The Hunted

“Who’re you working for?” she demanded.

“For you now.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“There are those who don’t appreciate your service and would rather terminate your employment.”

“What the hell does that mean?” she asked. “You’re just playing a little game. And I’m not biting.”

The fire trucks’ sirens resounded loudly as they turned the corner and barreled down the road.

She tossed a look to them, then summarily shot Nestes. He staggered back and fell to the ground. She bent down over him.

“You just made a big mistake,” he gasped. “I could have helped you…”

With a chill, she rose, ran across the street, and screamed for the old man and kid to get in the car. She jumped into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine, and they tore away from the curb, riding on two flat tires.

In all her years of covert intelligence work and trade-craft, she had never made a more sloppy or pathetic escape. Maybe they were all correct. She had lost her edge.

Or maybe there were just too many forces working against her this time: the Americans, the Brits, the Russians, the terrorists, and now…

What the hell had Nestes been talking about? Were there enemies within the Ganjin that wanted her killed?

If they managed to get the hell out of the U.K., then she and Patti were going to have a very long talk. She glanced quickly at her phone; indeed, Patti had been trying to contact her.

* * *

Brent’s team arrived at the docks near Dover. Dennison confirmed that the Snow Maiden, along with Chopra and Hussein, had been at the West Bank Guest House, now ravaged by flames. They’d left, heading northeast up Folkestone Road, but they had lost sight of them at Dover Towne Centre, where a massive traffic jam still blocked all roads.

Brent and his Ghosts jogged the short distance to that business center, broke off in pairs, fanned out, and conducted an exhaustive search of a three-block radius. They found the Snow Maiden’s car, two wheels shot up, parked along a dense greenbelt near Priory Hill. She’d obviously broken out of the traffic jam and driven right through the woods, judging from the extensive damage to the vehicle, the tracks, and the gaping lines in the pavement from the rims.

Dennison tried to enlist the aid of the local authorities, but the request had been denied because they had their hands full with the massive crowds at the docks.

All Brent and his Ghosts had to do now was find the three people amid near-rioting crowds flooding toward the coastline.

Brent stationed Riggs and Schleck up on two of the highest buildings, where they’d maintain surveillance on the docks via Schleck’s drone.

Splinter Cell Thomas, still bleary-eyed and distraught over the loss of his brother, volunteered to coordinate with Third Echelon and was communicating directly with them to gain more intel.

They spent the remainder of the day searching in vain, and as night fell, Brent stood near a roundabout opposite the harbor. “Hammer, you got anything? Anything at all?”

“Negative, Ghost Lead. Negative…”

He checked in with Thomas. The NSA had nothing either.

“She’ll turn up again,” said Lakota, drawing up to Brent’s side. “She might lay low here for a day or two, but I’ll bet she’ll cross into Europe. They’ll keep eyes in the sky focused on this route, and they’ll pick her up.”

Brent sighed. “They’ll disguise themselves and slip out in the middle of the night. And we can’t stay here forever.”

“What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying that… at least for me… this is the end of the line. Before the night’s over, Dennison will call me back with orders to pull out.”

“We can’t give up.”

“They want results. And we didn’t provide them. They’ll bring in fresh meat to get the job done. But hey, I had a good run. The Ghosts are number one, that’s for sure. At least I had a chance to play with you guys…”

Lakota shook her head. “I won’t let that happen. All right, you were a little too hardcore by taking us back to Robin Sage, but you’ve been an excellent captain, sir. I would serve with you anytime, anywhere.”

“Thanks.” He smiled wanly. “But I’m done here.”

She frowned. “You shouldn’t be taking this so well.”

“I’m not. It’s all an act. After you leave, I’ll curse. I’ll break something. I’ll get an ulcer, and my eyeballs will explode from my head.”

“Now that I can believe. But please, sir, if she pulls us off, you have to argue. You have to fight.”

“Trust me, I will, but I’ve been around long enough to know how these things go. The unit on the ground takes the responsibility for the loss.”

“That’s not always true. We’re only as good as the intel they provide. If they keep putting us two steps behind and can’t provide the assets, how can they hold us accountable?”

“Dennison went out on a limb for me. I owed her results. Simple as that.”

“Let me talk to her.”

“Forget it.” Brent extended his hand. “It’s been an honor and a pleasure.”

“No, I won’t take your hand. I won’t. It’s not over.”

Brent shrugged, lowered the hand, and stared out across the harbor, where crowded ferries and dozens of private craft thrummed toward the French coastline.

SIXTEEN

Geneva

Forty-eight Hours Later

After abandoning their car in the park, the Snow Maiden, Chopra, and Hussein had fled to the equipment storage room of a nearby tennis club. They’d hidden there until nightfall, at which time they were met by their old taxi driver, who brought changes of clothing and took them to the docks to link up with a yacht bound for Calais. Patti had arranged it all.

Though the crowds had thinned somewhat, there were still enough evacuees to create a wonderful diversion. Getting lost among them was not difficult, and the ball caps and coats certainly helped. She knew that dozens of electronic eyes were focused on them, so they’d kept to the crowds. Moreover, they weren’t the only ones boarding the yacht. A group of about fifteen others did so as well, all part of the guise. The Ganjin, it seemed, had a much larger network and sphere of influence than even the Snow Maiden had imagined. And that unnerved her.

The rest of the full-day road trip from Calais to Geneva unfolded uneventfully, though she imagined that Chopra and Hussein were plotting an escape. They occasionally glanced at each other, and when it became a little too obvious, the Snow Maiden addressed their unspoken communication outright: “If you run, I shoot you in the legs. Believe me — most gunshot wounds hurt. It’s not like TV or the movies. It’s serious pain. And I’ll still drag you to Dubai. It’s not worth it.”

“Don’t you ever sleep?” Hussein had asked her.

“My record is seventy-two hours.”

When they were just an hour away from Geneva, the Snow Maiden had called Patti and once again had asked what was going on with Nestes — and how did he know about the Ganjin? Patti said it was “complicated” and that she wasn’t prepared to discuss the matter at the present time.

Because of her reticence, the Snow Maiden decided to drop off the grid for a while. There were a few people she could call to follow up on Nestes’s actions, but Patti would, of course, be privy to those conversations.

When they arrived in Geneva, she spoke with the owner of a coffee shop where a friend, Heidi Lautens,