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A flash of motion
caught her eye, and she recoiled back against stone. A second man, Sergei's huge, muscled bodyguard, hunkered behind the thick wall framing the Queen's Window. He was nosing his Sig to take his next shot. Apparently, his target was hiding somewhere in the low outcrop beyond the window.

Pistol in hand, Vanessa eyed the thick column to the right of the stairwell. It would provide her with protection from a sniper's bullet and from Sergei's bodyguard—she had no way of knowing if Olaf was dangerous or not.

She took a breath and scrambled from the stair, across open stone flooring to the column. Now she was only a few meters from the body. No sign of life, the puddle of blood around him no reassurance. The dark muzzle of a gun almost hidden beneath his right sleeve.

While she crouched, Sergei's bodyguard turned to stare at her, wild-eyed. For a twitchy instant she thought he was going to shoot her—but then recognition flickered across his gray, dirt-stained face just as she saw the blood darkening his black shirtsleeve where he'd been hit. Vanessa raised her palms, gesturing no-threat. A volley of shots rang out—she and the bodyguard both recoiled—but it was distant fire, AK-47s, the Turks.

Vanessa breathed again only after Olaf returned his focus to the harsh, rocky landscape, searching for the sniper. She stretched flat to reach the body. Avoiding the blood, she pulled the Makarov from between his fingers. His skin and the pistol both still warm. She straightened him enough to verify—Sergei Tarasov, with a single bullet hole punched between his eyes.

She flashed on the image of a faded tattoo—and a dark wave of rage almost knocked her flat.

It was her father's voice, his internalized command—
stay aware, stay alive, do your job
—that brought her back. She unclenched her fists and went to work—hefting her pistol, rechecking the cartridge, and then snapping it fully loaded back into place.

The sniper was out there right now, but why? Why was he still hanging around, still shooting after he'd eliminated his target? Unless he wasn't positive he'd killed Sergei. Or unless he had orders to kill the bodyguard, too—eliminate witnesses—and get whatever Sergei carried.

She rifled through Sergei's pockets, left his keys and change, grabbed his wallet and passport, stuffed them into the pocket of her running jersey. Better if the Turkish authorities couldn't identify him quickly.

She saw the edge of a black leather bag caught under Sergei's right arm. She tugged it free, searching hurriedly through the contents.

“Nyet!”
The Russian hissed at her. “No,
nyet
!” His eyes burned through her, but he stayed where he was. And she ignored him, sliding her fingers along the inside of the leather compartment. She found the flash drive, shoved that into a small key pocket inside the waistband of her pants. She'd take his burn phone and his BlackBerry, too.

“Nyet, nyet!”

She whispered back harshly, “
Da
, Olaf,
da
,
da
.”

But that didn't convince Olaf she wasn't stealing. He reached out to stop her from taking what she needed, but she jerked away. He grabbed for her again, but any more argument was cut short by the crack of a long-range rifle, the invisible slice of a bullet racing past, and the sound of the shot ricocheting off stone. Swearing freely in multiple languages, Olaf swung around, returning fire wildly.

Voices echoed up the mountain, a man calling out to someone in alarm. They wouldn't be alone for long—either tourists would stumble on them or Turkish soldiers would be storming the castle as soon as they figured out this gunfight wasn't part of their mock-war.

Vanessa shoved Sergei's Makarov across the rough floor toward Olaf—he needed all the rounds he could get. She was already crawling away from Sergei's body, heading for an opening beyond the window, a seam where the walls had eroded to expose the craggy hillside beyond.

She stared out through the seam, her FN Five-Seven solid in her grip. Sweat ran from her forehead, stinging her eyes. She tried to spot the sniper's hide, but no sudden movements, no flash or glare, gave away his position.

But she could feel him still out there—she could feel the Chechen.

Another volley of shots rang out from the next hillside, and her finger twitched against the pistol's trigger. From across a canyon, a single blast echoed loud as a cannon, followed by a second and then a third—part of the military drill. Each blast so powerful it made her eardrums vibrate.

But it wasn't just the Chechen who concerned her—she had to consider Olaf completely unpredictable, but given that they were both being fired at, she had to assume that for the moment they were on the same side. And then there were the Turks and the certainty of an international debacle if she didn't get away clean. With Sergei's intel. As her mind raced, she crawled steadily toward the edge of the gallery. Crouched to launch herself across an open space, she heard the distinctive whack of the rifle and a loud grunt from Olaf. She jerked around in time to see the impact push him back. Spitting expletives in Russian—he clamped his left hand over his right shoulder. He was hit but still alive.

And this time, through an open frame in the ruins, Vanessa had seen the flash of sun against metal on the hillside—an outcropping marked by a scrub oak. Six hundred meters away, give or take. Way out of range for her pistol or Olaf's to be effective.

She froze for a second, knowing she had the flash drive with Sergei's intel safely tucked inside her pocket—the only reason she'd come here. If she left now, while the bodyguard still had bullets left, she could probably make it down the hill to her car.

She wasn't a soldier, and she wasn't special ops. But that didn't matter right now, because she knew she'd already made her decision when she heard the first sniper shot.

He'd killed two of her assets—maybe dozens of other targets. She was going after the Chechen.

