BLOOD GURKHA: Prophesy (James Pace novels Book 5) (8 page)

Shilan did not rush after that. If they were going to come for her, they’d have done it by now, she reasoned. Keeping them at bay with the occasional shriek, or cry, she turned her attentions to her tired, lethargic body. Hitting a series of increasingly rapid exercises, she drilled herself through a warm up that she was so familiar it came as second nature. After fifteen minutes, bathed in a thin sheen of fresh sweat, panting slightly but alert and ready, she made her move.

The guards hardly paid any heed as the door opened and the thin, stooped form of Prior emerged from the cell. Their eyes were drawn to his shirt and trousers and it took a moment before their senses started jangling with alarm. Those few milliseconds were all the time Shilan needed; spinning around and charging them like a race horse exploding to the command of the starting pistol.

One guard died instantly, as a well-placed flying kick sliced through the air, connecting beneath his jaw and snapping his head back with such force that his neck snapped with a sickening crack. The other guard may have been a little rusty after too long at the complex but, in a previous life, he had been a tough soldier in Spain’s elite MOE unit, fighting out of Valencia, with the 3
rd
Special Operations Group.

Years of training snapped back to him just in time to ward off a beautifully-timed roundhouse kick from his assailant, aimed at his throat. The kick was powerful but he easily batted it away with a heavily muscled forearm. Stepping in, rather than away, he closed in with a smile already beginning to crease up the edges of his mouth. This was clearly the woman prisoner, he knew. She must have overpowered that weakling scientist and now had the temerity to challenge him.

Jose Barros hated women. Loved them for sex but despised them in every other sense. Born into a family where his own father regularly beat his mother to within an inch of her life, Barros had grown into a handsome, dark-haired Lothario who had his share of female companions before nearly strangling a girlfriend had led him before a friendly court, run by a close relative.

To avoid jail, he agreed to join the army, where his strength, brutality and streak of viciousness had drawn him into the arms of Special Operations before he was even twenty-five years old. Two decades defending his country, surviving operations all over the globe, gave him a few medals and retirement on a pitiful pension before the age of fifty.

Mercenary work was the obvious next step and Barros’s unique skillset had been in great demand for the past three years. He’d amassed enough money for a very comfortable life but, having found his way into the employ of ARC, he was in no rush to give it up. Although the last few months had been a waste of his many talents, the company paid on time, every month, into his Swiss bank account and there was always the odd chance of getting a little action. Barros developed withdrawal symptoms if he did not kill another human being at least twice a year and this account was well overdue.

This situation was perfect. He would make her pay for her error in taking him on. Then he would murder her. Today, after all, was turning out to be a very good day.

All these thoughts flashed through his mind at the same moment that Shilan was mentally cursing her own failure. The mistreatment had sapped her strength, she knew, but her coordination was usually exact, and deadly. She had hoped that her warm up exercises would bring her reflexes into line but she was wrong.

Unfortunately for Barros, two things now served to be his undoing. The first, of course, was a mistaken sense of physical superiority. The second was Shilan’s cold, closely-controlled rage. Anger at herself, fuelled by fury at her opponent’s murderous grin, added just the right amount of adrenaline to rebalance her responses.

Barros reached out for her throat, expected the soft flesh of her windpipe to slip neatly into his clawing grip, but his fingers closed only on empty air.

Shilan waited for him to come in before dropping to the floor at just the right moment, falling into a perfect splits manoeuvre before spinning on her hands and scything the man’s legs out from beneath him. Before he even realised that he was falling, her newly-restored reflexes served her better this time as she sprang up and planted a single, three-finger jab to Barros’s own throat. As he crashed, winded onto his back, he struggled for breath as his bruised Adam’s apple protested at the strike.

In normal circumstances, Shilan might have stayed in the fight, almost to prove a point, but she was already feeling the adrenaline spike begin to fade. She had no doubt she would defeat the guard but she also knew that she didn’t have much time. The cell block was well away from the main house and a huge storm was shrieking outside. Nobody would hear what went on over the storm so speed became the decider.

Stepping over to the dead guard, she pulled an automatic pistol from his belt holster, chambered a round and quickly shot Barros twice in the head. As the brutal crash of the gunshots faded away, the explosion of madness of the past few seconds ceased and tranquillity descended on the hallway like a sombre mood; sulky and petulant.

Ignoring the bitter taste of copper that coated her tongue as the scent of freshly-spilled blood wafted up her nostrils, she took a moment to consider her situation. Sure, it was a hundred times better than a few minutes before but she was still in a remote Nepalese mountain range, stuck in a secure compound belonging to ARC.

With no idea what transportation might be available, Shilan had to carefully weigh up her next move. One glimmer of hope might lie in the Chinook she’d heard land earlier on and had not yet heard leave. If it was still there, it would have a radio aboard as well as possible satellite communications.

All she needed to do was get a coded message out to her masters back in Germany and then she could do a disappearing act into the mountains, hiding out until help arrived. Whilst skilled in many areas, Shilan was not a trained pilot and wouldn't be able to fly herself to safety. On the other hand, she mused, if she could catch the pilot unawares and jam a gun into his spine, maybe she could convince him to act as her taxi and fly her to the nearest town.

First things first, she decided. In the next few minutes, Shilan stripped the thick, green snowsuit from the smallest guard and gratefully slipped it on, zipping it up and revelling in the fading body warmth of its unfortunate, previous owner. Strapping on the man's webbing gun belt, she returned the pistol beneath its snug holster, secured the flap and tied down the leg lacing.

Securing the outer door with a heavy, sliding bolt that moved easily on a light-greased track, she set about searching the building. It was small; only consisting of four rooms. Her cell was the smallest room, accompanied by a kitchen, toilet and finally a small lounge area. Sparse, with a couple of sofas and a large television mounted on the wall, it was the place where the deceased guards had whiled away their final hours.

