EPTEMBER 6, 7:36 P.M.

PUNJAB, INDIA

As the sun sank into the horizon, Gray admitted that Rosauro’s choice of vehicle proved to be a wise decision. In the passenger seat, he kept a palm pressed to the roof to keep him in his seat as their SUV bumped along a deeply rutted muddy road. They’d left the last significant town an hour ago and trekked through the rural back hills.

Dairy farms, sugarcane fields, and mango orchards divided the rolling landscape into a patchwork. Masterson had explained that Punjab was India’s abundant breadbasket, the Granary of India, as he described it, producing a majority of its wheat, millet, and rice.

“And someone has to work all these fields,” Masterson had said as he gave them directions from the backseat.

Kowalski and Elizabeth shared the row with him. Behind them, Luca sat in the rear, polishing his daggers.

“Take that next left track,” Masterson ordered.

Rosauro hauled on the wheel, and the SUV splashed through a watery ditch, almost a creek. Small downpours had dumped on them throughout the trip up here. Punjab was Persian for “land of five rivers,” which was one of the reasons it was India’s major agricultural state.

Gray checked the twilight skies as night approached. Clouds rolled low. They’d have more rain before the night was over.

“Up ahead,” Masterson said. “Over that next hill.”

The vehicle slogged up the slope, churning mud. At the top of the rise, a small bowl-shaped valley opened, ringed by hills. A dark village lay at the bottom, a densely packed mix of stone homes and mud huts with palm-thatch roofs. A couple of fires glowed at the edge of the town, stirred by a few men standing around with long poles. Burning garbage. A bullock cart stood beside one fire, stacked high with refuse. The single horned bull stirred at the approach of their vehicle down the hill.

“The other side of India,” Masterson said. “Over three-quarters of India’s population still live in rural areas. But here we have those who live at the bottom of the caste system. The Harijan, as Gandhi renamed them, which means ‘people of God,’ but they are mostly still derided as dalit or achuta, which roughly translates as untouchable.”

Gray noted Luca had sheathed his daggers and turned a more attentive ear. Untouchables. These could be the same roots as his clans.

Lit by flames, the village men gathered with scythes and poles, wary of the approaching strangers.

“Who are these people?” Gray asked, wanting to know more about whom they faced.

“To answer that,” Masterson said, “you have to understand India’s caste system. Legends have that all the major varnas—or classes of people—arose from one godlike being. The Branmans, which include priests and teachers, arose out of the mouth of this being. Rulers and soldiers from its arms. Merchants and traders from its thighs. The feet gave rise to laborers. Each has its own pecking order, much of it laid out in a two-thousand-year-old collection known as the Laws of Manu, which details what you can and can’t do.”

“And these untouchables?” Gray asked, keeping an eye on the gathering men and boys.

“The fifth varna is said not to have risen from this great being at all. They were outcasts, considered too polluted and impure to mix with regular people. People who handled animal skins, blood, excrement, even the bodies of the dead. They were shunned from higher-caste homes and temples, not allowed to eat with the same utensils. Not even their shadows were allowed to touch a higher caste’s body. And if you should break any of these rules, you could be beaten, raped, murdered.”

Elizabeth leaned forward. “And no one stops this from happening?”

Masterson snorted. “The Indian constitution outlaws such discrimination, but it still continues, especially in rural areas. Fifteen percent of the population still falls into the classification of untouchable. There is no escape. A child born from an achuta is forever an achuta. They remain victims of millennia-old religious laws, laws that permanently cast them as subhuman. And let’s be honest. Like I said before, someone has to work all these fields.”

Gray pictured the vast rolling farmlands and orchards.

Masterson continued, “The untouchables are a built-in slave class. So while there is some progress made on their behalf, mostly in the cities, the rural areas still need workers—and the caste system serves them well. Villages such as this one have been burned or destroyed because they dared to ask for better wages or working conditions. Hence the suspicion here now.”

He nodded to the welcoming party carrying farm instruments.

“Dear God,” Elizabeth said.

“God has nothing to do with this,” Masterson said sourly. “It’s all about economy. Your father was a strong advocate for these people. Lately he was having more and more trouble gaining the cooperation of yogis and Brahman mystics.”

“Because of his association with untouchables?” she asked.

“That…and the fact that he was looking for the source of the genetic marker among the untouchable peoples. When word spread of that, many doors were slammed in his face. So much for higher enlightenment. In fact, after he disappeared, I was convinced he’d been murdered for that very reason.”

