Day of Wrath

The German started moving again — still angling away from the road. For now he needed the concealment the woods offered more than the speed he could have attained on pavement.

Reichardt stumbled into a low-hanging branch, felt a sharp twig draw more blood from his cheek, and swore again angrily.

This was not right. As a servant of the East German state and then as a freelance terrorist, he had been a master of men’s lives for more than twenty years. He was always the hunter — never the hunted!

He pushed through more brush and then stopped dead in his tracks.

He’d come to a sluggish stream wending its way downhill through the trees. The watercourse wasn’t wide — almost narrow enough to jump, in fact. But the bank sloshed muddy and slippery.

More to the point now, the forest canopy parted above the stream — allowing more light to fall on the weed-choked water.

Frowning, Reichardt turned to peer behind him again. He snarled. It was hopeless. It was as dark as a witch’s heart under those trees. He could see nothing.

He plunged ahead, squelched through the soft ground, and waded into the knee-high water. Ripples spread across the still surface.

“Freeze I” Shocked by the shout from behind him, Reichardt felt sudden terror grip his heart. It was the woman, Gray. He exploded into motion — surging toward the opposite bank.

Blam.

The bullet caught him in the fleshy part of the left thigh and spun him halfway around. My God. He lurched forward. There was no pain. Not yet. That would come later. He gained firmer footing and stumbled forward, panting louder now.

Blam.

A second bullet hit him, this one in the right shoulder. His own pistol went flying off into the mud and tall grass. Reichardt moaned aloud. No!

Clutching his briefcase tightly to his chest, he limped out of the stream and into the sheltering darkness beyond. He’d gone a few yards when his wounded leg abruptly gave out — dumping him flat on his face in the undergrowth.

Reichardt heard someone else crashing through the woods nearby — on this side of the stream. It couldn’t be that bitch who’d shot him. Could it be Brandt? His probing fingers found the torn and bleeding edges of the exit wound in his thigh and recoiled. It had to be Brandt. Please God, let it be Brandt!

Still holding the briefcase, he dragged himself toward the noise, crawling awkwardly on his stomach. “Johann! Johann!” he whispered harshly, hissing now as the first fiery tendrils of pain coursed through him. “Hill mir! Hill mir!”

His scrabbling fingers touched a shoe. A man’s shoe. Reichardt looked up, smiling. His smile faded slowly.

Lawrence Mcdowell looked down at him. A puffy bruise covered half the senior FBI agent’s cheek. He held a pistol — a 9mm SIGSAUER.

Reichardt caught the acrid smell of burnt powder on the weapon. It had been fired recently. He grabbed at the cuff of the other man’s pants, pointing back the way he’d come. “The woman Gray is there! You must kill her, PEREGRINE! It is the only way you can be safe!”

Mcdowell smiled nastily. “I will kill her, Herr Wolf. After I finish my business with you.” He raised the pistol. “I’m canceling my debt, you bastard. Permanently.”

Reichardt saw the muzzle center on his forehead. In horror, he saw Mcdowell’s finger tighten on the trigger.

“Noooooo!”

Reichardt stopped screaming when the bullet tore through his brain and sent him straight to hell.

Helen Gray jumped lightly across the stream, skidded on the slippery ground, and quickly recovered her balance. She’d been tracking Wolf cautiously — aware that, like a wounded animal, even an injured man could still be dangerous. Then she’d heard the voices coming from a thicket a few yards away. Had Wolf’s driver evaded Peter and linked up with his employer? Her mind would not accept the other explanation.

Peter was alive. He had to be alive.

The high-pitched, womanish scream and the echoing gunshot took her by surprise.

She lunged forward through the screening brush and froze — staring in shock at Larry Mcdowell, the gun in his hand, and the twisted, mangled corpse at his feet. Her old boss was still grinning nastily at the man he’d just murdered. Heinrich Wolf, their only link to the smuggled shipment from Russia, and their only hope of clearing their names, was dead.

“You shit, Mcdowell,” Helen said softly. She swung her Beretta on line. “Drop the goddamned gun …”

Mcdowell looked up and seemed to see her for the first time.

An odd, almost maniacal glee danced in his eyes. He shook his head.

“What are you going to do, Helen? Kill me? How are you going to explain that?”

“I’m not kidding, Larry,” Helen said tightly. “Drop the gun.

Now!”

Mcdowell laughed harshly. “Screw you, bitch!” He lifted the SIG-Sauer, pointing it toward her.

Blinded by a sudden wave of cold fury, Helen pulled the trigger.

And again. And again. And again.