three — instead of five. They weren’t going to get a better chance. He spun toward Steinhof, yelling, “Now!”
Helen whirled toward the man following right behind them and disappeared out of Thorn’s field of view.
Despite being taken off guard, Steinhof blocked his first strike easily — sweeping it away with his left arm. And then the German’s own right hand flickered out — as quick as a striking serpent.
Christ! Thorn yanked his head aside, feeling displaced air slap him in the face as Steinhof’s rigid palm flashed right past the bridge of his nose. A fraction of an inch closer and he would have been dead.
Attack followed attack, and parry followed parry, all in a dizzying blur of instinctive actions and reactions, too fast for conscious thought. A second passed. Another.
Thorn drifted toward the street, sweeping his open left hand in defensive circles — ready to strike with his right the instant he saw an opening. The other man mirrored his movements. Part of Thorn’s brain knew that he was running out of time and options fast. He had to move — to break clear before the rest of the ambush team closed in. But he didn’t dare leave Steinhof alive and whole behind him. The German was deadly at close quarters.
Helen Gray sprinted straight toward the big, darkhaired man who’d been tailing them. He was already reaching under his coat for a weapon. No time for anything fancy, then. Just close the distance and pray … She slammed straight into the younger German’s stomach. It was like hitting a concrete wall. His arms tightened around her waist and heaved.
Helen felt herself being lifted off the ground and thrown toward a parked Audi. She curled into a ball in midair, hit the side door, and rolled away — aware of the fire running all down her side and left leg.
She scrambled to one knee and froze, staring into the big man’s drawn Walther P5 pistol. He was barely a foot away — so close she could smell the sweat on him and see the tattooed cobra’s head poking above his shirt collar.
He smiled nastily at her and tightened his finger on the trigger.”
“Wiedersehen, schon Fraulein—” Helen chopped at her attacker’s hand, knocking the pistol away just as it fired. A 9mm slug tore into the pavement by her knee and screamed away. Before the big German could pull his weapon back on line, she struck again — this time aiming for his empty left hand.
She jammed her fingers into the fold of skin between the darkhaired man’s left thumb and index finger, and- squeezed, crushing the nerve ending there with every ounce of strength. Her left hand gripped the wrist of the hand holding his pistol.
The tattooed German’s eyes opened wide in shock and agony as he screamed.
Using her grip as a lever, she rose from her knees — simultaneously forcing the screaming man downward. His broad, flat-featured face bent closer.
Now!
Helen shoved his weapon hand out of the way, spun back, and then drove her left elbow straight into his nose with all her might. She felt the crunch as shards of sharp-edged cartilage speared upward and into his brain. He dropped like a stone and lay facedown in a spreading pool of blood.
Thorn tried another strike, felt Steinhof’s left arm drive him off target, and gave ground. The older German countered instantly — driving in with lightning speed, aiming for his throat this time. He blocked it and fell back further.
Steinhof followed, still attacking — hammering against his defenses, probing for that one weak spot that would let a killing blow slip through.
Thorn deflected another strike with his left arm and felt the German’s jacket brush past his open fingertips. He grabbed desperately, curling his hand around the other man’s sleeve. Cloth tore through his fingers as Steinhof wrenched the arm out of his grip.
But for an instant, the older man staggered off balance, open, and vulnerable. Thorn lashed out — throwing his entire weight into the attack. His palm slammed heel-first into Steinhof’s forehead.
Blood sprayed out of the German’s nose and eyes as his brain ruptured under the massive impact. He crumpled to the pavement — dead before he even finished falling.
Recovering quickly, Thorn spun around, heading toward Helen.
The whole melee had lasted less than ten seconds.
Helen looked up and saw Peter sprinting toward her … Crack!
And ducked as safety glass sprayed through the air from the shattered windshield of a parked car. The third German in Steinhof’s ambush party — the one flanking them from across the street-had his pistol out and was shooting.
Bent low, Peter raced up to her. “Let’s move! Move!”
Still breathless, Helen scrambled up and took off down the street the way they’d come — crouching to keep the row of cars between her and the gunman. She could hear more shouts behind her. The rest of Steinhof’s team must have finally tumbled to the fact that their plan had gone sour. She also saw the little old lady standing rigid with shock, spilled groceries jumbled at her feet. The woman was pointing straight at them — screaming something in high-pitched, frantic German.
Another pistol round tore past her head — showering brick dust and fragments across the pavement.
They rounded a corner and kept running, faster now. There were no more shots.
Two more corners brought them out onto a major street — Bismarckstrasse.
Mercedes, Flats, Audis, and Volkswagens roared past in both directions.
After snapping a quick look back in the direction they’d come, Peter flagged down a passing cab and bundled Helen inside.
He rapped on the partition separating them from the driver.
“The Bahnhofi Schnell, bitte!” Then he swung around to face her. “You okay?” Still breathing hard, Helen nodded.
“You’re sure?” Peter persisted. Truth be told, her left leg hurt like hell. The sudden explosion of violent hand- to-hand combat had strained her old injury. But she was alive.
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “What about you? Who the hell was that guy Steinhof?”
He grimaced. “Definitely pro.”
“You think we should leave Wilhelmshaven …” Helen let her voice trail off.
He nodded again, still grim-faced. “Yeah. Don’t you?”
Helen ran over the events of the last few minutes in her mind.
They’d left two men lying dead in the street. Plus, they’d left a witness — the elderly German woman — whose testimony was bound to indicate that she and Peter had made the first hostile moves in the brief, bloody confrontation. She frowned. “You don’t trust the German police?”
“Not much. Not under the circumstances.” Peter looked out at the brightly lit buildings flashing past. “It might take days to clear up exactly what happened. And I don’t think we have many days left. Even if the embassy managed to spring us sooner, home we’d go, under airtight security this time — looking like fools.”
“Plus, we know there are still at least three of those bastards alive out there — alive and looking for us,” Helen said slowly.
“And they’ll be waiting for us out at the docks.”
The cab stopped in front of the busy, bustling train station, and they hurried inside to retrieve their bags from the lockers.
The next train for Berlin wasn’t due to leave for another few hours — far too long to loiter inconspicuously, even on the crowded station concourse. Instead they hopped the first train out — one headed for Hannover.
By the time the Wilhelmshaven police started interviewing witnesses, they were rolling south at eighty kilometers per hour.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SAFE HAVEN