She had one chance to get around behind him, upwind, uphill, with at most a hundred meters between them—close enough to take her shot. She hissed to Olaf, caught his attention, and communicated her intentions with hand signals. Grimacing in pain, he managed to nod. He'd switched pistols, and now he wielded Sergei's Makarov. When Vanessa counted off with her fingers, he fired a wild round toward the rocks. She launched herself low across the clearing.

For the next forty meters,
she had cover as she ran through the ruins of the barracks. She scared the hell out of a young couple as she darted past, the Five-Seven in hand, pressed hot to her belly under the hem of her running jersey.

Another twenty-five meters and she reached the base of the fortress walls. On top ran a trail about eight meters wide, where sentries had stood guard a thousand years ago. Once she made it to the top, she would be high enough to get a good bead on the Chechen with her pistol. Just then she heard the bark of Olaf's pistol—keeping the Chechen busy.

She took the restored staircase, and she was breathing hard by the time she reached the rampart. She crouched, turning slowly, getting her bearings. From here, the Queen's Window was just southeast of her—and the Chechen's hide was due west. She ran half-hunched along the crest of the rampart walls until she estimated she was about fifty meters beyond the Chechen—a distance shot easily accomplished with her Five-Seven. She could still see the Queen's Window, but from the outside now, and she thought she caught the dark stain of Olaf's shadow.

She took a moment to catch her breath and steady herself, and then she raised up on her haunches to see over the rough edge of the wall. She'd aced firearms at the Farm, but it was the endless hunting trips with her father and her brother that had truly honed her skill with guns. But she'd never hunted a human until now.

Should she be overwhelmed by the immensity of her decision to go after him? Instead, she felt oddly light and totally focused, almost machinelike. No emotions. She had a job to do.

And now she had taken the high ground over the Chechen. She settled in, almost completely sheltered behind the thick wall of the rampart. She stared out toward the outcropping where she gauged she'd seen the flash. She blinked sweat from her eyes and slowed her breathing. Gripping the Five-Seven in both hands, the fleshy part of her index finger on the trigger, biceps pressed against stone for stability.

She found the lonely pine tree, crept her finger back against the trigger, and sighted a target a few paces beyond the visibly gnarled roots. Was she looking at the tree's shadow?

Not unless it could move.

She had the Chechen.

Just then she heard the shot, saw the flash from the hide as he took another shot at Olaf. Her sights aimed at the top of the Chechen's head to allow for bullet drop—her best guess of how he'd positioned himself—she fired, ready for the pistol's jump.

Shit.
Without taking her eyes from her target, she brought the Five-Seven carefully back down. Had she hit him? She couldn't tell. But just as she fired again, she caught the ripple of motion when he rolled.

She felt his eyes scanning for her before she heard the tight, echoing crack of his shot.

She dropped fast, hitting rock so hard pain knifed through her left bicep.

She inched up again, desperate not to lose him now, always sighting with the Five-Seven. For a few seconds nothing. Then she caught a blur of motion about ten meters below the hide. He was on the move down the hill, roughly sixty meters from her.

She tracked him with the Five-Seven, aiming at his head, taking her last shot.

Her pistol jumped. He stumbled, going down on one knee—for that instant, she prayed he was dead.

But he lumbered up and kept moving, unsteady on both feet, disappearing behind rock.

She thought she'd hit him, but she couldn't be certain, and now he was gone. The bitter taste of disappointment filled her mouth—she should have killed the motherfucker; this had been her chance.

He won. She lost.

Now her body was flooded with new purpose. She had to get out of there. Turkish soldiers were probably already on their way up. If they arrested her, she was fucked. She was a NOC—no government, not even her own, would protect her. She had to get Sergei's intel back to Headquarters.

She pushed her pistol inside her waistband. Her left arm ached like hell, and for the first time she realized she'd been hit—blood stained the sleeve of her jersey. She pulled her cap low on her forehead and peeled off her jersey, wrapping it tightly, painfully around the wound. As far as she could tell her T-shirt was clean, no blood. No time to do more until she was in the VW and out of there.

She stood shakily, close to passing out, but she didn't. She could walk. She could try to look almost normal. She began the journey back, light-headed, picking up her pace as much as she dared. When she started down the stairs, she almost blacked out again. But voices and shouting inspired her to stay conscious and get the hell away from the castle.

Luck was with her, because she quickly joined a group of artists hurrying down the trail toward the parking lot. She matched their pace. They passed four soldiers on their way up, but no one tried to stop them. Several members began to give her curious looks as they navigated the last descending stretch of trail. Grateful for the dark blue fabric, she pressed her good arm over the wound, biting back the flash of searing pain. And she pushed herself to move ahead, cutting away from the artists as soon as she exited at the gatehouse.

No sign of the Chechen, so he had to be moving at least as fast as she could.

Her pulse jumped when she saw blood droplets on concrete. She passed three more soldiers but only one even glanced her way, and not one of them had noticed the blood. But she saw more, a slivery trail that disappeared abruptly across the asphalt. She felt the rush of triumph at the thought she'd at least wounded him. She wanted him to bleed to death.

She was about ten meters from her car when she registered Sergei's Mercedes. A wave of vertigo threatened to knock her flat. She couldn't afford to acknowledge the horrible fact of his death, not now. She had to keep going. But for a moment she faltered, abruptly dizzy. Was she going to be sick?
Pull it fucking together! Keep moving.

She needed only sixty seconds to reach the VW and make her exit.