The Killing Game

by Anderson, Toni

  “Hurry. Up,” Josef ground out as the cat advanced a pace toward him.

  She aimed just as the leopard tensed to spring. The shot echoed around the canyon and immediately Samson started to stagger.

  It only took a moment for him to go completely under the influence of the tranquilizer. She grabbed a sleeping bag to cover him because the drugs lowered heart rate and could lead to hypothermia, especially as the sun slipped ever lower in the sky. She wrapped him gently as Josef popped the collar. It took a few seconds. She stroked the animal’s luxurious thick fur and absorbed his warmth as she felt his pulse. They should be collecting samples and doing weights and measurements, but she didn’t have the heart until she knew all her cats were safe.

  “Let’s move the horses out of the canyon and give him the antidote.” It was almost dark and they needed to get back to camp.

  Josef sat back on his heels. Worry crinkled his craggy brow. “I hate this.”

  He wasn’t talking about losing data.

  Emotions scrambled around her chest and wouldn’t settle no matter how deeply she sucked in air. “I hate it, too.” The lump grew in her throat until she couldn’t speak.

  She hadn’t cried since her husband died, over a decade ago, and she wasn’t about to start now. Ignoring the unexpected wash of black emotions, she helped Josef move the horses. Then she stood back as one of the most beautiful creatures on earth woke to a better chance of survival.

  ***

  Jonathon Boyle ignored the sweat that dampened his armpits as he sat outside the prime minister’s office. The atmosphere in Number 10 was stuffy in the extreme. The weather outside was a record high for May but nary a window was cracked in the hopes of snagging a breeze. The new leader of the British people seemed to have an unhealthy aversion to fresh air.

  The door opened and his eyes widened a fraction as his gaze met that of Franklin Dehn, the U.S. Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s. Despite their connection by marriage, the man walked past him without a word and Jonathon allowed himself a moment of quiet loathing. Even in the grips of intense heat the other man was a cold fish. Nothing fazed the American. God knew, Jonathon had tried.

  The PM’s secretary stood in the doorway, ushering him inside with a clawed hand and impatient twist of her lips. Scrawny old bat. He picked up his jacket and briefcase from the plush burgundy chair and went to greet the new British PM.

  “Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Prime Minister.” He held out his hand.

  “I think we can dispense with the formalities, considering how long we’ve known each other, Jonathon.” David Allworth shook his hand as if he were pumping iron and waved him to a hardback chair. “I don’t have much time”—he checked his watch—“but I suppose you’re here because of the rumor that Dmitri Volkov surfaced again after all these years?”

  Jonathon folded his hands one over the other. An effeminate gesture he’d cultivated years ago that served him well. Despite having had a wife and child, people believed he was homosexual, and he used the misconception to his advantage. Women certainly seemed to like it. Maybe it made them feel safe.

  “I know it is none of my business. Although the man did try to bomb the British embassy in Sana’a, with me in it. That does tend to make it rather personal.”

  The clock ticked on the mantel. How many prime ministers had that clock marked time for? At least three that he knew of.

  “I doubt you were the intended target in Yemen.” A smile accompanied the soft laugh.

  Which proved exactly how little the man knew about the world of espionage and counter-espionage. And that, Jonathon figured with an imaginary shrug, was the whole point of being good at keeping secrets.

  “Of course not.” He waved the notion away. “I’m hardly important enough to warrant my own bomb.” That bomb had pissed him off. He hadn’t expected it and it was the second time the Russian had got the best of him. “But I don’t understand why they think the man has surfaced now, after all these years. He’s supposed to be dead…” It was a risk coming here for information, showing an interest, but espionage was all about playing the odds.

  “He probably is dead,” Allworth told him with a patronizing little smile. “It was just a rumor that he was seen in Pakistan. I sent someone to check it out anyway.”

  “Someone?” Jonathon’s gaze sharpened.

  “Soldiers,” the prime minister admitted.

