by Kaylea Cross
Shock ripped the air from her lungs. Distress flashed along every nerve ending and over her skin like a blast wave. It took a moment to catch her breath and swallow her anger before she stabbed the needle into Sven’s lax flank. They backed away to let the animal recover.
“Maybe he missed.” Josef’s voice was gruff.
She stared at the blue sky and cursed.
Sven clambered slowly to his feet and staggered in a circle.
“Go!” she yelled. “Go, go!” Run from this terrible place. The cat turned to growl at her before bounding away. She stalked over and reset the trap because Goran also patrolled this canyon, and Sven better have enough sense to avoid the area for the next few days.
Dammit. She rested her forehead in her palm. Josef moved closer and put his hand between her shoulder blades. She might have taken that simple comfort if she didn’t think she’d buckle under the knowledge that one of her beloved animals was probably dead or dying.
She jerked away and looked over the valley with the jagged ramparts of the Hindu Kush bearing down on them from the south. Afghanistan was locked down by violence. Even if they got a message through to the right person in Kabul, the officials there might rate the plight of the snow leopard a poor runner-up to the troubles of their people.
The enormity of the task began to seep in and overwhelm her. Why were humans so callous? What made them think they had the right to destroy something as rare and precious as a snow leopard for something as unquenchable as greed? She didn’t understand and knew she never would.
She needed to act now or the leopards could be annihilated by the end of the week. It was a race against time and she didn’t know who she was racing with or how to stop them. A fine tremor of rage vibrated through her bones.
She set the receiver on the ground and checked the other snare frequencies. The base camp was too low to catch the signals but they were more elevated here. No point heading home if another trap had been sprung. All the signals beeped slow and constant, indicating the snares were empty.
“Let’s head back to camp.”
Josef nodded.
“Then I’m going to see if I can locate the cats south of the camp.” In the direction of the gunshot.
His skin paled beneath his tan. “We’ll go together—”
“No.” She took in the commanding panorama of mountains and wanted to raise her fists in challenge. “One of us needs to be at base camp in case one of the snares gets tripped. Anji has to take care of the cubs.”
Josef’s blue eyes protested. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful.” Damned if she was going to sit around while some asshole took potshots at her animals.
Josef grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh as he shook her. She blinked at him in shock.
“It is too dangerous,” he repeated firmly.
She broke his grip and glared at him. “There’s no choice.”
“We can monitor the snares and wait for the Trust to send back-up.”
“This country is shut down, Josef. It’ll take weeks to get people in here.” She fisted her hands, wanting to punch something. “I’m not waiting. You’re capable of managing a release on your own and that’s what I’m telling you to do.” Fury against the poacher burned the back of her throat. Anger seared her body.
Josef stood straighter, ready to argue.
“What if he got another one?” Her voice cracked in the morning quiet. She snatched up a rock and hurled it against the canyon wall.
“What if he’s still there, skinning his prize?” Revulsion swirled in his blue eyes, making them darken with rage. “What do you think a man like that would do to woman like you?”
Pent-up energy raged inside her with nowhere to go. “I don’t care!” The thought of these innocent creatures being hurt tore her apart. “I won’t approach if I see anyone.” Liar, liar pants on fire. “I’ll track the collars. We’ll send Anji down to the village to hire men to help us search.”
He muttered something blasphemous.
She climbed back on the bike.
His fingers touched her arm. “Axelle, you can’t put yourself at risk.” The gentleness startled her.
“I’ll be back before nightfall.”
“And if you’re not?” His hand dropped away.
“Then I’ll be keeping my promise.” She twisted to hold his stare. “Helping save an endangered species.”
* * *
Dmitri Volkov knelt on the bare earth, slid his knife into the mechanism that secured the tracking-collar and popped the device. He tossed it aside and rolled the snow leopard onto its back and pulled the plush fur away from clinging sinew. He made a hole in the pelt with the tip of his curved blade and carefully drew the whetted edge down the animal’s still-warm belly. He avoided nicking the gut, and took a moment to remove the intestines and stomach, and throw them in an opalescent heap where they couldn’t mar the prized pelt.
Using fingers and the blade, he worked the skin off the muscle in small, circular motions, revealing an intricate weave of deep pink fibers beneath. The tail took time, as did the legs and the head. The enormous paws were heavy and soft like velvet against his fingers, reminding him of the curtains in his grandmother’s house when he was a young child. He squeezed them regretfully, but refused to think about the animal it had once been.
Fifteen minutes after he’d shot the beast, he had his hide. He climbed to his feet, ignoring the pain in his knee as he batted away clumps of lingering snow. He wiped away a single smear of blood that somehow streaked the inside of his wrist. Then, with agonizing care, he rolled the pelt inside a blanket and tied the roll to the back of his yak.
There were men in Xinjiang who’d pay tens of thousands of dollars for each animal. The rarer they became, the more the pelts were worth. The money would help pay for the transplant his grandson needed, just as soon as he got his family out of Russia. Suddenly wary, he scanned the hillside—heard no one, saw no one. Sweat beaded his upper lip as he stood staring down at the glistening corpse. A sense of danger and urgency drove him even though he was tired and needed rest. He spotted the discarded collar and swore, snatching the thing and striding to the edge of the nearest cliff and flinging it over the edge. Fool. He would be caught out by his own cunning if he wasn’t careful.
