Haussler ran over to her. "What now? You want us to carry the gold to the ship?"

Several of the Spetsnaz troops slid open the rear doors and hopped down from the truck. They ran ahead of Haussler and the Snow Maiden, then began pointing down the road. One whirled back. "Vehicle coming. Looks like militia."

"I've called for a pickup," said the Snow Maiden.

"I'm sure you have." Haussler turned away from her and began speaking in French to the chopper pilot. He finished, looked at her, smiled weakly, then began speaking to someone else.

Meanwhile, the Cheetah broke away, wheeled around, and headed north toward the oncoming car.

"Okay, so there's a gunship," said Lakota calmly. "Any thoughts?"

"Not really."

"So we just drive right at him?"

Brent squinted. "His rocket pods look empty."

"But his cannons aren't."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

Lakota's voice grew more tense. "Captain . . ."

"Relax. I got this."

Brent took a long breath. She couldn't hear or see what he did on the closed strategic channel. The 747 pilot had cut loose his escorts, and the F-35s were both en route, with the lead jet already locked on to the Cheetah.

The pilot stoically reported that her Sidewinder missile was away.

A shooting star wiped across the sky and descended toward the Cheetah.

Brent's heart beat once. Twice.

He gasped.

The Sidewinder struck the Cheetah top down, and the chopper disintegrated into a fireball that lit up the entire highway. Flaming debris shot from the flames and spread like fireworks to cast a deep glow over the Range Rover's hood.

Brent veered to the left as a jagged piece of fuselage slammed down on the hood and shattered the windshield. Then he rolled hard right, tires screeching, as the fiery hunk of metal sent flames billowing toward his helmet.

The Snow Maiden stood, aghast. Their air defense had just been blown from the sky, and all she could do was breathe.

For just a second, she closed her eyes and told herself no, she wasn't ready to surrender. Not yet.

A blast of air nearly knocked her to the ground.

Suddenly, a pair of jets came swooping down, banked hard, then slowed and turned on their axes as vectoring nozzles switched directions, pointing downward. Both hovered now like choppers, and their pilots cut loose with internal cannon fire, rounds ripping and sparking across the road, sending all of them diving for cover behind the trucks.

The Spetsnaz troops began to return fire, but Haussler hollered for them to keep down. The jets descended even more, and the cannon fire grew unbearable, shredding through the trucks, the gold, and striking the troops huddled down near the tires.

She grabbed Haussler by the arm and ran back toward the embankment, exploiting several feet of cover below the road. The troops were screaming, dying up there in the h.e.l.l storm of unrelenting salvos.

"This is it, Heinrich," she said. "I guess this is it."

"Did you think I would come here with no backup plan myself?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Wait. Look . . ."

"What am I looking at?"

"A favor from your old friend General Izotov, who would like to see you more than ever-and I've promised that meeting. And so now we are saved."

"I thought we had a deal."

"Unfortunately, your contacts let you down. Mine won't. You'll be coming back to Moscow with me."

He'd barely finished his sentence when both jets blew apart in successive bursts. Wings, c.o.c.kpit canopies, and landing gear appeared through swelling fires and tumbled end over end to crash down and sc.r.a.pe across the highway. A wedge-shaped piece of fuselage crashed into the telecom trucks, knocking two on their sides and tearing them open. Bricks of gold tumbled out and glittered in the flames, and the Snow Maiden hit the dirt as more bricks thumped to the ground around her.

She reached down, grabbed one bar, and cursed at the top of her lungs.

[image]

Six Russian Federation KA-65 Howlers like the ones Brent had faced near Sandhurst thundered overhead as he approached the shattered telecom trucks.

At the same time, a pair of fighter jets streaked above them, and though Brent received no indication of their IDs, he could only a.s.sume that they, too, were Russian and had been responsible for taking out the F-35s.

As he and Lakota bounded out of the Range Rover, a wave of gunfire from somewhere behind the trucks sent them down to their bellies, and not a second later, a grenade exploded on Lakota's side of the truck.

He screamed for her. No answer.

Feeling as though he'd been hit by ten thousand volts, Brent bounded around the Range Rover and dropped down beside Lakota, who was lying facedown near the wheel. Razor-sharp pieces of shrapnel had peppered one side of her suit. He rolled her over, and her eyes slowly flickered open. "Don't let her get away ..."

His HUD showed her vital signs and that the suit had already hit her with painkillers.

Brent nodded, looked up, and saw that the Russian choppers were just now coming around to escort a larger, slower bird, a troop transport.

And then, from the embankment, he saw two figures dash forward, away from the trucks.

Brent charged after them, and they didn't notice his approach as the rotor wash whipped across the road.

He leveled his rifle on the taller one and cut loose a triplet of rounds that punched the guy onto his back; however, the rounds failed to penetrate his armor. He was only stunned.

