Clint seized the opportunity and latched onto the tomahawk and Danya’s arm with both his hands. But his position could hardly have been any worse. She glared into his eyes and gripped the handle of the axe while keeping Clint focused on acquiring it.
She brought the Kukri forward, stabbing Clint. He never saw it coming. The steel lacerated deep into his side just below his rib cage. His eyes opened wide, and his jaw dropped. His hold on her arm relaxed. She thrust the blade deeper and then withdrew it in a vicious slash that nearly severed his torso. His mouth moved, but no sound escaped. And then he collapsed in a growing pool of blood, the two halves of his body held together by only his spine and some thin strips of muscle.
The knifeman had witnessed the final gruesome battle from twenty feet away.
“No. No!” he rasped, in agony.
She took a deep breath and faced the man. He still brandished his knife. The cut across his stomach was deep, but not fatal if the blood loss was staunched.
“Drop the weapon,” she said.
“No. He was my friend!” His tone gathered ire when he said friend.
“Your buddies kidnapped my friends and attacked me, remember? Drop the knife.” She placed the blade on the concrete floor, trying to de-escalate the showdown. “We don’t have to do this. You need medical help.”
“You butchered him.”
“I was defending myself. Drop the knife.”
He took a step forward. His stare bore into her, his brows pinched together. She saw him adjust his grip on the knife—his forearm muscles contracted as he squeezed the handle.
Then he let out a banshee scream. “Ahhhh!”
With his legs pumping, he accelerated like a Mack Truck, oblivious to the pain of his wounds. After two powerful strides, he was at full speed.
The tomahawk cartwheeled through the air, having just slid free of her fingertips. The light alternately reflected off the cutting edge and the polished spike at the opposite side of the head, creating a kaleidoscopic display.
The knifeman’s rush and the velocity of the axe combined with grisly effect. The spike pierced through his sternum, the tip impaling his heart. The Bowie knife fell from his hand, and his limbs seemed to stiffen as they were rocked with spasms. His body contracted in sharp pain, his heart unable to rhythmically pump blood. His subconscious mind was in survival mode, firing impulses through his nervous system. The pain radiating from the center of his chest forced neighboring muscles in his abdomen and back, including his diaphragm, to constrict, choking off his ability to breathe.
He stood there for ten seconds, wavering on his feet, barely able to maintain balance, hanging in limbo between life and death. Then he fell forward, driving the point of the axe head out of his back.
Chapter 33
the hangar was deathly silent. The only sound was Danya taking deep breaths and exhaling. Sweat beaded on her forehead and traced rivulets down the side of her face. Her head throbbed from the blow she’d suffered.
Why? She didn’t come here to kill these men. They’d attacked her. What were they protecting? What was so important?
Now, only one person had those answers.
Sacheen.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Danya. Are you okay?”
Toby stood and pushed away the black tool chest she’d been hiding behind.
Danya belayed the grisly chore of extracting her combat tomahawk from the deceased knifeman. She approached Toby, and they shared an embrace. Toby teared up.
“Are we safe now?”
“For now. We still have to get out of here.”
“I was so scared. They said they wanted me to help them. To support their cause. Sacheen and Leonard. They’re the leaders.”
“Sacheen…I better check on our Sleeping Beauty.”
An acquainted voice came from behind Danya. Toby’s eyes were wide in fear.
“Thank you for your concern,” Sacheen said. “I’m doing just fine.”
Danya rotated and found herself staring across the open room at her nemesis. With 9mm pistol in hand, Sacheen strode toward the two women. When she’d decreased the separation by half, she stopped.
“Where is the man? The FBI agent?”
Danya made a show of looking around the space.
“I don’t know. Seems he left. Probably far away by now. I was a little…preoccupied with your guards to pay any attention.”
“You are a very dangerous woman. First, you attacked and killed many of my warriors on Alcatraz. And now this.” Sacheen motioned with one hand, the other maintaining a steady aim with the pistol.
“I do my best,” Danya replied.
“I never imagined a woman could have skills such as you have demonstrated. A pity. You would have been a great asset to our cause.”
“You’re delusional. I’d never sign on with a bunch of terrorists.”
“So you say.” Sacheen took one step forward and stared into Danya’s eyes. “Who taught you to fight? The military? Maybe the CIA?”
With no weapons in hand, Danya was defenseless. The bolt-action rifle strapped across her back might as well have been ten feet away. She could never unlimber it, aim, and fire before being shot dead by Sacheen. But she still had time.
Danya smiled. “Yes.”
“Ah. The CIA, I think.”
“I’m not an American citizen.”
Sacheen shrugged. “It makes no difference. Maybe you worked for MI6, or Mossad. Or some other foreign agency. You were a tool. A blunt implement of the government to carry out state-sponsored terrorism. Am I right?”
Danya’s brow rimpled. The accusation hit too close to home.
“So I am right,” Sacheen said.
“What I did is none of your concern.”
“Oh, my. We are just a bit defensive, aren’t we. I must have touched a nerve.”
She had. Danya’s service with Mossad was a part of her history that pained her. She began every day with the goal of doing more good than harm, of trying to atone for past sins. In her mind, she had been a tool of her government—sometimes completing missions involving heinous violence. Supposedly necessary to
