In turn, Khattab left them something in exchange. As she had arranged, he placed the steel suitcase on the floor and retreated back with the key.
Gray stared down at the case. From his expression, he already guessed its contents.
She elaborated. “An incendiary bomb using kinetic fireballs. New design out of China. Burns for a very long time. Hot enough to incinerate the bricks off the walls. Can’t leave anything behind.”
Gray stepped forward. “At least take Rachel with you,” he pleaded. “Honor that much.”
She shook her head and felt an odd twinge of respect for the man. Along with a trickle of sorrow. She recognized the pain in those eyes, along with the wellspring from which it rose. Would anyone ever make such a sacrifice for her?
With an exasperated sigh, she offered the only bit of consolation she could. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t do any good. I wasn’t entirely truthful. The vial of toxin Wallace left in that drop box for Seichan has no cure. It’s a hundred percent fatal. She’s likely experiencing its effects already. Dying here will be swifter, less painful.”
Krista retreated from the shocked expression on his face. The Italian woman turned away and buried her face in Gray’s chest.
Krista turned to Khattab. “Let’s go. Make sure your man blows the entrance to the tunnel before evacuating.”
She was done here.
Or almost.
She turned and pointed her pistol at Wallace. His eyes widened. She pulled the trigger and shot him in the stomach. He didn’t cry out, just gasped and fell on his backside.
His face screwed up in a mask of pain as he supported himself with one arm. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
She shrugged and shifted the pistol toward his head.
“I’m Echelon,” he spat at her.
She froze, shocked. She struggled to make sense of the claim. Could it be true? Only a few people alive even knew the name Echelon.
She kept her pistol leveled. She remained unsure, but she knew one thing for certain. The only way to move up in this organization—there had to be room at the top.
She squeezed the trigger.
Wallace’s head cracked back, then forward. He collapsed to the floor.
She swung around and headed toward the tunnel. She expected no repercussions. Her orders had been to kill everyone.
All of them, she remembered.
“Let’s go!”
She hurried with the others up the tunnel. Khattab kept to her side with the stone jar cradled under one arm. Sunlight flowed ahead and drew them forward. A rubble pile led to freedom through the blasted door.
She wanted to be out of there as soon as they were aboveground. The prison was growing too hot. Gunfire echoed down to them.
She followed the soldiers topside. They scrambled as a group out of darkness and into sunlight. It took her an extra moment to realize how loud the gunfire was. It wasn’t until Khattab fell to one knee, then down to his side, that she recognized the danger.
Half his face was gone. The stone jar rolled from his dead arms out into the sunlit garden.
More men fell around her as she spun and dove behind a pillar.
The war had reached them.
Overhead, a loud eruption of flames drew her eye. She watched one of their helicopters explode in a fireball of smoke and flaming debris. It spun and slammed to the ground.
Her heart pounded.
What was going on?
Then across the garden, she spotted who was firing, who had ambushed her team. Men in French military uniforms. But more than that, she recognized the man in the lead.
Impossible.
It was that damned Indian.
Painter Crowe.
Her heart pounded—not with fear, but with a rage that burned away all reason. She reached into a pocket and pressed the transmitter. The ground bumped under her, and the explosion blasted. Smoke rolled up out of the hole in the ground.
There would be no rescue for his teammates.
Using the distraction and smoke, Krista fell back into the shadows. She didn’t fool herself. Trapped in the prison with her team overwhelmed, all was lost. She had only one objective left. She had made a promise to herself before she left Norway, a promise she intended to keep.
4:20 P.M.
The firefight ended as suddenly as it started.
Painter’s group had been caught off guard by the sudden appearance of a contingent of hostiles pouring out of a hole in the ground. His team had failed to spot the tunnel opening buried in the shadows of a blasted section of the cloisters.
But the last of the enemy had fallen.
The French soldiers spread out and through the garden. They kept rifles on their shoulders, moving swiftly and purposely.
Painter dropped back. He let out a shuddering breath. He searched the grounds. Where were Gray and the others?
Monk crossed toward him down the walkway. His rifle still smoked. His expression remained grim, worried for his friends.
The only warning was a shift of shadows. A woman rolled into view at a narrow doorway to Painter’s right. From a foot away, she had a pistol pointed at Painter’s chest.
She fired four times.
The blasts cracked like thunderclaps.
Only one shot grazed Painter’s shoulder. At the same time she fired, he was tackled to the side.
He landed hard on a knee and twisted around.
He watched the impact of the bullets pound John Creed out into the garden. The man toppled onto his back.
The woman screamed and came at Painter, bringing her gun to his face. He lunged up at her. He’d freed the blade from his boot and stabbed it deep into her belly.
Well trained, she ignored the pain and got the gun under his chin. Her eyes said it all. The blade could not stop her before she killed him.
“Think this is yours,” Painter said savagely and pressed the button on the WASP dagger’s hilt.
The explosion of compressed gas ripped into her belly. It pulverized and flash-froze her internal organs. Shock and pain burst through her, paralyzing her.
He shoved her away with both arms. She flew and crashed onto her back. Her mouth stretched into a silent scream of agony—then her body went limp. Dead.
Monk rushed past Painter into the garden. “Creed!”
Painter leaped to his feet and followed.
Creed lay on his back. Blood flowed from his lips, bubbled from the three shots to the chest. His eyes were huge, knowing what was coming.
Monk fell to his knees next to him. He tore off his jacket and bunched it up, readying a compression. “Hang on!”
All of them knew there was nothing to be done. Blood had pooled and spread over the hard-packed ground. The rounds must have been hollow-points, shredding on impact.