There was an eerie silence to the world that felt like watching eyes, or ears pressed tight against stone.
Mile after mile, he followed the woman’s trail, shadowing her on the opposite side of the ridge. She raised enough dust he didn’t have to see her to know where she was headed.
Was she meeting their quarry? Was the Russian someone she knew? Someone she worked with? Or was this some unconnected scouting trip? The idea that she might lead him directly to his target made him increase his speed while doubling his caution. She scaled a bare hillside and Dempsey waited until she was out of sight, then hauled ass up and over the slope. At the summit he found an area he could crawl over without making a noticeable silhouette against the skyline. He slid behind a rock and caught his breath. It was cold at this altitude, but in the bright sunshine and heavy clothing, he was starting to sweat—not a good thing. He kept hydrated.
She wasn’t doing anything to conceal her presence, which made him wary. She didn’t seem to be bothered by the idea of the shooter seeing her. She was looking at something in her hands. He raised the scope to his eye and spotted a GPS unit and a radio receiver.
There was snow on the ground here. Large patches of ice trapped in the constant freeze-thaw cycle of night and day. She got off the horse and tied it to an anemic-looking sage bush. Dempsey edged closer, keeping out of her line of vision. She took out the handheld receiver and he heard a faint beep, then she attached an antenna and held it like someone trying to get the picture on an old telly.
She was tracking a signal.
Her head shot up and left, and she disappeared into undergrowth along a dry streambed. Dempsey moved closer to the horse, who raised its nose and then shook his mane. He did a quick search of the saddlebags. Food, water, notebooks, sleeping bag, tranquilizer darts. He pulled the latter out and inspected it carefully. Animal tranqs. It fit with his theory about who and what the woman was.
The clatter of a stone behind him made him freeze. Shit .
CHAPTER 4
He held up his hands and turned, relieved to see the woman and not some Taliban nutter or aging Russian terrorist squaring off with him.
Unfortunately the woman was holding a Glock-17 as though she knew how to use it.
“Afternoon,” he observed calmly.
“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t put a bullet in you right now.” Her accent told him she was American.
A joke about the second commandment probably wouldn’t work considering his Diemaco and SIG Sauer were locked and loaded with one in the chamber.
“Is there anyone who’d actually give a damn about a man like you?” Her throat convulsed, and hatred sculpted the lines of her mouth.
The question jolted him. He had mates in the Regiment, but no one else really cared if he lived or died. But she didn’t know that.
He looked at her white knuckles and the pulse beating frantically at the base of her throat. There was something going on here that he didn’t understand.
She stood close. Not close enough.
“You need to put the gun down,” he told her calmly.
“You sonofabitch, you don’t even care, do you?” Her eyes narrowed into glinting slits of rage. Not good . “You think it’s all right for you to murder and kill, but as soon as someone turns the tables—”
“Not true.” He edged closer. “I care very much.”
Her accent was definitely Yankee but held a hint of European. French, maybe. He moved another inch, saw her chest rapidly pump oxygen. He worked on calming her down, talking quietly so she had to lean forward to hear. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about, but I’d hate for somebody to get hurt because of a case of mistaken identity.” Did she have some anti-western affiliation? Anti-war agenda?
“There’s no mistake.” Her lips quivered. “How much money were you offered? I’d have paid you double to leave them alone.”
He
Mile after mile, he followed the woman’s trail, shadowing her on the opposite side of the ridge. She raised enough dust he didn’t have to see her to know where she was headed.
Was she meeting their quarry? Was the Russian someone she knew? Someone she worked with? Or was this some unconnected scouting trip? The idea that she might lead him directly to his target made him increase his speed while doubling his caution. She scaled a bare hillside and Dempsey waited until she was out of sight, then hauled ass up and over the slope. At the summit he found an area he could crawl over without making a noticeable silhouette against the skyline. He slid behind a rock and caught his breath. It was cold at this altitude, but in the bright sunshine and heavy clothing, he was starting to sweat—not a good thing. He kept hydrated.
She wasn’t doing anything to conceal her presence, which made him wary. She didn’t seem to be bothered by the idea of the shooter seeing her. She was looking at something in her hands. He raised the scope to his eye and spotted a GPS unit and a radio receiver.
There was snow on the ground here. Large patches of ice trapped in the constant freeze-thaw cycle of night and day. She got off the horse and tied it to an anemic-looking sage bush. Dempsey edged closer, keeping out of her line of vision. She took out the handheld receiver and he heard a faint beep, then she attached an antenna and held it like someone trying to get the picture on an old telly.
She was tracking a signal.
Her head shot up and left, and she disappeared into undergrowth along a dry streambed. Dempsey moved closer to the horse, who raised its nose and then shook his mane. He did a quick search of the saddlebags. Food, water, notebooks, sleeping bag, tranquilizer darts. He pulled the latter out and inspected it carefully. Animal tranqs. It fit with his theory about who and what the woman was.
The clatter of a stone behind him made him freeze. Shit .
CHAPTER 4
He held up his hands and turned, relieved to see the woman and not some Taliban nutter or aging Russian terrorist squaring off with him.
Unfortunately the woman was holding a Glock-17 as though she knew how to use it.
“Afternoon,” he observed calmly.
“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t put a bullet in you right now.” Her accent told him she was American.
A joke about the second commandment probably wouldn’t work considering his Diemaco and SIG Sauer were locked and loaded with one in the chamber.
“Is there anyone who’d actually give a damn about a man like you?” Her throat convulsed, and hatred sculpted the lines of her mouth.
The question jolted him. He had mates in the Regiment, but no one else really cared if he lived or died. But she didn’t know that.
He looked at her white knuckles and the pulse beating frantically at the base of her throat. There was something going on here that he didn’t understand.
She stood close. Not close enough.
“You need to put the gun down,” he told her calmly.
“You sonofabitch, you don’t even care, do you?” Her eyes narrowed into glinting slits of rage. Not good . “You think it’s all right for you to murder and kill, but as soon as someone turns the tables—”
“Not true.” He edged closer. “I care very much.”
Her accent was definitely Yankee but held a hint of European. French, maybe. He moved another inch, saw her chest rapidly pump oxygen. He worked on calming her down, talking quietly so she had to lean forward to hear. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about, but I’d hate for somebody to get hurt because of a case of mistaken identity.” Did she have some anti-western affiliation? Anti-war agenda?
“There’s no mistake.” Her lips quivered. “How much money were you offered? I’d have paid you double to leave them alone.”
He
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