Gray waved Rosauro to stop at the edge of the glow from the burning garbage fires. “And this village? This is where Dr. Polk was last seen?”

Masterson nodded. “The last I heard from Archibald was an excited phone call. He’d made some discovery and was anxious to share it—then I never heard from him again. But he sometimes did that—would vanish for months at a time into the remote rural areas, going from village to village. Places that still have no name and are shunned by those of higher castes. But after a while, I began to fear the worst.”

“And what of these people?” Gray asked. “Do we have anything to fear from them?”

“On the contrary.” Masterson opened his car door and used his cane to push to his feet.

Gray followed him. Other doors opened, and everyone exited. “Stay near the truck,” he warned them.

Masterson traipsed toward the fire with Gray in tow. The professor called out in Hindi. Gray understood a few phrases and words from his own studies of Indian religion and philosophy, but not enough to follow what the man was saying. He seemed to be asking for someone, searching faces.

The men remained a solid wall, bristling with weapons.

The ox lowed its own complaint beside the wagon, as if sensing the tension.

Finally Masterson stood between the two smoking pyres. The air reeked, smelling of fried liver and burning tires. Gray forced himself not to cover his mouth. Masterson waved back to the truck and continued to speak. Gray heard Archibald Polk’s name followed by the Hindi word betee.

Daughter.

All the men turned their gazes toward Elizabeth. Weapons were lowered. Chatter spread among them. Arms pointed at her. The wall of men parted in welcome. A pair of the boys, their voices raised in a happy shout, ran back down a narrow alleyway between two stone houses.

Masterson turned to Gray. “The achuta in this area hold Archibald in high esteem. I had no doubt the presence of the respected man’s daughter would be met with hospitality. We have nothing to fear from these people.”

“Except for dysentery,” Kowalski said as he reached them with the others.

Elizabeth elbowed him in the ribs.

Gray led them into the village, sensing they had more to worry about than just upset bowels.

8:02 P.M.

Elizabeth crossed between the two fires. Beyond their glow, the village roused. Someone started to clank loudly on a makeshift drum. A woman appeared, her face half covered in a sari. She motioned them toward the village center.

As she turned, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of scarred, sagging flesh, hidden under the thin veil. Masterson noted Elizabeth’s attention.

She leaned toward him. “What happened to her?”

The professor answered softly and nodded to the woman. “Your father mentioned her. Her son was caught fishing in a pond of a higher-caste village. She went to scold him off, but they were caught. The villagers beat the child and poured acid on the woman’s face. She lost an eye and half her face.”

Elizabeth’s body went cold. “How awful.”

“And she considers herself lucky. Because they didn’t rape her, too.”

Shocked, Elizabeth followed the woman, galled by such an atrocity, but at the same time, awed by her strength to survive and persevere.

The woman led them along a maze of crooked alleys to the village center. Another fire blazed there. People gathered at a few wooden tables around a well pump. Women swept the tables free of leaves or carried out food. Young children ran all around, barefoot, mostly shirtless.

As Elizabeth passed, several men bowed their heads, sometimes even at the waist as she walked. Plainly in respect for her father. She had never known much about what he’d been doing out here.

Masterson motioned with his cane toward the men. “Archibald did much good for the local villages. He exposed and disbanded a militia that terrorized these parts, even got better wages for the villagers, better medical care and education. But more important, he respected them.”

“I didn’t know,” she mumbled.

“He won their trust. And it was in these hills that he concentrated his genetic testing.”

“Why here?” Gray asked on the professor’s other side.

“Because just as Archibald devised that map I showed you, he also did a more detailed schematic of the Punjab region. A trail of genetic evidence pointed to these hills, but I think it was something more.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Like what?”

“I’m not sure. His interest in the region spiked about two years ago. He stopped testing broadly across India and began concentrating here.” The professor glanced back to Luca. “And with the Gypsies.”

Elizabeth thought back two years. She had been finishing her PhD program at Georgetown. She’d had little contact with her father during that time. Nor patience. Their occasional phone conversations were usually short and terse. If she had known what he was doing beyond his own field of study, maybe things could have been different.

Reaching the heart of the village, they were greeted with smiles and urged to come to the table. Food was already piling high—roti flatbread, rice dishes, steamed vegetables, small plums and fat dates, bowls of buttermilk—simple but heartfelt fare. A woman on her knees stirred a lentil stew on a horseshoe-shaped oven. Her daughter carried a bucket of cow dung to feed the flames beneath.

