The dimly lit trail took him to the main entrance and motorway, where two taxi drivers had climbed into their cars and were keeping low, their worried gazes turned up toward the hills. Between the damp stone and his own excitement, Chopra wound up slipping and falling as he neared the first car. He cried out, felt a throbbing in his elbow, but pulled himself back up and spotted Westerdale coming from a second path and hustling toward him.
The Brit waved and called out to Chopra.
Another exchange of gunfire thundered across the hills, stealing Chopra’s breath.
He was dizzy by the time he fell into the backseat and the cabdriver sped away. He glanced over at Westerdale, who shook his head and said, “You’re in over your head.”
“I know. But this is the right thing to do,” Chopra said, hardening his tone.
“You’re an eccentric.”
Chopra shook his head. “I just want what’s right.”
“Then go to London. Wait for his call. Hopefully she spoke to him before they attacked.”
Chopra threw his head back against the seat, removed his glasses, and massaged his weary eyes. “You’re staying here.”
“I’m what?”
“You heard me. You’re staying. I want to know about Warda. I want to know if she’s safe.”
Westerdale released a string of epithets, then demanded a larger bonus, and Chopra agreed.
The Snow Maiden mused that it was difficult to have tricks up her sleeve while wearing a short-sleeved shirt; however, she’d grown used to being chased and took nothing for granted. Her tricks were born of experience and electronics, and there was nothing magical about them. They were tools of the trade, and she knew how to use them.
So when Haussler rudely smashed in the Snow Maiden’s door, said his hello, and thought he was about to hold her at gunpoint, the Snow Maiden simply raised her hands and rolled her wrist twice, and the transmitter in her custom-designed watch sent a signal to the detonator.
Three, two, one.
The resounding boom from the doorway sent Haussler ducking reflexively — and that’s all the Snow Maiden needed: one simple diversion via an explosive she’d planted within the first hour of her arrival. In fact, she had booby-trapped the entire place — but for some reason the electronic surveillance warning system she had set up in the walkway had failed to alert her of Haussler’s approach. The bastard had figured out a way to jam it. He was clever when it came to that.
Her sidearm, the one given to her by the taxicab driver who’d been bought by the Ganjin, was beneath the sofa pillow. She wrenched it out, was about to fire point-blank at Haussler, but he’d whirled to face a figure dressed in black who’d appeared in the shattered doorway.
The figure’s face was covered by a balaclava, one eye shielded by an electronic monocle, a high-tech rifle balanced in the combatant’s grip.
“Hold there!” she cried, and her distinctly feminine voice confirmed she was an English speaker, probably an American.
Haussler began to raise his arms — but abruptly dropped to his gut. He then rolled, about to fire at the woman in the doorway.
Seeing that, and strangely holding her own fire, the woman ducked back.
At the same time, the Snow Maiden fired two rounds that narrowly missed the woman. A heartbeat later the Snow Maiden was off the couch and lunging for the back door, on the other side of the small kitchen.
Haussler screamed after her, but more gunfire came from the living room as the woman must have turned back inside. The Snow Maiden snatched her sling bag from the counter, then tore open the door, rounds tearing into the frame beside her. She bounded outside, checked left and right, then sprinted into the forest behind the villa.
Brent arrived in the doorway, just behind Lakota, who reported that she’d seen a woman inside who could’ve been the Snow Maiden — but there’d been a man there, too. Dennison and her folks would already be searching for the man’s identity since Lakota’s Cross-Com had recorded images of the entire scene.
As the rest of his team chimed in, Brent rushed through the villa, falling in behind Lakota, who’d said that the woman had escaped out back, the man trailing her. They burst through the rear door, paused, and heard brush shifting in the forest.
“We’ve got two men who’ve just climbed into a taxi,” reported Schleck. “Old guys. Probably just tourists running scared. All right, I’ve got satellite. Two runners in the jungle now, heading down toward the beachfront road. Watch it, though, Captain. Those other operators are coming around to cut us off.”
“Good job, Schleck. Keep the play-by-play coming. I like your style.”
“Roger that, Captain!”
“All right, Ghosts, pull up those other guys in your HUD. See if you can flank them while Lakota and I punch straight on through toward the beach. We’re taking that main road around the resort.”
The responses came in, and not a second after the last one, a woman’s scream came from the bungalow ahead. Brent rushed up to the small quarters, which were heavily draped in vines and foliage. He kept tight to the wall and hand-signaled for Lakota to head around the other side.
The Cross-Com automatically zoomed in on two heat sources around the corner: a big man lay on the ground, and hovering over him was another person, both glowing in a mottled orange-red. Brent hustled forward, came through the big fronds, then lifted his palm in truce.
She had long, dark hair, and though the light was faint, Brent thought she might be Middle Eastern. Her dress did not indicate that, though; she appeared very Western in a T-shirt and cutoff jeans. The heavyset man lying on his back wore an expensive suit, his white shirt stained deeply with blood. He might have been a heavyweight boxer in his day and might now be a hotel security guard, Brent wasn’t sure. The young woman screamed again as he approached.
“It’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Gunfire raked along the ground, drawing up on the woman. Brent threw himself forward and hit the ground, shielding her from the salvo. He rolled up and returned fire into the woods as Lakota came around and added her triplet of fire to the fray. Brent’s Cross-Com picked out three targets, outlines of each flashing in red, yet all three broke off suddenly, as though they knew they were being watched.
Just then Riggs and Copeland ran forward, out of breath. Brent shouted for Riggs to stay with the girl, while Copeland dropped to the big man’s side, sloughed off his medical pack, and checked for a pulse. None.
“He’s already gone.” Copeland frowned at the woman. “I’m sorry.”
She bit her lip and began to cry.
“Do you speak English?” Brent asked her, realizing that should’ve been his first question.
“Yes.”
“What’s your name.”
“Warda.”
“All right, Warda, get back inside. Don’t come out again.”
“Are you working for Manoj?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
“Come on,” said Riggs, helping Warda to her feet. “You need to go.”
“Get her in there, then get back to me,” said Brent, tipping his head for Lakota to join him. “Wait a minute. Riggs? You stay with her.” The woman knew something, and Brent decided he would question her later.