Hunting The Kobra

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

“You were. The question is, who shot you?”

  “Then you didn’t arrange it?”

  He looked genuinely shocked. “Why would I shoot you?”

  “So you could do exactly what you have done.” Quinn glanced through the windows. “We are in Austria, aren’t we?”

  “Just outside Innsbruck.”

  Remember, you know nothing, she reminded herself. “Who are you, to be able to take someone who has been shot out of one country and into another one?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” he admitted. “I have unusual resources and people with extraordinary talents who work for me. We managed it and I’m glad we did. I can protect you here. If you had remained in the United States, I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why do I need protection?”

  “They were aiming for you,” he said. “Three inches higher and they would have drilled through your heart. Someone does not want you talking to me. I need to find out who and why. I cannot do it while I’m dodging bullets in the States. Here, though, I can make inquiries.” His pale blue eyes met hers. “I’m presuming you will want answers, too. This, whatever this is, puts a different spin on things.”

  “The bomb wasn’t just for Denis. It was for me, too…”

  He nodded. His expression was sober. “For the record, I did not arrange it. Killing you would not give me what I want.”

  “To talk about Denis?”

  Aslan didn’t answer at once. He shifted on the chair and re-crossed his legs. Quinn recognized his wariness.

  Then, with an almost compulsive movement, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a photo. He gave it to her.

  Quinn’s arm was heavy as she reached for the photo.

  Aslan sat back and crossed his arms, as she studied the photo.

  It was a picture of Aslan and Denis, taken several years ago, for Denis was younger. Mountains ranged behind them, possibly the same ones she could see through the window. Aslan’s hand rested on Denis’s shoulder. It was the only intimate aspect of their pose. They might’ve been merely friends, even good friends, except they both wore expressions she had seen before in other photos of happily married couples.

  Denis’s expression was the same as one she knew from a different photo. The other photo was on her cellphone, and was of her and Denis.

  Quinn looked at Aslan, startled. “I don’t know what to say…”

  Aslan dug in his pocket again. This time, he pulled out a cellphone. He thumbed through it, then turned the screen for her to see. “You don’t have to say anything.” The image on the screen was the photo she had just recalled, of her and Denis. She had forgotten Denis uploaded the photo to Facebook, months ago. Aslan had found it.

  He turned off the cellphone and put it back in his pocket. “Denis and I were together for nearly ten years. I loved him. So did you.”

  Quinn drew in a breath which wobbled.

  Aslan’s jaw flexed. Then he spoke with a low voice. “I lost the last two years of his life because I was a fool. I would like to get those years back. I want to know what he was like during those years. You can give me that. In return, I can tell you about the years before then. Between the two of us, we can celebrate his life—his real life, the one which no one in the world knew, except us.”

  Quinn pressed her lips together, to stop them trembling. She was helpless to stop the tear which rolled down her cheek, though.

  Aslan got to his feet. “You’re tired and you’re still in pain. We can talk later. For now, know you are safe and nothing can reach you here. Your employer thinks you have taken an extended bereavement leave. You can take as much time as you need.”

  Aslan left as the nurse returned with a kidney dish which held a syringe. The shot, whatever it was, took away all Quinn’s concerns. She slept.

  Sleeping and eating were the highlights of the next few days. Quinn had no visitors except the nurse, Greta, who fussed over her one patient and made sure she was comfortable.

  Greta slowly reduced the painkillers, until Quinn could stay awake for most of the day, although she was still far too weak to get out of bed.

  When Greta dressed her wound, Quinn examined the neat row of stitches with curiosity.

  “Sloppy stitches,” Greta observed. “Mine would be much neater. Though I believe it was an emergency field operation on a moving plane. You should be thankful you didn’t pick up an infection at the same time.”

  Quinn was startled to realize the stitches were repeated on her back.

  “In and out,” Greta said cheerfully. “Sniper rounds can do that.”

  A few days after the stitches were removed, Quinn took her first slow step across the room, to collapse on the chair beside the wardrobe. It was a small personal victory, for now she could go to the bathroom by herself.

