Page 2 of The Shadow Friends

She grabbed Sophie around the waist, slung the rifle over her shoulder, and pulled the young woman out of the kitchen. There was no escape route from this house. Their only option was to retreat upstairs to one of the bedrooms, bar the door, and hope that rescue arrived in time. Sophie’s legs had gone limp, and she was little more than deadweight as Ingrid hauled her up the narrow staircase. By the time they reached the second floor, Ingrid was dragging her, leaving a trail of blood on the floorboards.

From downstairs came the sound of pounding, kicking. How long would the door hold?

Not long enough.

Ingrid pulled Sophie into the upstairs bedroom and laid her on the floor. The young woman’s blouse was saturated with blood and she was gasping for air, but Ingrid had no time to attend to her wounds. A blast shook the house.

They had plastic explosives.

She bolted the bedroom door and shoved a dresser and chair against it. Scrambled behind the bed and crouched against the mattress with her rifle aimed at the door. The first one through that door would be a dead man.

“Please . . . help . . .”

Ingrid reached out and touched Sophie’s hand. Already it felt like the hand of a corpse, the warmth of life draining away. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.

Voices shouted downstairs in the kitchen. Russian. They were inside the house. Footsteps thudded up the stairs. Her finger was already squeezing the trigger, ready to fire, as they banged on the bedroom door. Each blow shook the dresser, her last pitiful line of defense. Her heart was banging as well, like a wild animal trying to beat its way out of her chest. It would not take long for them to break through. She could take down the first one or two of them, but there was only one way this would end. The syndicate demanded it. Sophie, who’d dared to betray them, must now suffer the consequences.

As Ingrid leaned into the mattress, her finger poised to fire, she thought about all the pleasures she would never live to enjoy, the breaths she would never take, the sunsets she would never witness. She thought about the man who waited for her at home, the man with whom she could have spent the rest of her life. Gone, those possible futures, all gone. Now it was down to these final moments, the invaders pounding at the door, the sweat trickling down her cheek like a warm teardrop. How many rounds were left in her rifle? She didn’t know, but she would keep firing as long as she was able to, as long as she had bullets. Make them pay dearly. Make them . . .

The blast splintered wood, sent shrapnel flying. The shock wave threw her backward, and her head slammed against the wall. For a moment she saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. No discomfort, just the black numbness of death. Then, faint and distant, the staccato of gunfire. Men shouting. Footsteps.

They are coming. Here it ends.

“Ingrid.”

She drew in a shuddering breath, and pain stabbed her ribs, sharp as a blade. Pain meant she was alive. Pain meant they weren’t finished with her yet.

“Ingrid!”

She opened her eyes. To her wonder, she saw a face she knew well, a face that was now staring down at her in panic. Rodrigo’s black hair was powdered with a layer of dust, and his cheek was spattered with blood. Not his blood, she realized, but another man’s.

“Help her,” whispered Ingrid. “Help Sophie.”

He gave a sorrowful shake of the head and looked away. She followed his gaze to the body lying nearby.

In life, Sophie had been a pale and luminous beauty, but beneath her seeming fragility was tempered steel. For almost a year, she had gone unnoticed while embedded within a viper’s nest of men who made their fortunes from death and destruction. She had been listening, always listening, as those men talked freely about the deals they’d made, the rivals they’d eliminated. None of those men could imagine that the harmless and insignificant girl they’d hired to serve their drinks, adorn their yachts, would be the Trojan horse that would bring them down. Ingrid herself had been dubious when a troubled Sophie first approached the Agency with information about the syndicate. Damning information that she’d gleaned while she’d hovered silently in the background. To the syndicate, she was just another pretty face, like so many others that could always be found orbiting powerful men. Unlike the others, though, Sophie had been paying attention and taking notes. She had come to understand, with growing horror, who these men were and the brutal violence they were capable of.

I’m sorry. Ingrid reached out to Sophie’s lifeless body. Oh God, I’m sorry.

“Ingrid.” Rodrigo gently tugged on her arm. “There’s nothing you can do here. Come, let me take you to the village.”

“How did this happen? How did they find us?”

“I don’t know.”

“We had no warning. Why didn’t our men warn us?”

There was a silence. She looked up and saw his pained expression.

“What happened to them? Where are Simon and Gordon?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Both of them?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“Just tell me!”