Dead Reckoning (5 page)

“Whoa, wait. No way.” Reece straightened. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry, remember? A dead drop that could unseat international peace relations between a half-dozen countries. Several suspicious money transactions. Evidence that someone is transporting missile material and technology out of here. I’m not about to spend my time tracking some preppie around Mumbai.”

“You will if you want to keep your job.”

Reece clenched his eyes and bit back a retort to tell his supervisor where exactly he could stick this job.

“I want to know anyone she comes into contact with. Locals, good guys, bad guys. Everyone. Got it?”

How had his day gone from intriguing to fire-and-brimstone torture? “Fine. Start with the two men posing as Maharashtra police and tailing her. Also, a floater who delivered an artifact to the target.”

Another curse stabbed the line. “Intervene only if necessary. If anything happens to this girl—if she's who I think she is and she gets hurt? You can kiss your sorry job good-bye. We don’t need another disaster like the Taj.
Capiche
?”

Reece hung up and threw the phone onto the passenger seat, staring at the device as if it had somehow infected Nielsen with stupidity. Why did he have to bring up the Taj?

He snatched the scanner and waited for Shiloh's signal to register. If he guessed right … He glanced up at Noor Hospital, ignoring the traffic that buzzed along Mohammed Ali Road.
With his thermal imaging binoculars, he scanned the building. There! Alone in a room, her signatures raised and red.

The colorful silhouette showed her at a window, but casting a glance over her shoulder, staring at a door. On the other side, three signatures. Two males and a female.

“Follow your instincts, girl.” Whoever she was, she had better gut-level reactions than most trainees he’d drilled. Better than Chloe.

When he’d bumped into Blake to plant the microchip, he had managed to lift the small lamp from her pocket. He turned the piece over in his hand. They were getting bold. No, downright brazen. To eliminate her team on open waters in the middle of the day screamed their arrogance. Then to deliver this artifact …

Her image turned back to the door.

“No. Get out of there.” His muscles constricted under tension for the first time in years. He lowered the binoculars and slumped against his seat. He couldn’t have read her wrong. She's a smart girl—why would she go back? Maybe he should take the initiative.

Intervene only if necessary.

“Life in danger” definitely qualified. He reached for the door handle.

S
HILOH'S FEET HIT THE SOFT GREEN GRASS. SHE SPRINTED TOWARD A
line of Neem trees that acted as sentries guarding the hospital from the street. When she slipped between two of them to catch her breath, the pinnate leaves tickled her cheek. She shrugged the branches aside and scanned the area. No movement in the sparsely populated parking lot except a man folding himself into his car. Pale blue scrubs probably served as a homing beacon against the dark bark. She’d need to remedy that.

Am I losing it
? Playing spy girl in the middle of India. Hiding in the hospital. Climbing out a window. Leaving Khalid.

“I’ll be back,” she whispered and stepped from beneath the teasing foliage.

“
Rukho
!”

The shout to stop made her plow through the parking lot.
Never look back
, her father had always said.
Run until you can’t run, then run some more
.

Rocks dug through the thin material of the hospital shoes. Pain shot into her foot. Heedless of the sensation, she wove around cars and headed for the street. Get lost, find a way to scrounge some money, then …

Then what? Shiloh blanched. She had no clue what to do, where to go, who to talk to. Could she hoof it to the American Consulate? Impossible—a two-hour trip by car, which she didn’t have.

Sirens screamed behind her. They were closer than she thought. She pushed harder.

Cars zipped past. Honking and shouting assailed her. The piercing noises propelled her down busy streets. If she could reach Yusef Meherali Road, she could lose the tail, possibly even herself, in the insanity of the markets. She was too far to make it to Crawford Market, but the smaller ones would work. The thought spurred her on.

Whirling blue and white lights spun around her, bouncing off the low muddy-brown buildings and smearing across taller structures. She darted down Nagdevi Street, spotted Yusef Meherali, and flanked right. She ran past buildings, rickshaws, and people—the very people who’d helped Shiloh fall in love with Mumbai … with India.