  When she was not sleeping or reading one of the novels placed beside her bed, Quinn spent a lot of time looking at the mountains. She had no adequate words to describe their beauty. They had moods. They could be dark and forbidding, or jagged and solid. Gray and gay. Sometimes they seem to stand right up over the house, so close she could touch them.

  They were remote, uncaring and always there.

  Five days after she woke to find herself in Austria, Quinn dressed in clothes provided by Greta. It didn’t surprise her that they fit. With slow steps and Greta hovering by her elbow, Quinn emerged from the bedroom and made her way down a passage with a bright runner. She took a step at a time down the staircase until she stood at the foot.

  She looked around the large room she found herself in, astonished. The soaring woodwork which embellished her bedroom also adorned this room. In here, it took on an epic scale. The roof rose twenty feet in the air, arching across the length of the big room. At the short end, a monstrous fireplace as tall as a man’s shoulder held a fire which crackled cheerfully.

  From where she stood, Quinn could see groups of sofas and armchairs, and a round table with more round-backed chairs.

  Directly in front of her, another staircase climbed half the height of the floor, then turned and rose to the next floor. It was wider than the one she had just descended, telling her it was the main staircase.

  To the left, a corridor had doors leading off on both sides. The corridor ended at a set of closed double doors.

  Rugs lay everywhere, to keep feet warm.

  Greta pointed toward the fireplace. “Would you like to sit for a while?”

  Even though she had sat or laid for far too long, Quinn nodded. Moving this far had exhausted her.

  Greta took her elbow and shepherded her toward the fireplace. The room was empty but for them, even though it seemed to be a multifunction room for a large house.

  Quinn arrowed toward the armchair sitting closest to the fire. Her knees shook and she would be glad to sit. She rested her hand on the back of the chair as she rounded it, to give herself an assist. A small mountain of rope piled on the carpet in large coils, right in front of the chair. The coils were thick, colorful reds, yellows, greens and blues.

  Quinn tried to step over the pile to reach the chair. She miscalculated her strength, though. Her toes in her borrowed shoes tangled in the top coils of rope. She tried to lift her foot higher to let the rope drop from her shoes. The ropes lifted with her. Her foot still caught, she wind-milled her arms and tried to twist herself so when she fell, it would at least be into the chair and the softer cushions.

  The twist did nothing but hasten her fall. She braced herself, knowing she couldn’t stop herself.

  As she fell, a hand gripped her arm and yanked her back up. She was put back on her feet, then pulled down into the chair itself.

  Quinn sucked in a deep, trembling breath. She looked up, expecting to find Aslan standing over her.

  The man who scowled at her was not Aslan. He was as tall as Aslan, although his hair was black and falling over his forehead in thick locks. They shadowed his dark eyes and the black brows, which were pushed together.

  High cheek bones, thin cheeks and deep
lines on either side of his mouth made Quinn think the man was under strain.

  His mouth was held in a firm line. He was pissed.

  “Thank you,” Quinn said. Her voice shook. Her heart drummed far too hard.

  “Oh, that was close!” Greta told the man. “You were faster than me and I was closer!”

  The man bent and scooped up the coils of rope, threading them onto his forearm. He straightened the rope with rough jerks. “These are lifelines,” he said. “If they get tangled, they don’t save lives.”

  Quinn stared at him. She didn’t know what lifelines were, but his general tone irritated her. “If they’re that important, perhaps they should not have been left lying around on the floor, where people can trip on them.”

  His lips parted in surprise. Then they pressed together once more and his eyes narrowed. “Don’t touch my equipment again.” He stalked away, trailing steam.

  “Who is that?” Quinn asked Greta, keeping her voice down.

  Greta shook her head. “One of Herr Aslan’s employees. From the Balkans. He has one of those names with all the letters in them, you know?”

  Quinn omitted pointing out that people in America also had surnames full of consonants. She settled properly in the chair and listened to her heart slow. Her shaking subsided.