  Good news or bad? Jonathon chewed his bottom lip, allowing a little doubt to leak out. After all, he was an old man who’d almost been blown up during the service of his country. “You think they’ll find a trace of this ghost? We believed him dead for nearly a decade. Plus he knows those mountains the same way you know politics…”

  He really was an obsequious little bastard but it couldn’t be helped.

  “I sent the SAS.” David’s stoic expression couldn’t hide his nationalistic pride. Jonathon mentally rolled his eyes—as if Britain was the only country in the world to have Special Forces. “If he’s alive, they’ll find him.”

  “Of course.” Jonathon once again inclined his head and gathered his things to leave. “Your father would have been proud to see how much you’ve accomplished, David. Very proud indeed.”

  “You think so?” A contemplative light entered the younger man’s eyes.

  “Oh, I know so.” Orphans hungered for mention of their parents. This he knew from personal experience. “Your father and I often talked about you and your mother when we were sitting in some hut in the middle of nowhere. You’ve fulfilled every dream he ever envisioned for his son.”

  “I don’t remember him at all.” The tone was wistful.

  “Trust me,” Jonathon smiled, “he’d be proud.” He thrust out his hand. “You must be busy. You don’t want a useless old fart like me hanging around.”

  David Allworth leaned forward. “I heard you were finally retiring from the Foreign Office.”

  “Whether I like it or not, I’m afraid.” Jonathon’s smile slipped. He was over seventy years old but his brain and body were both sharper than Toledo steel. He wasn’t ready to bloody retire. He didn’t think he’d ever be ready.

  “You don’t plan to take up golf and sudoku?”

  He shuddered. “I’d rather drink myself to death on cheap French wine.”

  The PM stared at him with the sort of sympathy in his eyes that Jonathon detested—as if he had the right to feel sorry for him. But Jonathon’s time was nearly over and he might as well get used to the idea. He was being kicked out on his bony old arse by impatient youngsters he could snap with his pinkie.

  He sighed and forced a smile. Nothing to be done except keep his ears to the ground and maintain his contacts. Maybe he’d pay a visit to David’s mother. He’d occasionally comforted the widow in the years after her husband’s death. But she’d been too needy and he’d tired of her quickly. Perhaps now was the time to renew that acquaintance.

  “Actually…”

  Jonathon froze mid-step.

  David Allworth rose to his feet and paced to the window overlooking the garden. “I do have something you might like to consider. A place on an advisory committee.”

  Jonathon raised his brows but kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t spending his dotage overseeing NHS reforms or pension plans—not even for Mother Russia. “Doing?”

  The PM frowned. “Overseeing weapon development at Aldermaston. It requires top-level security clearance.” Dark brown eyes started to twinkle. “Would you be interested?”

  Jonathon’s mouth dropped in genuine shock. Finally.

  “Me, Prime Minister?” Inside he pumped his fists wildly. He was back in the game. They shook hands and, despite his exultation and the intense heat, his skin was cold. “Anything to help my country.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Dempsey and Baxter had crawled into a hole in the side of a mountain that overlooked this treeless, rock-strewn valley approximately thirty-six hours ago. A million hours later, they were still here, Dempsey ly
ing prone on top of his sleeping bag while he kept watch. The entrance of the OP was well hidden behind straggly bushes, and he and Baxter had cleared the area of spiders and scorpions and checked for snakes before they’d settled in. They needed to be vigilant for unwanted wildlife because neither wanted a medivac out of here. Plus, they could use the protein.

  Taz and Cullen were on the same mountain but on the south side, getting the benefit of the rising sun while Dempsey and Baxter froze their asses off in the shadows. The two men they’d spotted that first night had been gone all day yesterday and hadn’t returned until after dark last night. Dempsey didn’t know what they were up to.

  The man they’d left behind in camp looked local. He wore an AK-47 slung across his back with familiar ease, as did most men in this godforsaken country. Yesterday he’d taken a dirt bike into some of the adjacent hills. Dempsey had followed a short distance behind but the guy returned within the hour.

