They had been too confident they had the FBI traitor under control, Thorn realized. Despite the risk involved if they’d been stopped by the police themselves, they ought to have tied Mcdowell up. Well, it’ll serve the little bastard right if a stray bullet hits him, Thorn thought coldly.
With a quick nod, Helen sprinted into the trees — careful to stay low.
Keeping the car between her and the unseen gunman, she angled off in the direction Wolf had taken and disappeared into the darkness and dense undergrowth.
Thorn yanked the SIG P228 out of the shoulder holster he’d appropriated from the FBI agent, spun around, and crawled rapidly toward the back of the Taurus.
A split second before he got there, another round ripped through the right rear tire, sprayed dirt and gravel in all directions as it hit the ground, and then ricocheted away into the forest. Thorn rolled away from the can — into the brush and tall grass bordering the road.
Jesus. If he’d moved a little faster, his head would have been right in the line with that bullet.
Wolf’s driver was good — maybe too good.
Thorn edged even further back and then belly-crawled to his left snaking away from the two parked cars while staying parallel to the road. He stopped beside a small boulder that lay half buried amid the weeds. With his pistol out and braced in both hands, he studied the black, forbidding treeline on the other side-his ears cocked for the slightest sound, the first indication of any movement.
All sounds trailed away. Even Mcdowell’s low, sobbing groans had faded to nothing.
Questions about the man he was facing raced through Thorn’s mind as he lay absolutely still, trying to blend with the boulder and the shadows.
Was Wolf’s driver a former soldier used to fighting in wooded country?
Or was he a former Stasi thug more at ease in an urban setting?
There was only one way to find out, he told himself. He felt through the grass for a good-sized rock, found one, and then lobbed it skyward with one quick overhand grenade toss. The rock sailed high, arcing toward the two lit-up cars. It bounced off the hood of the Ford and rolled off into the brush.
The gunman reacted immediately — firing twice in rapid succession.
Both shots caromed off the car’s engine block.
Strike one, Thorn thought grimly. Without hesitating further, he scrambled to his feet and raced across the road and into the woods beyond. He circled warily through the trees — listening intently and checking every footfall for the branch or twig that might trip him up, or snap and alert the man he was hunting.
Metal clinked on rock close by.
Thorn froze in place. He was nearing the road again — within yards of the spot where he’d seen muzzle flashes stabbing out of the blackness.
Wolf’s driver hadn’t changed position after firing or at least not by much. Strike two.
He could almost sense the gunman’s growing uneasiness now.
Every small sound — every bird flitting from branch to branch, every small animal skittering through the brush, every stray breeze rustling through the leaves — must be gnawing away at the other man’s resolution and confidence.
Moving slowly and with infinite patience, Thorn put his back against the trunk of the closest tree, a stunted scrub pine, and slid around it. His eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness now.
Bingo.
He could just barely make out the man-sized shape crouched behind a moss-covered boulder about five yards away. The gunman had found a good piece of cover against someone firing from the other side of the road. A breeze stirred the trees above them, momentarily parting the leafy canopy that hid the night sky. Starlight gleamed off the barrel of the other man’s pistol.
Thorn considered his options. If this were a combat situation, he could just put a couple of rounds into the gunman’s back, make sure he was down for good, and move on after Wolf himself. But this case was a whole lot murkier. He and Helen were operating well outside the law.
Shooting without warning would probably constitute murder. He shook his head — he couldn’t just dry-gulch the guy, not under these circumstances. Anyway, they needed captives to question — not corpses.
Too bad.
Thorn took a fast, shallow breath, and then let it out. He took one step closer with the pistol braced in a twohanded shooting grip.
Now.
“Drop the gun or you’re dead!” he barked.
For a split second, Thorn thought the other man would obey the order.
He was wrong.
Instead, Wolf’s man spun around, frantically trying to bring his own weapon to bear. Flame blossomed in the darkness. A bullet tore into the tree trunk just above Thorn’s head.
Strike three.
Thorn squeezed the trigger three times — pushing the barrel back on line between each shot. Two rounds hit the gunman squarely in the chest.
The third hit him in the head. The man slumped to the ground with one arm still draped across the boulder.
Half blinded and with his ears still ringing from the closerange gunfire, Thorn moved forward and dropped to one knee beside the man he’d shot. He felt for a pulse. Just a faint, spasmodic flutter... and then nothing.
He grimaced. “Shit!”
Suddenly Thorn felt the air stir as someone charged up behind him.
Christ! He swung around with his right arm raised as a block. Too late.
Something heavy and hard glanced off his arm and smashed into his skull. Pain flared — white-hot and blindingly bright. Thorn slipped down into blackness.
The abrupt flurry of gunshots in the middle distance startled Reichardt. He’d been heading through the forest as fast as he could while trying to move silently. From time to time, he’d stopped — listening desperately for any sounds of pursuit. He’d heard none.
Were both Americans going after Brandt? It seemed almost too much to hope for. Johann Brandt was a man of somewhat limited imagination, but he was utterly loyal and fearless.
He stayed still a moment longer, waiting for more gunfire.
Nothing.
Still panting in short, shallow gasps from his frantic dash out of the car, Reichardt took quick stock of his surroundings. He was deep in the woods — at least a hundred yards from the road.
Briers he’d snagged during his initial, panicked flight had ripped holes in his wool slacks, torn his jacket, and even drawn blood from his hands. But he still had his pistol, his briefcase, and his cell phone.
The phone! He could summon help from Ibrahim’s estate security force or even the local police.
Reichardt fumbled in his pockets. Where was it? He swore softly. The cell phone was gone. It must have fallen out onto the ground during his dash for safety. He tried drying the sweat from his palms on his jacket, knowing he would have to press on. If he could just outdistance his pursuers he could find a house and beg for help or flag down a passing car.
The German started moving again — still angling away from the road. For now he needed the concealment the woods offered more than the speed he could have attained on pavement.
Reichardt stumbled into a low-hanging branch, felt a sharp twig draw more blood from his cheek, and swore again angrily.
This was not right. As a servant of the East German state and then as a freelance terrorist, he had been a master of men’s lives for more than twenty years. He was always the hunter — never the hunted!
He pushed through more brush and then stopped dead in his tracks.
He’d come to a sluggish stream wending its way downhill through the trees. The watercourse wasn’t wide — almost narrow enough to jump, in fact. But the bank sloshed muddy and slippery.
More to the point now, the forest canopy parted above the stream — allowing more light to fall on the weed-choked water.
Frowning, Reichardt turned to peer behind him again. He snarled. It was hopeless. It was as dark as a