  “I wonder if it is possible to get a cup of tea?” she said to Greta.

  “Tea!” Gretta looked doubtful. “I will ask.” She left Quinn alone in the big room.

  The only sound was the crackle of the fire. Quinn played again the moment which had just passed, when she had been about to fall flat on her face, only to be saved by a cranky man with black eyes. She recalled his few words. She knew the voice. She tried to remember where she had heard the voice before.

  The invisible punch to her stomach…Aslan snapping commands. A voice demanding answers. What happened?

  It was the same accent. The same voice. She was sure of it. The man with the complicated surname had been in America, too.

  More of Aslan’s snarled orders came back to her. Names. Toni. Mitchell. The man she had just met was neither of them.

  Greta returned. The woman who walked beside Greta had rich, dark brown hair cut short and full of waves which gave it volume and life. Her nose and chin were sharp. The rest of her body matched. She was six feet tall, slender and full of angles. Her tailored pants were formfitting, her hipbones clearly displayed.

  She wore a cropped jacket in purple leather, with the collar turned up. Her studied elegance made Quinn feel like a slob, in her borrowed gym pants and sweater.

  Greta pulled a small table over to the side of the armchair and placed a coffee mug on it. The tag of a tea bag hung on the side. The water was mildly discolored.

  Greta smiled. “There was herb tea.” She sounded proud.

  Quinn hid her disappointment. She wanted caffeine, not herbs.

  The other woman wrinkled her nose. “It smells disgusting.”

  Quinn wanted to agree with her.

  The woman pushed the sleeves of her jacket up her arms, then crossed her arms and examined Quinn. “You’re still paper white. I suppose it must be your normal color, after all. It goes with the hair.”

  Quinn put her hand to her cheek.

  “I suppose it means you’re a natural redhead.” The woman’s tone implied natural color was inferior. Like everyone Quinn had met, the woman had an accent. Quinn recognized this one. It was mild, but it was distinctly Russian.

  “I’m Quinn Sawyer,” Quinn said.

  “Who else would you be?” the woman replied.

  “Toni, be nice,” came another voice. A male voice.

  Quinn looked around for the speaker. The man heading toward them was about her age, with tight, curly blond hair and light blue eyes. His beard was closely shaved, which reminded Quinn of the man called Scott who worked for Dima.

  This man walked up to Quinn and smiled at her with a warm expression. His eyes twinkled. “I’m Mitchell, she’s Toni. It’s silly going through formal introductions when I’ve had my hands inside your belly and your blood smeared up to my elbows.”

  Quinn’s eyes widened. “Greta said there was an emergency operation…”

  Mitchell put his fingers to his chest. “Field medic. I thought I’d left it all behind when I left the Army, but it catches up with me now and again.”

  Toni snorted, a sound of disgust. “And now I am hip-deep in heroes. If I must listen once more to Noah’s description of flying under the radar, I will puke.”

  Mitchell rolled his eyes. “He said it once and he was talking from the side of his mouth when he did.”

  Greta giggled. “Side of his mouth,” she repeated. “I have never heard it said that way, but it is what he does, isn’t it?”

  “When he isn’t hanging off the side of the mountain,” Toni said. She sounded bored. “I presume that is where he is now?”

  The ropes. Lifelines. The man, Noah, was a mountain climber of some sort. Given where they stood, it made sense. Apparently, he was also a pilot. Was everyone in Aslan’s household so multi-talented?

  “He’s jumping off Drachenwald, today,” Mitchell said. His gaze shifted to the mountains visible through the big windows.

  “Jumping?” Quinn said.

  “BASE jumping.” Toni’s tone was disinterested. “Where is Eli?”

  Quinn blinked. Toni was the first person to use Aslan’s given name, and she had shortened it, too. Quinn considered the woman. Was she closer to Aslan than any of the others?

  “He’s probably brooding in his office as usual,” Mitchell replied. He glanced at the heavy-duty watch on his wrist. “The Giants game is hours away yet. So is supper. I gotta get out and get some fresh air.” He winked at Quinn. “Don’t let Toni scare you. She’s really a puppy dog.”

