Femme Fatale (11 page)

“It’s over here,” she told him, heading for the spot where the Blue Crane trail should start. And, under her breath, “You’re straight as a military stick. Think about how much your arm hurts and
slouch.
”

“I
am
a military stick,” he said, still offended. But he altered his posture into something less stringent and struck the trail with her.

As out of the way as this place was, the path still wound
clearly through the landscape, turning out to be less difficult to follow than Beth had supposed. It looped back upon itself as it climbed the hill, and in glancing up she saw snatches of the trail here and there above them. But she didn’t like the terrain…it was nearly indefensible. The strong breeze rustled leaves, as did the ground birds and the small creatures who scampered off in front of them. If the misled CIA agents were here, she’d never hear them. And she didn’t like how quickly Chandler grew flushed and out of breath. Even with her scant experience with him, she knew it was way off the scale of normal. Just knowing he was SAS-trained would have told her that. She slowed her pace, although the path wasn’t wide enough to walk side by side. Every so often, they passed a stake by the side of the path with a gracefully stylized line carving of a Blue Crane. Trail identifiers. Handy.

Blue Crane. Bottom. Table.

She stopped short. “Hold on,” she told him, unable to shake the feeling that this trail had far too many opportunities for ambush and observation from the brush. “I dropped something.” She ran back to the little signpost they’d just passed and crouched by the side of the trail, feeling around the ground and then just coincidentally along the signpost itself. Nothing. Quickly she picked up an ordinary pebble and stuck it into her pocket, trotting back up to where Chandler waited, looking gray and muzzy. Pretty much like a biker wanna-be with a hangover, which worked out fine except he’d be better off if that were actually the case.

Lighten up, Riggs,
she told herself. He was perfectly right. Whether they found something or not, they’d have ample opportunity to get to a “safe” doctor once they finished here. To Chandler, she said in her airiest tart
voice, “Gotta remember to take off the gems before we go on a jaunt.”

He gave her a patient boyfriend look and gestured her ahead on the trail. “At least you found it.”

At the next trail marker, she found a plant to exclaim over. By the next, he’d figured out what she was up to, and pointed out a nonexistent lizard.

Taped to the back of that little signpost was the computer keycard, snug inside a clear waterproof plastic case.

Yes!
She palmed it, stuck it inside the front fanny pack pocket, and took Chandler’s hand to lead him farther down the path, giving it a little squeeze of excitement.
We found it.

He stumbled. Not in the plan.

Enough then.
She turned back to give him a little moue of a pout, and said, “This trail’s longer than it looked on that board. I’m tired.” She put a little whine into it. “We’ve got that party to make tonight, you know—it’s all the way in Tierkloof.”

“Turn back then,” he said, sounding realistically surly. “I’m not stopping you.”

There was enough rustle to warn them, not enough time to do anything about it. One of the nondescripts moved out from the hillside beside them, very L.L. Bean in khakis and a flannel shirt and—

A rifle.

Beth narrowed her eyes at the sight. Sniper rifle. A Model 85 if she saw rightly, a basic U.K. weapon he’d probably bought right here at the Cape.

“Hey,” Chandler said, put a protective hand on Beth’s shoulder, drawing him back to her. “We don’t want any trouble. Just taking a walk.”

The man grinned. He wasn’t so nondescript up close; his eyes were set too narrowly and his nose rose between
them like a sharp blade. He said, “Drop the act, Chandler. You shouldn’t have teamed up with her. You were safe until you did. Now you’ve both got a lot of questions to answer.” He lifted a small radio to his mouth and said, “Got ’em both. We’re on the way in.”

You don’t
have us
yet,
Beth thought, glancing back at Chandler and giving a quiet inner smile when she realized he’d squared his shoulders up again.
You don’t have us by a long shot.

And speaking of long shots…the man’s weapon was hardly meant for this range. As powerful as it was, balanced the way it was…he’d have a hell of a time using it for anything but the steady shoulder weapon it was meant to be.

She said, “Well, if the game’s up, I’m ditching this wig. It itches.” And with no further ado she plucked it off her head and flung it into nondescript’s face. A quick kick disarmed him, and by then the man was free of the wig and he and Beth closed in in earnest as Chandler grabbed the rifle and flung it out of reach, his own gun coming quickly to hand.

