In the latest Doc Savage novel, an unassuming professor is abducted and appointed to a mission that he never signed up for. Perfect for fans of Killing Eve.
ONE
Eastern Russia
30 Years Ago
A MOTHER CAN sense a disturbance in her world, even in
her sleep.
Marisha did.
The late-night snowfall made the small village on the Kamchatka
Peninsula look like a cozy Christmas painting, but the
wind was harsh. It whistled around the cottage and seeped
through the walls of the tiny nursery where the six-month-old
twins slept in a single crib, spooned together for warmth.
Like tiny dolls. They were just five minutes apart in age, with
matching features and the same delicate, pale skin. But the
similarities stopped at the top of their heads. One girl had her
father’s dark, straight hair. The other had lush copper-colored
curls, like nobody else in the family.
Marisha was a physicist. Her husband, Mikhail, was a mathematician.
In their courting days at the university, they had
long talks about what extraordinary children they would have
together. And that’s exactly what happened. Two in one day.
The babies were remarkable — so beautiful and loving. And
now, at just half a year old, already advanced for their age.
They were everything a parent could wish for, and more.
Mikhail had put the girls down just after seven. At 2 a.m.,
Marisha woke suddenly. Something was off. She could feel it.
She pushed back the covers and slipped out of bed, not bothering
to nudge her husband or find her slippers. She grabbed
her robe from the wall hook and wrapped it hastily over her
nightgown as she hurried down the short hallway, feeling the
cold tile against her bare feet.
When she opened the door to the nursery, a waft of frosty
air crossed her face. In the next second, she felt a matching
chill in her gut. She took a step toward the center of the dark
room and inhaled sharply. Snow dusted the floor under the
half-open window. Marisha grabbed the side rail of the crib
with both hands, then dropped to her knees and screamed
for her husband. Mikhail stumbled into the doorway seconds
later, his eyes bleary and half closed. He saw his wife on the
floor and then — the empty crib. His eyes opened wide.
“They’re gone!” Marisha wailed. “Both of them! Gone!”
TWO
A MILE AWAY, two thickset men in heavy wool coats were
making their way up a rugged slope. The village lights
were already fading behind the scrim of windblown snow.
The footing was treacherous, and they were not familiar with
the terrain.
Bortsov, the taller of the pair, used a heavy hiking pole to
probe the path ahead. Gusev, the shorter partner, carried a
high-powered hunting rifle. In their opposite arms, each man
carried a tightly wrapped bundle. The men were killers by
trade, and this was their first kidnapping. In fact, it was the
first time either of them had held an infant. They clutched the
sixteen-pound babies like rugby balls.
After twenty minutes of steady hiking, they were out of
sight of the village. Still, Gusev kept looking over his shoulder.
“Stop worrying,” said Bortsov gruffly, pointing at the trail
behind them. “We were never here.” He was right. Just a few
yards back, the snow was already filling their tracks. The
search would begin at dawn. By then, it would be no use.
Bortsov had scouted the campsite the day before. It was
a natural shelter beneath a rock overhang. He’d even taken
the time to gather wood for a fire. By the time the kidnappers
reached the spot, it was nearly 4 a.m. They were both
exhausted from the climb and their arms were cramped from
gripping the babies. Bortsov walked to a snowdrift about ten
yards from the shelter. He bent forward and set the bundle
he’d been carrying down in the snow. Gusev did the same
with his.
They stepped back. The twins were about four feet apart,
separated by a snow-covered log. They were both squirming
under their tight wraps, their cries muffled by wool scarves
around their heads. Bortsov pulled a handful of coins from his
pocket and placed them on a rock in front of the baby on the
left. Gusev placed a bunch of coins in front of the baby on the
right. Then they shuffled back toward the shelter and started
a fire.
When the wood caught, flames and sparks illuminated
the small recess. The kidnappers tucked themselves under
the rock and pulled their thick coats up around their necks.
Gusev fished a flask of vodka out of his coat pocket, took a
deep gulp, and passed it to his partner. A little extra warmth.
Before long, their eyes were glazed. Soon after that, their stupor
faded into sleep.
The babies, left in the open, were no longer crying.
THREE
MORNING. GUSEV WOKE first, stirred by an acrid waft of
smoke from the smoldering fire. He brushed the snow off his
coat and shook his flask. It was empty. Gusev’s head throbbed
and the inside of his mouth felt thick and pasty. He glanced
across the small clearing to where the two babies lay silent in
the snow. He elbowed Bortsov in the ribs. Bortsov stirred and
rolled over. Gusev nodded toward the twins.
Both men rose slowly to their feet and walked on unsteady
legs to the snowdrift. Over the past few hours, the wind had
blown a fresh coating of white over both babies. Bortsov
pulled the stiff scarves away from their faces. In the dawn
light, their skin was bluish, their lips and nostrils coated with
frost. Obviously dead. A total waste of a trip.
“Weak! Both of them!” said Gusev, spitting into the snow.
Bortsov turned away, snarling in frustration. “Food for the
bears,” he muttered.
As Gusev retrieved his rifle, he heard a small mewing
sound. He turned. The baby on the left was stirring slightly.
Gusev hurried back and knelt down. He pushed the frozen
scarf back off the baby’s head, revealing coils of copper hair.