  Dempsey glanced down at the three yurts settled into the base of the mountain like circus tents. A couple of horses and a yak were corralled nearby and they had that bike and an old Russian van parked besides it.

  Who are you? What are you doing? Can I use you?

  He’d contacted HQ to track down more information but so far zilch on confirmed identities. Intel in this region was iffy at best. No one operated here during the winter because it was completely cut off by snow in the mountains and the sort of temperatures that snapped off appendages. This part of Afghanistan was surprisingly peaceful considering it was surrounded by unfriendly borders: Tajikistan, China and Pakistan. The bulk of the Northern Province of Badakhshan lay west, home of the mujahedeen’s Northern Alliance, which had battled the Soviets and Taliban for decades. Westerners were rare in this part of the world but not unknown: NGOs and charities carried out work here. In summer they even got tourists. But the valley was also used by gunrunners and drug smugglers.

  So who the feck are you? Friend or foe?

  The stone of the mountain was unrelenting beneath his body. His legs ached, he felt like he had Sumo wrestlers pounding the muscles in his back. Those who joined Special Forces for the adrenaline rush should try holding this sort of position long-term. It was boring as hell and tested his endurance more than any ice climb. Maybe he was getting too old for this kind of shit. At thirty-nine he was among the older soldiers in the Regiment and, with twenty-two years’ service, one of the longest serving. But he’d never struggled physically. He had no clue what he going to do when he quit the SAS and didn’t want to think about it.

  Getting old was brutal but then so was growing up in Ulster during the Troubles.

  The Troubles.

  Ha. As if the conflict had been a few boys throwing stones at one another. It had been war. A bloody, vicious battle, fought by ruthless killers brimming with nationalistic zeal and a total lack of human empathy, played out on streets full of innocent civilians. The terrorists hadn’t cared who died in the crossfire any more than the British government. He wasn’t blind to the hypocrisy. He’d joined up to hurt his family. To destroy them if he could. He’d joined the most hated regiment in the British Army—the paras—then set his sights on becoming one of the most feared soldiers in the world, certainly in Northern Ireland. There could be no doubt of the total rejection of his family’s values when he’d passed the grueling selection process and been allowed into the ranks of the SAS.

  He’d made his choice. He’d built a life of integrity and honor, and that was more than he could have hoped for as the youngest son of the most notorious bomb maker in Northern Ireland.

  He blanked the memories from his mind. Too many years. Too much ancient grief. What was done was done. The Regiment was his family now and protecting innocents by eliminating the bad guys was what he did.

  He glanced at Baxter who was out cold after taking the earlier stag duty. He turned back to the camp using his high-powered day/night scope, looking for clues about these people. He saw no weapons except the basic rifle they’d taken off with yesterday and the old AK-47 which was as ubiquitous as a dick in this part of the world. There was a solar panel mounted beside the biggest yurt, and he suspected they had a satellite phone—stupid not to. He’d seen walkie-talkies and some sort of handheld receiver he couldn’t identify.

  A tent flap was flung back and the tall skinny guy who’d ridden off yesterday morning emerged, carrying two buckets of steaming hot water. He strode over to a curtained-off area that must be a jerry-rigged washing area. Dempsey felt a moment of extreme envy because he itched with grime from scalp to toes. It would be cold but it would be worth it to feel clean even for a short time.

  From this elevation he had a clear view of the cubicle. He looked back at the yurts but out of the corner of his eye caught a glimpse of the guy pulling off his hat and shirt. Dempsey’s gaze swung back. Suddenly his skin felt too tight, and heat rapid-fired through his veins.

  There was enough skin on display to convince him that was no man. Long brown hair, the color of rich mahogany, tumbled in a straight line down her back. She grabbed the soap and turned to face him, small breasts with high pink nipples, pebbled from cold, waving hello.

  It was a hell of a scope.

  And he shouldn’t be looking.