But today, danger pulsed through the air. Once beyond Sheikh Menon Street, she’d head southwest. Somehow she had to make it to Chowpatty Beach and the sparkling waters of Back Bay. She had to. Khalid was counting on her.

A blur of red silk emerged from a shop, right into her path. Shiloh dodged the woman. Then, a small child appeared. She spun around him.

A quick glance over her shoulder proved her fears. Less than two blocks back, the familiar Jeeps with their spinning lights stabbed their way through the thick crowds. She shot left and cut through traffic. It was like trying to do a breaststroke through the mangroves that lined much of the Indian coast.

Shiloh checked on her pursuers. A grin tugged at her lips. Stuck. Jammed in gridlock traffic, they couldn’t get through. She had to switch clothes and identities. Seizing the chance,
she hurried beyond the Santa Maria church and into a clothing shop. Although the religious structure across the street bore a crucifix, the sanctuary catered to every religion—a haven for all.

Voices nudged her farther into the shop. She feigned interest in the
saris
and
cholis
. Her fingers caressed the silk. The lightness of the material made her wish she could buy something. Satin, crepe, blues, purples—oh, the greens! She lifted the
faal
of one and traced its intricately delicate pattern between her fingers, attention trained on the door. Men moved into view.

She slid her hand over a rack of less ornate garments. Once again she admired a teal one and let the crepe fabric drape across her arm while she assessed the threat.

A short, round woman shuffled toward her. “You like try?” A
bindi
of pink crystals ending in a teardrop focused attention on her chocolate eyes.

Telling this woman she didn’t have money would alert her to Shiloh's predicament. An American wandering the streets without money? “
Kai kimmat
?” Asking the price should stay the woman's suspicions. When the seller revealed the cost, Shiloh shook her head. “Sorry.”

“Trade?” The woman pointed a bejeweled and henna-tattooed hand toward Shiloh's hemp bracelet that sported a pearl embedded between two shells.

Her heart caught. Khalid had made it for her on their first dig in the Caribbean. Opening her mouth to decline, she stopped as sirens pervaded the busy street. A man shouted, “She came this way.”

Shiloh had to change clothes. Now. She gritted her teeth and agreed to the exchange.

The woman lifted the teal sari and choli from the rack and held out her palm.

Stomach knotted, Shiloh slid off the bracelet. “I’ll come back with money,” she promised herself and the woman, who took the bracelet and shoved the clothing toward her.

Had she done the right thing? The exchange hardly seemed fair, and now she was without the only gift that tied her to Khalid.
What have I done
?

Shiloh snatched a pair of sandals, too, then rushed behind a curtain and changed. A breeze danced around her bare mid-section, making her feel half-naked. Even in America where fashion applauded peeking midriffs, she’d always worn conservative baby doll T-shirts.

“You there! Have you seen a girl, an American?” The thick Marathi words spilled through the warm structure.

A sliver of space between the two tapestries gave Shiloh a clear view. Outside, the two imposters chasing her stood talking with an elderly man.

Sari wrapped around her head and mouth, she slipped out. The woman bustled toward her.

“
Bindi
.” She gripped Shiloh's shoulder and stuck a jewel to her forehead, then appraised her. “
Aap khubsoorat hain
!”

Beautiful? Since when? Heat crept into her cheeks.

“Dhanyavaad,” Shiloh mumbled her thanks. She hurried to the side of the shop where a narrow opening afforded her a clear escape. A knot of bodies swarmed the church entrance.

Behind her the woman's shrill voice rang out, soon followed by irate Hindi as she ordered the police out of her shop, declaring they were cursing her profits.

Shiloh fled down the tight passage and up a flight of red-painted stairs and entered an open door. Darkness consumed her. She stepped to the side and waited for her vision to adjust. To the far left, candles swayed under a gentle breeze. An aged woman in an orange sari knelt before an altar and poured oil over an idol.