“We have one!” Gusev shouted. “She’s alive!”
“Bortsov pulled the copper-haired baby out from under his coat as they approached the imposing school gate. He knew the headmaster would be pleased. This child showed exceptional promise.”
Bortsov tromped over. “Mine!” he called out with a victorious
sneer. He scooped both sets of coins from under the snow
and pocketed them. Then he lifted the copper-haired girl from
the snowbank and tucked her roughly under his coat. Gusev
gave the dark-haired baby one final shake, but there was no
response. He kicked fresh snow over the tiny corpse, then followed
his partner up the mountain, cursing all the way. He
hated to lose a bet.
The walk down the other side of the mountain was even
harder than last night’s climb. Bortsov’s knees ached with
every step, and Gusev was coughing in the thin, cold air.
But they knew the effort would be worth it. They had conducted
the test with the babies, side by side, as they had been
instructed. A survivor this strong meant a big payday, maybe
even a bonus. An hour later, Bortsov and Gusev pushed
through the last of the tree line into a rolling snow-covered
valley.
Straight ahead was a campus of sturdy buildings made of
thick stone. A few simple balconies protruded from the top
floors, and most of the windows were striped with heavy
metal grates. In the early morning, a light glowed from a corner
room, where they knew the headmaster would be waiting
for the new student. Bortsov pulled the copper-haired baby
out from under his coat as they approached the imposing
school gate. He knew the headmaster would be pleased. This
child showed exceptional promise.
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
University of Chicago
Present Day
I’D FORGOTTEN HOW much I hated first-year students.
I’d just finished a solid fifty minutes of a cultural psych lecture,
and I might as well have been talking to a roomful of tree
stumps. I was already pissed at Barton for asking me to sub for
him at the last minute — and a 9 a.m. class, no less. I hadn’t
taught this early since I was an anthropology TA. That was
twelve long years ago.
Barton’s lecture notes were good, but since I’d actually
written my thesis on South Pacific cultures, I was able to ad lib
some interesting insights and twists on tribal gender roles. At
least I thought they were interesting. Judging by my audience,
not nearly as interesting as TikTok.
After class, the students moved toward the door with their
eyes still glued to their screens. I felt like I was forgetting
something. Shit. The reading assignment! I scrolled through
Barton’s notes. Jesus. Where is it? Right here. Got it.
“Sorry!” I called out to the departing crowd. “Listen up,
please! Reading for next class!” I held the textbook over my
head like a banner. It was as heavy as a brick. “In Muckle and
Gonzalez! Chapters Five and Six, please!” Most of the students
just ignored me. I tried to catch their eyes as they walked past,
but up-close contact has never been my strength. Lecturing to
a class of a hundred, no problem. Just a faceless mass. Close
up, I tended to get clammy.
Sometimes I thought I might be on the spectrum. No
shame in it. So was Albert Einstein. I definitely met some of
the criteria. Preference for being alone? Check. Difficulty in
relating to people? Check. Stuck in repetitive patterns? Check.
On the other hand, maybe I was just your garden-variety
misanthrope.
I plopped the textbook down on the lectern. Two female
students were the last to leave. I’d noticed them in the back
row — way more interested in each other than in my cogent
analysis of the Solomon Islanders.
“Awesome class,” said the first student. Right. As if she’d
heard a word of it. She was small and pert, with purple-streaked
hair and an earful of silver rings. “So interesting,”
said her blond friend. Were they trying to suck up? Maybe
they were hoping I’d be back for good and that I’d grade easier
than Barton, who I knew could be a real prick.
“Good, good, thanks,” I mumbled. I stuffed Barton’s iPad
and textbook into my briefcase and snapped it shut. Enough
higher education for one day. Out of the corner of my eye, I
saw Purple Hair nudge her partner. They looked over their
shoulders at the whiteboard, where I’d written my name in big
capital letters at the start of class.
DR. BRANDT SAVAGE
Purple Hair leaned in close to the blonde and whispered
in a low, seductive voice, “I’ll bet he’s a savage!” She gave her
friend a suggestive little hip bump. Nothing like freshman
sarcasm. Make a little fun of the gawky PhD. Got it. And not
the first time somebody had made the point: I was about as far
from a savage as a man could possibly get.
I headed down the hall to the department office to pick up
my mail. As I pushed through the heavy oak door, I could
hear Natalie, our department admin, helping a student sort
out a snafu in his schedule. When she saw me, she held up her
index finger, signifying “I need to talk to you.”
I liked Natalie. She was all business, no drama. Quiet
and efficient. Herding cats was a cinch compared to keeping
a bunch of eccentric academics in line, and she did it well.
The student jammed his new schedule into his backpack and
headed out the door. Natalie leaned over the counter in my
direction.
“So where will you be going?” she asked, flashing a knowing
smile.
“What do you mean?” I asked. My only travel plans
involved heading home and heating up some soup. Natalie
leaned closer and looked both ways, as if she were revealing a
state secret. She gave me an insider’s wink and held up a slip
of paper.
“Your sabbatical,” she whispered. “It’s been approved!”
Extracted from The Perfect Assassin by James Patterson and Brian Sitts, out now.