The kitchen was the most interesting to her. Starved and weakened, she dived into the large refrigerator and snatched up a handful of cold venison sausages and a bowl of grapes. Wolfing them down with great gusto, Shilan spotted a half-finished bottle of orange juice and guzzled it noisily, spilling some down the front of her new coat but not caring. The taste of real food and the sensation of cold juice pooling in her empty stomach served to animate her with an explosion of energy.

All lethargy fell away, despite the late hour, and she found herself smiling with genuine relief. She was dressed in warm clothing, had a weapon and the element of surprise. Nobody yet knew about her escape, or the demise Professor Prior. That gave her an edge, albeit for a brief period of time.

Settling on a course of action, Shilan walked back over to the outside door, slid back the bolt and cracked it open a few millimetres; greeted by a wintry blast of snow-speckled air. The darkness was deep and a thick, low cloud had reduced visibility further by shrouding the entire complex in thick, chilling fog. She could just make out the squat shape of the helicopter, sitting in the centre of the main courtyard, although the fog made it impossible to see it in any detail clearly, despite the powerful floodlighting that tried valiantly to impose authority upon the weather.

Shilan knew her best chance lay with the aircraft or, more specifically, i
nside
it. If she could get there undetected, she stood a good chance of getting out alive and returning to Germany to report on all the lurid, deceitful operations that Josephine Roche was involved in. Her operations in Africa were just one of several projects that she was funding; one of which was centred on the Himalayas and involved a dangerously close relationship with several top Chinese scientists, who each specialised in a field related to either thermodynamics or nuclear fission. None of it boded well for the world, she was sure. At one point, she had overheard a snippet of conversation that suggested there was some type of mining facility involved but that was as much as she knew.

But, for now, Josephine would have to wait. Survive first. Get a message back to Germany, second. Find out what the hell ARC was up to in these mountains, third. Then, finally, take some time to find the bitch and kill her.

There was no point hanging around now that her mind was made up. Pausing only long enough to drag the heavy corpses of the guards into the cell, to keep Prior’s ghost company, she threw a couple of buckets of water over the floor and rinsed away the worst of the blood and brain matter. Throwing the bucket back inside the toilet, she sucked in a calming breath, bent low and pushed the door open.

The wind chose the same moment to buffet strongly against it from the other side but she persevered and was soon outside in the teeth of a growing blizzard. Already, snow was standing several inches thick on the ground, which served to silence her steps to any ear crazy enough to have been outside with her.

Moving fast and low, Shilan was almost upon the back of the snow-covered Chinook before a shape solidified out of the storm right in front of her. The guard, dutifully pacing the perimeter, was more interested in keeping his face turned to the ground to avoid the stinging snowflakes than he was watching where he was going. Consequently, he failed to spot her huddled shape and breezed right past, keeping tight to the helicopter’s fuselage so he didn't stray too far out into the storm.

Breathing a cloudy sigh of relief, Shilan seized her opportunity, straightened up and pounded as hard as she could around the tail of the helicopter. She guessed that the guard would be at least a minute before returning and this gave her valuable time to try and get inside.

The CH-47 Chinook was not a new model. In fact, it had seen decades of service with various previous owners. The age did not change its dimensions, however, and Shilan was now faced with a run of almost 30 metres along the port side before she would be able to reach the entry door. Most cargo and troops boarded the helicopter using the large rear ramp but it had been buttoned up tightly against the weather.

Her only option was to board via the crew door, and extendable steps.

Being fast and agile, Shilan should have been able to cover the distance in a few seconds, as her feet crunched assuredly into the deepening snow cover with no hint of slipping. She had no way of knowing the guard she’d just evaded was not alone. Her mind was on the door, and getting inside the machine as fast as possible. Only when she heard a shout, barely audible above the increasing power of the wind, did she realise her mistake.

Another one, she cursed.

She spotted the dark shape standing exactly where she knew the door would be; about ten feet behind the cockpit. In fact, the guards and Shilan had shared the same idea about using the helicopter’s innards as shelter. Although still diligently patrolling the perimeter, they always met back at the open door, complete with steps leading down into the snow. Every few minutes, the two men had been clambering inside to grab some respite from the deteriorating weather.

Now, Shilan had run straight into the second guard, who was standing at the foot of the steps. He was in her way and he had seen her approaching. Dropping her hand to her belt, gloveless fingers already almost completely numbed from the cold, she fumbled for the flap on her holster. The guard, dissolving in and out of focus in time to every gust of blasting snow, made no move to reach for the rifle slung over his shoulder.

Why would he? The figure that was approaching him had on a guard’s snowsuit and was obviously his companion. Must have gotten turned around in the storm and come back the same way he went, was the last thought to pass through his mind before Shilan finally opened the holster flap, drew the handgun and popped a bullet expertly between his eyes at a range of twenty feet.

A minute later, the second guard went to meet his maker in the same way; never knowing what hit him as he approached the familiar steps and received a bullet through the eye for his trouble.

It took Shilan three anxious minutes to drag the bodies a few feet away from the door and heap handfuls of snow over them until they vanished into the ground. The storm, as if siding with her, stepped up its anger and dumped a huge volume of fresh snow over the crime scene over the next few hours; hours in which Shilan secreted herself inside a small cargo cupboard in the rear of the helicopter, making a snug nest with a couple of old blankets she’d found in a locker. Before hiding herself away, she drew up the steps and secured the door, creating a sense of silent security as she banished the storm outside.

Strangely, despite the precariousness of her situation, Shilan found the strain of the past few hours, and the cumulative punishment of the past few days now served to catch up with her. Within five minutes, gun clasped in her hand, she drifted into a deep sleep as the night aged and the dead stiffened.