Hovering between then and now, he felt the pinpricks of lights out in the darkness. Stars in the night sky. If he stared long enough, they would grow brighter, falling toward him. But the night sky had always scared him. So he shied away, back to the moment.
As he did so, a hunger filled him. But like the memory before, this appetite did not belong to him. Close by, a large heart thundered, swallowing Pyotr’s feeble beat. Strange odors swelled through his senses: wet grass, the whispers of hot blood in the air, the feel of gravel underfoot. A breath drew heavily, much larger than his own small chest. The scent of the hunt fired through him.
Then another musk came with it.
A new scent.
Another hunter in their midsts.
But this scent carried more than pungent odor.
Memory of searing agony came with it.
Spine prickling, fury burned away hunger.
As Pyotr huddled tighter, that large heart stalked forward, padding toward him.
Monk fled along the rear of the roadside buildings and headed toward the lower half of the street. His back and chest burned, scratched and impaled by splinters from the narrow squeeze between the two clapboard shops. He had secured Pyotr in the truck, safe from the tiger for the moment—but not from the sniper. His first priority was to lure the soldier away from the children, to get him chasing after Monk into the mix of buildings below.
Survival and outwitting the soldier would have to follow that.
Monk ran low. He stuck close to the buildings and avoided piles of dry leaves and foundation gravel. He moved silently until he reached where the lower switchback cut downward. Rounding the last building, he edged back to the main street. Had he gone far enough?
Holding his breath, he peeked around the corner and scanned up the street. He spotted the brickwork of the general store, the rusted truck, and the roadway of weeds and high grass. Nothing moved. A breeze flowed down the mountain and feathered the tips of the grass blades.
But there was no sign of the sniper.
He had to be out there, possibly sneaking up on the children. Monk could not risk a hostage situation if the sniper grabbed one of the kids. Monk bunched his legs under him. He had to dash across the street and down to the lower level of the ramshackle town. The crunch of gravel would make plenty of noise.
But he had to be convincing to draw off the soldier.
Taking a deep breath, Monk burst out of hiding and pounded across the gravel. “Run!” he yelled and waved an arm to imaginary children. “Just keep running!”
Let the sniper think that all the children were with—
—crack—
Fire impaled Monk’s thigh. His left leg went out from under him.
He landed hard, his arms out to protect him. Gravel tore skin from his palm and stumped wrist. He let momentum roll him farther down the street. A second rifle blast ripped through the grass over his head with a sharp whistle.
Monk dropped flat, but he spied through the grass and saw the soldier rise. He had been hiding farther up the street, about halfway toward the brick store. Rifle on his shoulder, he sidled straight at Monk.
The soldier had anticipated his adversary circling to the rear. He had hidden in wait, ready to ambush.
But the soldier wasn’t the only one hunting.
Fifty yards up the street, a parted V of grass swept straight toward the soldier, like a torpedo through water.
Borsakov kept his face stoic, but a dark satisfaction rang through him. He had the man down, immobile, defenseless. He would end this here, make the American pay for the deaths of his comrades on the boat, make him suffer: a bullet through the kneecap, perhaps another through his shoulder.
As Borsakov took another step, a shift of gravel sounded behind him, a whisper of grass blades, rushing like the wind.
Not the wind.
He knew.
Borsakov twisted around. He started firing before he’d even secured his stance. He squeezed hard, rifle chugging with automatic fire in a wide swath. A feral scream of rage ripped through the blasts as Zakhar burst out of the grass and leaped straight at him: legs wide, black claws bared, muzzle curled back from curved yellow fangs.
Borsakov fired and fired. Blood burst in sprays from the striped fur—but he knew there was no stopping the monster.
It was fury and pain, revenge and hunger, lust and determination.
In the face of such horror, a scream burst from Borsakov’s throat, guttural and raw, a primal cry of terror.
Then the tiger landed and pounded him to the ground.
Monk shifted higher, watching the tiger savage the soldier’s body. It reminded him of the bear ripping into the massive wolves yesterday. Monk heard the moist crack of bone, and the man’s scream cut off. The soldier’s body was shaken like a rag doll, gripped by the neck, blood fountaining.
Monk had seen enough and bounded straight at the tiger, his left leg on fire, dripping with blood.
The soldier’s weapon had been flung from his body as he was smashed under the eight hundred pounds of feral muscle and claw. The rifle landed halfway between the tiger and Monk. They would not survive this monster without it.
A growl spat toward him.
