The man who appeared behind the shattering wood was a stocky German wearing a broad grin. That he had found her here was a testament to his tenacity because she’d been excruciatingly careful.
But here he was, nonetheless, Mr. Heinrich Haussler, old GRU colleague and double agent, new nemesis, with a suppressed pistol pointed at her head.
“Hello, Viktoria.”
She snorted. “Hello, Heinrich. You could’ve knocked.”
SIX
To say that Brent had grinned until it hurt would be an understatement. They’d sent him to a French paradise, where, well, the escargot had hit the fan, but then he’d learned they were sending him to a tropical paradise. The irony was killing him. He barely made enough money to vacation in these spots, yet he was getting all-expenses-paid trips courtesy of the American taxpayers. He hoped his dumb luck would continue.
Dennison had leaned hard on the captured Russian colonel, Pavel Doletskaya, and he knew enough about the Snow Maiden to offer small details that might betray her whereabouts. She traveled under assumed identities, of course, and had access to some of the best document-forging techniques in the world via her old GRU contacts and other unknown sources. She was also able to defy most electronic ID systems. But in the end, she was still human, still susceptible to human impulse, to weakness, to using her mother’s initials as a prompt for devising her aliases — a tidbit only the Russian colonel would know. That eccentricity had led the NSA and Army intelligence to locating her in the Seychelles. Dennison herself had checked the airport security camera footage, and voila, there she was, the Snow Maiden, wearing a tennis cap and shorts and carrying a sling bag. There was something haughty and audacious about her using commercial airliners. With all of her resources, Brent would have considered her moving about on private jets; perhaps she wasn’t as well connected or well funded as others thought, or perhaps a private jet might have called too much attention to her.
Brent, the Splinter Cells, and the rest of his team were en route within an hour after receiving their first lead. And by the time they neared the island, they had pin-pointed her exact location.
They infiltrated the resort via a borrowed yacht anchored offshore, and dressed in nondescript black fatigues and heavily armed, they were ready to take the Snow Maiden alive. The team was fanning out, about to set up full surveillance of her villa.
Brent was curious why she was here. Her cousin had just been killed, and the higher-ups assumed she’d remain in Europe to exact payback on the terrorists. Maybe she was linking up with someone on the island who could help.
As he and Lakota shifted through a dense forest running parallel to the hillside trail, the call came in from Thomas Voeckler: “We’ve just run an infrared scan on the hillside. I don’t believe this. It’s loaded with targets. I just pulled up satellite. We have nine armed operators already in place. What the hell is this, Brent?”
“I’ll find out.” Brent crouched down and took a deep breath. “Ghost Team, this is Ghost Lead. Hold positions. Hammer, this is Ghost Lead, over.”
“Go ahead, Ghost Lead,” replied Dennison, her image appearing in the head-up display.
“Does the old cliche ??we’ve got company’ mean anything to you right now?”
“Scanning.”
Brent sighed in frustration. “Be nice if we knew who they were…”
“Not sure yet. Let’s feel them out.”
“Roger that. Ghost Team, split and shadow those other operators. I want you breathing down their necks, but don’t engage. Not yet. Schleck, you hold back and get ready to do your thing. Get your bead on that front door, over.”
“Roger that, Boss,” replied Schleck. “Holy—” Schleck finished the curse and added, “A guy just broke down her front door. He’s moving inside!”
Gunfire erupted across the hillside, all kinds of fire: single-shot, automatic, even the crack of a carbine. Brent began cycling through the camera views of his people as he sent Lakota off toward the Snow Maiden’s villa about a hundred yards up the hill.
“Ghost Team, hold fire! Do not give up your positions! Let them give up theirs!”
“They just fired at a hotel security guard. He’s down,” reported Noboru.
“I think they have infrared on us,” cried Daugherty. “Radar, satellite, the works! Might need to engage!”
Brent swore under his breath and cried, “Gun and run if you have to, but keep it moving!”
“He’s right,” Riggs chimed in. “I got one in my sights now. They’ve got headsets like ours.”
Brent gritted his teeth and began cycling through the operator images piped in via his Cross-Com. He was trying to do the right thing as team leader: obtain as much information as possible before reacting to the situation.
Aw, hell. He took off running.
Chopra had been watching the highlights of a soccer game and was lifting the remote toward the set, about to turn it off. He’d set up his air travel to London and all had been well — until he’d heard the sound of gunfire coming from the hills near his villa. He immediately called Westerdale, who was already panicking and crying that they should “get the bloody hell out of there.”
“We should just stay here and take cover,” Chopra had argued.
“You fool. If they’ve come for Warda and take her, she’ll talk. Then they’ll come for you. The only way you can help Hussein is to save yourself!”
“All right.”
Thankfully, Chopra had traveled light and his bag was already packed, except for his morning clothes. He gathered his belongings, flinched again at the sound of more gunshots, then, holding his breath, went running from his villa. He longed to go after Warda and prayed they wouldn’t hurt her, but Westerdale was right: If Chopra didn’t make contact with Hussein, then Dubai would never rise again and that would be a tragedy. As much as it pained him, he kept on toward Westerdale’s villa. The pops and booms continued from the jungle above him.
The dimly lit trail took him to the main entrance and motorway, where two taxi drivers had climbed into their cars and were keeping low, their worried gazes turned up toward the hills. Between the damp stone and his own excitement, Chopra wound up slipping and falling as he neared the first car. He cried out, felt a throbbing in his elbow, but pulled himself back up and spotted Westerdale coming from a second path and hustling toward him.
The Brit waved and called out to Chopra.
Another exchange of gunfire thundered across the hills, stealing Chopra’s breath.
He was dizzy by the time he fell into the backseat and the cabdriver sped away. He glanced over at Westerdale, who shook his head and said, “You’re in over your head.”
“I know. But this is the right thing to do,” Chopra said, hardening his tone.
“You’re an eccentric.”
Chopra shook his head. “I just want what’s right.”
“Then go to London. Wait for his call. Hopefully she spoke to him before they attacked.”
Chopra threw his head back against the seat, removed his glasses, and massaged his weary eyes. “You’re staying here.”
“I’m what?”
“You heard me. You’re staying. I want to know about Warda. I want to know if she’s safe.”
Westerdale released a string of epithets, then demanded a larger bonus, and Chopra agreed.
The Snow Maiden mused that it was difficult to have tricks up her sleeve while wearing a short-sleeved shirt; however, she’d grown used to being chased and took nothing for granted. Her tricks were born of experience and
