Fox Hunter

by Zoe Sharp

  “So was it ever Clay, or was Ivan stealing from his father all along?”

  Hackett laughed. “Oh, he would have if he’d thought of it first.”

  “He’s preparing the ground to take over, isn’t he?”

  “I would say so, yeah.” Hackett nodded, put a hand to his head, which must have been still aching like a bastard. “And I doubt he’s going to wait until his old man shuffles off this mortal coil from natural causes, either, if you catch my drift.”

  I swore under my breath.

  “So . . . where’d you learn to fight like that, then?” he asked, still rubbing his head where I’d hit him. “Not in the army, eh?”

  “Well, you and your pals—and Parris—saw to that, didn’t you?”

  “Hey, listen—”

  “Don’t,” I said with cold precision. “No excuses. No lily-liver words about how you were forced into it. I know what being forced is all about. Nobody was holding a gun to your heads. And certainly nobody forced that look of fucking glee onto your face.” I jerked to my feet, saw him flinch. “The colonel picked his scumbags well, didn’t he? I bet you were halfway on board before he finished asking.”

  “He was right, though.” His tone might have held a touch of belligerence now, but his eyes still skittered about the room. “Females are just not cut out for the kind of role we were training for.”

  “The very fact he felt the need to get rid of me speaks differently.”

  “I don’t mean that. You were good enough. Shit, you put most of us to shame. But combat’s not the same as training. You lose a teammate, and it fucking hurts, but you suck it up and get on with the job. But if that teammate is a female who’s killed, maimed, or captured, it blows a big hole in the morale of the whole unit.”

  “I see.” I was suddenly reminded sharply of Najida, the Iraqi woman Dawson had taken me to see in that clinic in Kuwait City, who’d been betrayed first by the men who’d abducted and raped her, and then again by her family. “So, you were the ones with the attitude problem, but I was the one who had to suffer for it.”

  “No! Well . . . yes. OK, but—”

  I held up a hand. “When up to neck in fucking hole, Confucius say, stop digging.”

  His mouth shut so suddenly I thought he’d bite through his tongue. Even so, he couldn’t leave it alone, and after a moment’s silence, he said, “I’m sorry. Not that I s’pose an apology after all this time is worth much. I’ve done some pretty nasty things in my time, but that . . . well, it’s stayed with me. Haunted me, you might say.”

  With a little more practice he might even have sounded sincere.

  “You’re right,” I said. “An apology from you—no matter how late—is worth nothing at all.”

  SEVENTY

  LESS THAN TEN MINUTES AFTER HE’D LEFT US, SEAN WAS BACK. IN his hands was a compact machine pistol—an Arsenal Shipka, the folding wire stock extended into his shoulder. The gun was produced in Bulgaria, chambered for Russian 9mm ammunition from a 32-round magazine. It was simple and robust in operation, and exported to police forces all over Eastern Europe.

  As he came in, Sean shrugged a second weapon off his arm, where it hung by its strap. Hackett reached for it, but Sean pulled it away before he could get his hands on it. Even so, Sean hesitated fractionally before he passed it across to me.

  Hackett threw his hands up. “Aw, come on, mate!”

  “Nothing personal,” Sean said. “But she’s the better shot.”

  “Ha, she might be able to hit a target OK, but has she ever . . . you know?”

  The question of how capable a killer I might be seemed a funny subject to be coy about, all things considered. Then I remembered what they’d done to me and the fact I hadn’t killed any of them—either at the time or since. Maybe it wasn’t quite such a funny question after all.

  I swung the wire stock out from the side of the receiver and around into place, settling the gun in my hands.

  “What do you think happened to Kuznetsov in Basra?” I asked and, without waiting for a reply, turned my attention to Sean. “Did you get the discs?”

  He shook his head. “Apparently Parris ordered a full wipe of everything since you arrived.”

  “Of course,” I said grimly. “He’s getting ready to deny I was ever here.”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “Did you see any of the attackers—who they are?”

  “Not Bulgarian SWAT or Special Forces, as far as I could tell. Hard to recognize anyone when they’re in full tactical gear and keeping a low profile.”

