The Hunted Page 9

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 cockpit, 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.

  The old Russian cocked a brow. “Hello, Captain. It’s my understanding that you came very close to capturing her.”

  Brent carefully measured his words and his tone. “Not close enough, sir, but I’m confident we’ll bring her in.”

  “Pride cometh before the fall, Captain. You won’t get her without my help.”

  Brent repressed a shrug. “I will say she’s one of the best escape artists I’ve ever seen, except for a few muhajadeen I met while in the ’Stan. She knows how to misdirect and set up those decoys, that’s for sure.”

  “Oh, I can assure you, Captain, she’s much better than anyone you’ve ever met. You’ll see.”

  “I hope I don’t. We’ll get her in London. What’s she after? The boy? Maybe we can get two steps ahead and set up an ambush.”

  The Russian turned to Dennison and grinned darkly. “You’ve sent a butcher to capture an artist.”

  “No, I’ve sent an unconventional thinker. Now then, Captain Brent, we know that Chopra is trying to find Hussein. And we think the Snow Maiden may be after the boy as well. Find the boy and we find the Snow Maiden.”

  “It’s that simple,” Brent said sarcastically. “Now what about Warda? She give us anything else?”

  “She won’t tell us where her brother is, and I don’t blame her, so we’ll have to tail Chopra. We have to assume he’s gone undercover as well, so it’s going to take me a while to pick him up. Once we do, you’ll need to move quickly.”

  “I understand, but that seems to preclude any chance of an ambush. We need to get ahead of them, not chase.”

  “In a perfect world, Captain,” snapped Dennison. “At least the Voecklers will arrive in London ahead of you. They’ll remain with Warda and her sisters until we pick up Chopra. I’ve worked out a deal with the Brits to provide a security force for Warda and her sisters, once we’re gone.”

  Brent nodded and directed his gaze to Doletskaya. “Colonel, is there anything else you can tell me about our target? I mean something not in the files, something you think might help us catch her?”

  The old colonel simpered. “If she’s going to London, you might find her at a little pub called the Bread and Roses on Clapham Manor. It’s run by a trades union council and associated with the Workers’ Beer Company. They raise money for workers’ rights causes. She always fought for the little guy, donated money to lots of causes, cancer research, and many others. She’ll be in the big beer garden out back.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?” Dennison asked the colonel.

  “It didn’t occur to me until he asked.”

  Dennison shook her head in disgust. “Brent, I’ll get some people there a-sap.”

  He nodded. “And I’ll send two as soon as we land.”

  Doletskaya snorted. “Good luck.”

  “Sir, can I ask you something? You seem willing to help us capture her, but you doubt we will. She’s just an individual on the run, and I don’t care how many resources she has. Eventually, she’ll make a mistake. And we’ll bring her in.”

  Doletskaya’s lips curled in amusement. “Captain, I’ve spent enough time with Viktoria to know there are few people in this world who can stop her. If by some miracle you do happen to accidentally capture her, I believe she will have surrendered and that it would have nothing to do with your skills. Her cunning is unmatched.”

  Brent returned a lopsided grin. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, sir.”

  Dennison told Brent to stand by while she spoke off camera with the colonel. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, and after a moment, Dennison returned while the colonel was escorted out of the cell by two armed guards.

  “Major, you really think that old man can help us?” Brent asked. “What if he’s lying?”

  “He’s not. At least not entirely. He’s already helped with a number of items and issues.”

  “It’s my understanding that he had a relationship with the Snow Maiden. What makes you think he’s not still working with her?”

  Dennison smiled. “You’re sharp, Captain, no matter what they say about you.”

  Brent grinned himself. “Are you setting him up?”

  “Of course. We’ll give him enough bait ... see if he tries to contact her. That’ll give us her location as well—and I know the Voecklers will continue questioning Warda. She still doesn’t trust us, but if she’d just give in, we could end this quickly and set up that ambush.”

  “Can I ask you something? Once we capture the Snow Maiden, do you really think she’ll talk?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s clear she poses a major threat to the JSF and the Euros. She’s even working against her own government—and that’s what really scares me. Now Captain, I need for you to capture her in London. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Brent shrugged. “Yeah.”

  He remembered the five-minute meeting he’d had with her, just before they’d taken off. Her words were off the record, and they had stung:

  “You’ve done some exceptional work in Special Forces and earned your recruitment into Ghost Recon. There’s no denying that. You did a fine job up in Canada during the Russian invasion, but since then it’s been downhill. I’m just saying that this operation has to go by the numbers—for both of us. I can’t promise you what’ll happen if you lose her in London. I just can’t.”

  “Ma’am, what’re you saying?”

  “I’m saying there’s no room for mistakes like failing to check that taxi. She slipped away once. That can’t happen again.”

  “Otherwise, I’m gone.”

  “They were thinking about removing you from Ghost Recon before I brought you on board for this.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. I’m taking a risk on you because I need someone who’s got more at stake than just a mission. I’ll be honest. I figure that if your whole career depends on capturing the Snow Maiden, you’ll probably get the job done. Some of your colleagues have less to lose—but you’ve got it all.”

  “I don’t believe this ...”

  “I’m sorry, Captain. They could even bust you down to the regular Army. I can make recommendations, but ultimately it’ll be their call.”

  “So, if we don’t get her in London, I’m done.”

  “Don’t think of it that way. Think of it as your chance to bring in the world’s most dangerous woman and earn a reputation for yourself as one of Ghost Recon’s top operators.”

  “So it’s all or nothing.”

  Brent tensed as Dennison now nodded and said, “I’ll be in touch once you’re on the ground.”

  He returned the nod, and she abruptly broke the link.

 
All he could do was sit there, the seat straps feeling as though they were tightening like a boa curled around his shoulders and back, ready to suffocate him.

  He’d dedicated his entire life to service. He’d tried his best to be a good soldier, a good man, and to atone for his sins. He’d tried to set the world right by taking another man’s place. And now they were presenting the ultimatum, as though they’d seen through him, knew that his heart hadn’t truly been in it from the beginning, that he’d joined the Army out of guilt, and that he wasn’t destined to retire as a Ghost Recon operator. He couldn’t fool them anymore. And now they were giving him enough rope to hang himself.

  All right. You didn’t get into Ghost Recon without rising to the top of SF, he told himself. He needed a stronger bond with his people. He needed them more than ever now, and he wondered how forthright he should be. “If we don’t get her in London, I’m done.” Would that inspire confidence in them, or would that place them under more pressure?

  They needed to hear something. Once they landed, the operational tempo would pick up, and there’d be no time for idle chatter. He unbuckled and rose from his seat, turning back to face the group, seated in pairs down the long aisle.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began.

  They, like him, also wore headphones and microphones and were patched into the intercom, so they could hear each other over the tremendous booming of the Sphinx’s engines.

  “I just finished my briefing with Major Dennison. Although we had some complications in the Seychelles, she’s confident we can get the Snow Maiden in London—and so am I.”

  Lakota raised her hand. “Sir, honestly, I think it’ll be more difficult to get her now. Big city. So many places to hide. We haven’t even dusted her. And we need to worry about Haussler’s people on our back. I’m just thinking this whole op belongs to the NSA and not us.”

  “We’re unconventional fighters. That means one minute we’re spies, the next we’re stand-up warriors. We think, move, shoot, communicate, adapt, and drink beer.” He winked at the group and got a few quick chuckles.

  Then he added, “I know you’re worried about this. We need a win. But I want to tell you that I couldn’t have been more impressed with your performance on Mahé.”