Dead Reckoning (7 page)

“You’d better be right. If she knows anything, you know what we’ll have to do.”

“She made an unfortunate discovery,” Dr. Kuntz said. “Do not worry. I have things under control.”

With the men standing just outside the supply closet, Shiloh feared she might be discovered.

“You are careless. Perhaps you have forgotten how much we paid you or the importance of what we are doing.”

“I don’t care about your ancient beliefs. And yes, you paid me well, but the rest is due.”

The man prattled, his words seeming to alter from Marathi to another language, using words outside the conversational use Shiloh had mastered. She struggled to understand and keep up. Despite the dropped words, his sharp tone could not be missed. The argument escalated.

Then Dr. Kuntz pleaded in fear. “Burak, there's no need. Please!”

“You’ve cost me too much.”

BANG!

Shiloh jerked at the gunblast. She drew back and balanced her stance, ready to fight.

“Drop the gun!” A commanding voice broke through the chaos.

Another shot. Another. Dozens. Plaster exploded around her. Puffs of white, chalky gypsum crumbled and burst into the air. Gritty dust clouded the closet. Cordite stung her nostrils. She swallowed a cough, but the powdery substance burned her throat. Searing heat trailed across her arm. She clamped a hand over the spot and bit her lip to keep from moaning at the pain of the bullet graze.

“He's getting away,” the same commanding voice shouted. “Stop him!”

Shoes thudded, growing more distant with each stomp, until finally, there was silence. Shiloh assessed her arm. Minor. She’d worry about it later. For several minutes she listened and then eased herself from behind the boxes. She hesitated. Was someone still out there?

Broken gypsum crunched underfoot as she inched toward the door.

Through a gaping hole left by several bullets she saw a blur of black. A suit jacket. Someone was there. Rooted to the floor, she held her breath, and then released it slowly. She swallowed hard and waited. Soon footsteps echoed in the hall.

“Maharashtra police!”

Running.

Doors slammed.

Quiet.

Shiloh seized the moment and eased open the door. In the hallway, she glanced to the left, the direction the steps had faded into. She had to retrieve her visa and passport and grab some money. With a quick look to the right, she started to her room—and tripped. Her hands thrust out to break her fall; her fingers grazed something sticky. Hair fell into her face. The sari slid from her shoulder and hung limp around her waist.

On the floor … a man dressed in a black suit … bleeding.

“Dr. Kuntz!” Anger and panic warred within her at the sight of her old friend. His head was propped at an odd angle, chin touching his chest, as he sat against the wall. She felt for a pulse and found a faint one. “What did you do?” she whispered, grieving. Why had he betrayed her?

Blood flowed from his mouth, down his jaw, and onto the once-pristine white shirt. “Sor … ry.”

“Shh.” She touched his shoulder, trying to assess his injuries.

“Here,” he choked out. His hand flopped against the floor. “Take it.”

She gulped. With a shake of her head, she looked down. An object, covered in blood and unidentifiable, lay in his palm. It was round and hard, like a coin.

Thundering footsteps in the stairwell drew her attention. She’d never make it to her room now. In the far distance thrummed the call to prayer for the Muslim community. The melodic chanting from a nearby mosque lent itself to the eerie sensation consuming her.

“Rrrun …” Dr. Kuntz's word slurred. A guttural hiss issued from him, and he sagged.

Strength rushed out of her like the tide. She wanted to save him, but she knew he was gone. Just like Mikhail. She had to move … now.

Pushing herself toward the tall, narrow window at the end of the hall, she vowed to discover how deeply Dr. Kuntz was involved in the attack. What had been worth the lives of two friends and possibly a third?

She shoved back the glass pane and climbed onto the ledge, toeing it shut just as shouts vaulted through the tight corridor. Heat from the sun-warmed wood and plaster radiated through the choli and her waist as she stood on the beam, fingernails digging into the siding.

The window swung open.

Shiloh froze and watched the pane.

A shiny black head peered down the fire escape, then up and to the left. If he looked her way—

Her foot shot out, nailing him in the face as he turned. He flew back against the sill with a sickening crack. She hopped onto the fire escape, scaled the outer rails, dropped to the silky grass, and landed in a roll.

With his Beretta cradled to the side between both hands, Reece grinned, mesmerized as Shiloh sped across the street and hopped onto a bus without missing a beat. He didn’t know how she’d managed to escape from the death squad unscathed, or where she’d been hiding, but when he saw her sailing through the air, his heart caught. She had outsmarted a deadly enemy.

Using his advantage, Reece assessed the scene. The authorities would be here soon, so he had to work fast. First he snapped photos of the dead professor. Then he took photos of the hall and window where Shiloh had made her stealthy escape. Quietly he picked a lock and let himself into Shiloh's room. He scanned the furniture and bed. Undisturbed.

Voices in the hall pushed him against the wall.

Mumbled words carried through the thin plaster as a man affirmed Reece's suspicions. The dead drop and the dead men in the hall were connected. One of the radicals was identified as Burak al Nabiri.

Reece eased himself out the window, lowered himself down one floor, and made a quick escape through the room. The UCSD dive team had two members left, possibly three if Khan was still alive. With the way al Nabiri's people were picking off the Americans, they’d be oh-for-four in no time flat. That wouldn’t do.

Reece had his assignment, and he would make sure at least one member made it home breathing. He pitched her backpack in the rear of his Jeep and climbed behind the wheel. Using the secure-link patch to locate her, he let out a sigh. Moving south. He pulled onto the crowded street.