  “Numbers?”

  “I don’t know—small, though, otherwise we’d be overrun by now. They seem to be trying to keep everyone pinned down rather than going for a breach.”

  “Good enough,” Hackett said. “Come on, mate. Give me a gun and we’ll fight our way out.”

  “Slight problem with that,” I pointed out. “They could be the good guys.”

  Hackett gave a rough laugh. “Depends which side you’re on, darling.”

  I thought of Hamilton’s man in Karbala. “Well I’m not going to shoot any of them until I find out.”

  “Either way, we’re wasting time,” Hackett said. “Are we getting out of here or what?”

  “We need Parris,” Sean said. “In this situation, where would he go?”

  “He’ll be with the Venkos—standard operating procedure if they’re under threat.”

  A burst of gunfire sounded from outside—much closer than it had been before. I tensed in reflex, tucked my forefinger inside the trigger guard until I could be sure they weren’t about to come through the doorway.

  “Where?” Sean repeated.

  Hackett let out a shaky breath, because he knew if he told us we’d go there—and that meant he would have to go, too. Probably unarmed. Sean took a step toward him.

  “OK, OK. Secure rooms in the east wing. Blast doors more like a bloody bunker. That’s where they’ll be headed, if they’re not there already.”

  “Parris will let you in, though, won’t he?”

  Hackett snorted. “He’s more reasons not to. A bigger share of the haul, for a start.”

  Sean gave him a grim smile. “Well let’s just hope you can be highly persuasive about your ongoing usefulness, then.”

  SEVENTY-ONE

  WE CREPT BACK UPSTAIRS, FOLLOWING MUCH THE SAME ROUTE I’D taken on the way down, through the ornate rooms, passages, and open landings that were bigger than rooms in themselves. An extravagant use of space.

  It sounded as if the attackers had not yet made it into the main body of the house. Venko’s men were holding them successfully outside. How much longer that would be the case was anyone’s guess.

  Sean took point, with Hackett close behind him to guide the way. He’d clearly spent as much time in the Bulgarian mansion as he had in the sweltering Mosaic City in Jordan. He gave directions in low tones, or more often than not just a tap on one shoulder or another. Not giving him a weapon certainly made him careful about walking us into any kind of trap.

  I brought up the rear, weapon ready but hoping like hell I wouldn’t have to use it. I’d no desire to alienate Gregor by killing any more of his men. And still less did I want to risk Hamilton’s wrath—if indeed she was behind the attacking force.

  In other words, we had no clue what was going on and were trying hard not to make a bad situation worse.

  In front, Sean halted suddenly, clenched fist raised in a “hold” gesture. Hackett flattened against the wall behind him. I faced rear, gripping the Shipka’s polymer receiver, the wire buttstock pressing firmly, if uncomfortably, into my shoulder.

  I glanced forward and found Hackett’s gaze fixed on the front of my shirt where the butt of the gun was causing the sides to gape apart. I released the pistol grip just long enough to backfist him in the face, splitting his lip. He let out a muffled yelp. Sean glared at him. Hackett dabbed at a dribble of blood and jerked his head in my direction. Sean glared at me. I dragged the edge
s of my shirt together and glared right back.

  We were at the end of a corridor where it opened out into a wide landing for yet another grand staircase leading to an upper floor. At least three sets of double doors led onto the landing, and the multiple entry points were reason for caution. The ceiling was high, and the staircase itself split both left and right at a half landing where hung a life-size portrait of some Bulgarian aristocrat on a prancing horse.

  Abruptly, one of the doors on the main landing swung open and three men stepped out, heading for the stairs. The first man was Ushakov, the ex-Spetsnaz, walking softly and carrying an assault rifle with a fold-out stock. An AS Val, made in Russia, with a built-in suppressor that gave it a distinctive bulky barrel. It was the weapon he might have carried back when he was still doing black ops for the Russian government.

  Shambling behind him was Gregor himself. Unarmed, he looked dreadful, his skin gray.

