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Jack flashed another picture. “Then get your reason for going right here.”
Sierra suddenly shut her mouth as she saw three women laid out in front of a village, their clothes ripped off, lying naked. And dead. “What the hell,” she whispered, her fingers curving into her palms.
“Volkov’s calling card,” Jack said grimly, holding her widening eyes. “Nik Morozov took these photos when no one was looking. That’s the chief’s wife and her two daughters, ages thirty, sixteen and fourteen.”
Sierra choked up, tears rushing to her eyes. She turned her head away. “Get that photo off there,” she whispered, her hand touching her throat. Feeling as if she were going to throw up, she quickly stood and rushed out of the room.
Lauren glared at Driscoll. “Dammit, Jack, you shouldn’t have done that! You know Sierra’s younger sister was raped and murdered. You didn’t have to go that far.”
Driscoll sat back, his mouth hardening. “She wouldn’t take this mission otherwise.”
Cursing softly, Lauren glared at her boss. “You’re about as hard as Volkov.”
Alex gave his wife a gentle look. “Perhaps you need to see how Sierra is? She is probably in the women’s bathroom?”
Glaring at Driscoll, Lauren angrily stood up, shoving her chair back, her lips curling away from her teeth. “You’re a son-of-a-bitch, Driscoll.” And she stalked out, heading hurriedly down the tiled hall.
Lauren swung into the women’s bathroom, hearing Sierra in one of the stalls, sobbing. “Sierra?”
Sierra was hugging the toilet, having just flushed it. She barely turned her head as Lauren came in. “It… was too much… God, Lauren. It was too much…” and she buried her face in her hands.
“I know,” Lauren said, coming in and placing her hands over Sierra’s hunched shoulders. She handed her some wet paper towels. “Here, wipe your mouth and nose?”
Hand trembling, Sierra took them, and did just that. “I have to get up. I have to wash this crap out of my mouth,” and she struggled to stand. Her knees felt weak. Lauren put her hands beneath Sierra’s armpits and easily hauled her to her feet.
“Come on,” she coaxed, “let me help you.”
Sierra felt like someone had gut punched her. She couldn’t rid herself of those horrifying images. They were innocent Indian women. Like her. Being abused. Terrified. Murdered by these Russian men. By Volkov. Lauren aimed her to the wash basin. She planted her hands on either side of it while Lauren filled a paper cup with water and handed it to her.
Sierra gratefully took it, sloshing the water around in her mouth, her hand trembling badly. She spat it out. After three times, her mouth finally felt clean once more. Head hanging, her hands planted on the sides of the wash basin, she whispered brokenly, “Driscoll, damn him, he didn’t have to do that to me, Lauren.”
Lauren moved her hand gently across Sierra’s hunched, tense shoulder. “I told him he was a first-class bastard. He knew your sister was raped and murdered. Damn him,” she seethed. “Men are such overwhelming jerks sometimes.”
Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, Sierra muttered, “Jack knew I was backing out of the mission. That’s why he did it. He knew I wouldn’t let other Indian women suffer that fate, if I could help it.” Twisting a look up at Lauren, she said, “And I won’t, Lauren. I’ll take the mission, Kilmer’s attitude be damned. I have my priorities straight. I’m going to take great pleasure shooting Volkov, taking that cold, heartless monster out of the human race.” She gave Lauren a cutting smile, her eyes dark and narrowed. “He’s mine. And I’m going to take him down.”
Mace Kilmer remained hidden just inside the Highlands tree line, waiting for the Night Stalker Black Hawk helo bearing his new sniper to arrive.New year, new sniper.They were in the dry season of Peru and, even at nine thousand feet, it was cold an hour before sunset. A hundred yards either side of his position were his other two special forces sergeants, their M4’s at the ready with bullets chambered, watching, keeping eyes out for Volkov and his band of killers. They had run hard through the jungle, climbing from seven thousand feet to their present elevation, keeping the local Russian team at a distance. Volkov had no idea they were in the area, stalking them, and Kilmer wanted to keep it that way. Still, he was uneasy about the ex-Spetsnaz Russian who was known as ‘The Butcher’. The Russian team had five fellow ex-Spetsnaz soldier in it. His team only had three.
It was always a cat-and-mouse game that Kilmer had to play with these Russian mafia drug teams. A radio call came in and he pressed the mic once, letting the pilot know he was in position at the correct GPS location in order to land. His gray gaze swept out across the open area. To his right sat La Paloma, a village, a mile away. He saw the Q’ero men slowly moving around in that village, getting ready to end the day’s work. Thin flames and wisps of smoke rose from beneath the tripod kettles here and there, the cluster of thatched huts surrounding the food area. The smoke from the fires spiraled into the air for a few dozen meters, but then slewed down the slope toward lower altitude far below them.
