The Hunted e-2 Page 8

  Knowing this, Brent burst up from his cover and ran directly at the rock face behind which stood their attacker.

  This wasn’t some foolhardy attempt at bravado, or some selfless act to earn himself a posthumous Medal of Honor.

  Brent just knew how to kill this guy: Fight fire with fire.

  He already had one of his own grenades in hand, so as the guy popped up to set free his next one, Brent’s bomb was already in the air.

  The light of that tiny engine streaking away like a frightened firefly was enough to make Brent gasp, “Yes.”

  It was the single-second moment of surprise that doomed the bad guy. He’d assumed he would finish his prey, came up, and realized he’d been had.

  His mouth fell open before the missile-like grenade struck him dead-on in the chest. He exploded in a small conflagration, an arm tumbling here, a leg there.

  “Come on!” hollered Lakota.

  “On my way!” Brent answered, jogging back toward her.

  “Captain, I just spotted the primary target,” said Schleck. “I know you said stick with the bad guys, but I just put the drone in tight — and it’s definitely her.”

  * * *

  The Snow Maiden reached the short wrought-iron fence that marked the perimeter of the hotel grounds. To her right lay the long, circular drive leading up to the valet station and the taxis. To her left stood the entrance to a labyrinthine series of walkways between clusters of bungalows not unlike those found at her own hotel. It was all quite posh and welcoming.

  She paused a second, panting, heard the curious hum from above, then glanced up. She cursed in Russian as she frowned at the tiny UFO marking her every move.

  No, this wasn’t Haussler’s doing, was it? The Americans liked to play with these little surveillance robots, but so did the Euros.

  She drew her suppressed pistol, steadied herself, and then with a quick twist of her torso she aimed up, expecting the drone to engage in some evasive maneuver.

  It didn’t.

  She fired.

  Only after she hit it dead-on did the thing veer left, its motor whining as though it’d been stripped of all grease. She took another shot, dead-on again, and the thing plunged unceremoniously behind the tree canopy. Thump. It crashed somewhere in the forest below. She gave a slight snort and sprinted up the driveway, toward the valet station.

  There, she paid one taxicab driver to head to the airport, while she took another cab to make her rendezvous with Patti’s people, whom she’d call en route.

  The cabdriver was a lean, dark-haired man who seemed more rodent than human. He glanced back and gave her a salacious grin. In broken English, he asked, “Are you on vacation?”

  She almost smiled.

  * * *

  By the time Brent and Lakota reached the Lazare Picault hotel, Schleck had already reported that two cars had left approximately five minutes prior. One was heading toward the airport; the other had taken the beach road northward and had then turned into a heavily wooded area, at which time the satellite had lost it. He’d added that the remaining operators had fallen back toward the coastline, collapsing on the head operator, who’d gone south.

  “Ghost Lead, this is Hammer,” called Dennison. “We’ve IDed the man in the Snow Maiden’s villa as Heinrich Haussler. He’s a German spy and double agent. He worked with the Snow Maiden at the GRU. We’ve reason to believe the GRU has hired him to capture her.”

  “Wonderful. So now we’ve got competition. Is he a secondary target? Can I take him out?”

  “Absolutely. However, if you can take him alive, he’d be another valuable asset to us.”

  “Roger that. I’m thinking now she sent a decoy car over to the airport. She’d never go there, but now we’ve lost her in the forest up north. I don’t have any choice. We need to head up there and engage in a ground search.”

  Brent ordered the rest of his team to pursue Haussler and his remaining men, save for Riggs, who was still holding watch over Warda. Meanwhile, he and Lakota slipped up behind one of the taxicab drivers at the hotel. Trembling over the sight of their weapons, the driver was more than happy to oblige.

  They drove up the narrow road, the cab’s headlights playing over nothing more than thick foliage to their left, more dunes to their right. Were it not for work, Brent would’ve had time to admire a spectacular sheet of stars.

