The Killing Game (7 page)

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 structure 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 4

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 down 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.

The woman crashed into his thigh and knocked him sideways. Her face was distorted and there was a ferocity in her eyes that made her look feral.

He rubbed a hand over his dust-covered face. “You’ve got to be the craziest woman I’ve ever met.”

“Says the man who has shot three of the world’s most endangered species—”

He opened his mouth to correct her but she bulldozered right over him.

“Please don’t kill any more, I have money. I’ll pay whatever you want
not
to kill him.” She sobbed and it sounded awful in the peacefulness of the mountains. “I’ll do
anything
you want.” She froze, and then steeled herself as she realized what she’d offered.

Whoa
. What the hell? There was a beat of tense silence.

“Really? You’ll do anything I want?” He let his eyes scrape down her body. “As long as I don’t shoot that leopard?”

She nodded although she looked like she’d rather puke. He was torn between humiliation, irritation, and amusement. What the hell was she
thinking
? He pushed her onto her front and straddled her thighs from behind. Because he was angry he paused for a moment and let his weight sink against her. She felt as rigid and sexy as a tank but he
had
seen her naked.

“Tempting.” He pulled out his knife and cut the cuffs. “Thankfully I don’t have to tie up women for sex. Well,” he amended, “only if they want me to.” He climbed off her and brushed the dust off his trousers. Gazed at the leopard who turned briefly to look at them before disappearing over the hill’s crest. His anger had burned down to a low simmer and he savored the peace and quiet for a moment before he spoke. “For your information, lady, I was never going to shoot that leopard, so your generous…sacrifice…was unnecessary. Although if you get the urge again just let me know.” He let his eyes drift over her. “I’ll think about it.”

She sat up, looking dazed. There was a smudge of dirt across her cheek and a graze on the end of her stubborn chin. He refused to feel bad about it. She’d pulled a gun on him. She was lucky she wasn’t dead.

She rubbed her wrists, ringed red from her struggles against the cuffs, shaking her hands to get the blood back into her fingers. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not desperate for female companionship.”

Her lips twisted. “That bit I understood.”

He held out his hand. This was a peace offering and if she wasn’t smart enough to take it that was her problem. “Sergeant Dempsey, British Army.”