"Awesome, Boss. Dropped the Russians. Thomas is back with us. Suggest we collapse on the trucks. Inbound rotary aircraft, still unidentified ..."

"Gotcha. On my way!"

The bike was old and rusty, the rear fender barely attached, the handlebars loose, the chain grinding as Chopra pedaled through the rut-laden street. The other kids stared at him in envy. This bicycle had been the last thing his father had given him before he'd been killed, and so in Chopra's young mind the bike had become the man. He would park it near his small bed and stare at it, well into the night.

He turned the corner and headed down into the alley, where he would meet his old boss who would give him the list of deliveries. The front basket would be filled with bidis, and Chopra would make his stops and collect the money. It was a lot of responsibility for a twelve-year-old.

When Chopra reached their usual meeting place, the old man was lying on the ground, bleeding from a gaping wound to his forehead. The boxes of bidis were empty. Chopra got off his bike, rushed to the man, and tried to comfort him, but he was scared that the people who had attacked the old man might still be around. He got back on his bike, raced home, and told his mother, begging her to send help. She did.

The next morning, Chopra returned to the alley, hoping the old man had recovered and the deliveries would happen as usual. The old man was gone, the empty boxes still lying there. Before Chopra could climb back on his bike, he was stopped by two boys a few years older than himself. They'd been watching him from across the street, half hidden in the shadows of laundry lines crisscrossing the alley in a thick canopy of multicolored fabric.

The larger one with bushy eyebrows glanced at Chopra's bike. "It's mine now," he said evenly.

"What are you talking about?" asked Chopra.

"Your bike."

"You're not taking it," said Chopra, lifting his voice and seeing his father smiling and saying, "Take good care of it. Don't let anyone borrow it." "Take good care of it. Don't let anyone borrow it."

The boy shifted up to Chopra and stared down at him. He was a full head taller, his eyes narrowing. "What are you going to do anyway?"

Chopra took a deep breath. His mouth went dry. "You can't have my bike."

"I'm doing you a favor. You're just making the old man rich. You can't work for him anymore. Do something else."

"You know I can't."

"Then you'll never be anything in this world, so it doesn't matter if I take the bike or not." He started away from Chopra and grabbed the bike's handlebars.

His friend came up behind them. "Can you ride me?"

"Sure," said the boy. "Climb on."

The second boy balanced himself on the rear wheel's bolts while the first took a seat.

"You can't take it!" shouted Chopra, reaching toward them.

The first boy turned and shoved Chopra away. "Don't do anything. I don't want to hurt you."

Chopra reared back, ready to punch the boy in the face, but suddenly he was on the ground, the dust coming up into his face. The other kid had hopped down and shoved him.

With tears in his eyes, Chopra watched as his bicycle vanished down the alley.

"Change of plans," said the Snow Maiden, riding up beside Chopra.

They were still pushing along the embankment, pa.s.sing the rows of gridlocked cars, with Hussein keeping close behind them.

"Are you listening to me?" she asked.

Chopra glanced at her. She was riding through that old alley in Mumbai, and then the alley dematerialized into the narrow country road. "What did you say?"

"I told you we have a change of plans. We're not going to Dover anymore. We're heading to Folkestone. We'll be met there. It's farther south than Dover and closer to us. Now let's pick up the pace. Come on."

Chopra was already sweating profusely in the summer heat and humidity. He took a deep breath, wondering what those boys had ever done with his bike. He'd never seen it again, and in truth he'd never forgiven himself for allowing them to steal it. His father would not have approved.

But he'd shown them, right? He'd risen from the dirt, the ashes, the same way Dubai would in time. He refused to let this woman take that away, and he silently vowed that she wouldn't. No matter what he had to do. He glanced back at the young sheikh, who rolled his eyes and said, "When can we stop? I'm absolutely dying of thirst!"

"You have become an expert at complaining."

"Shut up, old man."

"You must learn to respect your elders."

"Get me a drink-or at least get her to get me a drink ..."

Chopra braced himself. Patience. Patience. Patience. Patience.

[image]

Brent loved how politics affected military operations.

When he'd earlier needed Close Air Support, he couldn't get the time of day, but now, after Dennison had had some time to throw her weight around and negotiate her way up and down the pipeline, an old UH-60 Blackhawk came whomping toward them. They'd be picked up and whisked at high speed back into the chase.

The Snow Maiden, Chopra, and Hussein were on bicycles and riding toward the coast.

Dennison had had to repeat that.

Bicycles? There was the Snow Maiden's connection to the Tour de France, the cousin who'd been murdered. But bicycles ?

Dennison had explained that all the roads had been flooded with people trying to flee to the coast and cross over to France. The Snow Maiden's escape was actually quite clever and much faster than any attempt by car.

A keen-eyed intelligence a.n.a.lyst with his face glued to a satellite feed had, however, picked up the group of three pedaling southward.

Easy prey? Hardly.

Worse, getting back in the air wouldn't go by the numbers, as Lakota confirmed. "Our ride's got a Russian on his tail. Looks like another Howler."

"All right, you talk in our ride, and I'll get us to put some fire on that Howler," Brent said, still jogging through the forest.

He reached the road and the pair of trucks where the others had already climbed aboard and were waiting for him. He signaled to both drivers: Take us back up the road Take us back up the road, to where a large clearing would serve as the landing zone.