  Bringing up the rear was Parris, alert, walking softly, with an Arsenal Shipka in his hands like those we carried. For a moment it was hard to tell if Gregor was their captive or their principal.

  But when Sean stepped out into view, the way Ushakov moved quickly in front of Gregor told me the latter was the case. Ushakov stared down the barrel of Sean’s weapon with cold eyes, but he did not try anything stupid.

  As soon as Sean moved, I elbowed Hackett out of cover and took a bead on Parris. I aimed for his pelvis, low center mass where I could be absolutely certain of putting him down, even with a weapon I’d never fired before. Even if he was wearing body armor or made any sudden evasive maneuvers.

  He didn’t try anything stupid, either.

  “What is this?” Gregor asked without apparent fear. “Have you turned against me, Mr. Hackett?”

  “It’s not you they’re after,” Hackett said. He pointed to Parris. “It’s him.”

  “You little shit,” Parris said pleasantly.

  Hackett shrugged. “Well, needs must.”

  “And what do you want from Mr. Parris?” Gregor asked, and I was pleased that he didn’t address him as “colonel” either.

  “Same thing I wanted when I first arrived,” I said before Sean could speak. “The truth.”

  “About Michael Clay?” Gregor asked. He tilted his head toward Sean. “You already have it, from his own lips.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we both know that isn’t the case. Sean didn’t kill Clay, no matter what he told you.” I paused, said carefully, “I think you are well aware who did.”

  Gregor’s shoulders slumped. He looked older, if that was possible.

  “Yes,” he said, almost a whisper. “I have always known it. But . . . he is my son.”

  “What he’s become . . . it’s not your fault.”

  He lifted his head and focused on me fully, as if seeing me for the first time. “He was with me, in the Balkans, when he was just a boy. He saw things no child should see . . .”

  I wanted to say that many children had lived through that particular war and not turned into monsters, but I didn’t think it would help.

  We stood there without speaking for no more than a few seconds maybe, with sporadic gunfire audible outside. Ushakov and Sean never took their eyes off each other, like two circling dogs. Neither wanted to be the first to blink.

  And then Parris took half a step back.

  He was standing side on to me, facing Gregor, with the staircase on his right. As he moved, I saw his eyes slide up toward the top of the stairs. Mine followed.

  At the highest point of the left-hand branch of the staircase, where the gap between ceiling and treads narrowed to a vee as it reached the next floor, I caught a glimpse of movement.

  And the barrel of a gun.

  I yelled a warning and dived for Gregor, just as the brutal crack of a three-round burst exploded down onto us.

  I felt Gregor jerk as at least one of the rounds hit home. I rolled away from him and fired, using the gun as an extension of my arms, aiming by instinct.

  Up on the stairs, my opponent gave a guttural cry and dropped his weapon. It clattered down half a dozen treads before coming to rest, wedged against part of the ornamental bannister. The man scrabbled to rise.

  Sean was already sprinting for the stairs, taking them three at a time, keeping his own weapon on target. Ushakov stood over Gregor, scanning for additional threats. Hackett was crouched beside Gregor—more, I suspect, to use the old man’s body for cover than to protect him.

  I got to my knees, ears ringing savagely, and started to pat the old man down, looking for wounds. One round had torn through the flesh of his upper arm on a downward trajectory, scouring across his rib cage on the way out. It was messy, and no doubt painful, but not serious in itself. I was more worried about shock and blood loss.

  “Where’s the nearest medical kit?” I demanded of Ushakov.

  “In the secure room. We were on our way there.”

  “Then let’s go,” I said. I threw Hackett and Parris a dismissive glare. “And seeing as I’m just a pathetic feeble female, you two can carry him.”

  Parris pinned me with an evil stare, but he slung his weapon onto its strap and bent to take Gregor’s good arm. Between them, he and Hackett got him onto his feet. He made no sound of protest or pain, but he was sweating and had begun to tremble.

  Sean came back down the stairs, dragging a man by the scruff of his jacket. He left a bloodied trail along the marble treads, and squealed as his injured leg bumped down each step.