  Instead, he kept his attention on his HUD and the images coming in from the others’ cameras. The foot chase down to the shoreline was going nowhere fast, and Brent realized that Haussler and his men had such an appreciable lead that if they were making a water exit, they’d reach their craft well before his people could close the gap. Still, you never knew, so he kept the bulldogs running.

  He and Lakota eventually ordered the driver to pull over along a secluded part of the road. They zipper-cuffed his wrists and ankles and left him sitting in the sand. Someone would pick him up by morning. Brent even gave him some cash for his trouble, which raised the driver’s gap-toothed smile.

  Brent and Lakota took off, reached the jungle near the Snow Maiden’s last location, and spent the next thirty minutes combing the area. They did, in fact, find her cab — or rather it and its driver found them as it rumbled down a narrow road and nearly ran them over. Brent took aim at the driver and ordered him to stop. Then he wrenched the guy from his seat and demanded answers. His gerbil-like face tightened into a knot. “I dropped her off at the end of the trail. That’s all I know. She paid me double.”

  “Where does the trail lead?” Lakota asked.

  “There’s a small boat launch.”

  Brent and Lakota raced back to their taxi and roared off up the trail. The path was barely wide enough for a car, and large fronds dragged across their roof and doors.

  Within five minutes they swung to the right and simply ended at a tall stand of palms. Beyond them lay a meager dock rising crookedly against the dark sea.

  Empty. They’d missed her.

  And Dennison confirmed that. The Snow Maiden had left in a small boat and was met by a larger, high-speed cigar boat that was now streaking away south toward Madagascar. They could follow the boat until it reached the coast, but after that, there was no telling where she’d go. Dennison said she’d seek authority to access one of the JSF’s space-based lasers to order a strike on the boat’s engine.

  Meanwhile, Brent and Lakota would return to the hotel to pick up Riggs and question the woman.

  * * *

  The Snow Maiden was on the phone with Patti, and she’d learned that the second decoy had gone off without a hitch. At the moment, she was lying in the taxicab’s trunk. That close call with the Americans had left her breathless, but the cabbie had done his job and she would reward him handsomely, once they got back to the hotel.

  Satellites and portable drones made your straightforward escapes all the more complicated, and the routes required stealth, cunning, doubling back, bribery, and whatever other incantations you could conjure up — including some low-tech trunk smuggling that made her feel like a drug runner or illegal border crosser.

  Thus, when it came to escape, she had no ego. That she had foiled them was enough. The how never amounted to much anyway. You did what you had to do. She opened the trunk’s pass-through and called out to the driver, “Nice job!”

  “It’s okay. I’m not scared of them. I hope you do not lie to me. I want the rest of the money.”

  “You’ll have it when we get back. You’d better spend it on your family — and not on hookers and booze.”

  “I will. I promise you.”

  She had no plans to double-cross the driver. She’d learned he had a family and two small daughters, even if he was lusting after his passengers. She would keep her word. She closed her eyes and remembered the promise she’d made to Nikolai at the moment of his passing: I will avenge you.

  * * *

  Chopra’s plane wouldn’t arrive for another ninety minutes, so he planned to spend the time at Seychelles Internationa
l Airport, tucked discreetly away in a corner seat. All he could think about was Warda’s safety and whether he really would reconnect with the young sheikh. He’d sent Westerdale back to the hotel, and the man had called to say that the police had cordoned off the place and he couldn’t get close.

  “And let me remind you, Manoj. You’d best retrieve some documentation — if you know what I mean. You cannot waltz into London as Manoj Chopra. You must assume they know who you are. And now they’ll believe that if they get to you, they’ll get to him.”

  Chopra sighed deeply. “You’re right.”

  “We’ve worked together for a while, and I’ve actually grown fond of you, my friend. Please don’t get yourself killed.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  * * *

  At the first sign of local police activity, Brent had ordered Riggs to evac the Banyan Tree — and to take the woman Warda with her. Riggs said it was a bit more complicated than that. Warda had three other women who worked for her, as well as two other bodyguards.

