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If the mask wasn’t enough to make her blood run cold, the mini machine gun he carried did the trick.
Kyla’s pulse slammed through her veins. She spun and raced to the back of the house, where Ahmadi and his wife stood together.
Kyla glanced at the wall she’d scaled easily. Ahmadi and his wife would not go over it as quickly, dressed as they were in long robes.
In Pashto, she said, “Over the wall. Hurry.” She bent and cupped her hands.
Ahmadi urged his wife to go first.
She hung back.
“Go,” Kyla urged. “Or we all die.”
The woman stepped into Kyla’s palms. With her husband pushing from behind, she landed on her stomach and swung her leg over the top of the stone wall. She dropped to the other side.
Kyla held her hands for Ahmadi.
“No, you go first,” Ahmadi said.
“No time to argue,” she remained bent over.
Ahmadi stepped into her hands.
Kyla straightened.
Ahmadi pulled himself up to the top of the wall and reached down to give her a hand up.
She shook her head. “Go!”
He slipped over the wall and dropped to the ground on the other side.
Doors slammed open inside the house as the man in the black ski mask worked his way through the rooms. It wouldn’t take him long. The house wasn’t that big.
Kyla got a short, running start, scaled the wall and slung her leg over.
As she slipped over the top, she glanced back. The man in the black ski mask had just reached the back door and flung it open. Before he could see her, she dropped to the other side.
Her turban caught on a crack in the wall. Unable to stop and free it, she let it go, the ponytail she’d wound around her head shaking loose. She didn’t have time to retrieve her thobe. It didn’t matter. Without the turban, the disguise was useless. All she could do was run. She raced after Ahmadi and his wife.
They ran for several city blocks. The couple wouldn’t be able to keep up the pace for long.
Kyla glanced over her shoulder. The man in black rounded a corner and sprinted toward them.
“Turn left,” Kyla yelled to the couple. They did, and Kyla followed. “Keep going and find a safe place to hide. I’ll take care of him.” She stopped running and waited for the assassin to catch up.
Ahmadi and his wife turned another corner, zigzagging through the streets.
Kyla waited, her gun poised and ready. When the man didn’t burst around the corner as she expected, she eased her head around.
Several yards away, the man was climbing into the van’s passenger side. Once he was in, the van leaped forward, headed for her corner.
Kyla aimed at the driver’s windshield and fired.
Her bullet pierced the window.
The van swerved and then straightened, coming straight for her position on the corner.
She fired again.
