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Mike and Tim, the remaining members of the Bullseye crew, had been watching quietly from two chairs flanking the room’s only window. The team was staying at, and broadcasting from, the fourth floor of the Napoleon Hostel, a cramped but tidy place less than a mile from Moscow’s Red Square. The room’s window offered a plum view of St. Basil’s candy-striped spires, the Kremlin’s dollhouse facade, and, just a few blocks beyond, the massive Lubyanka—a tiered bureaucratic building that once housed both KGB headquarters and the infamous Lubyanka prison. It was now home to the FSB. Jake was sure that just as he was looking out at them, they were looking in at him.
Contrary to what Claire said, he had seen tails since they’d arrived—civilian cars following their taxi from Domodedovo International. Bums who hopped into subway trains right before the doors closed. Jake had seen glints of light following them from high in the sky more than once—Dozor-3 Russian combat drones armed with cameras and for all he knew, ballistic missiles.
Before they’d left the States, Jake had been all too sure that Claire’s admirable skills had secured the proper filming visas, but now he was beginning to think differently: Had Putin lured them within his borders to make it easier to kill them off? Was this all because Bullseye was targeting Russian corruption on the global stage? It sounded like a wild conspiracy, but was it really that unbelievable?
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