Then he glanced back up the road, where in the distance he saw two cars, a Ford pickup truck and another Range Rover SUV about three hundred meters behind. Some of his Ghosts were riding in the pickup, hanging over the flatbed’s sides, rifles brought to bear.
The Russian gunships had fanned out, and two were turning toward the oncoming cars.
Brent wanted to call off Juma and his people, but it was already too late.
Lakota began firing at the oncoming Russians, who dropped and returned fire.
At that moment, the Snow Maiden leaned down and began to jab her gun into his neck.
Brent grabbed her arm as the pistol went off.
And then he pulled her down toward him with all his might. She lost her balance and fell. Just as he moved to climb back on top of her, gunfire hammered across his back, and then it came, the sharp, steady pain.
He gasped and fell over, onto his side, as the Snow Maiden was pulled away by the other man, who Brent now confirmed was Heinrich Haussler. He was working for her?
Lakota fired again, and more rounds from the Russians ahead punched into and clanged off their Range Rover.
Rockets ignited above and streaked away from the Russian choppers. Brent turned his head to watch as his people bailed out of the cars only seconds before the missiles struck. Twin explosions swelled into summits of fire, and the screams from his men over the team channel were awful and unbearable. The Range Rover assumedly carrying Juma turned around and headed back in retreat.
“Ghost Lead, this is Hawk’s Honor, thirty seconds…”
You’re too late, Brent wanted to tell him, but a wave of dizziness was taking hold, the ground listing to the left as though he were on a boat.
He knew if he stared hard enough at those flames in the distance he’d see Villanueva, shaking his head in disappointment.
“Ghost Lead, they’ll have missile lock in five, four, three, two…”
The Snow Maiden glanced back once more at the soldier who’d tackled her. It had been years since she’d encountered a man so fiery-eyed and determined. He seemed obsessed with her, and she took that as a true compliment. She thought of ordering the Russians to grab him, capture him, but she couldn’t explain why.
She climbed into the transport, and as they began to lift off, she shoved her pistol into Haussler’s neck and fired two rounds, whispering, “I’ll never go back to Izotov. Never.”
As he started to drop, she slid him aside and tossed him out of the chopper. His body tumbled and slapped across the asphalt, limbs twisted at unnatural angles as the troops standing beside her looked dumbfounded.
She pushed through them, put her pistol to the back of the chopper pilot’s head, and shouted: “Okay, now you’ll take me where I want to go.”
Just then explosions like tiny orange novae woke in the night sky, and the radio traffic from the gunships grew frantic.
“The Americans are here,” cried the pilot.
“Good,” she said. “Take me back to the airport.”
One of the troops jammed his rifle into her back. “Lower your weapon,” he cried.
She glanced back over her shoulder. “I’ll kill him! And then we all die, unless you know how to fly this helicopter.”
He thought it over, then complied, and in one fluid motion, she turned, put her pistol to the trooper’s head, and shot him point-blank. The trooper beside her grabbed her arm.
But before he could get closer in an attempt to seize her weapon, the chopper suddenly pitched forward, and cannon fire tore into the bay. Alarms blared from the cockpit, and the pilot cried, “I’ve lost power!”
EPILOGUE
A SEAL team had flown in from the Eisenhower Carrier Strike Group, and Brent had already been examined by the medics. He was about to be airlifted back to the ship when Juma shifted forward with his cousin. “Brent, I’d like you to meet Sheikh Hussein Al Maktoum. The ruler of Dubai.”
The boy, who was still wearing an environment suit identical to the Snow Maiden’s, extended his hand. Brent took it. “Thank you, sir, for recovering the gold and helping my country.”
“You’re welcome. I do wish we could have gotten her.” He glanced up to Juma. “Any word yet?”
Juma shook his head. “Her helicopter went down near Al Lisaili, but there’s still no sign.”
The boy released Brent’s hand. “Captain, if there is anything I can ever do for you?”
Brent took a long breath. “Hold that thought. I may come looking for a favor sooner rather than later.”
Hussein nodded. “Anything you need. Just let me know.”
Two crew members from the chopper lifted Brent’s long backboard and carried him away. At his request, they placed him beside Lakota in the helicopter’s cramped bay. He reached over, took her hand, then raised his voice over the droning engines. “You did good, kid.”
She sighed. “You, too!”
He raised his head and spotted Voeckler and Schleck seated across from him. They were ragged, red-eyed, exhausted.
He took a deep breath. The rest of his team who’d been riding in the pickup truck was coming home in body bags. He closed his eyes and braced himself.
The guilt burned.
And burned. And burned.
The Snow Maiden stood over his bed, watching him sleep. He was a pathetic old man swollen with greed and with a terrible lust for power that had blinded him to the atrocities committed by his government. He had been schooled in the rules of success by a war hero father who’d taught him to crush those in his way, so even from the beginning there had been no hope for him. He was a schoolyard bully with a war machine at his disposal.
Her breath grew shallow as she considered shooting him. Ending it quickly. No words. Just instant gratification. Revenge served coldly, as it should be.
Instead she nudged his head with her pistol until he jolted awake.
She flicked on her penlight and shone it on her face, illuminating herself like some night creature.
“Viktoria, is that you?” he said, lifting his hand and squinting.
“Yes, General. Heinrich said you wanted to talk to me.”
“We assumed you were dead. Like him.”
“Another friend gave me a ride, although she’s no more trustworthy than you.”
“If you’ve come to kill me, then be done with it. I’m sixty-two and much too old to be insulted by you.”
“You’re fat and ignorant. And even with a gun to your head you still think you can give orders?”
“Viktoria, we didn’t kill your husband. Or your brothers. You’ve constructed this fantasy and turned us into murderers, when we are anything but.”
She jabbed the pistol into his forehead, and he groaned sharply. Then she climbed on top of him and began pressing the muzzle deeper and deeper into his flesh. “You don’t know anything about me.”
She began to tremble.
“Just shoot me!” he cried.
“I should,” she gasped, beginning to pant, her face warming with the desire to finish him now. “But I won’t. I can’t.”
“Then what do you want?”
“You’re coming with me.”
He stifled a laugh. “You’re going to kidnap me?”
“Yes. I need your help.”
“With what?”
“With killing the president. With bringing down the motherland. And then we will stand back and watch it burn.”
“You’re insane.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Viktoria, whatever you say. Whatever you want me to do, I will do.”
She pulled the pistol from his head and set it on the night table. “First you’ll satisfy my needs, then you pack. We have a long trip ahead of us.” She shoved her tongue down his throat and tore at his pajamas.