They tore off, the engines revving, Brent's driver cursing under his breath, a habit it seemed. It took just five minutes to reach the zone, where Brent ordered his team to fan out, away from the trucks-all but Daugherty and Heston. He put those operators on the fifty-caliber guns. Then he told the two British drivers and gunners that they didn't have to stay, that his men would take out that Howler, and thank you very much for allowing us to borrow your nice toys.

"You think I can stand here and turn over my equipment to a Yank? h.e.l.l no!" hollered Brent's driver. He ordered his gunners back to their weapons.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not giving you a choice."

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, I know that. So rest a.s.sured, we'll get the job done. You put your boys on the bird as well. We're in the fight now."

Brent snorted. "Not worried about drawing fire?"

"I think they they should be," said the driver, tipping his head toward the oncoming choppers. "Let's go hunting." should be," said the driver, tipping his head toward the oncoming choppers. "Let's go hunting."

Finally, Brent smiled. "Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah, just get ready."

Brent jogged away as his people set up along a slight mound, all lying p.r.o.ne, weapons trained at the two dark blips appearing over the distant tree line. The team had packed relatively light, not expecting to face armor or aircraft, and Brent longed for a nice Zeus, a fire-and-forget missile launcher that would certainly give the Russians pause-much more so than a pair of fifty-caliber guns.

Brent dropped down beside Thomas, who'd been given a rifle by Lakota. His gaze was fixed through the scope.

"How you doing?" Brent asked, shifting awkwardly onto his elbows.

"Just fine. How are you?" Thomas snapped.

"Look, I'm sorry."

"No, you're just a guy trying to save his half-a.s.s career, and I'm just a guy who doesn't belong here. Never did. Never will."

"Dennison knows your brother's there. She'll send a recovery team."

"He always knew he'd die out here. I have a detailed list of instructions of what to do. He wrote them for me. This is no surprise."

"Like I said, I'm sorry."

Thomas's tone grew even nastier. "You know why I finally joined the NSA? Because my father came to me, told me he wanted me to protect George. He said George took too many risks. I needed to watch out for him. And stupid me believed my father. What a crock. I found out later that George told my father what to say-just to get me on board. But I keep thinking that maybe it wasn't a lie. Maybe it was true. I was supposed to keep an eye on George because I'm the sane one, not the warmonger. And I failed. I let my brother die."

"Survivor guilt is natural. I promise we'll talk about this later. I promise." Brent cleared his throat and opened up a channel to the team. "Ghosts, this is Ghost Lead. Stand by. Here they come!"

The Blackhawk swooped down to within a meter of the treetops, with the Howler trailing. That the Russians hadn't already blown the transport from the sky bothered Brent. They were holding fire. What the h.e.l.l?

Maybe they wanted something-or someone-on board. They'd been given orders to track and observe. Interesting ...

"Hammer, this is Ghost Lead. The Russians aren't firing at our bird."

"Ghost Lead, just take out that Howler. Now!"

Brent glanced up at Lakota, waved her over. She rushed to his side and dropped down. He switched off the audio on his Cross-Com. "This is weird."

"I know."

"Talk to that Blackhawk pilot. See if he's carrying any precious cargo or VIPs."

"Dennison will hear."

"I don't care. Just do it."

Lakota called the pilot, who said he wasn't at liberty to discuss such issues. That was pilot code for I got precious cargo but I can't tell you I got precious cargo but I can't tell you.

Otherwise, he would've just said nope nope.

"All right, let's get that bird onto the ground, then we'll find out what the h.e.l.l's going on here," Brent said.

The Blackhawk drew closer, then, under Lakota's guidance and on her count, suddenly banked hard to the left, exposing the Howler behind it.

"All right, fire, fire, fire!" Brent shouted.

The two Brits manning the fifties cut loose with a ma.s.sive barrage, every third round a tracer that shimmered like laser bolts across green crowns of trees. It seemed now that two fire-lit wires were attached to the helicopter as it climbed and rolled against the onslaught. The wires fluctuated and wanted to drag the chopper down.

Below, both gunners adjusted fire until their rounds were drumming along the fuselage's thick armor plates. It was awe-inspiring to see an aircraft take that many rounds from the fifties and from the rest of Brent's people. The thing still remained aloft, seemingly undamaged.

"d.a.m.n, I don't think we can touch her," shouted Lakota.

"Oh, no!" cried one of the gunners, breaking off fire. "We've p.i.s.sed him off now! He's coming around!" The man abandoned his gun, jumped from the truck, and began running.

As the Blackhawk thumped overhead and swept behind them, the Howler pitched forward, coming to bear on one of the trucks. White-hot flashes came from its rocket pods.

Before Brent could open his mouth in an order to fall back, the first truck lifted off the ground and burst into a dome of fire whose heat and blast wave sent Brent sliding backward.

Smoke swirled in the rotor wash and dropped on them like a woolen blanket as the din of gunfire rose.

Brent coughed. His eyes burned. He could barely see the images piped in from the Cross-Com. And then the smoke thinned.

The second gunner kept firing on the chopper, a fountain of bra.s.s casings rising at his side. Brent screamed for the guy to get out of there, but he doubted the man had heard him. The Brit seemed unfazed by the helicopter coming around to finish him off.

Brent hollered again as the rocket pods flashed like cameras and twin smoke trails slashed the air between the chopper and the truck.

But that gunner never released his weapon and fired until the explosion swallowed him.

FOURTEEN.

Clearing near Royal Military Academy Sandhurst Knowing that Dennison was observing everything on the battlefield, Brent did not report the loss of the fifty-caliber guns or that the Russians were about to finish his team.

Those facts were obvious.