it close, aren’t you?” she said, taking off, the back end skidding out as she hit the gas.

“Timing’s everything.” Sharp pings sounded as bullets hit the back of the Toyota as Remi turned the corner.

“So what’d you find?” she asked, looking over at him, then back at the road.

“World War Two courier bag,” he said, noticing red and blue emergency lights flashing in the distance in front of them, the sirens growing louder as the vehicles neared. Remi made the next turn, and Sam watched in the side mirror as two patrol cars raced past.

“Where to?” Remi said.

“Hotel. Time to open this thing and see what everyone’s after.”