  “Bodyguards? Who the hell is she?”

  “Somebody important, I guess.”

  “Well, get the whole party out of there,” Brent had ordered.

  Another report came in from Schleck regarding Haussler’s team. They’d continued to flee south, where they’d boarded a few Zodiacs, taken them directly east, and then simply vanished.

  “Say what?”

  “The Zodiacs are empty and lying adrift,” repeated Schleck.

  “Submarine extraction?” Brent guessed.

  “Or maybe the rapture,” said Schleck. “But I think a sub is more likely.”

  * * *

  The team rendezvoused back on their yacht — an eighty-two-foot luxury sailing vessel with a reduced crew of four borrowed from the JSF navy.

  Once onboard, Brent was accosted by the Splinter Cells, who demanded to be present while he questioned Warda.

  “Let me see if I can soften her up first,” he told George.

  “Captain, we’re experts at interrogation.”

  “So am I.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Brent blocked the man’s path. “Too many people will intimidate her.”

  “Then I’ll do it,” snapped George.

  “We’re back to me pulling rank?”

  George frowned. “All right, Captain, but you’re bound to share everything.”

  Brent tensed. “Of course.”

  He met up with the woman belowdecks and was relieved to speak with her alone. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Dennison or the Splinter Cells; he didn’t trust anyone, and as he’d told George, Warda might zip up with a bunch of hard-faced guys leering at her.

  So he wore his best sympathetic look and offered her some tea. He apologized once more for the loss of her friend and bodyguard, then said slowly, “We came to Mahé looking for a woman.”

  “Can I ask who you are?”

  He was impressed by the steel in her tone but kept his soft. “My name is Brent, and I guess it’s kind of obvious that I work for the American military.”

  “Is this an interrogation? Have I been kidnapped?”

  “Of course not. We’re just here to talk, then you’re free to go, but given recent events, I think you should remain with us. We’ll keep you safe.”

  She probed him with her gaze. “I hope so.”

  “Believe it.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  Brent leaned toward her. “You asked if I worked for Manoj. Who’s he?”

  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I don’t think I can say anything else.”

  “You have to trust me. I know that’s not easy, but something’s going on here. It’s a lot bigger than you and I, and I’m sure you understand that.”

  “Oh, I understand. But maybe you don’t understand how I’ve lived my life for the past five years. You have no idea. All of this is insane. This is not a life.”

  “We know who you are,” Brent confessed. “And actually, I have orders to protect you at all costs. You want a life? We can give you a new one.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Then prove it to me. Give me your gun.”

  That drew out his frown. “Warda, I’m a soldier and a pretty good one. I do not give up my weapon. I’m sorry.”

  She mulled that over. “I guess I should respect that. And you did save me.”

  “Yeah, I remember that.”

  “So I’ll tell you what you need, then you’ll just kill me. Maybe staying quiet is what’ll keep me alive.”

  He gazed deeply into her eyes. “I won’t hurt you.”

  After a moment, she blushed and averted her gaze.

  Brent rose and pulled a bottle of water from a small refrigerator. He offered her one, then took a seat and leaned back on the sofa as a knock came at the door. “Who is it?”

  “Schleck, sir.” The young sniper opened the door and stuck his head inside. “Dennison got a laser on that boat’s engines. Nice little fires. If she’s onboard, she’s hiding below. We’re heading over now.”

  “Excellent.”

  “What’s happening?” asked Warda.

  “We’re after a woman who’s very important to us.”

  “Will you kill her?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why is she so important?”

  Brent smiled, unable to tell her, of course. “She came to the Seychelles for a reason. Maybe the same reason you’re here. Who’s Manoj?”

  She pursed her lips and studied him again, as though trying to decide if the color of his eyes made him trustworthy. His gaze grew more emphatic, and he began to nod. “Warda, please, there isn’t much time.”