The rifle guy was quick and strong but not precise. Beth found herself on the defensive, evading blows and knowing if she took them, they’d land hard. She found an opening, landed a quick series of lightning-fast kicks without ever bringing the leg back in for balance, and then heard Chandler’s bark of a command, “Get
down,
Beth!”

She threw herself aside and rolled, getting enough of a glimpse to know Chandler had his Browning trained on their new friend—except in the next instant there was a great rustle of brush and from off the trail came a second nondescript. This one plowed right into Chandler, smashing his wounded arm with obvious intent. Chandler went down with the kind of gagging, involuntary gasp brought
on by deep agony, and the second nondescript snatched and flung the Browning away, snapping at the first, “We want them able to answer questions!” as he leaped for Beth.

And oh damn I’m on the ground already—

Beth surged upward, knowing it was too late and running headlong into the truth of it. She took a blow to the head, a second to her shoulder, hard enough to knock her completely off balance. She tried to roll but they both ended up on top of her, one trying to restrain her while the other groped roughly around her body, taking punishment from her knees and feet, clearly astonished that she had the ability to reach him with either. He found the clasp for her fanny pack and ripped it from her, plundering it for the keycard and then flinging the pack far from their struggle. He tucked the card away just as Beth nearly managed to free herself, and with some irritation turned his attention to subduing her, pounding her with a quick series of blows while the first man held her—and though she never stopped fighting back, she felt her strength and coordination seep away beneath their fists—

Until something snarled. A whirlwind entered the fray, jerking the rifle guy away and kicking the second man off her in the same instant of combined attack. Beth rebounded into the fray, back up on her knees, sweeping a leg around to take the second man off his feet as he came back at her. He went down, he tumbled downhill—and when he got up it was to reassess the situation, close a hand around the pocket with the keycard, and run down the trail.

“Damn!” Beth muttered. He’d done the smart thing, taking no chances with his prize, but she was too staggered to catch up with him, and Chandler—

Chandler had rifle guy down and out, but had paid the
price for it. He swayed on his knees, his face pasty white, hunched over his arm. Blood dripped out of his jacket sleeve and down his hand; blood dripped from his face.

Hell, she realized. There’s blood dripping from
my
face.

He spoke though gritted teeth, but still managed to put a dry English spin on the words. “Remember I said I’d tell you when I was no good to you?”

“Wrong,” she said abruptly, scrambling for the spot where he’d thrown the rifle and snatching it from the brush when she found it. “Stay right where you are.” She gave the weapon a quick once-over—the adjustable walnut stock was too long for her, no time to do anything about it. Bolt action—she levered a round into the chamber, swung around to snug up against Chandler’s back, kneeling one knee down, the other up and under her elbow. “Ten-round capability—let’s hope this guy actually loaded it to capacity.” She rested the stock on Chandler’s shoulder. “Rest down on your heels. Steady. Breathe evenly.” She put her eye to the scope, found the crosshairs…and found the spot where the trail looped back below them, shifting slightly until the natural point of aim rested there and double-checking by relaxing her muscles to make sure the rifle didn’t move. “I don’t know how he’s got this scope sighted in,” she said. “If it’s off, I may have to take a second shot. This thing’s got a nine-hundred-meter optimal range and we’re at the edge of that. You’ll probably jump when I fire, but I need you to come right back to this position.” She made a swift adjustment for the downhill trajectory and then—

Nothing to do but relax. Waiting. Chandler said nothing, hadn’t ever said anything, but she felt his breathing, as soft and shallow as a man struggling for breath could make it, growing gentler by the moment. She synced her
breathing with his, trusting him, her finger caressing the trigger, waiting, waiting…

There!

A quick flash of motion to the left of target was her only warning. She hissed softly to warn Chandler and, leading out on the target, squeezed the trigger.

He jumped at the explosion of noise even as she absorbed the force of the rubber recoil pad against her shoulder; he couldn’t help but jump. But as she’d asked, he swiftly put himself back in position.