He heard the thunking blades of the Black Hawk. Lifting his spotter scope, he saw the dark-green, unmarked Black Hawk, climbing up the cliff faces of the Highlands. The altitude they flew in made it tough on the machine. Restless, he stood up, remaining hidden for the most part behind the wide trunk of the hundred-foot Dragon’s blood tree towering above him. He and his men had cleared the landing area of any loose rocks and twigs so that any such litter wouldn’t be swooped up by the blades as the Hawk landed.
His CIA handler, Tad Jorgensen, had spoken highly of the sniper from Shield Security that was coming in to assist them to find and kill Volkov. He snorted. The last damned sniper sent down to them had been a woman. Lauren Parker had promptly gotten herself kidnapped by Petrov, which had thrown their entire team into chaos. Instead of going after Petrov, they’d needed to search for and find her before she was killed. Luckily, they’d managed to locate and rescue both her and Nik Morozov, the medic who’d helped her escape. Rubbing his stubbled jaw, Kilmer scowled heavily. He’d told his handler he wanted no more women snipers. He didn’t give a damn how good they were. One was fucking enough for a lifetime.
The outline of the Black Hawk became more and more sharpened and crisp the closer it got. Mace called to his men, letting them know the Hawk was landing. The sniper on board had orders to clear the helo and head directly into the tree line. There was no way Mace, and his men were going to stroll out into the open. Not with Russian mafia teams around. And those bastards knew, without any doubt, that Army Special Forces teams were on the ground, in their back yard and hunting their asses. They were very watchful, more so than usual.
Mace slipped his M4 off his shoulder, snapping off the safety, holding it tensely, his gaze ranging around widely. He wanted no surprises when this Hawk landed. He needed that damned sniper alive and hungry for a kill. He watched the Hawk lower quickly, the Night Stalker pilots bringing the bird in fast. They were most vulnerable at take-off and landing, so it was going to be a swift egress. He’d been told by his handler that S. Chastain was a Marine Corps trained sniper. That was good. They were the best-trained in the world. Bar none. He might be Army, but he would at least acknowledge that the Marine Corps did SOME things right.
The gusts of downwash as the Black Hawk’s nose came up sent ninety-mile-an-hour gusts in all directions. Mace told the helo to land. The copilot acknowledged his order and he saw the nose level out, the tricycle wheels touching the earth. Huge clouds of dirt rose around the bird. Mace crouched, rifle in place, watching to the right and left, seeing his men doing the same. It was their responsibility to keep that Black Hawk and its pilots safe.
The noise was deafening, the whine of the engines on top of the helicopter familiar to Mace’s ears. He couldn’t see the bird as it touched down, his view of it swallowed up by the thick, roiling dust blown twenty to thirty feet outward and skyward. The percussion of the blades buffeted his body. He leaned into the side of a tree for balance, so that the blast wouldn’t send him ass-end over teakettle. It had happened more than once.
The copilot notified him that the passenger had egressed, and they were now lifting off. Mace rogered the radio transmission. The Black Hawk went straight up like an arrow shot out of a bow. It banked, starting to tip away down over the side of the same harsh, rugged cliff face it had come up over. The underside of its rotors was inclined toward him, the wash from them tearing into the bare ground and blasting it into the air. Mace drew in a breath of relief as he stood to his full height, watching the clouds of billowing dirt intently. Any moment now, their sniper would appear out of that brown out area.
His gray eyes narrowed as he saw someone with a rifle in one hand and a heavy ruck on their back trotting out through the airborne storm of dust. He saw the long legs, the cammos the sniper wore, the face and shoulders of their guy still hidden by the granular clouds. Mace was pleased to note that the dude was humping his gear without a problem, heading straight for where he was standing. As the figure drew clear of the bulk of the roiling dust, Mace’s black eyebrows dove downward.WTF?His eyes still stung from the blasts of grit being sent like a storm surge into the tree line as the helo dropped out of view below the rim of the cliff. Wiping his watering eyes, he blinked several times. He HAD to be seeing things!
Mace’s mouth started to drop open, but he promptly snapped it shut again, rage tunneling through him. The figure materializing out of the dust was a woman! He clearly saw her face and the long, black braids hanging down the front of her cammie jacket. She was tall and medium-boned, her shoulders wide and capable. She was carrying her ruck. He knew it weighed easily around sixty pounds. She was in good shape.
Mace didn’t want to stare at her, but he did. Her face was wide and oval, its skin a golden color. She had high cheekbones, her brow broad. He swore she was Native American because the black hair framing her fearless-looking green eyes reminded him of the color of the swamp oaks back where he grew up in North Carolina. And, damned if his lower body didn’t take off like it had smelled a woman in heat! Damn it! Grimly, he moved out and just in front of the tree so she could spot him. And spot him she did, making a quick, trotting correction toward him.
