“What . . . Oh, my God! What the fuck have you done?” She stumbled back in shock. Instinctively, she raised her weapon, but Landon was already pulling the trigger. The shot seared across her upper arm, like the hot lash of a whip. Her right hand went numb and her SIG Sauer clattered to the concrete floor.
“You’re too fucking smart for your own good, Kendra,” he said, advancing on her. He’d also abandoned his mask and goggles. His eyes glittered. Around them, the stink of gunpowder and death seemed to rise up like mist from a graveyard. “You found Balakirev.”
“My God . . . the last mission . . .” She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. “You’re a fucking traitor!”
“Sticks and stones. You didn’t think Balakirev got away those other times because he was good, did you?”
“You son of a bitch!” Her arm felt like it was on fire. Useless.
“When I said I wanna be drinking somewhere on a beach, I meant it. Uncle Sam is a penny-pinching bastard. Balakirev is a businessman. He understands the value of money. And Greene is the moneyman.”
Kendra launched herself at Landon, kicking her foot up to knock his weapon to the side. He grunted, staggered back, but didn’t release his grip on the gun.
“Fucking bitch!”
With her good hand, she aimed for his throat even as she brought her leg up for another kick. She connected with Landon’s stomach, propelling him backward, but he managed to lift his gun and pull the trigger.
The blast caught her square in her chest, like an invisible punch, knocking her off her feet and down to the ground. The pain was excruciating, oxygen evaporating from her lungs. The world teetered dizzily around her. She fought off the whirlpool of blackness. The Kevlar vest may have saved her life, but it still hurt like a bitch to be shot.
Pushing herself to her knees, she crawled crablike around a crate, down one of the maze-like aisles. She blinked as sweat burned her eyes. From behind her, she heard Landon drag himself to his feet, cursing as he did so.
“I’m gonna tear you apart, you cunt!”
Through the dingy light, she could see Vale’s prone body ahead of her. Her good hand felt the stickiness of the SWAT team leader’s blood congealing like Jell-O on the concrete floor. Biting down on her lip to keep from gagging, she scuttled toward his body.
“You’re dead!” Landon came around the corner just as her fingertips grazed Vale’s weapon. She grabbed it by the muzzle, flipping it around in her good hand, even as Landon shot. Kendra’s body jerked, and her leg burned like acid had been thrown on it. She screamed, rolled to the side. Another shot sliced into her abdomen, below the vest. Dizzy with pain, she lifted the SIG Sauer, and fired. In front of her, Landon’s gun flashed in almost the same instant, and she was tossed back, the fiery pain so intense that she thought her head was going to split right in two. The bright, coppery smell of her own blood mingled with Vale’s, filling her nostrils, making her choke. Her vision grew blurry. Then she realized it was the blood dripping into her eyes.
Weakly, she closed them.
And let go.
3
“How is she?”
“She’s a fighter, I’ll give her that. She took several hits—right arm and leg, lower abdomen, right temple. We had to remove a section from her large intestine and right fallopian tube. Whether she’ll be able to have children . . .”
“But she’ll live?”
“The head wound is the most severe. She’s lucky. A centimeter over and you’d be talking to the medical examiner now.”
The voices came in gentle waves, rising and falling as Kendra hovered somewhere . . . where the hell was she? She felt . . . nothing. No pain. No emotion. Just a detached fuzziness. The only things anchoring her to reality were those voices. Both male. One soft-spoken and calm. The other a little louder, the timbre of his voice more gravelly.
“Will she live?” The gravelly voice repeated the question, more insistent.
A small sound. A sigh, maybe. “I wish I knew.”
“You’re the doctor, dammit. If you don’t know, who does?”
“If you would’ve asked me that when she was brought in, I’d have said no—she wouldn’t live the night. But that was a week ago and she’s still alive. And getting stronger. This morning we removed the ventilator, so she’s breathing on her own. But will she live? I don’t know.”
“Goddamnit. The Director wants to know her prognosis.”
“Then I hope the Director has a telephone line to God, because He’s the only one who can answer that.”
“I can’t believe she’s an FBI agent. She looks sixteen, for heaven’s sake. I’ve got a daughter who looks older than her!”
“Twenty-six.”
“What?”
“She’s twenty-six. And your daughter looks older because you let her wear all that makeup. Not to mention that horrible tattoo.”
“It was supposed to be a butterfly tattoo on her ankle. A small one.” There was a long-suffering sigh. “How was I supposed to know that she’d get a skull and crossbones that takes up most of her back? If her father were around—”