The Hunted

Brent nodded, looked up, and saw that the Russian choppers were just now coming around to escort a larger, slower bird, a troop transport.

And then, from the embankment, he saw two figures dash forward, away from the trucks.

Brent charged after them, and they didn’t notice his approach as the rotor wash whipped across the road.

He leveled his rifle on the taller one and cut loose a triplet of rounds that punched the guy onto his back; however, the rounds failed to penetrate his armor. He was only stunned.

The smaller figure swung back to face him.

It was her.

And as she fired into his chest — one, two, three rounds — he threw himself into the air and knocked her to the ground. He dropped his rifle and pinned her arms with his knees, and his gloved hands fumbled for the latch on her helmet. He found it, threw it back, and, as she fought to squirm free, twisted off her helmet and tossed it away.

He wrapped his gloved hands around her neck and began to choke her. “Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?” he screamed in English, knowing she understood him.

“I don’t care,” she said, groaning in exertion.

With a sudden jerk she rolled, driving her legs up and over his head, boots slamming into his helmet. The power in her legs was remarkable, and she tore him free, forcing his head back with her ankles. He lost his grip on her throat and fell away, reaching out to his right for his rifle.

“Ghost Lead, this is Hawk’s Honor, second squadron of F-35s inbound. They’ll be in missile range in two minutes, if you can just hang on, over.”

He couldn’t answer the pilot.

And if he could just delay her for two minutes…

Brent sat up — in time to watch the Snow Maiden’s boot connect with his helmet, knocking him back down. He rolled, tried to sit up again, but she stood over him now, aiming her pistol at his head.

“Who are you?” she screamed, her short hair whipping in rotor wash as the transport chopper landed, with Russian troops thumping out beside the door gunner, who swung his machine gun around to face Brent.

The first guy Brent had shot was staggering to his feet and screaming in Russian, waving for the Snow Maiden to follow him.

Was that Haussler?

Ignoring him, she screamed once more for Brent to ID himself.

The weird light in her eyes told him enough. If he kept pushing her buttons, he’d buy more time. “You don’t give me orders, little girl.”

Voices in his ear now:

“Brent, it’s Juma! We’re on our way! Almost there!”

“Ghost Lead, this is Hawk’s Honor, one minute… Stand by…”

The Snow Maiden leaned toward him, aiming at his neck. “I can shoot you right here, and you’ll die.”

“Then do it, you crazy bitch.”

“Viktoria!” screamed the other man. That had to be Haussler!

The Russian troops were running forward now, about to surround them.

Brent stole a look back at Lakota, who was now lying on her side, clutching her rifle, and staring vaguely at him.

Then he glanced back up the road, where in the distance he saw two cars, a Ford pickup truck and another Range Rover SUV about three hundred meters behind. Some of his Ghosts were riding in the pickup, hanging over the flatbed’s sides, rifles brought to bear.

The Russian gunships had fanned out, and two were turning toward the oncoming cars.

Brent wanted to call off Juma and his people, but it was already too late.

Lakota began firing at the oncoming Russians, who dropped and returned fire.

At that moment, the Snow Maiden leaned down and began to jab her gun into his neck.

Brent grabbed her arm as the pistol went off.

And then he pulled her down toward him with all his might. She lost her balance and fell. Just as he moved to climb back on top of her, gunfire hammered across his back, and then it came, the sharp, steady pain.

He gasped and fell over, onto his side, as the Snow Maiden was pulled away by the other man, who Brent now confirmed was Heinrich Haussler. He was working for her?

Lakota fired again, and more rounds from the Russians ahead punched into and clanged off their Range Rover.

Rockets ignited above and streaked away from the Russian choppers. Brent turned his head to watch as his people bailed out of the cars only seconds before the missiles struck. Twin explosions swelled into summits of fire, and the screams from his men over the team channel were awful and unbearable. The Range Rover assumedly carrying Juma turned around and headed back in retreat.

“Ghost Lead, this is Hawk’s Honor, thirty seconds…”

You’re too late, Brent wanted to tell him, but a wave of dizziness was taking hold, the ground listing to the left as though he were on a boat.

He knew if he stared hard enough at those flames in the distance he’d see Villanueva, shaking his head in disappointment.

“Ghost Lead, they’ll have missile lock in five, four, three, two…”

* * *

The Snow Maiden glanced back once more at the soldier who’d tackled her. It had been years since she’d encountered a man so fiery-eyed and determined. He seemed obsessed with her, and she took that as a true compliment. She thought of ordering the Russians to grab him, capture him, but she couldn’t explain why.

She climbed into the transport, and as they began to lift off, she shoved her pistol into Haussler’s neck and fired two rounds, whispering, “I’ll never go back to Izotov. Never.”

As he started to drop, she slid him aside and tossed him out of the chopper. His body tumbled and slapped across the asphalt, limbs twisted at unnatural angles as the troops standing beside her looked dumbfounded.

She pushed through them, put her pistol to the back of the chopper pilot’s head, and shouted: “Okay, now you’ll take me where I want to go.”

Just then explosions like tiny orange novae woke in the night sky, and the radio traffic from the gunships grew frantic.

“The Americans are here,” cried the pilot.

“Good,” she said. “Take me back to the airport.”

One of the troops jammed his rifle into her back. “Lower your weapon,” he cried.

She glanced back over her shoulder. “I’ll kill him! And then we all die, unless you know how to fly this helicopter.”

He thought it over, then complied, and in one fluid motion, she turned, put her pistol to the trooper’s head, and shot him point-blank. The trooper beside her grabbed her arm.

But before he could get closer in an attempt to seize her weapon, the chopper suddenly pitched forward, and cannon fire tore into the bay. Alarms blared from the cockpit, and the pilot cried, “I’ve lost power!”

EPILOGUE

Sheikh Zayed Road

Near Mina Jebel Ali

Two Hours Later

A SEAL team had flown in from the Eisenhower Carrier Strike Group, and Brent had already been examined by the medics. He was about to be airlifted back to the ship when Juma shifted forward with his cousin. “Brent, I’d like you to meet Sheikh Hussein Al Maktoum. The ruler of Dubai.”

The boy, who was still wearing an environment suit identical to the Snow Maiden’s, extended his hand. Brent