At his shack he ditched the Jeep. He kicked off his shoes and tossed her backpack on the unmade
charpoy
. After a quick
shower and shave, he shoved the bed aside and knelt in the corner. As he pried a loose brick from the wall, he let his mind drift through the events of the last twenty-four hours. The attack on the water was unexpected, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Khan still lay in Noor Hospital hooked up to machines. According to Human Intelligence that guy was a vital part of her life. And HUMINT was generally reliable. Was Khan a romantic interest? Maybe he provided a balance for the angry, driven Blake. Because that's surely what she was. No average woman had so much fire and a willingness to snap a man's neck with her foot. He readily recruited types like her.

But she was out of reach. The hands-off policy was a mystery, which he intended to solve, but first he needed to get the heat off her.

Reece lifted his phone and dialed the hospital. “
Namaskar
, I’m calling from The
London Times
. We’ve received word that an American university dive team came under attack. Reports are that two have been killed.”

“Oh, no,” the woman on the other end answered. “Only one.”

“Is that so?” Reece pressed her as he retrieved a box from the hidden compartment. “Does that mean the other two are under your care there?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t release that information.”

Once he opened the safe, he withdrew a wad of
rupees
and other foreign bills. “Right. You only want to protect your patients. Just last summer, I was down there in Juhu Beach— beautiful place. My friend took a bad spill in an accident. The doctors were atrocious.”

“Oh, our doctors are completely competent.”

On his knees again, he dragged out a bag from the dusty compartment. “You know, now that you mention it, there was this one doctor, sort of balding, with thick glasses.”

He described in detail the man Reece had seen when he’d bumped Shiloh.

“Dr. Biswas?”

“I think you’re right. Very good doctor.” He lodged that name in his memory bank as he stuffed clothes into the duffel. “Dhanyavaad,” Reece thanked her. He ended the call and immediately dialed information, asking for the surgery desk, switching his tone again.

“Noor Hospital.”

“Calling from St. George,” Reece said in Marathi. “I need to speak with Dr. Biswas.”

“One moment, please.”

He packed a few extra supplies in Shiloh's bag and donned his leather jacket.

“This is Dr. Biswas.”

“Doctor, we’ve received a patient here, apparently washed up onshore—from the same accident your shooting patient came from.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, a woman.” Reece could only hope those after Shiloh would intercept the information and end up in his wild-goose chase. “How is your patient? These Americans are so intolerant.”

“Mr. Khan is still in ICU. We believe he's out of danger but are keeping him under watchful eyes.”

“Of course, of course. Have you had any contact with a representative? We haven’t been able to reach anyone. It's been so hard to track them down.”

“As a matter of fact, their sponsor was here moments ago.”

Only if the dead still walked. Dr. Kuntz should be at the morgue by now. The doctor just confirmed what Reece feared. The threat was growing. He clenched his teeth, but kept his reply relaxed. “If he returns, will you tell him he's needed here?”

“Of course. How is your patient?”

“It doesn’t look good.”

“Too bad.”

“Indeed.” After thanking Biswas, Reece closed his cell phone and stalked out the door armed with two bags.

In the alley he peeled back a false tin wall lining his hut and squeezed into the three-foot space. He ran his hand along the fiberglass body of the bike, still warm from the heat of the now-gone sun. His baby, the one indulgence he’d allowed himself for the mangled streets of Maharashtra and playing on the beach. Ducati Monster. Danger never looked so good.

Packs secured, Reece slipped on the red and white helmet. Using his knees, he eased the Ducati out of hiding. He revved the engine, allowing the rumble to vibrate through his chest. After another rev, he released the brake, pressed his chest to the spine, and roared into the night.

Whether or not Shiloh Blake was ready, the time had come.

A
CANOPY OF STARS TWINKLED OVER THE EBONY SEA AS REECE LEANED
against his bike.

“Her name is Shiloh Blake,” Nielsen said.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” He stood up and lifted her pack from the tank.

“Listen to me. She's Shiloh
Blake
as in Jude
Blake
as in former Director of Affairs in Europe, the agency's Middle Eastern expert? Bangladesh? Sound familiar?”

Reece caught his breath. “Want to explain why you yanked me out of the mission when you knew this?”

“You don’t understand. There is a special directive regarding Blake's daughter—”

“Give me a break, Nielsen. Every top-level director has extreme protection guaranteed for their family.”

“Yes, but this … look, there's history here you can’t know about. That comes from so high up the chain you’d never believe it. Her father negotiated with the agency to maintain the highest level of protection. A few years ago, she walked away from it.”

“And right into my territory.” She’d come to India as part of her college studies, but Reece suddenly knew she’d really come to hide. He understood. Despite his faith in God, he still had
wounds that were better buried. Hidden. Forgotten. He turned back to his bike.

“As for getting yanked, it's complicated. We’d gotten HUMINT that al Nabiri had crossed India's border. I tried to get a few things lined up but the situation worsened.”

“You could say that.” If the girl was Blake's daughter, that explained a lot, especially if the bad guys knew about it. Could she lead them to those responsible? “Couple al Nabiri's presence with the Muslim grassroots movement—this thing could be ticking right under our noses.”

“Exactly.”

“So, I get her on the first boat home.”

“No.”

Reece waited.

“An asset has relayed information that it may be detrimental to put her or Khan on any type of traceable transport. Then we have the beauty of a dilemma here—someone suggested to my superiors that she may have seen those responsible for the attacks. She might be able to identify them. So, not only do we need to assure her safety, but we have to convince her to trust us.”

“You want me to—”

“Protect an asset of the United States.”