Ahead, the glade opened. The trail of prints fled straight across. His prey had abandoned caution and was trying to reach the city streets beyond the park. Tightening his grip on the knife, he raced to close the distance.
As he reached the glade’s edge, a low branch of a neighboring pine whipped around. It struck him across the shins with the force of a battering ram. His legs were knocked from under him. He flipped face-forward into the snow. Before he could move, a heavy weight landed on his back and crushed the remaining air out of him.
He realized his mistake. The man had backtracked, hidden behind the pine, and ambushed him, hauling back the branch that had cracked across his shins.
It was his last mistake.
A hand shot down and gripped his chin. The other pinned his neck to the ground. A sharp yank. His neck snapped. Pain flared as if the top of his skull had blown away—then darkness.
5:34 P.M.
“Hold still,” Monk scolded. “I only have one more suture.”
Painter sat on the edge of the tub in his boxers. He felt the needle pierce his flesh. The spray anesthetic only dulled the sharpest edge of the pain. At least Monk worked swiftly. He’d already debrided and cleaned the wound, shot him full of prophylactic antibiotics, and with a final deft twist of his needle forceps, he closed the four-inch laceration under the left side of Painter’s rib cage.
Monk dropped everything into a sterile Surgipack on the bathroom floor, picked up a roll of gauze and adhesive tape, and set about wrapping Painter’s chest.
“What now?” Monk asked. “Do we stick to our schedule?”
After the attack, Painter had fled into the city, taking an extra few minutes to make sure he wasn’t followed. Then he’d called Monk. As a precaution, he ordered them to change hotels and rebook under another alias. Painter joined them there.
“I see no reason to change,” Painter said.
Monk nodded toward the wound. “I see about four inches of reason.”
Painter shook his head. “They were sloppy. Whoever set up the attack must have done so hastily. Somehow I was made, but I don’t think we’re more exposed than that.”
“Still, that’s pretty damn exposed.”
“It just means extra precautions will be necessary from here. I’ll have to avoid the summit. Keep out of sight. That means leaning more heavily on you and Creed.”
“So we’re still going to recon that research facility tonight?”
Painter nodded. “I’ll monitor via radio. Nothing fancy. Slip in, tap into the servers, and get the hell out of there.”
It was a simple operation. Courtesy of Kat Bryant’s sources, they had identification cards, electronic keys, and a full schematic of the Viatus facility. They would go in after midnight when the place was mostly deserted.
John Creed hurried into the bathroom. He wore a lab coat with the Viatus logo on the pocket. He must have been trying on his disguise. “Sir, your phone. It’s buzzing.”
Painter held out a hand and took the cell. He read the Caller ID and frowned. It was General Metcalf’s number. Why was he calling? Painter had avoided briefing Washington on what had happened until he knew more. To have the operation closed down before it even started would not sit well with anyone.
Especially Painter.
He flipped the phone open and answered. “General Metcalf?”
“Director Crowe. I suspect you’re still settling in over there, so I’ll be brief. I just received a call from Senator Gorman. He was very agitated.”
Painter struggled to understand. He’d done nothing to provoke the senator.
“Gorman received a cryptic call half an hour ago. Someone claiming to have information on the attack in Africa. The caller said he knew of a survivor to the attack.”
“A survivor?” Painter could not hide his own surprise.
“The caller wants to meet at the bar of the senator’s hotel. To give further details. He’ll only meet with Gorman alone.”
“I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Neither do we. That’s why you’re going to be at that bar. The senator knows that a DoD investigator is already in Oslo. He personally requested you be there. You’re to maintain a low profile, to intervene only if necessary.”
“When’s the meet?” Painter asked.
“Tonight at midnight.”
Of course, it would be.
Painter finished the call and tossed the phone back to Creed.
“What?” Monk asked.
Painter explained, which only deepened Monk’s frown.
Creed spoke a fear they all shared. “It might be a trap. Meant to draw you out into the open again.”
“We should call off the operation at Viatus,” Monk suggested. “Go with you as backup.”
Painter considered that option. Monk had been out of the field for some time, and Creed had barely gotten his feet wet. It would be risky to send them over to the research facility by themselves. Painter studied Monk, weighing the variables.
Monk guessed the intent of his attention. “We can still do this, sir, if that’s what you’re thinking. The kid might be green, but we’ll get it done.”
Painter heard the certainty in the man’s voice. With a sigh, he stopped overanalyzing the situation. He wasn’t at his desk in Washington anymore. This was fieldwork. He had to trust his gut. And his gut was telling him that events were rapidly escalating out of control.
Delay was not an option.
“We stick to the schedule,” he said forcefully, brooking no argument. “We need access to that server. From today’s attack, it’s clear someone is getting both bolder and more agitated. A bad combination. We can’t let them lock us out. So we’ll just have to split up tonight.”
Creed looked concerned, but not for himself. “Sir, what if you’re attacked again?”
“Don’t worry. They had their one free shot at me.” Painter reached the sink and picked up the WASP dagger that he’d confiscated from the assassin in the park. “Tonight, I’ll be the one doing the hunting.”
6:01 P.M.
Bundled in a fox-fur–lined coat and hood, Krista strode down the central path of Frogner Park in the west-end borough of Oslo. She had an apartment that overlooked the snowy park, but she could not stand to wait indoors any longer. She carried her phone with her.
The sun had set, and the temperature had plummeted.
She had the park to herself.
She continued along the path through the sculpture garden. Her warm breath frosted the air. She needed to keep moving, but tension kept her stiff.