Thriller (15 page)

A window shattered by his ear. A bullet seared past the back

of his neck. He dropped and pressed against the adobe wall.

The bitch had moved out of the office and was stalking him

from inside the house.

Body, brains,
and
she knew the lay of the land.

No wonder she’d been able to avoid the monsters here.

Distantly a noise intruded. The
whump-whump
of an approaching helicopter. It was their evac chopper. He glanced to

his watch. Of course their ride was early.

“You should run for your friends,” the woman called from inside. “While you still have time!”

Kowalski stared at the manicured lawn that spread all the way

to the beach. There was no cover. The bitch would surely drop

him within a few steps.

It came down to do or die.

He bunched his legs under him, took a deep breath, then

sprang up. He crashed back-first through the bullet-weakened

window. He kept his rifle tucked to his belly. He landed hard and

shoulder-rolled, ignoring the shards of glass cutting him.

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He gained a crouched position, rifle up, swiveling.

The room was empty.

Gone again.

So it was to be a cat-and-mouse hunt through the house.

He moved to the doorway that led deeper into the structure.

Smoke flowed in rivers across the ceiling. The temperature inside was furnace hot. He pictured the pack over the woman’s

shoulder. She had already emptied the safe. She would make for

one of the exits.

He edged to the next room.

A sunroom. A wall of windows overlooked the expanse of gardens and lawn. Rattan furniture and floor screens offered a handful of hiding places. He would have to lure her out somehow.

Outthink her.

Yeah, right.

He edged into the room, keeping close to the back wall.

He crossed the room. There was no attack.

He reached the far archway. It led to a back foyer.

And an open door.

He cursed inwardly. As he made his entrance, she must have

made her exit. She was probably halfway to Honduras by now.

He rushed the door and out to the back porch. He searched the

grounds.

Gone.

So much for outthinking her.

The press of the hot barrel against the back of his skull punc tuated how thick that skull actually was. As he had concluded

earlier, she must have realized a sprint across open ground was

too risky. So she had waited to ambush him.

She didn’t even hesitate for any witty repartee…not that he’d

be a good sparring partner anyway. Only a single word of consolation was offered.
“Adiós.”

The blast of the gun was drowned by a sudden siren’s wail.

Both of them jumped at the shrieking burst.

Luckily, he jumped to the left, she to the right.

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The round tore through Kowalski’s right ear with a lance of fire.

He spun, pulling the trigger on his weapon. He didn’t aim, just

clenched the trigger and strafed at waist level. He lost his balance at the edge of the porch, tumbling back.

Another bullet ripped through the air past the tip of his nose.

He hit the cobbled path, and his skull struck with a distinct

ring. The rifle was knocked from his fingers.

He searched up and saw the woman step to the edge of the porch.

She pointed her Sig-Sauer at him.

Her other arm clutched her stomach. It failed to act as a dam.

Abdominal contents spilled from her split belly, pouring out in

a flow of dark blood. She lifted her gun, arm trembling—her eyes

met his, oddly surprised. Then the gun slipped from her fingers,

and she toppled toward him.

Kowalski rolled out of the way in time.

She landed with a wet slap on the stone path.

The bell-beat of the helicopter wafted louder as the winds

changed direction. The storm was rolling in fast. He saw the

chopper circle the beach once, like a dog settling for a place to

sleep, then lower toward the flat rocky expanse.

Kowalski returned to Gabriella Salazar’s body and hauled off

her pack. He began to sprint for the beach. Then stopped, went

back, and retrieved his VK rifle. He wasn’t leaving it behind.

As he ran, he realized two things.

One. The siren blast from the neighboring jungle had gone

silent. And two. He had heard not a single word from Dr. Rosauro.

He checked the taped receiver behind his ear. Still in place.

Why had she gone silent?

The helicopter—a Sikorsky S-76—touched down ahead of

him. Sand swirled in the rotorwash. A gunman in military fatigues pointed a rifle at him and bellowed over the roar of the

blades.

“Stand down! Now!”

Kowalski stopped. He lowered his rifle but lifted the pack. “I

have the goddamn antidote.”

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He searched the surrounding beach for Dr. Rosauro, but she

was nowhere in sight.

“I’m Seaman Joe Kowalski! U.S. Navy! I’m helping Dr.

Rosauro!”

After a moment of consultation with someone inside the chopper, the gunman waved him forward. Ducking under the rotors,

Kowalski held out the satchel. A shadowy figure accepted the

pack and searched inside. Something was exchanged by radio.

“Where’s Dr. Rosauro?” the stranger asked, clearly the one in

charge here. Hard blue eyes studied him.

Kowalski shook his head.

“Commander Crowe,” the pilot called back. “We must leave

now. The Brazilian navy had just ordered the bombardment.”

“Get inside,” the man ordered Kowalski, the tone unequivocal.

Kowalski stepped toward the open door.

A shrieking wail stopped him. A single short burst. It came

from beyond the beach.

In the jungle.

Dr. Shay Rosauro clung to the tangle of branches halfway up

the broad-leafed cocoa tree. Baboons gibbered below. She had

sustained a deep bite to her calf, lost her radio and her pack.

Minutes ago, after being chased into the tree, she had found

that her perch offered a bird’s-eye view of the hacienda, good

enough to observe Kowalski being led out at gunpoint. Unable

to help, she had used the only weapon still at hand—her sonic

shrieker.

Unfortunately, the blast had panicked the baboons below her,

their sudden flight jostling her branch. She’d lost her balance…and the shrieker. As she’d regained her balance, she’d

heard two gunshots.

Hope died inside her.

Below, one of the baboons, the dominant male of the pack, had

recovered her sonic device and discovered the siren button. The

blast momentarily scattered the pack. But only momentarily.

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The deterrent was becoming progressively less effective—only

making them angrier.

