Sins of the Father Read Online Free PDF

assured him. “I wanted to give you the strategic advantage of being first to arrive.”
    Again, the nod-and-grunt combo. Peter smiled, took out the phone, and dialed the Chechens. The guy with the creepy voice picked up, sounding more eager than ever. Peter switched to Russian, telling him to wait at the eastern stairway on the thirtieth floor. The man on the other end went into elaborate detail about what would happen to Peter if he tried anything funny.
    Peter made himself smile and nod for the benefit of the Koreans, and then ended the call.
    “They will be here,” he assured them. Then he showed the Koreans five fingers to indicate how long it would take to fetch the Chechens and get them set up on their end of the roof. With that, he headed over to the eastern tower.
    * * *
    The Chechens were waiting there in the eastern stairwell. There were five of them, and they seemed shockingly young—not one a day over twenty. They were all roughly bearded and underfed, clad in ill-fitting, brand new suits and cheap ties that made them look like hillbillies dressed up for a court appearance. They hadn’t bothered to buy new shoes to go with the new suits, and were all wearing battered combat boots.
    Two of them had brought baggage. One had the requisite briefcase, and the other had an unexpected duffle bag almost certain to be full of killing tools. He suppressed a shudder and hoped they would be pointed at someone other than him.
    “ Pozdravleniya ,” he said, then added, still in Russian, “Which of you is Umarov?”
    To Peter’s surprise, the one who stepped forward and introduced himself as Umarov in that now-familiar, creepy phone-sex voice was the youngest-looking of the group. He was of a slight build, with narrow shoulders and small hands, as if he hadn’t received enough nutrition as a child. He had a sharp, Slavic profile and his light-brown beard was wispy and still baby-fine. He couldn’t have been old enough for a legal beer in the US, but he had terrifying zealot’s eyes.
    A guy his age should be busy trying to start a garage band, or talk girls out of their trusiki, Peter mused. But the world was full of child soldiers, teen gang members, and lost boys of all kinds. There was nothing he could do to save them from the fate they chose. And it wasn’t like he was planning to kill these guys himself—just point them at the Koreans. If they didn’t want to start something, they didn’t have to.
    And if they did shoot first, they still might win and walk away unharmed.
    Peter wasn’t putting their fingers on the triggers. He just provided them with the opportunity.
    That was what he told himself, anyway.
    He turned and let the Chechens into the locked stairway. They followed him upward, their boots thudding on the stairs, and out onto the windy roof. As soon as they had emerged, they set themselves up in a precise, military formation. The guy with the duffle bag unzipped it and pulled out an AK-47, then stepped off to one side, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he chewed a wad of gum. He kept the barrel pointed down, but was bird-dogging the Koreans the entire time.
    The others passed around a variety of firearms as if they were candy bars, while Peter stood there trying to look calm and relaxed.
    Jaruk’s 1911 against the sweat-slick small of his back no longer seemed like much of an asset.

He asked Umarov if they were ready. The Chechen nodded and gestured for the kid with the briefcase to hand it over to Peter.
    This was it. His moment to shine.
    Peter nodded. His palm was slick with nervous perspiration, and he had to grip the handle tightly to keep it from slipping while he walked toward the wasp-waisted center of the roof.
    As he reached the skylight, he couldn’t help but notice that the Koreans had also gunned up, and were scowling through the gloom at the Chechens. Although being in the crossfire made Peter feel like a mechanical duck in a shooting gallery, he also knew that all those guns