Part 14 (1/2)

Brent longed to pull up a close-in satellite view of the area so he could tell George where the troops were moving. The team had nothing, though, technology rendered useless by more technology. They would rely now on their good old-fas.h.i.+oned wits to escape.

Thomas remained in the shed, staring through that dusty window at the second story of the apartment. He could see Russian troops appearing in the window from where George had escaped. They were tearing up the house, while one remained there, sweeping the yard with his scoped rifle.

With an audible s.h.i.+ver, Thomas swore again as the Russians shouted to each other on the other side of the fence.

Brent could barely breathe now as he checked the images coming in from George's goggles. ”George, just get some cover like your brother and wait for us.”

”That's the plan,” said the spy. ”That's the plan.” He burst up from the parked cars.

From around the corner of the next apartment building came two Spetsnaz troops-Grim Reapers dressed in black uniforms and web gear, with black helmets and balaclavas concealing their ident.i.ties.

They were but fifty meters away.

George dropped to the ground and shot one guy in the face with his pistol, while the other ducked and George did likewise. Gunfire struck the cars behind him as he jogged around and sought cover once more.

Brent wanted to scream at the Splinter Cell, tell him not to remain there in a standoff while that Russian troop called for backup. But George was a seasoned veteran and didn't need Brent pointing out the obvious.

In fact, George did something remarkable again. He suddenly broke cover and darted to the building, even as the trooper, who'd sought refuge behind the corner, eased out for another look, the top of his helmet jutting out.

While the Russian's gaze was reaching out toward the car, George came at him from the side, sliding an arm around the man's head while raising a combat dagger high in his free hand.

George plunged the knife deep into the man's neck, just north of his clavicle, then George grabbed the hilt and got to work. To say that George opened up the man's head like a Pez dispenser would be understating the point, and Brent had a front-row seat to all the carnage. He grimaced.

George dropped the body and s.h.i.+fted to the front side of the apartment. He hunkered down beside a row of shrubs and stole a look out at the helicopter sitting in the field across the street.

Oh, no, Brent thought. I hope he's not thinking what I'm thinking ... I hope he's not thinking what I'm thinking ...

Two civilians had come out of the homes, one holding a kitchen knife, the other an antique-looking pistol. They were a husband-and-wife team, white-haired, wizened, and wild, and they waved and shouted as two troops who'd been stationed just outside the helicopter drifted toward them.

”No, don't do it,” Brent muttered aloud.

It was over before it started. One Russian shot both the man and the woman execution style, boom-boom. And George just sat there and gasped. Then George cleared his throat and said, ”Thomas, stay in the shed.”

”I will.”

George sighed into his microphone. ”They must've found our car by now. We can't get out on foot or by car if they still got that bird.”

”George, don't even think about it,” said Thomas.

”George, just dig in and do not do anything,” said Brent. ”That's an order!”

”Too late.”

”Voeckler!” Brent cried. ”What're you doing?”

The image coming in from George's trident goggles grew so shaky that Brent couldn't see anything.

But he could hear the man breathing. Faster. And faster. Panting now.

[image]

The Snow Maiden let out a faint snort as she glanced sidelong at Hussein. The boy was staring out the window, looking bored and about to fall asleep as they continued on toward Dover.

Chopra was droning on and on about what the boy's father had wanted for him, and the old man's cadence and tone had become yet another form of white noise, like the wind buffeting the car, the engine's hum, and the steady vibration of the tires on the pavement.

Even the Snow Maiden herself was beginning to drift off, barely listening, reminding herself that if she didn't keep her guard up, the sixteen-year-old next to her could launch a surprise.

Abruptly, her cell phone rang. ”You'll be met at Dover,” said Patti. ”They know you're coming.”

”Excellent. Thank you.”

”I'll see you in Geneva. Excellent work, as always.”

”You might want to call Izotov and thank him as well.”

Patti laughed. ”I'm sure he'd appreciate that.”

The Russians-in their attempt to capture her-had inadvertently helped her escape. It seemed they might come in handy now, and she thought about manipulating them to her benefit in the near future.

For just the briefest of moments, though, she took herself back to the tiny town of Banff, just off the Trans-Canada Highway, seventy-eight miles west of Calgary. She was with Green Vox, that terrorist leader whose ident.i.ty was kept a secret so that he could ”live forever” through any number of followers a.s.suming his role. Together, they had chosen Banff so they would be upwind from the nuclear fallout, once she had detonated the nukes. But the entire operation had been foiled by the Americans. No matter. She'd had other plans.

”I am Snegurochka. What did you expect?” she'd asked the terrorist.

”Viktoria, what are you doing?”

”Did you really really think I was working with you?” think I was working with you?”

His mouth had fallen open. ”You can't be serious.”

She'd grinned and aimed the gun at him.

Vox's eyes had widened. ”Go ahead, kill me. Green Vox will return. He always does.”

She shot him between those eyes.

”Yes,” she said, staring down at his body. ”You always come back-and always as a man. What a pity.”

Now as she sat in the car, she realized that an aching fear had brought on the memory. She was worried about whether the Green Brigade Transnational had given up on their quest for revenge. Perhaps her work in France had reminded them of the futility of getting too close to her.

The Americans and the Russians were so predictable, but these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds ... they were the wild cards and could appear at any time. And as she'd speculated, they could be getting leads from Izotov, who'd perhaps hired them as mercenaries in addition to his ”official” efforts involving Haussler and the Spetsnaz troops. Izotov was a clever one who could be feeding information to the terrorists that he wasn't sharing with Haussler. He might even be playing them against each other and would reward only the victors. She knew him all too well, knew that all he cared about were end results and that people were disposable, people like her husband and brothers.

In the Snow Maiden's Russia, loyalty was a spring flower that wilted far too quickly without water.

”We're almost out of gas,” Chopra said, wrenching her from her thoughts.

”Then you'll stop at the next petrol station.”