  She dipped a washcloth into a bucket and started cleaning herself. Water slid over her skin and her body sparkled in the newborn rays of the sun. His mouth went dry as she sluiced water through her hair. There were no weapons hidden anywhere on her person—he could verify that. She was lean and muscled—hard for a trained observer not to notice.

  Heat flooded his body. Finally he dragged his gaze away and sweated out the next couple of minutes of torture as she finished her impromptu shower.

  Which he now needed more than ever.

  She didn’t look like a local. Her body was pale as cream and she had a healthy well-nourished glow that people here did not have. Out of his peripheral vision he saw her reach out to grab a towel. His earpiece crackled.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God. He felt like his CO had caught him masturbating.

  “Nothing to report except a couple of mountain goats, over.” Cullen checked in through the PRR.

  Dempsey touched the button on his wrist, relieved Baxter hadn’t woken and shared in the morning’s entertainment. “One subject moving around camp, female. Over and out.”

  She dressed quickly in jeans, baggy T-shirt, green fleece and vest, her body disappearing beneath shapeless cloth—which was a crying shame. Her features were even and narrow, especially her jaw. Beautiful—when you realized you were looking at a girl and not a guy. She dried her hair with the towel then jerked her head and looked straight at him. No frickin’ way. He held perfectly still as she pinned him through the straggly sage bushes that covered their hideout. She pulled on her boots after shaking them out—smart girl—picked up the handheld unit he hadn’t identified and hopped on the dirt bike.

  Kicking the pedal to start it up, the accompanying noise of the engine shattered the tranquility of the morning.

  She headed straight for the trail behind the camp, making a beeline for their position.

  “Bloody fecking hell.”

  He held perfectly still, glancing around without moving his head, looking for anything that might have given them away. But there was nothing. He nudged Baxter gently with his boot because the last thing he needed was the Scot starting to snore if she got too close.

  Had she seen them?

  His brain said no way, no fecking way. He remained still even as she got nearer and nearer to where they lay prone in the dirt concealed by rocks and bushes. He held his breath and felt Baxter tense beside him. Then she veered right and went to the top of the ridge.

  What was she doing? Where was she going? He pressed the button on his wrist. “Subject on ridge between us. See if you can see what she’s up to, over,” he murmured.

  “No visual. Out.”

  The redheaded man stepped out of the central yurts and turned toward them, sha
ding his eyes with his palm. Dempsey dropped his eye to the scope. The guy was tall and bulky, Scandinavian looking with a meaty jaw and cold blue eyes. Too young to be their target though.

  Lovers? The woman’s husband? Serf? Minion? Slave?

  He took some photos—something he should have done of the woman, but had forgotten because his small brain had taken command of the mission.

  “She’s checking some sort of radio receiver. Can’t get a decent look at it but it doesn’t look military. Looks like she’s heading back your way,” Cullen said. Nerves buzzed. “She’s pretty once you realize she’s a lass and not a bloke.”

  He rolled his eyes. Craig Cullen was a lady’s man and never missed an opportunity to score. Even in the Wakhan Corridor, Dempsey could sense him calculating his odds of seducing this woman. The sound of the bike engine amplified against the rock, grew louder as she crested the ridge and spat dust in her wake as she careened down the trail toward camp. He had an idea what these people might be, but until he knew for sure he had to assume they were hostile. Which was a damn shame, because not only was he hoping to borrow that makeshift shower, his body was telling him in no uncertain terms exactly who he’d like to share it with.

  She parked the bike, and Dempsey watched her expression through the scope. Her mouth was pressed into a determined line, her eyes narrowed into a glare. Not a happy camper. The local guy came outside wringing his hands in an agitated gesture of distress. She stormed past both men into the tent, the redheaded giant’s shoulders sagging as he followed. The body language was undeniable. She was the leader of this little ragtag band of warriors, and whatever she was telling her cronies was going down as smoothly as a suicide pill at a birthday party.