The smaller figure swung back to face him.

It was her.

And as she fired into his chest-one, two, three rounds-he threw himself into the air and knocked her to the ground. He dropped his rifle and pinned her arms with his knees, and his gloved hands fumbled for the latch on her helmet. He found it, threw it back, and, as she fought to squirm free, twisted off her helmet and tossed it away.

He wrapped his gloved hands around her neck and began to choke her. "Do you know how long I've been looking for you?" he screamed in English, knowing she understood him.

"I don't care," she said, groaning in exertion.

With a sudden jerk she rolled, driving her legs up and over his head, boots slamming into his helmet. The power in her legs was remarkable, and she tore him free, forcing his head back with her ankles. He lost his grip on her throat and fell away, reaching out to his right for his rifle.

"Ghost Lead, this is Hawk's Honor, second squadron of F-35s inbound. They'll be in missile range in two minutes, if you can just hang on, over."

He couldn't answer the pilot.

And if he could just delay her for two minutes ...

Brent sat up-in time to watch the Snow Maiden's boot connect with his helmet, knocking him back down. He rolled, tried to sit up again, but she stood over him now, aiming her pistol at his head.

"Who are you?" she screamed, her short hair whipping in rotor wash as the transport chopper landed, with Russian troops thumping out beside the door gunner, who swung his machine gun around to face Brent.

The first guy Brent had shot was staggering to his feet and screaming in Russian, waving for the Snow Maiden to follow him.

Was that Haussler?

Ignoring him, she screamed once more for Brent to ID himself.

The weird light in her eyes told him enough. If he kept pushing her b.u.t.tons, he'd buy more time. "You don't give me orders, little girl."

Voices in his ear now: "Brent, it's Juma! We're on our way! Almost there!"

"Ghost Lead, this is Hawk's Honor, one minute ... Stand by ..."

The Snow Maiden leaned toward him, aiming at his neck. "I can shoot you right here, and you'll die."

"Then do it, you crazy b.i.t.c.h."

"Viktoria!" screamed the other man. That had to be Haussler!

The Russian troops were running forward now, about to surround them.

Brent stole a look back at Lakota, who was now lying on her side, clutching her rifle, and staring vaguely at him.

Then he glanced back up the road, where in the distance he saw two cars, a Ford pickup truck and another Range Rover SUV about three hundred meters behind. Some of his Ghosts were riding in the pickup, hanging over the flatbed's sides, rifles brought to bear.

The Russian gunships had fanned out, and two were turning toward the oncoming cars.

Brent wanted to call off Juma and his people, but it was already too late.

Lakota began firing at the oncoming Russians, who dropped and returned fire.

At that moment, the Snow Maiden leaned down and began to jab her gun into his neck.

Brent grabbed her arm as the pistol went off.

And then he pulled her down toward him with all his might. She lost her balance and fell. Just as he moved to climb back on top of her, gunfire hammered across his back, and then it came, the sharp, steady pain.

He gasped and fell over, onto his side, as the Snow Maiden was pulled away by the other man, who Brent now confirmed was Heinrich Haussler. He was working for her?

Lakota fired again, and more rounds from the Russians ahead punched into and clanged off their Range Rover.

Rockets ignited above and streaked away from the Russian choppers. Brent turned his head to watch as his people bailed out of the cars only seconds before the missiles struck. Twin explosions swelled into summits of fire, and the screams from his men over the team channel were awful and unbearable. The Range Rover a.s.sumedly carrying Juma turned around and headed back in retreat.

"Ghost Lead, this is Hawk's Honor, thirty seconds ..."

You're too late, Brent wanted to tell him, but a wave of dizziness was taking hold, the ground listing to the left as though he were on a boat.

He knew if he stared hard enough at those flames in the distance he'd see Villanueva, shaking his head in disappointment.

"Ghost Lead, they'll have missile lock in five, four, three, two ..."

The Snow Maiden glanced back once more at the soldier who'd tackled her. It had been years since she'd encountered a man so fiery-eyed and determined. He seemed obsessed with her, and she took that as a true compliment. She thought of ordering the Russians to grab him, capture him, but she couldn't explain why.

She climbed into the transport, and as they began to lift off, she shoved her pistol into Haussler's neck and fired two rounds, whispering, "I'll never go back to Izotov. Never."

As he started to drop, she slid him aside and tossed him out of the chopper. His body tumbled and slapped across the asphalt, limbs twisted at unnatural angles as the troops standing beside her looked dumbfounded.

She pushed through them, put her pistol to the back of the chopper pilot's head, and shouted: "Okay, now you'll take me where I want to go."

Just then explosions like tiny orange novae woke in the night sky, and the radio traffic from the gunships grew frantic.