Of course, she had heard about his wife and how she had died. The entire country knew. Lauren had already connected the dots and figured out that this was most likely one of the teams that had taken down the Blood King. The Russian criminal, Dmitry Kovalenko, was currently languishing in some secret hellhole, awaiting trial.
What the hell had she landed smack dab in the middle of?
And why? Her mind flicked back over the last several weeks. Nothing unusual jumped out at her. The photographs of the three dead victims rang no inner bells. Hayden had told her to focus her mind on any recent travel but she traveled almost every day. Now if the blond agent had specified outside New York, that might narrow the field a bit.
She hadn’t, but Lauren ran through it anyway. Three times, she thought. Washington DC. Boston. Atlantic City. Each time a ritzy but far-flung hotel.
On the monitors the action had started. She wasted no time concentrating on Torsten Dahl’s field-cam.
Dahl strode boldly through the kitchen of the resident Popeye’s until he could see the food court area. Once there, he grabbed Hayden again, held her close, and ducked down behind the counter.
“See anyone?”
“Unfortunately not. Come on.”
Dahl rounded the counter and then sat with his back against it. Hayden cuddled into him, playing the scared girlfriend. Now they saw several pairs of scared eyes staring back at them from between table legs and even from underneath booths. Dahl picked out two bodies splashed with blood.
Then came the sound of fast footfalls. Dahl looked up in time to see a broad-shouldered man wearing a blue Abercrombie and Fitch zipper top and black khakis stride into the food court. Again, the Swede saw those staring eyes, the blank expression, and the competent manner in which the assassin moved. The gun he carried was held loosely, but still in a way where it could be used in half a second.
“These are what all the assassins have been like?” Lauren asked. “These are the guys who are trying to kill us?”
Jonathan Gates rubbed his eyes tiredly. “You got it, Miss Fox. You still want to be returned to your apartment?”
Lauren made a face. “Not really.”
“Then sit still and watch.”
“This team you got. How good are they exactly?”
Dahl held off on the charge. It wouldn’t do to get an innocent hit by a stray bullet. Plus they wanted this guy still breathing. The Swede held his natural urge in check — that of mayhem and destruction — and instead, concentrated on the man’s gun.
“Pretty standard.” He breathed to Hayden.
“Problem is when he recognizes a threat or nears the end of his mag he’s gonna go ballistic,” the ex-CIA agent murmured into his chest. “Suicidal tendencies do that.”
“I got him covered.” Dahl’s hand rested near a concealed weapon.
“Geez. He’s holding his gun. Just how fast are you Dahl?” Hayden sounded awed and a little worried.
“I haven’t yet met an equal.” As usual Dahl’s tone was matter of fact. The man didn’t know how to boast. Hayden believed his claim without question.
“Decision’s yours.”
Dahl was waiting for the squeaky clean assassin to turn away when all hell broke loose. The truck driver, it seemed, had made a similar assessment about the killer and must have been running low on bullets. A heavy grinding sound preceded the hammering of work boots against the tiled floor and, as the assassin turned, the truck driver flew into view.
Both men fired at the same instant. The assassin from the hip, the truck driver as he dove forward. Both bullets shot hopelessly wild. Dahl drew before Hayden could blink. The truck driver skidded helplessly across the polished floor, gun skittering away as he landed heavily. The assassin set his sights carefully.
Dahl had no choice. He fired in a heartbeat, saw his bullet strike his target’s bicep and shatter through bone. The gun pinwheeled away. The man’s body half-turned, but he kept his attention on the truck driver lying right before him.
The assassin, right arm hanging in a bloody ruin, continued to focus on his prey with a terrifying single-mindedness. His good arm flew out, striking the truck driver hard on the face. His hand closed around the man’s throat, squeezing.
But then Dahl was on him, ripping him away and hurling him against a wall-size neon advertisement. The light fizzed and then went out.
The truck driver collapsed in pain and relief.
Hayden slid to his side. “You alright? Are you hit?”
“Nah. Nah, I’m good. I got a permit for my gun, miss. I ain’t part of no militia.”
“That’s good. That’s fine. We need to talk to you.”
The truck driver made an effort to pull himself together. He sat up and cast a rheumy eye over both of them
“You guys don’t look like cops. He doesn’t even look American.”
Dahl smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Thank you.”
“Didn’t say it was a good thing, buddy.”
Hayden held up a hand. “Please. We really need to talk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
There was no comfort for Matt Drake. Not physically or mentally. His developing feelings for Mai were very much tempered by the self-hate and blame he nurtured for Kennedy’s death. Inner turmoil tore him apart, emotions ripping at his heart and his mind, making his stomach empty and his soul more than hollow.
The recent revelations about his old boss, Wells, weren’t helping. He found no closure in the fact that the man he had trusted and defended so long had turned out to be his enemy, and one of the catalysts behind the murder of Alyson and Emily — the car accident that ended their lives.
Arranged by an operative who went by the codename Coyote. Man or woman, group or corporation, they would pay. The Shadow Elite had paid dearly, but Drake knew even now it would be a mistake to think they were gone. The Shadow Elite had thrived for untold years by being part of a family. You didn’t destroy four families by chopping off their heads. It was the source that caused the festering, the root of the evil. And sometimes the root could be an entire network, or a single entity.
Some part of them still nestled in the shadows, spinning webs, he was sure.
And then he thought of Russell Cayman. The shadowy agent had not been heard of since he walked out of the third tomb of the gods carrying Kali’s bones. Was there a reason he had taken them? The Goddess Kali had been a manifestation of the worst kind of evil, sometimes associated with the Devil himself. It was interesting that Cayman chose her. And was he now being sheltered by what remained of the Shadow Elite? Didn’t really seem their style, but Drake assumed even they would have to restructure after losing their figureheads.
Now he jounced up and down in the covered-over bed of an old truck. Occasionally, either he or Romero lifted a flap of canvas and peered out, but the bleak, hilly brown and green landscape rarely altered. Sometimes they heard the sounds of workers toiling in the fields. Once when they looked out, a fine, drizzly mist had settled over everything. The man they had paid from the wedge of dollars in their packs had taken little persuading. This despite the harsh sentences handed out by the North Korean authorities to anyone helping Westerners, or indeed any of their own people who were caught trying to cross the border to China or repatriated as refugees. Most of these people faced harsh punishment, possibly torture and imprisonment in labor camps.