Shay hugged the tree trunk.

She checked her watch, then closed her eyes.

She pictured the children’s faces…her partner’s…

A noise drew her attention upward. The double
whump
of a

passing helicopter. The leaves whipped around her. She lifted an

arm—then lowered it.

Too late.

The chopper lifted away. The Brazilian assault would commence in a matter of seconds. Shay let her club, her only remaining weapon, drop from her fingers. What was the use? It

tumbled below, doing nothing but drawing the attention of the

baboons. The pack renewed its assault, climbing the lowest

branches.

She could only watch.

Then a familiar voice intruded.

“Die, you dirty, rabid, motherfucking apes!”

A large figure appeared below, blazing out with a VK rifle.

Baboons screamed. Fur flew. Blood splattered.

Kowalski strode into the fray, back to nothing but his boxers.

And his weapon.

He strafed and fired, spinning, turning, twisting, dropping.

Baboons fled now.

Except for their leader. The male rose up and howled as loudly

as Kowalski, baring long fangs. Kowalski matched his expression, showing as many teeth.

“Shut the hell up!”

Kowalski punctuated his declaration with a continuous burst

of firepower, turning monkey into mulch. Once finished, he

shouldered his rifle and strode forward. Leaning on the trunk,

he stared up.

“Ready to come down, Doctor?”

Relieved, Shay half fell out of the tree. Kowalski caught her.

“The antidote…?” she asked.

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“In safe hands,” he assured her. “On its way to the coast with

Commander Crowe. He wanted me to come along, but well…

I…I guess I owed you.”

He supported her under one shoulder. They hobbled quickly

out of the jungle to the open beach.

“How are we going to get off—?”

“I’ve got that covered. Seems a nice lady left us a going-away

present.” He pointed down the strand to a beached Jet Ski.

“Lucky for us, Gabriella Salazar loved her husband enough to

come out here.”

As they hurried to the watercraft’s side, he gently helped her

on board, then climbed in front.

She circled her arms around his waist. She noted his bloody

ear and weeping lacerations across his back. More scars to add

to his collection. She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek

against his bare back. Grateful and exhausted.

“And speaking of the love of one’s life,” he said, igniting the

watercraft’s engine and throttling it up. He glanced back. “I may

be falling in love, too…”

She lifted her head, startled, then leaned back down.

Relieved.

Kowalski was just staring at his shouldered rifle.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “This baby’s a real keeper.”

Gayle Lynds did not intend to start a series. When she wrote

her first book,
Masquerade
, in the mid-1990s, she was simply

creating a modern espionage thriller. But in those early postIron Curtain days, not only was there serious discussion in

Congress about dissolving the CIA, the
New York Times
eliminated its regular review column titled, “Spies & Thrillers.”

Within book publishing, the spy novel was declared as dead

as the cold war.

Still,
Masquerade
became a
New York Times
bestseller. A

great adventure story, it was infused with fascinating doses of

history and psychology. In an odd way, Sarah Walker, the

heroine, was Lynds. Both were magazine journalists, but

Sarah had the misfortune to have an uncle who was a notorious assassin called the Carnivore, although she did not

know this. In the novel, Asher Flores, the hero, is a CIA man

of the fascinating ilk—charming, terribly smart, with the

soul of a rogue. Together, Sarah and Asher must unearth the

Carnivore.

Lynds went on to publish two more stand-alone thrillers,

Mesmerized
and
Mosaic,
and collaborated with Robert Ludlum to create the Covert-One series. Through it all, she con-
122

tinued to receive mail from fans who wanted her to bring

back Sarah, Asher and the Carnivore. So
The Coil,
a novel

about the Carnivore’s only child, Liz Sansborough, was born.

A former CIA operative, Liz had played a pivotal role in

Masquerade,
just as Sarah and Asher would play pivotal roles

in
The Coil
.

Liz and Sarah are two matched flames, not only in appearance but in spirit, with quick wit and the sort of personal

courage that is both admirable and sometimes daunting.

Costarring with Liz in
The Coil
is Simon Childs of MI6. For

him, the “M” means maverick. Hotheaded and coolly charming, Simon reflects Lynds’s endless fascination with politics—

he’s a penetration agent in the antiglobalization movement.

Lynds’s latest espionage thriller is
The Last Spymaster,
and

will be followed by another book in the Carnivore series.
The

Hunt for Dmitri
is part of that continuum.

It’s a Liz Sansborough story.

Which means the Carnivore must appear, too.

The French never got enough credit. The Germans never got

enough control. The Romanians had a guilt complex. And the

Americans hadn’t a clue. As the good-natured slanders continued, Liz Sansborough, Ph.D., peered around the Faculty Club for

her close friend and colleague Arkady Albam. He was late.

The dimly lit bar was packed, every table filled. The rich aromas of wine and liquor were intense. As glasses clinked, a world

atlas of languages electrified the air. Academics all, they were celebrating the conclusion of a highly successful international conference on cold war political fallout, post-9/11, which she had

helped to organize. Still, there was no sign of Arkady.

The economist from the University of London grinned pointedly at Liz—the only American in their group. “I hear Russia’s

economy is so rotten that the Kremlin has had to sack dozens of

its American moles.”

“Only because we don’t sell ourselves cheap.” She grinned

back at him. “Moscow can afford to keep your MI6 turncoats on

the payroll forever.”

As laughter erupted, the sociologist from the Sorbonne nod-
124

ded at the empty bar stool beside Liz and asked in French,

“Where’s Arkady? He isn’t here to defend his country!”

“I’ve been wondering, too.” Liz’s gaze swept the lounge

once more.

Arkady was a visiting scholar in Russian history, on campus

here at the University of California at Santa Barbara since January. They had met soon after he arrived, when he sat beside her