Sandstorm (Sigma Force 1)

Just a bat, the nocturnal predator of the desert.

Still, her trembling grew worse while Henry’s arms grew stronger, holding her up, carrying her to the bed in the next room.

“You’re safe,” he whispered in a fatherly fashion.

She knew his words could not be further from the truth.

09:22 P.M.

O UTSIDE THE window, Cassandra crouched in the bushes. She had watched the museum curator deal with the snake, moving lithely, dispatching it with alacrity. She had hoped to wait until the woman was gone, then quickly abscond with the luggage that housed the iron heart. The viper had turned out to be an unwelcome visitor for the both of them.

But unlike the curator, Cassandra knew the presence of the snake was deliberate, planted, planned.

She had caught the barest reflection in the window, mirrored silver in the moonlight. Another presence. Climbing the wall.

Cassandra had dropped down and away, her back to the palace, a pistol in each hand, twin black matte Glocks, pulled from shoulder holsters. She caught the sight of the cloaked figure sailing over the outer wall.

Gone.

An assassin?

Someone had shared the garden with her…and she’d been unaware.

Damn foolish…

Anger quickened her thoughts as she recalculated the night’s plan. With the commotion in the curator’s room, the likelihood of absconding with the artifact dimmed.

But the cloaked thief…that was another matter entirely.

She had already obtained the intelligence on the attempted abduction of Omaha and Daniel Dunn. It was unclear if the attack was mere unlucky chance: wrong time, wrong place. Or if it was something more meaningful, a calculated attack, an attempt at collecting ransom from the Kensington estate.

And now this threat to the curator’s life.

It could not be pure chance. There must be a connection, something unknown to the Guild, a third party involved in all this. But how and why?

All this ran through her head in a heartbeat.

Cassandra tightened her grip on her pistols.

Answers could come from only one place.

Crossing her arms, Cassandra holstered both pistols and unhooked the grappling gun from her belt. She aimed, pulled the trigger, and heard the zip of the steel cord sailing upward. She was on the move when the grappling hook clunked against the wall’s lip. She squeezed the retracting winch. In the time it took to reach the wall, the steel cable had drawn taut and hauled her weight upward. Her soft-heeled shoes scaled the wall as the grappling motor whined.

Reaching the top, she straddled the parapet and resecured the grappling gun. Searching below, she snapped down her night-vision goggles. The dark alleyway bloomed into crisp greens and whites.

Across the way, a cloaked figure slunk along the far wall, aiming for the neighboring street.

The assassin.

Cassandra gained her feet atop the glass-strewn parapet and ran in the direction of the cloaked thief. Her footfalls must have been heard. Her target sped faster with a swirl of shadow.

Damn it.

Cassandra reached a spot along the wall where another date palm rose from within the walled compound. Its fronded leaves fanned wide, shading both sides of the wall, blocking her run.

Without slowing, Cassandra kept one eye on her quarry. As she reached the tree, she lunged out, grabbed a handful of leaves, and leaped off the twenty-foot wall. Her purchase gave way under her weight. Leaves ripped from between her gloved fingers, but the temporary support helped break her fall. She landed in the alley, her knees absorbing the impact.

She shot after her quarry, who vanished down a cross street.

Cassandra subvocalized into her controls. An overlay map of the immediate cityscape appeared within her goggles. It took a practiced eye to interpret the mishmash of imagery.

Here in Old Town, there was no rhyme or reason to the layout. The surrounding environment was a labyrinth of alleys and cobbled streets.

If the thief escaped into that twisted maze…

Cassandra sped faster. The other had to be slowed. Her digital overlay showed the side street to be less than thirty yards long before it crisscrossed more alleys.

Cassandra had only one chance.

She dove for the corner, yanking her grappling gun free. As she slid into the street, she quickly tracked and locked her quarry, thirty yards away.

She pulled the trigger.

The zip of cable hissed. The grappling hook shot in a low arc down the alley, passing over the shoulder of her mark.

Cassandra squeezed the retractor, reversing the winch, while yanking back with her own arm. Like fly-fishing.

The hooks dug into the other’s shoulder, spinning the figure, legs flailing.

Cassandra allowed herself a grim smile of satisfaction.

She savored her victory too soon.

Her adversary continued the spin, unwinding a fan of cloak, pulling free of the garment with a skill that would have astounded Houdini. Moonlight cast the figure as bright as midday through the night-vision goggles.

A woman.

She landed with feline grace upon one hand, springing back to her toes. With a sweep of dark hair, she sped down the street.

Cassandra swore and gave pursuit. A part of her appreciated her target’s skill and the challenge. Another wanted to shoot the woman in the back for making her night that much longer. But she needed answers.

She dogged the woman, whose movement was lithe and surefooted. Cassandra had been a champion sprinter in high school and only got faster during her rigorous Special Forces training. Being one of the first women in the Army Rangers, she needed to be fast.

Her target fled around another corner.

By this time at night, the streets were empty, except for a few crouched dogs and scurrying cats. After sundown, Old Town locked itself up and shuttered its windows, leaving the streets dark. Occasional bits of music or laughter echoed from inner courtyards. A few lights shone from upper balconies, but even these were barred against intrusion.

Cassandra checked her digital overlay. A smile stretched her lips thin. The warren of alleys into which her quarry had fled was circuitous but ultimately a dead end, terminating against the towering flank of the ancient fort of Jalai. The walled fortress had no entrance on this side.

Cassandra kept pace. In her head, she planned her assault. She freed one of her Glocks. With her other hand, she tapped her radio. “I’ll need evac in ten,” she subvocalized. “Fix on my GPS.”

The response was terse. “We copy. Evac in ten.”

As planned, the team subcommander would send out a trio of modified dirt bikes with silenced mufflers, solid rubber tires, and jacked engines. Automobiles had limited mobility in Old Town’s narrow passages. The bikes suited the region better. Cassandra’s expertise: fitting the right tool to the right job. By the time she had her target cornered, backup would be riding at her heels. She would only have to hold the woman at bay. If there was any resistance, a bullet to a knee should dampen the other’s spirit.