  “There never is. I used to say that to my father all the time. But he never believed me…”

  Suddenly she told him everything: who Manoj was, his plans for her country, and the fact that her brother was set to be Dubai’s next heir. She told him in rapid fire, as though slowing down would change her mind. He thought he should have recorded the conversation, that it all came at him so quickly he might forget a significant detail. He repeated it to himself: Manoj Chopra was heading to London to make contact with Hussein Al Maktoum, a young man he’d been searching for since the nuclear exchange.

  The Snow Maiden was connected to the royal family and connected to Manoj Chopra and Dubai. It was no coincidence that all three were in the Seychelles… and Haussler, of course, had come for the party, charged with capturing the Snow Maiden.

  Was the Snow Maiden after Warda? Or, perhaps, the young sheikh? Or maybe she was after Chopra, the finance man. He wanted to turn over the bank accounts to the sheikh.

  Maybe she wanted the money? Interesting. She had to be working for another entity, but Dennison’s intel had turned up nothing on that organization thus far.

  After a long sip of water, Brent said, “So you’ll come back to London with us — or if you’d like I can arrange to have you taken to the United States, along with your sisters. Maybe you could work things out with our government.”

  “I’ll go to London to be with my sisters. That’s where I belong.”

  “You’ll need more protection — better than what you have. They’ll use you to get to your brother.”

  “I know.”

  “Then let me help with that.”

  “Okay.”

  Muffled gunfire from above sent Brent’s gaze toward the door.

  “More trouble,” Warda said.

  “Stay here.”

  Brent rushed up to the deck, where he cried, “What do we got?” as gunfire ripped across the yacht and he dropped behind the gunwale.

  “Couple of punks still on the cigar boat,” said Lakota. Brent stole a look out across the starboard bow, where the cigar boat was rising slowly on the waves.

  “Gas ’em and board.”

  Lakota relayed the orders to Daugherty and Heston, who fired CS gas grenades that plopped into the cigar boat’s coc
kpit, hissing and creating a thick column of smoke that sent the thugs leaping overboard. Brent asked the navy boys to bring the yacht up alongside the cigar boat, after which his people climbed onto the sleek craft.

  “Sorry, Captain,” said Daugherty after a minute’s worth of searching. “Looks like another decoy.”

  EIGHT

  Joint Strike Force V8-99 Sphinx

  En Route to London

  ETA: Three Hours

  Within twelve hours Brent and his team were onboard a V8-99 Sphinx, the next generation of V-TOL troop transport/fighters. According to the Sphinx’s designers, many of the problems that had plagued the old V-22 Osprey had been solved, and this new bird was a composite of multiple designs and a complete retooling of that old aircraft.

  Despite that, Brent held his breath during the take-off. That this death trap didn’t look much different from the old Osprey further unnerved him. There’d been one particular hard landing in the mountains of Afghanistan that had left him wearing his breakfast. Ah, the good old days…

  With noise-canceling headphones pressed tightly to his ears and a small boom microphone at his lips, he stared down at the computer screen built into the seat ahead and positioned just above his knees. He said hello to Colonel Pavel Doletskaya.

  The gray crew cut, barrel chest, and broad shoulders were stereotypical for a man who’d spent most of his life in the Russian military and intelligence services. A keen sense of competition and pride kept most of those individuals in top shape, more so as they got older because they wanted to prove they were still agile and transformed themselves into athletes comparable to colleagues half their age. That visage of power and prestige was, however, deflated by the baggy orange jumpsuit with a prisoner number emblazoned on his breast. Dennison sat beside him, and it appeared that the conference call was being held in the colonel’s prison cell somewhere within JSF headquarters in Tampa. The room was windowless, with a small bunk positioned in one corner and a large stack of books piled ten or twelve high, as though Doletskaya were plowing daily through a ton of material. Access to electronic texts must have been forbidden or limited.