  His mention of the Giants caught Quinn’s attention. “You like the NFL?” She asked. “You can see it here?”

  Mitchell’s brow lifted. “You like football, too?”

  She gave a tiny shrug, her wariness rising. “My… Denis didn’t like it. It wasn’t soccer. I used to watch it as a kid.” It was as close to the truth as she could get. “You’re from New York?”

  Mitchell grinned. “Queens. A long time ago.”

  Queens. Quinn found herself smiling at him. It would be natural to say, “me, too.” Only she couldn’t say that.

  Mitchell stirred and shifted on his feet. “Well… Gotta blow the cobwebs out.”

  He headed for the wide corridor where the stairs began and moved out of view.

  Quinn found Toni watching her. She gave the woman a stiff smile. “He seems nice.”

  Toni snorted. “If you say so.”

  Greta stepped forward. “Would you like me to bring you one of your books?” she asked Quinn.

  Toni rolled her eyes. “Novels! I don’t know what is novel about them. They never get it right.” She walked away, her long legs swinging. Quinn watched her go, puzzling out the last remark.

  Toni was clearly involved in Aslan’s business. She had been on the plane with Mitchell. Noah, too. All three of them helped Aslan with his nefarious work.

  Quinn had no trouble believing Toni was involved. She had greater difficulty believing Mitchell was of the same caliber. He was American from Queens and liked football. He was a medic who had saved her life.

  While she waited for Greta to come back with her book, Quinn listened to the silence in the room. Through the lace at the windows, she could hear muffled calls and soft talking.

  She pushed herself to her feet and walked over to the window. When she pulled the lace curtain aside, she discovered the windows were French doors. She pushed experimentally on a handle and the door opened with a small hiss which spoke of airtight seals.

  Cool air bathed Quinn’s face. She stepped out onto the wide balcony. It was edged with flat wooden pickets, with heart-shaped cutouts in them. They were painted a dark green and the railing was white. Wrought-iron chairs and a glass table sat in the corne
r to the far right.

  Quinn moved over to the edge of the balcony and leaned against the rail. The balcony was high on the side of a big house. Below, a large lawn spread, bordered by wide plantings of perennials and bushes.

  To the right, hedges surrounded a deep blue swimming pool with a negative edge on the two far sides. Beyond those two edges of the pool was nothing but air. The house was on the high side of the valley. The pool looked out over the valley.

  The edge of the lawn also dropped away. The view in all directions was fantastic.

  Across the other side of the valley were the mountains Quinn had seen from her bedroom window. Spread out across the valley floor were green fields, thickets of trees, roadways and, to the far right, a large town which might even be a small city. She could see church spires and taller buildings clustered in the middle, surrounded by houses and gardens.

  That would be Innsbruck, which Aslan had mentioned.

  Quinn considered the town. There would be phones there and ways to reach out and contact people.

  Over the last few days, the true depth of her isolation here had registered. Did Dima and her people even know where she was? Somehow, Quinn needed to get word to them. Dima had made her memorize a phone number. If she could find a phone that was not Aslan’s, she would risk a call.

  Only how she was to get Innsbruck and arrange to be left alone long enough to make a phone call was a problem she had no idea how to solve.

  She would not touch the phones here. She had seen enough movies to know using them was too high risk. They were too easy to monitor.

  Dima had anticipated something like this happening. Although Quinn did not think even Dima could have predicted a sniper would prompt Aslan to rush her out of the country.

  Quinn had not been happy about traveling to Austria with Aslan. The sniper had taken her choice from her. She was here now.

  Until Dima figured out a way to get her out of here, the only thing Quinn could do was be herself as much as possible, tell the truth as much as she could and wait for an opportunity.

  The shouting which had drawn her to the balcony came again. Quinn looked down as five men walked onto the lawn. One of them was Mitchell. The others were all dark-haired men wearing suits. Two of them took off their jackets and rolled up their sleeves.