  When Sean reached the bottom he threw the man onto the ground at Gregor’s feet, where he wrapped his hands around the blood leaching from his thigh and swore at all of us in three languages.

  I didn’t need to see his face to know who he was, and if I wasn’t surprised, I was certainly disappointed. That must be nothing compared to how Gregor himself felt.

  The gunman who’d just tried to kill him was Ivan, his son.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  BETWEEN THE FIVE OF US, WE GOT THE TWO INJURED MEN TO Gregor’s panic room in the east wing, Ushakov leading the way. Gregor was carried with some care. The only reason Ivan wasn’t dragged the whole way there was because his screaming caused his father distress and did not exactly allow us to proceed with any degree of stealth.

  I got only a brief impression of the room as we got inside and Ushakov locked the steel door behind us. It was similar to the drawing room where I’d had my audiences with the old man, except there were no fireplaces and no windows, only the soft hum of an air ventilation system under the overhead lights.

  Hackett and Parris gently maneuvered Gregor onto a wide couch, and Ushakov dumped a medical kit by my side. I wasn’t quite sure why I was the one who had to tend to him, but I wasn’t going to argue about it now.

  The medical supplies were pretty comprehensive. I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and got on with it. The kit even had three or four different types of scissors, including those for cutting away clothing. I did so, slicing up the side seam of his sweater and shirt and peeling the sleeves of both down his arm. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent, threaded with blue veins and already beginning to bruise. He was also shivering.

  “Somebody fetch him a blanket,” I said over my shoulder. “We need to keep him warm.”

  The gouge across Gregor’s rib cage was down to the bone, but it was clean and little more than a graze. The arm was still bleeding, at an ooze rather than a gush. I checked that the bone was intact and cleaned up the ragged ends of flesh with antiseptic wipes, then made a pad of gauze to cover the wound.

  “Here,” I said to Hackett. “Wrap your hand around his arm—there, almost in his armpit. Now squeeze, gently, until the bleeding stops.”

  Although not keen to comply, Hackett did as he was ordered. I checked Gregor again for other injuries, but only the one round had hit. By then, with Hackett pressing on the main artery into his arm, the bleeding had slowed almost to a stop. I fixed the pad of gauze in place as a compression dressing, making sure to tap
e it only halfway around his arm so it didn’t cause swelling.

  Then, between us, we laid him propped slightly on his side. Ushakov draped a blanket over the old man with surprising sympathy.

  “Thank you,” Gregor said as I rose, and I knew he was not referring only to the medical aid.

  I nodded. “You’re welcome. There’s morphine if the pain is bad, but it will slow your breathing.”

  “Is not so bad.” He gave a faint smile. “Is not first time . . . I have been shot.”

  I nodded again and turned away, peeling off the bloodied gloves.

  Sean had dumped Ivan on the floor and was standing over him with the Shipka readied. I hesitated a moment, then picked up a new pair of gloves and approached Gregor’s son.

  He snarled like a cornered dog. “Get away from me, you stinking bitch.”

  I shrugged, bent to pick out a rubber tourniquet from the kit, and threw it into Ivan’s lap.

  “Sort yourself out then. But do it quickly—you’re making a fucking mess on the carpet.”

  Parris straightened. “Well, everything here seems to be under control,” he said. “I ought to go check on the men.”

  His eyes flicked between Ushakov and Sean as he spoke, as though they were the only two whose permission he needed to seek.

  I swung the Shipka off my shoulder into my hands and lined up on him steadily.

  “I don’t think so, John. This time you don’t get to walk away.”

  “My dear girl—walk away from what, exactly?”

  “Responsibility. You’re Gregor’s head of security. That means you’re supposed to keep him safe. But the moment you saw Ivan up there, taking a bead on his father, your only thought was to step back out of the line of fire,” I said. “I’m not well up on my military history, but as I understand it, during the battle of Stalingrad the Russians executed their own men for that.”

  “Even if that were true . . . this isn’t bloody Russia.”

  I glanced at Ushakov. He returned my gaze blandly enough, but his jaw was tight.