Zakhar’s eyes fixed on Monk. In that black regard, Monk knew the cat recognized him, the murderer of his brother. The tiger crouched atop the broken Russian’s body, muscles rippling, hackles high, fur sticking straight out in all directions. Blood flowed across the tiger’s chest and flanks, blurring stripes. The cat survived on pure fury.
Reaching the weapon, Monk slid on his knees and scooped up the rifle. One-handed, Monk struggled with the weapon, tangling with its strap and fumbling to bring it up and find the trigger.
He would never make it in time.
Zakhar’s rear legs bunched for the kill—
—when a second feline scream echoed down the street. It was not as loud, but it rang out in a perfect yowl of fury and grief. Monk recognized it, having heard it just hours ago.
The death cry of Arkady, brother of Zakhar.
Recognizing it, too, Zakhar leaped up, twisted in midair, and landed in a crouch, tail high. A hiss flowed from the giant cat, less fury, more wary confusion.
Monk lifted the rifle and aimed for the metal cap screwed over the back of the skull. He drew a fix just below it.
Steps away, Zakhar’s feral hiss escalated into a whine of pain, of grief, looking for his lost brother.
Firming his stance, Monk squeezed the trigger.
The rifle kicked with a sharp retort.
The tiger jerked, then dropped flat into the grass.
Monk sank to his side, leaning on his stump. He shouldered the rifle. He knew his aim had been true, a merciful kill shot through the base of the skull. He checked his own wound. The soldier’s bullet had ripped a gash in his thigh, but it had passed clean through.
He’d live.
Monk took several breaths, then forced himself to rise.
From down the street, Konstantin and Kiska appeared. Monk knew he owed his life to little Kiska and her perfect pitch and mimicry. Heard once, she had emulated Arkady’s cry, amplified by the rolled sheet of tin Konstantin now tossed aside into the grass.
Marta bounded out of the store and straight for the truck.
They would collect Pyotr and move on. Limping, Monk studied the mine complex above the town. They still had a hard climb, but Monk had something to do here first. He hobbled over to Zakhar and placed a hand on the tiger’s bloody shoulder, wishing the beast the peace it had never known during its life here.
“Go on now, big fella…go join your brother.”
12:43 A.M.
Washington, D.C.
Painter raced down the empty hallway toward the stairs. Alarms rang, accompanied by the Protocol Alpha siren. Evacuation of the facility was almost complete. The emergency exits emptied into a neighboring underground parking garage. Painter did not doubt that Mapplethorpe had men guarding those exits, making sure the child didn’t escape. But at least the base personnel should be out of the underground cement bunker.
All except those caught during the initial attack.
After setting the fail-safe, Painter had stopped first at the communication nest of central command and had tapped into the video feed. He’d found that outside communication had been cut off, indicating someone had the schematics to the command structure, but they’d left internal lines open. From the top floor’s cameras, he watched Mapplethorpe’s commandos gather a dozen hostages, their wrists secured behind their backs with plastic ties.
It could’ve been worse. At this late hour, Sigma had been lightly staffed. Satisfied, Painter had prepared what he’d needed, and once done, he turned his attention to the danger closest to his heart. He shoved open the door to the stairwell and almost knocked Kat Bryant on her rear end.
She carried Sasha in her arms.
He struggled to comprehend.
Beyond Kat, he spotted Malcolm Jennings and a security guard.
“What? How?” he stammered out.
Lisa shoved past Malcolm and hurried up to him. She was covered in blood. His heart hammered, but she seemed uninjured. She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a fast hug. He felt the shudder of her relief, matched by his own—then they parted, professional again.
“What happened?” he asked.
Kat related in terse, dispassionate thumbnails, finishing with, “We’re attempting to evacuate.”
“You’ll never make it out with Sasha,” he said. “All the exits are surely covered.”
“Then what do we do?” Lisa asked.
Painter checked his watch. “Well, by escaping on your own, you’ve already made my life easier.” He pointed back down. “Take Sasha to the gym locker room. Secure her in there. All of you.”
“What about you?” Kat asked.
He kissed Lisa on the cheek, turned toward the door, and headed out. “I’ve got one last thing to do—then I’ll join you.”
“Be careful,” Lisa said.
Kat called back to him. “Director! Monk’s still alive!”
Painter halted, glanced behind him, but the stairwell door slammed shut. What? He had no time to inquire what she had meant. It would have to wait. He sprinted back down the hall and returned to where he had started, back to the communication nest. Slowing, he tested the air. A sweetness permeated the space, as it should all of central command.