“Yes?” Obregon asked, poking his head out the door of the vehicle.
“What do we have in the way of antiaircraft capability?”
Make a wish. The thought struck Thomas with astonishing absurdity. A memory from an old girlfriend. Eleven minutes past eleven. The time for wish-making.
He had only one. That they might reach the border alive. Estere moved restlessly in his arms as he lifted her into the saddle. “Where are we going?” she murmured, turning her flushed face toward him.
“Home, baby. Home.”
“America?” A light shone ever so briefly in her eyes. “I’ve — I’ve always wanted to go there…”
“You’ve got it, girl,” he whispered, forcing cheer into his voice as she drifted back into the grasp of the fever. “America.”
The helicopter flew over the streambed at treetops level, the rotor wash churning the water into a frenzy as it passed. Rocket pods hung from pylons on either side of the fuselage, a four-barreled 12.7-mm cannon protruding assertively from the chin of the gunship.
A killing machine. A hunter…
Lights out, the sport utility vehicle slowed along the road and then came to a stop near where they stood. Illegal, yes, but that was better than the alternative of blowing their mission.
Vic watched as a young woman stepped from the driver’s seat, into the Virginia night. Dressed in sweatpants and a light jacket, there was nothing in her appearance to attract attention. She looked like any one of a thousand soccer moms in the Mid-Atlantic region.
“Are we still go-mission?” she asked, coming up to the pair of men.
Vic nodded. “You’re to tail Nichols on his run. Are you armed?”
“You know it.” She opened her jacket to reveal a subcompact Kahr 9mm holstered close to her torso. “We’ve got what, two hours?”
“Right. Then we earn our pay…”
The Ranger beacon had been deployed, and Thomas saw it as a flashing symbol on the screen of his TACSAT. They had six kilometers to go.
He bent forward over the neck of the horse, holding Estere in front of him, an arm wrapped tightly around her waist.
Trees covered the slope of the mountain, shielding them from hostile eyes above. He urged the horse forward at a breakneck speed, winding in and out between the trees, jumping over fallen logs on the slope. He could still hear the helicopter in the distance. Looking for them. Hunting them down.
He felt the Kalishnikov dig into his back and wondered at the futility of the weapon. No time, no way to fight. In the age-old question of fight or flight, their fate had already been decided.
Flee…
Harun was in the open door of Mi-24 as it swept low over the trees, cursing angrily. Forests were not uncommon in the southwestern Alborz, but having his prey flee into one was a bitter pill. That they were in there was not in doubt. Not according to the words of BEHDIN, the faithful one.
Harun fingered the headset, thinking back to the communication five minutes before with the sleeper agent. The American was somewhere in the forest below them, scarce six kilometers from the border. He was running out of time.
An idea struck him suddenly and he switched comm channels, over to the frequency used by the pilot of the helicopter. “Set my men and me down in the nearest clearing,” he instructed, speaking loudly to ensure that he was heard over the roar of the engines. “Then proceed to the western edge of the forest, near the Iraqi border, and set up patrol. We will drive them toward you.”
“Ever used one of those things before?” Hamid asked, glancing critically at the Stinger SAM clutched in Sergeant Obregon’s hands.
The Hispanic nodded. “Where?” came the next question, but he just grinned.
“Not allowed to say, amigo.”
A few chuckles greeted his retort, but they were few and far between. Tension pervaded the atmosphere as the men waited, eyes on the wooded mountainside a mile away. One of the Rangers rested the barrel of his M249 SAW on the hood of the Humvee as the other two members of the squad stood by, M-4 carbines at the ready.
The two CIA men had donned flak jackets and unslung their own rifles, accurized AK-74s. The sight of the Eastern Bloc weapons had raised a few eyebrows at first, but there were no comments now. Just silence.
And they waited…
Thomas drew up at the edge of the forest, dismounting in the underbrush to aim his binoculars in the direction indicated by the beacon. The ground between them was open, marked by only an occasional tree. Naked as the surface of the moon. A canyon stretched off to the north, adding to the austerity of the landscape.
He lowered the binoculars and listened, ears alert for any sound of the helicopter. He hadn’t heard it for nearly fifteen minutes. Perhaps it had gone.
“Any sign of the bird?” he asked, holding the TACSAT to his ear.
“That’s negative,” came Hamid’s calm, reassuring voice. “Come on in.”
He swung back up onto the back of the stallion, touching Estere on the shoulder as he took the reins once more in his hands. “We’re going home.”
A weak smile crossed her lips and she squeezed his fingers. “Good…”
It was time to go. He took a deep breath and kicked the horse into a gallop, out across the open ground…
He had always been an early riser, even as a kid. But not this early. Harry leaned over and looked at the clock on his nightstand. Just a couple minutes past four. Something was wrong.
He swung out of bed and pulled on his jeans, reaching for the .45 on the nightstand. A round was already in the chamber, hammer back the way it always was. He finished dressing in the dark, unable to shake himself free from the feeling of danger.
Anymore, he no longer tried. It had saved his life too many times.
Hamid felt himself holding his breath as he saw the horse emerge from the treeline, galloping hard toward the border. He raised the binoculars to his eyes, making out the form of Thomas on its back. And the woman.
The two CIA men were standing on a small hillock about fifteen meters in front of the Ranger Humvee. He looked back down the hill, realizing Thomas was out of the Rangers’ line of sight. It didn’t matter. Just another couple minutes.
Then it happened, suddenly and without warning. An Mi-24 attack helicopter swept into view, out of the canyon to the north. A huge, menacing bird of prey sweeping down on the horseman from behind.
Hamid screamed out a warning and thrust Davood to the earth, bringing his rifle up into firing position. There was no time.
No time. The horse’s hooves pounded a grim tattoo against the hard-packed earth, toward the border. Painfully slow.Thomas felt his entire body tense, waiting for the gunship to open fire.
Any moment now, but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. His options had decreased to a singular course. One option.
Fate. He urged the horse forward, guiding him first right, then left, slaloming like a skier down a snowy hill.
A horrible sound broke from the sky behind them as the helicopter’s cannon began firing, a roar like canvas ripped in the hands of a giant, 12.7-mm shells biting into the ground around them.
The next instant, a terrible whinnying cry echoed from the lips of the stallion and Thomas went flying over its head.
Pain. He struck the ground with a bone-jarring thud, rolling over and over on the earth as plumes of dust erupted around his body. The Kalishnikov was laying a few feet from his outstretched hand, just out of reach.
A scream pierced his numbed mind and he turned to see Estere go down, her body hit repeatedly, riddled by bullets. She cried out again and started to crawl toward him, pain distorting the beauty of her features.
“No!” It took Thomas a moment to realize the cry had come from his own lips. He hurled himself forward, his world narrowing to one focus, a sole purpose. Save her…