Fisher squeezed his trigger in reply, but the round failed to feed, damn it. That cheap ammo was coming back to haunt them, as Briggs had predicted. Fisher dropped to his gut, ejected the mag, and wrenched back the slide, tipping the pistol to allow the jammed round to fall out.
At the same time a hailstorm of fire came in from the other side of the SUV, this probably from the Snow Maiden, who seemed hell-bent on emptying her magazines, the salvos coming thick and fast.
Fisher slammed home his own magazine, then racked the slide, chambering a fresh round.
Back on his feet, crouched over and advancing along the wall, he fired two more shots before the next one jammed again. Garbage ammo and shit aftermarket magazine!
He holstered the pistol and reached for his backup—but it was gone, slipped free while he’d been fighting to hang on to the SUV.
“Briggs, put some fire along the wall to your right, just above the car.”
“Gotcha.”
As the bricks came alive, the sparks flickering and dancing, Travkin couldn’t help but turn back to engage Briggs, as did the Snow Maiden, still out of sight on the other side of the SUV.
Holding his breath, Fisher made his move, vaulting toward the Skoda and reaching the man just as he swung around. Fisher drove himself into the rear door, knocking Travkin onto his back and then, before the agent could sit up, Fisher dragged him by the ankles beneath the door, stopping halfway before coming around behind him.
Reflexively, Travkin tried to sit up but found the door inches from his neck. At the same time, Fisher was already ripping the pistol from the agent’s grip and turning it on him.
The decision to kill never came lightly but when it did, there was never any hesitation. A single headshot point-blank finished Travkin as the police sirens wailed in the distance.
Fisher ducked down to see if he could shoot the Snow Maiden right through the SUV’s cabin—but she was gone.
Two more rounds chewed into the wall.
“Briggs, hold fire,” Fisher stage-whispered. He quietly ejected the agent’s magazine, which felt painfully light. He checked it. Empty. He searched the man for another magazine. Nothing. Damn, he’d killed Travkin with his final round. Fisher dumped the gun and drew his SIG once more, racking the slide and clearing the jammed round.
“Sam, she’s tucked in tight near the front of the car, where the radiator’s hissing,” said Briggs. “I saw her toss away two magazines, and she didn’t reload. She might be out of ammo. Wait, she’s moving now. Lost her. I think she’s heading your way.”
For the span of exactly three heartbeats the road fell eerily quiet, save for that hissing radiator and the drumming of Fisher’s pulse.
Even those klaxons from the police cars seemed muted, and the traffic in the distance began moving more slowly, as though his instincts had automatically switched off all interference so he could focus on the slightest crunch of pebble, the barest whisper of breath escaping from the Snow Maiden’s lips.
Then, abruptly, it all hit him again—the sirens growing louder, the stench of leaking gasoline, the wind beginning to turn icy as he circled around the truck.
His right ankle came out from under him before he realized that the Snow Maiden was beneath the SUV. He hit the ground, tried to roll to get the pistol aimed at her, but she was on him so fast that he thought for a second he was being attacked by a mountain lion or a jaguar.
She struck a roundhouse to his jaw while reaching up to clutch his wrist, nails digging in to trap his pistol over his head. With a groan, he sat up, trying to force the pistol forward toward her head.
And then, in a move that was as acrobatic as it was confusing, she locked both hands around the pistol and used it like a gymnast’s horse, launching herself away, both legs high in the air, her boots arcing in a black leather rainbow as she drew on her full body weight and momentum to free the pistol from his sweaty grasp. He spun back, now unarmed.
She hit the ground, rolled, and came up with the business end of the SIG. Her idea of doing business was, of course, to point the gun at his forehead. “Who are you?” she demanded in Russian.
“Briggs?” Fisher muttered. “Now would be a good time to shoot her.”
“I don’t have a bead. I’m moving up for a better shot,” Briggs answered. “The sights are off on this piece of crap rental pistol.”
“Sam, the police will be there any minute,” said Grim. “I need to move in now!”
“I said, who are you?” the Snow Maiden screamed.
19
FISHER’S gaze averted from the Snow Maiden’s fiery eyes to her trigger finger. The gun was slightly too large for her, and the pad of her index finger barely reached over the trigger, meaning if she fired, her shots would tend to go left. Too small of a gun and too much pad over the trigger would send them to the right. This was all academic, of course, because she had Fisher point-blank in her sights. It was just a matter of whether she’d hit him perfectly center mass or a few inches in either direction.
“You’re looking for Kasperov,” Fisher began, trying to distract her. “We know where he is.”
The Snow Maiden opened her mouth, but something on the periphery caught her attention, Briggs perhaps. As she flicked her gaze to the left, Fisher started toward her—
She backed away and pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out with an ear-piercing explosion that sent Fisher stumbling back and falling onto his rump.
But the only pain was in his ears, and when he glanced up, he spotted the Snow Maiden staring down in shock at the smoking pistol in her hands, the slide blown clean off.
One of those cheap rounds had prematurely exploded inside the weapon, possibly firing out of battery.
Fisher bolted to his feet, crying, “Briggs, get Nadia! Grim, get over here!”
The Snow Maiden threw down the pistol and lifted her arms in a defensive block as Fisher lunged at her.
While he outweighed the woman by at least sixty, maybe even eighty pounds, he once more marveled at her agility. Even as he tried to seize her wrists and straddle her, she was already writhing out of his grip and sliding between his legs, only to roll back and hook her ankles around his neck, forcing him back into a blood choke conducted with her legs.
Whether she’d learned these unconventional techniques with the Russian circus or had invented them herself was beside the point; she was the most asymmetric combatant he’d ever faced, twisting and turning like an oily snake.
She even growled now through her exertion, as though every sinew in her body had a voice. With each pound of pressure she applied to his neck, it seemed as though she cast out another demon. He’d just met her, but she fought like it was personal.
A chill of panic struck as he realized he couldn’t pry free her legs. The world darkened along the edges, like ink bleeding into his field of view.
A gunshot boomed.
And suddenly the pressure was gone. He could breathe. He wrenched himself up. Turned. She was gone.
Briggs was hauling him to his feet.
“I think I hit her, but she took off over the wall. Want me to go?”
Grim came to a squealing halt in her rental. “Come on!”
Fisher blinked hard as the blood rushed back into his head. He looked at Briggs, at Grim, then finally said, “Help me get Nadia into the car.”
Still dizzy, Fisher turned back to the SUV, where Nadia was lying, her lips taped shut, her eyes wide. They’d fastened her wrists and ankles with zipper cuffs that they ignored for now, lifting the girl and rushing back to Grim’s car.
After getting Nadia into the backseat, Briggs crossed to the passenger’s seat while Fisher remained in back. As they took off for the next intersection, Fisher gently removed the tape on Nadia’s lips. She took a few tentative breaths. Fisher saw now that her eye was red and bruised and had probably been much more swollen. She looked at him for a few seconds, her brain seemingly unable to function until she finally asked in Russian, “Who are you? Did my father send you?”