Shouts came from the alley. “This way. A man saw her.”

Tugging up the sari, Shiloh strode to the altar and knelt. Perhaps the police wouldn’t take notice of two women kneeling before the round-bellied Buddha. She lifted a candle and lit the wick, offering prayers not to the stone god, but to the Christian God. He’d always helped her parents.
If you’re there, God, I could use some help
. Would He listen or even care?

The sanctuary darkened. They were here! Her pulse quickened. She ducked her head and pressed her palms together. God had never answered before. Why would He now?

The woman next to her chanted. Shiloh moved her lips and hoped it looked convincing.

Air stirred nearby.

The soft rustle of fabric snapped open her eyes. The woman stood. So did Shiloh. As the bent woman attempted to shuffle around, Shiloh hooked her arm through the fragile arm. Though surprised by the help, the woman murmured her thanks. In this culture, helping one another was almost a duty, not an inconvenience as in the States.

They neared the front doors, and Shiloh dared a glance back. The men stood at the side exit, scanning the alley as they spoke into walkie-talkies. She drew a breath. Just maybe she’d be okay. With a nod to the woman, she wished her well and sped away.

The attack had happened only a few hours earlier, but it wore on her like a lifetime. She spotted a fifty
paise
lying on the sun-baked ground and surreptitiously picked it up. A few more coins, and she could ride the bus to the beach. Easy. Perhaps too easy.

She scoured the ground as she walked, sure nobody would notice her down-turned gaze. Women here were still lower life-forms.

Someone's watching
. Of course someone was watching. Jaw set, she kept moving. Her fair skin drew attention no matter how hard she tried to fit in.

Shiloh paused. Her gaze tracked over the reflected images on a dirty shop window. A woman, hunched slightly from the crying child secured to her back with a stretch of fabric, pushed Shiloh aside. His screams punctuated the thick hum in the clogged street. Laughter trailed a small girl as she wove through the tangle of bodies. Amid the chaos, the delectable aroma of curry teased Shiloh's hunger. Just as fast, incense stung her eyes and nose.

She lifted her chin for a clean, clear breath. Instead, rank sweat and a smell she could not identify assaulted her. A car honked, and she flinched at the sudden noise. Her senses buzzed. Yet … this was normal. This was India.

She adjusted her choli and continued down MJ Market Lane.

Cross the street
. Heeding her instinct, she pivoted and peered around the edge of the sari to check for traffic. Maybe anonymity had found her after all.

“I need a trace.”

“Why?”

Sweat dribbled down Reece's temple as he looked out the passenger window. “I’ve lost her.”

“You what?” Ryan's voice bordered on outrage. “I don’t have to tell you—”

“When was the last time you were in the Mumbai markets? An elephant could get lost in here!” He craned his neck forward, assimilating every detail of the busy street.

“Do I have to remind you that your job is at stake?”

“How about you get your boys on that tracer?” His white-knuckled grip did not help the ache in his shoulders. “And get the link to my satcom so I have immediate feedback. We don’t have time for runaround. If they’ve captured her …”

“Already on it.”

Steering around a corner, he let the car idle as a stream of pedestrians crossed the hot pavement. His gaze struck every person as he searched for the blue scrubs Shiloh wore. How hard could it be to spot her?

“Okay, we’ve got her signal. She's on … uh … looks like Market Lane.”

“
I’m
on Market Lane, Nielsen!” His temples throbbed as he finally got a break in traffic and pressed the gas pedal. He cruised past one shop. Nothing. Another.

“She's right there.”

“Where?”

A blur of green flashed into his path. Reece nailed his brakes and hammered the horn at the sari-clad woman he’d nearly creamed. Heart racing, he hissed his frustration.

“Reece, your signals are overlapping.”

He pounded his horn again as he searched the busy street, the shops, the vendors. “I’m telling you, she's not here.” There. A woman in blue. He grunted. The woman wore a sari, not scrubs.