Part 17 (1/2)

”Awesome, Boss. Dropped the Russians. Thomas is back with us. Suggest we collapse on the trucks. Inbound rotary aircraft, still unidentified ...”

”Gotcha. On my way!”

The bike was old and rusty, the rear fender barely attached, the handlebars loose, the chain grinding as Chopra pedaled through the rut-laden street. The other kids stared at him in envy. This bicycle had been the last thing his father had given him before he'd been killed, and so in Chopra's young mind the bike had become the man. He would park it near his small bed and stare at it, well into the night.

He turned the corner and headed down into the alley, where he would meet his old boss who would give him the list of deliveries. The front basket would be filled with bidis, and Chopra would make his stops and collect the money. It was a lot of responsibility for a twelve-year-old.

When Chopra reached their usual meeting place, the old man was lying on the ground, bleeding from a gaping wound to his forehead. The boxes of bidis were empty. Chopra got off his bike, rushed to the man, and tried to comfort him, but he was scared that the people who had attacked the old man might still be around. He got back on his bike, raced home, and told his mother, begging her to send help. She did.

The next morning, Chopra returned to the alley, hoping the old man had recovered and the deliveries would happen as usual. The old man was gone, the empty boxes still lying there. Before Chopra could climb back on his bike, he was stopped by two boys a few years older than himself. They'd been watching him from across the street, half hidden in the shadows of laundry lines crisscrossing the alley in a thick canopy of multicolored fabric.

The larger one with bushy eyebrows glanced at Chopra's bike. ”It's mine now,” he said evenly.

”What are you talking about?” asked Chopra.

”Your bike.”

”You're not taking it,” said Chopra, lifting his voice and seeing his father smiling and saying, ”Take good care of it. Don't let anyone borrow it.” ”Take good care of it. Don't let anyone borrow it.”

The boy s.h.i.+fted up to Chopra and stared down at him. He was a full head taller, his eyes narrowing. ”What are you going to do anyway?”

Chopra took a deep breath. His mouth went dry. ”You can't have my bike.”

”I'm doing you a favor. You're just making the old man rich. You can't work for him anymore. Do something else.”

”You know I can't.”

”Then you'll never be anything in this world, so it doesn't matter if I take the bike or not.” He started away from Chopra and grabbed the bike's handlebars.

His friend came up behind them. ”Can you ride me?”

”Sure,” said the boy. ”Climb on.”

The second boy balanced himself on the rear wheel's bolts while the first took a seat.

”You can't take it!” shouted Chopra, reaching toward them.

The first boy turned and shoved Chopra away. ”Don't do anything. I don't want to hurt you.”

Chopra reared back, ready to punch the boy in the face, but suddenly he was on the ground, the dust coming up into his face. The other kid had hopped down and shoved him.

With tears in his eyes, Chopra watched as his bicycle vanished down the alley.

”Change of plans,” said the Snow Maiden, riding up beside Chopra.

They were still pus.h.i.+ng along the embankment, pa.s.sing the rows of gridlocked cars, with Hussein keeping close behind them.

”Are you listening to me?” she asked.

Chopra glanced at her. She was riding through that old alley in Mumbai, and then the alley dematerialized into the narrow country road. ”What did you say?”

”I told you we have a change of plans. We're not going to Dover anymore. We're heading to Folkestone. We'll be met there. It's farther south than Dover and closer to us. Now let's pick up the pace. Come on.”

Chopra was already sweating profusely in the summer heat and humidity. He took a deep breath, wondering what those boys had ever done with his bike. He'd never seen it again, and in truth he'd never forgiven himself for allowing them to steal it. His father would not have approved.

But he'd shown them, right? He'd risen from the dirt, the ashes, the same way Dubai would in time. He refused to let this woman take that away, and he silently vowed that she wouldn't. No matter what he had to do. He glanced back at the young sheikh, who rolled his eyes and said, ”When can we stop? I'm absolutely dying of thirst!”

”You have become an expert at complaining.”

”Shut up, old man.”

”You must learn to respect your elders.”

”Get me a drink-or at least get her to get me a drink ...”

Chopra braced himself. Patience. Patience. Patience. Patience.

[image]

Brent loved how politics affected military operations.

When he'd earlier needed Close Air Support, he couldn't get the time of day, but now, after Dennison had had some time to throw her weight around and negotiate her way up and down the pipeline, an old UH-60 Blackhawk came whomping toward them. They'd be picked up and whisked at high speed back into the chase.

The Snow Maiden, Chopra, and Hussein were on bicycles and riding toward the coast.

Dennison had had to repeat that.

Bicycles? There was the Snow Maiden's connection to the Tour de France, the cousin who'd been murdered. But bicycles ?

Dennison had explained that all the roads had been flooded with people trying to flee to the coast and cross over to France. The Snow Maiden's escape was actually quite clever and much faster than any attempt by car.

A keen-eyed intelligence a.n.a.lyst with his face glued to a satellite feed had, however, picked up the group of three pedaling southward.

Easy prey? Hardly.

Worse, getting back in the air wouldn't go by the numbers, as Lakota confirmed. ”Our ride's got a Russian on his tail. Looks like another Howler.”

”All right, you talk in our ride, and I'll get us to put some fire on that Howler,” Brent said, still jogging through the forest.

He reached the road and the pair of trucks where the others had already climbed aboard and were waiting for him. He signaled to both drivers: Take us back up the road Take us back up the road, to where a large clearing would serve as the landing zone.

They tore off, the engines revving, Brent's driver cursing under his breath, a habit it seemed. It took just five minutes to reach the zone, where Brent ordered his team to fan out, away from the trucks-all but Daugherty and Heston. He put those operators on the fifty-caliber guns. Then he told the two British drivers and gunners that they didn't have to stay, that his men would take out that Howler, and thank you very much for allowing us to borrow your nice toys.