The hair on his nape prickled.
He touched the rifle strung across his back like an old friend, the weight feeling right again after all these years. His breath steamed the air as he looked across the narrow corridor that fingered its way between these formidable mountain ranges. The ancient Silk Road was a barren wasteland since Mao Zedong had blocked the eastern passage to China.
He should have died in these mountains thirty years ago but fate had intervened. He recognized the remorseless weaving of timely threads leading him back to this valley at this moment in time. He just prayed he was smart enough and lucky enough to rescue the one thing that truly mattered. He hurried back to the leopard. There was no time to waste. Skinning was the easy task. Getting the bones was a bitch.
* * *
Dempsey did not like what he was seeing. They’d moved their OP that morning after the man and the woman had raced off on the bike looking like Mad Max and Xena. Now he and Baxter were embedded southwest, in a small cave that gave them better cover, farther away from the well-worn trail up the side of the mountain where the camp inhabitants seemed to travel on an hourly basis.
Down below, the woman was saddling the gray gelding and packing her saddlebags, obviously arguing with the redheaded giant and the short local man. From the set of her jaw she wasn’t budging, and something told him he’d have sided with the guys if he could hear the conversation.
She wore her androgynous clothing and hid her long brown hair beneath a woolly hat. Because of her height, from a distance she could pass for a male—unless you’d seen her naked. Then even the heavy sheepskin jerkin and canvas trousers didn’t disguise the subtle curves or delicate bone structur
e she was trying hard to obliterate. She mounted the horse, which whirled in a tight circle, and then she urged the animal south, toward the direction of this morning’s gunshot.
It had sounded like a high-powered hunting rifle, the sort of weapon their target had been reported purchasing in Pakistan. All they needed was a starting place and they could hunt this bastard down and neutralize his ass.
But now the woman was going toward the shooter. Shit.
Taz and Cullen were off searching for the source of the gunshot but, given the steep terrain, not to mention the fifteen square miles it could have originated from, he doubted they’d find any trace. Even if they did, it didn’t mean the shooter was the guy they were looking for, though instinct told him it was. Unfortunately, the British Army needed more than his instincts. They wanted a flesh-and-blood terrorist to hang on their placard.
He checked his belt kit and pockets for gear, then grabbed his bergen.
“Where we off to?” Baxter asked, grabbing his pack.
“I’m following the woman. You’re watching the camp.”
“Bollocks.” Baxter blew out a frustrated laugh. “The excitement might kill me.” He settled back in his trench. “She packed a gun.”
Dempsey tapped his carbine. “Mine’s bigger.” He was beginning to think he knew who these people might be, or at least, what they were doing here. He slipped out the OP and up behind the knoll of the mountain. He could see the trail of dust her horse left and started moving parallel to her wake.
“Don’t wait up. I should be back in a few hours,” he said into his mike. The headsets had limited range so he was surprised when Taz responded.
“Inshallah.”
Got that right. “See anything?” he asked the trooper.
“Not even a mouse.”
“Eyes open, boys and girls. Something tells me our prey is near. Let’s wrap up this mission and get back to the lads.”
“Amen, to that,” Cullen intoned.
Dempsey moved quiet but fast over the rocky land. The first blades of grass had started to sprout, and buds were swelling on the bushes, preparing to take advantage of the brisk alpine summer. The sky was a cloudless blue, the tips of the mountains so high they seemed to rend the fabric of the atmosphere. Nothing moved. There was an eerie silence to the world that felt like watching eyes, or ears pressed tight against stone.
Mile after mile, he followed the woman’s trail, shadowing her on the opposite side of the ridge. She raised enough dust he didn’t have to see her to know where she was headed.
Was she meeting their quarry? Was the Russian someone she knew? Someone she worked with? Or was this some unconnected scouting trip? The idea that she might lead him directly to his target made him increase his speed while doubling his caution. She scaled a bare hillside and Dempsey waited until she was out of sight, then hauled ass up and over the slope. At the summit he found an area he could crawl over without making a noticeable silhouette against the skyline. He slid behind a rock and caught his breath. It was cold at this altitude, but in the bright sunshine and heavy clothing, he was starting to sweat—not a good thing. He kept hydrated.
She wasn’t doing anything to conceal her presence, which made him wary. She didn’t seem to be bothered by the idea of the shooter seeing her. She was looking at something in her hands. He raised the scope to his eye and spotted a GPS unit and a radio receiver.
There was snow on the ground here. Large patches of ice trapped in the constant freeze-thaw cycle of night and day. She got off the horse and tied it to an anemic-looking sage bush. Dempsey edged closer, keeping out of her line of vision. She took out the handheld receiver and he heard a faint beep, then she attached an antenna and held it like someone trying to get the picture on an old telly.
She was tracking a signal.
