The Hunted

“Excuse me?”

“He’s coming with his Spetsnaz force. We’ve tipped him off.”

“Are you insane?”

“No. Izotov hired him to bring you in. The militia is Haussler’s problem, too. He can’t come after you with them in the way.”

“So now what?”

Patti had laughed under her breath. “As expected, Haussler called for help, a diversion, so he could follow you. Now here’s where it gets interesting. Izotov knows that if he sends in his own forces, the JSF will respond in kind. He doesn’t want to do that… so he’s called on the Euros.”

“The Euros?”

“Yes, they have two Enforcers Corps companies airborne and they’ll be in Dubai by nightfall, along with air support.”

“How did he manage that?”

“He threatened to pull the plug on their oil supply, so they’ll do what he says. The Euros will attack the militia north of the tower and keep them preoccupied while you slip in and empty the vault. Initially, the JSF won’t interfere because the Euros are their allies. There will be a lot of saber rattling, but not much else from them.”

“What about Haussler? I’ll still have him on my back.”

“No, you won’t. I told you the Ganjin has climbed into bed with the Green Brigade. Well, I’ve arranged for them to cut off Haussler before he reaches the city. I have about forty combatants already in place. He’ll be coming up from the south, following the main coastal road. They’ll take him out.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then the Euros will.”

“You’ve turned this into a nightmare.”

“I thought you’d enjoy the challenge.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Well, you know what you have to do, and I suspect I’ll be calling with some good news. You can make plans for your reunion with Colonel Doletskaya.”

“That’s not a bribe. He doesn’t even know I’m still alive. And when he finds out, he won’t want to see me.”

“Oh, he knows very well you’re still alive, and the Americans have been leaning hard on him for information. In fact, he’s become quite the security risk.”

“So you’re not rescuing him for me. It’s for yourselves.”

“It’s for everyone.”

The Snow Maiden had snorted and ended the call.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” said Chopra, rising from his chair, his expression asking the question.

She nodded and watched as he moved past the bed, behind her, toward the bathroom. Her hand remained on the bed, away from the pistol.

A mistake.

He came in from behind her, dropping his full weight on her back and trapping her there.

Then he reached across the bed, nearly getting his hand on the pistol before she slammed her elbow into his arm.

He gasped in pain as the weapon flew off the bed and thumped onto the carpet.

“Hussein, get the gun!” cried Chopra.

* * *

Brent had thought that after multiple tours in Afghanistan he’d seen it all — police selling drugs out of their stations, soldiers using their armor breastplates as grills to cook steaks over an open fire. His world was utterly absurd, yet the insanity had begun to feel familiar and comfortable. Expect chaos and suddenly everything is normal, despite the gasps and wide eyes from outsiders.

But maybe he had not seen it all. He certainly hadn’t seen this coming.

Surveillance video along with detailed hardcopy and electronic documentation had allowed Major Alice Dennison to make a “prisoner transfer” of Colonel Pavel Doletskaya.

She had transferred him, all right.

Straight to the unknown.

They were both MIA.

“My God, General, is she a traitor?” asked Brent.

“We don’t know anything else yet, but since Doletskaya is connected to the Snow Maiden, I wanted you updated. From this point on, you’ll be working with Colonel Grey instead of Dennison. I’ll be checking in from time to time myself. This is a strange and disturbing turn of events. I handpicked her myself to join the JSF.”

“Roger that, sir. I’ll add Dennison and Doletskaya to our friend-or-foe cues.”

“That’s already been done,” said Grey. “We have no reason to believe that she’d head to your location, but a rendezvous between the Snow Maiden and Doletskaya could occur in the near future.”

“Yeah, in jail,” added Brent.

“Now, Captain,” the general began, narrowing his gaze. “We know what you’re up against. Just remember: The Germans have a saying—feel the cloth. It comes from the days when men used to fight shoulder-to-shoulder and you could feel your buddy’s arm rubbing against yours. It gave you courage. It reminded you that you weren’t alone. Just go out there and feel the cloth. We’re here to back you up in any way we can.”

“Thank you, sir. Our infiltration was successful. I expect that if the target arrives, she’ll be either terminated or in our custody.”

“Excellent.”

The general ended his link, leaving Brent to face Colonel Grey, whose deep scowl transformed her into an angry bird about to sink her talons into his flesh. Remarkably, she abandoned the cutting remarks and criticism and got down to business. “Brent, I’m taking into account that you might have received bad intel from Major Dennison and that she no doubt tipped off our enemies, but now more than ever we need results. I see you’ve placed snipers on the roof and have a perimeter around the tower.”

“Observation posts out to about a kilometer from the vault. And I’ve got Voeckler moving down to recon the entrance. Schoolie’s still patched into Voeckler’s sticky cams.”

“We’re looking at those cams as well. I’ve also been following Lakota. Still no contact with the militia.”

“She’s working on that, and she tells me she’s an excellent translator.”

Most of his team had received extensive language training, but with the Cross-Com and intelligence teams monitoring back home, they could receive rapid-fire translations as they spoke with locals without having to attach a translator to the team. This was a welcome improvement in the last few years. Many of the translators Brent had used in Afghanistan turned out to be spies or were branded as traitors by locals and targeted for execution; consequently, they required extra protection.

Dubai, however, was unique in that before the war, more than eighty-five percent of its inhabitants were foreign born. Arabs, Indians, and Pakistanis were the largest groups, but people flocked to the country from all over the world, so they really weren’t sure who they’d find and what language they’d speak.

“Once we link up with the militia, we’ll see who’s running the show,” Brent went on. “Do we have any better estimates on the size and composition of this force?”

“Not very big. Battalion-sized force. Maybe a thousand if they’re lucky. Poorly equipped. Any armor they had was probably looted years ago. Looks pretty ragtag, probably just some remaining troops from the country’s old defense force and displaced persons. The emirates only had about sixty-five thousand to begin with. We’ve had some sketchy intel in the past, but this group has been largely ignored, written off as survivors in a radiological zone. There’s a lot of movement in and out of Kish Island right here,” she said, switching her image to a topo map of the area.

Kish was about 120 miles northwest of Dubai, across the Gulf. Before the war it had been touted as a consumer’s paradise because of its free-trade zone. Now it was a bombed-out junkyard.

“All right, we’ll keep an eye on that place, too. And those guys might be poorly armed, but they’ve got