No need. She swept the area with the scope and immediately found the man down—twitching, alive as he should be with the thigh shot she’d taken, and giving up after his first few attempts to rise. She’d aimed for the high meat of the thigh and with any luck, had broken bone. He’d be there until someone hiked him out on a stretcher.

Instantly she dismissed him, her mind racing ahead. There was a third man somewhere, the one who’d been on the receiving end of the radio call. Possibly the one behind all this. Egorov’s man who’d burrowed into the CIA, the one who’d had Lyeta shot, who’d put Beth on the run, who’d had them ambushed not once but three times. The reason Chandler sat drained, full of pain and at the end of what looked to be considerable limits.

She worked the rifle bolt, climbing to her feet, her eyes narrowed and focused on downhill.

How well he knew her already. “Beth, no,” he said hoarsely. “Secure this one, get the card from the other. I’ll stand lookout. Or
sit
lookout.” That dry humor again.

It wasn’t enough to take her gaze off the path down to the parking area. “You know he’s Egorov’s man,” she said, absently wiping at the steady trickle of blood from a cut under one eye. Nondescript number two had worn
a ring, damn him. “He’s the one running this operation; he wouldn’t be the one in the thick of it.”

“You’re right. But we’ve got two of them. They’ll talk. Especially if you’re right—if they’re bona fide CIA, they’re going to want Egorov’s man as badly as you do. As
we
do. But neither of us have the resources to go for him right now. It’s—”

“I know.” She gave him a quick glance over her shoulder, relinquishing her glare at the unseen foe below for one of resentment. “It’s SOP, right? It’s procedure. It’s by the book.”

He hesitated. He no longer sat on both heels, but had brought one knee up before him and leaned back on his good arm. The other he had tucked against his body, looking useless. But beneath the blood on his face, some already drying and some still welling anew, his expression was resolute. Resigned, but resolute. He nodded.

“Damn,” Beth muttered, and sighed hugely. She released the tension she’d been holding and turned to eye him. “Just so you know, I’m about to stamp my foot.” Which she did, adding another entirely heartfelt and frustrated, “Damn!”

He watched her with an expression she could only call wary, and she shrugged. “You’re right,” she said. “Never mind procedure or rules or whatever…you’re right. We’ve got the keycard, we’ve got the guys Egorov’s man roped into working for him…sooner or later, we’ll get him, too.” Carefully she leaned the rifle against a tree at the edge of the path, rotating a sore shoulder with annoyance. She pulled a slim knife from its equally slim sheath inside her tarty red belt, eyeing a flexible, thorny vine growing in a terrible tangle at the foot of another tree. “Excellent,” she murmured, and carefully cut off a generous length of it. The lime-green wig lay not far off, and
she retrieved it on her way back to the rifle guy. “Let’s get him up against one of these trees.”

“That’s it?” he asked. “You’re not going to run off and chase Egorov’s man down anyway?”

“Do I look like I’m running down the hill?” she asked with a grunt, preoccupied with the effort of dragging rifle guy. The man roused himself, and she fixed him with a sharp look and pointed him at the tree. He moved as if he had broken ribs—and she was almost certain his jaw had been broken, separated at the chin—but moved he did, showing no sign of fight. “Besides,” she told Jason, “I’ll bet he’s gone by now.”

The man gave her a dazed but frowning look, and mumbled indistinctly to Beth, “He said
you
were Egorov’s—he had authority to deal with you. I was aiming at
you
next on that dock.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Chandler mumbled back.

Beth raised one arching eyebrow and said, “Guess what. He lied. And you’re a terrible shot. And you know, maybe we’re all going to get along in the end, but until then…” And she plunked the wig down on his head backward, blinding him, and wrapped the thorny vine around his wrists and waist, then stepped back to eye him with satisfaction. He looked like an alien. “I’m going to get that keycard,” she informed him sweetly. “And true, your feet are loose, but if you get up and stumble around with that wig over your face, before you get yourself sorted out, you’re going to fall on those broken ribs of yours, and those vines will rip your wrists to shreds. Got it?”

“Not going anywhere,” the man said, even more indistinctly through the wig. “Think we need to talk. Will you let me check in with my people?”