For the moment, she, Chopra, and Hussein were being driven far away from Fat Sam’s by a taxi driver who’d been paid to take them up to Dover, their original destination. From there, Patti had arranged transport across the channel by private yacht, but that would not happen until nightfall. They would spend the day at the West Bank Guest House, south of Dover, where Patti had made all the arrangements, no questions asked.
Once they reached the house, the driver said he’d already been paid and left. They entered into a main foyer/reception area, where a heavyset woman with shimmering white hair showed them to a room. Chopra and Hussein remained strangely silent, until she closed the door and faced them. “I want to thank you for your cooperation thus far. This could be much more difficult. You’ve made the right choice.”
“I’m starving. When do we eat?” demanded Hussein.
“Relax, you’ll get fed,” she shot back.
“We’re not going to Geneva,” said Chopra. “We’re not leaving this room.”
She sighed deeply for effect and pointed at Hussein. “You’ve obviously been looking for him, and I’ve been looking for you. So now that we’ve all found each other, why can’t we just live happily ever after?”
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm. This is a grave matter. But I guess you aren’t much more than an evil person.”
“You think I’m evil? How do you know that?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“The murders?”
Chopra shrugged. “Of course.”
“They were obstacles. There were no evil intentions in my heart when I killed them, only a job to do.”
“And being that cold is not evil?”
“There are those who are much colder than I am. Trust me. Much colder. You don’t know evil. If I had the time, I would show it to you.”
Hussein took a deep breath and strode over to her. “You need us. So you won’t kill us, so really, we’re calling the shots. The gun doesn’t really mean anything because you won’t use it. You can’t. I can open the window and start shouting.”
“You could,” she told him. “And you’re right, I won’t kill you. But I can make you feel pain.” With that she drew her silenced pistol and aimed it at the boy’s leg. “Care to find out?”
“No, no, no,” he said, backing away and bending over, as though he’d been struck by a softball in the groin.
“Okay, then do me a favor. Sit down at the desk. And Chopra, you sit there, and you explain to this spoiled brat why he needs to lead his country. He wasn’t listening the first time. Tell him again.”
Chopra scowled. “Another sick game? You want us to entertain you?”
She shook her head. “What you’re telling him is the truth, and I agree with it. I admire your ambition and loyalty to him and his family. There aren’t many people like you in this world, a world controlled by greed and corruption. And I’m no different. I only want the money and the oil-reserve locations. But his nation will recover. And he needs to lead it. He can help the emirates rise up against Russia.”
“You can’t be serious,” he said.
She holstered her pistol beneath her coat. “I am. Believe me. I am.”
Just then the room’s phone rang, and they all looked at each other. Holding her breath, the Snow Maiden answered, and her heart sank as the man on the other end said, “Is this Viktoria Antsyforov?”
She slammed the receiver down and raced to the window. “Come on, we’re leaving!” she shouted.
With the latch thrown, she shoved up the window and was about to climb out when gunfire pummeled the wall beside her, splintering the wooden shingles. She caught the briefest glimpse of a man standing near a small car, aiming an automatic rifle. His green balaclava concealed most of his face. He’d intentionally worn green to send her a message.
FIFTEEN
The Snow Maiden hit the floor and crawled across the room as Chopra wrenched open the door, placing himself between Hussein and the incoming fire.
She screamed for them to go, and she was just behind, bolting up to slam the door after herself but not before something thumped on the wood.
She hollered again for them to move.
And just as she reached the staircase, the room exploded behind her, the concussion knocking her down the stairs and crashing into Chopra and Hussein, who tumbled themselves as shouts and screams rose from below.
Her pistol slipped from her holster as she tried to pull herself up from the tangled mess of the old man and kid.
Before she could sit up, Hussein had her gun and pointed it at her. “Now you work for me. Just like him,” the kid said, flicking a glance at Chopra, who was just sitting up and straightening his glasses.
A crash came from the other side of the house, and after a few loud footfalls, the man wearing the green balaclava rushed into the doorway, turned, and spotted them.
“Shoot him!” she cried as she reached for her second micro pistol tucked into an ankle holster. She had a third gun and a couple of knives as well — a switchblade and a small, sheathed neck knife that hung from a piece of paracord.
Remarkably — perhaps even miraculously — the kid got off the first shot, striking the terrorist thug in the shoulder. The guy’s first salvo went wide as he took the hit, and then another ripped across the ceiling, sending plaster tumbling down onto their heads.
The Snow Maiden squinted through all the dust and finished him with two more shots — much to the kid’s surprise. She gave him a look:
“Shoot me or come along,” she told Hussein. “Because this bastard’s not working alone.”
“They’ll kill the sheikh!” cried Chopra. “We must protect him!”
“They’re after me. You’re excess baggage, and those guys travel light. So yeah — they’ll kill the kid.” She rushed to Hussein and thrust out her hand. “Give me back the gun.”
“I think I’ll just—”
The kid didn’t get to finish. She ripped the pistol from his hand in one deft movement, and he’d screamed as she’d bent his trigger finger.
“Out now!”
They complied, and once clear of the stairwell, they charged out a back door, leaving the house staff lying on the floor behind sofas or beneath tables.
She told them to hold there, just outside, where she called Patti, who told her she was clear to go for the thug’s car.
Taking a long breath and holding it, she made her break, racing around the house, weaving between bushes, traversing a small stone path, then wrenching open a wrought-iron gate to race across a brown patch of grass toward where the thug had parked his car. She fervently believed he was not working alone and felt a pang of fear over trusting Patti, who no doubt was watching via hacked satellite transmissions.
As she crossed the grass, the gunfire came in from across the street.
She dove onto her belly near an old oak, then elbowed her way behind it. Using the camera function on her cell phone, she kept tightly behind the trunk and slowly moved the camera out until she could see the street in the tiny screen: Two men had set up behind the row of parked cars.
The shuffling of feet from behind made her whirl back. Chopra and the kid had joined her. “I told you to hold back there!”