Her head shot up and left, and she disappeared into undergrowth along a dry streambed. Dempsey moved closer to the horse, who raised its nose and then shook his mane. He did a quick search of the saddlebags. Food, water, notebooks, sleeping bag, tranquilizer darts. He pulled the latter out and inspected it carefully. Animal tranqs. It fit with his theory about who and what the woman was.
The clatter of a stone behind him made him freeze. Shit.
Chapter Four
He held up his hands and turned, relieved to see the woman and not some Taliban nutter or aging Russian terrorist squaring off with him.
Unfortunately the woman was holding a Glock-17 as though she knew how to use it.
“Afternoon,” he observed calmly.
“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t put a bullet in you right now.” Her accent told him she was American.
A joke about the second commandment probably wouldn’t work considering his Diemaco and SIG Sauer were locked and loaded with one in the chamber.
“Is there anyone who’d actually give a damn about a man like you?” Her throat convulsed, and hatred sculpted the lines of her mouth.
The question jolted him. He had mates in the Regiment, but no one else really cared if he lived or died. But she didn’t know that.
He looked at her white knuckles and the pulse beating frantically at the base of her throat. There was something going on here that he didn’t understand.
She stood close. Not close enough.
“You need to put the gun down,” he told her calmly.
“You sonofabitch, you don’t even care, do you?” Her eyes narrowed into glinting slits of rage. Not good. “You think it’s all right for you to murder and kill, but as soon as someone turns the tables—”
“Not true.” He edged closer. “I care very much.”
Her accent was definitely Yankee but held a hint of European. French, maybe. He moved another inch, saw her chest rapidly pump oxygen. He worked on calming her down, talking quietly so she had to lean forward to hear. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about, but I’d hate for somebody to get hurt because of a case of mistaken identity.” Did she have some anti-western affiliation? Anti-war agenda?
“There’s no mistake.” Her lips quivered. “How much money were you offered? I’d have paid you double to leave them alone.”
He frowned. He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, but she was within reach now. She blinked against the sun so he lunged, grabbing the gun, aiming it away from their bodies and snatching it out of her hands before tossing it out of reach. She struggled and kicked and punched at him, landing one solid blow to his nose, driving white-hot agony through his brain.
Suck it up, Buttercup.
She fought like a rabid wolf, and he could barely keep hold of the seething, whirling mass of fury without hurting her. He finally captured both her hands in one of his, forcing her onto her knees and down onto the ground, face first in the dirt. He used his weight to pin her while he searched for the flexicuffs he kept in his pockets. They took a moment to locate as he was distracted by all that wriggling.
She froze, perhaps realizing that hard thing in his pocket wasn’t another gun. She twisted around to stare at him with hate-filled eyes. He pressed his lips together and tugged the cuffs around a pair of wrists so slim he could circle both with one hand. Then he ran his hands over her body, searching for hidden weapons, making it quick, impersonal but thorough. She flinched when he reached between her legs.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Sure you’re not.” The sarcasm dripped from her words and set his teeth on edge. He wasn’t the bad guy. He wasn’t the one who’d pulled a gun on someone. He finished the search and sat back on his heels. Jesus. This slip of a female had done something no one had in years. Gotten the drop on him. He was thankful none of the lads were here to witness his humiliation.
Underestimating the enemy. Stupid.
He frowned at her as she lay muttering and fighting her bonds. She tried to roll away but he grabbed her and hauled her back. He had questions. Lots of questions, but the high color burning across her cheeks warned him he needed to cool things dow
n a bit. Change direction.
Right now he was an adversary. The chance of winning hearts and minds had never been more unlikely.
He slipped off his pack, went and retrieved her pistol, stuffed it in his pocket, grabbed both their water canteens. The horse stood with one foot cocked. Dozing in the afternoon sun, despite all the excitement.
Dempsey towered over her. She glared up at him and he had to suppress a grin because she wasn’t in the least cowed by the difference in size or weaponry. She had courage but—despite the Glock—little training in the art of close-quarter combat. Crouching, he offered her a drink. To his surprise she rolled onto her side and parted her lips. He cupped her head as he poured a little water inside her mouth. Her hair felt soft against his calloused palms.
She swallowed before jerking free of his touch.
He sat on the cold hard earth and drank his own water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What?” She glared.
He said nothing. Just looked off toward where the sun was starting its slow descent in the sky.
“Are you just going to leave me tied up?” She started fighting her bonds again.
He grunted. I wish. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t stop that.” He didn’t shift his gaze from the horizon. Why should he care?
A slight flicker of movement in the distance caught his eye. A subtle shift of shadows high above him on the slope. He brought his scope to his eye to check it out. It took forever to make out the cunning camouflage of a snow leopard against the tawny browns and moss green of the hillside. A smile tugged his lips. They were rare, and he’d never seen one in the wild before. It wore a collar, which was what he figured was going on with these people in their little camp on the edge of nowhere. Although he hadn’t figured on being held at gunpoint by someone he assumed was a wildlife biologist.
The leopard stepped delicately across the rocks, beautifully balanced with strong back legs and that humungous tail, but something looked off with its gait.
