The Fall of Moscow Station

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“Operator.” Alden Maines gripped the phone tight, his eyes closed, his teeth grinding hard together. This line was reserved for one purpose only and he had only one case officer on the street tonight. There were twenty people standing around him, all silent, watching him. They’d come the moment the phone had called for their deputy chief’s attention.

“GRANITE… site MANGO.” It was Kyra, he was sure, but her voice was slurred.

“GRANITE, report your status,” the deputy chief of station ordered. There was no reply. He repeated the order and heard nothing but silence, the line still open. Maines cursed under his breath and cut the connection to stop the locals from tracing the call to either end.

“Abrams! Raguskus!” he called out. Two members of the circle jerked hearing their names. “Get down to the garage and fire up the van. Search and rescue—”

“Don’t move, any of you!”

Maines looked over at the man who had countermanded his order, fury drawn on his face. Sam Rigdon, chief of Caracas Station, came into the room, wrestling his way through the line of bodies surrounding his deputy. “Was that Stryker? If she’s in trouble, she can sit and wait it out. She probably screwed up the op and led the SEBIN right to Carreño. I’m not going to throw any more bodies at Chávez’s people. She can get herself home. You keep your butt in that chair.”

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