Kowalski joined Elizabeth, stepping close. “Not exactly Burger King.”

“Maybe because they worship cows.”

“Hey, I worship them, too. Especially grilled rare with a nice baked potato.”

She smiled. How did that infernal man always get her to smile? She was suddenly too conscious of how close he stood and stepped away.

Off to the side, one of the villagers began plucking the strings of a sitar, accompanied by a man with a harmonica and another with a tabla drum.

A tall newcomer stepped up to them all. He appeared to be in his midthirties, his hair cropped short, olive skinned. He was dressed in a traditional dhoti kurta, a spotless wrap of rectangular cloth that hung from waist to ankle, along with a tunic buttoned over a long-sleeved shirt. Atop his head, he wore an embroidered knitted cap called a kufi. He bowed deeply and spoke in English with a crisp British accent.

“I am Abhi Bhanjee, but I would be honored if you would call me Abe. We Indians have a saying: At ithi devo bhava. It means ‘Our guests are like gods.’ And none more so than the daughter of Professor Archibald Polk, a dear friend of mine.” He waved them to the table. “Please join us.”

They obeyed, but it did not take long for his smile to dim as the man learned about her father.

“I had not heard,” he said softly, his face a mask of pain. “It is a loss most tragic and sad. My condolences, Miss Polk.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment.

“He was last seen here at your village,” Gray added and nodded to Masterson. “He called the professor, said he was coming here.”

Masterson cleared his throat. “We hoped you might be able to cast a light on where Archibald went.”

“I knew he should not have gone alone,” the man said with a shake of his head. “But he would not wait.”

“Go where?” Gray asked.

“It was wrong to take him there to begin with. It is a cursed place.”

Elizabeth reached and touched the man’s hand with her fingertips. “If you know something…anything…”

He swallowed visibly and reached to a pocket inside his tunic. He slipped out a tiny cloth bag that clinked. “It all started when I showed your father these.” He fingered the bag open and upended the contents onto the table. “We find them occasionally when we till the fields of these lands.”

Old tarnished coins, nearly black with age, rattled and danced. One rolled to Elizabeth. She stopped it with her palm, then picked it up. She examined the surface, rubbing some of the grime with her thumb—until she realized what she was holding.

Upon the surface, abraded but still distinct, was the face of a woman, her cheeks framed by a tangle of small snakes. It was the Gorgon named Medusa. Elizabeth knew what she was holding.

“An ancient Greek coin,” she said with surprise. “You found these in your fields?”

Abe nodded.

“Amazing.” Elizabeth turned the coin toward the firelight. “Greeks did rule the Punjab for a while. Along with Persians, Arabs, Mughals, Afghans. Alexander the Great even fought a great battle in this region.”

Gray picked up another coin. His expression darkened. He held out the coin toward her. “You’d better look at this, Elizabeth.”

She took it and studied it. Her fingers began to tremble. Upon its surface, a Greek temple had been minted. And not just any temple. She stared at the three pillars that framed a dark doorway. Prominent in that threshold stood a large letter E.

“It’s the Temple of Delphi,” she gasped out.

“It looks like the same coin your father stole from the museum.”

She struggled to understand, but she could not think. It was as if someone had short-circuited her brain. “When…when did you first show my father these coins?”

Abe frowned. “I’m not certain. About two years ago. He told me to keep them safe and hidden, but since he is dead and you are his daughter…”

She barely heard him. Two years ago. The same time her father had arranged for her to work at the Delphi museum. She sensed she was holding the coin that had bought her the museum position. Too busy here himself, her father must have wanted her to follow up on this mystery. A spark of anger fired through her, but she was also too aware of the villagers around her and how they’d been treated. Maybe her father couldn’t leave, couldn’t abandon them.

Still, he could have told her something.

Unless…maybe he was protecting her?

She shook her head, filled with questions. What was going on here? She sought answers on the other side of the coin. The surface was black with a large worn symbol that did not appear to be Greek.

image

Abe noted her confused expression. He pointed to the coin, having studied it before. “That is a chakra wheel. An ancient Hindu symbol.”

But what’s it doing on a Greek coin? she wondered.

“May I see?” Luca asked. He crossed around the table to stare over her shoulder. His body stiffened, and his fingers tightened on the table’s edge. “That…that symbol. It’s also on the Romani flag.”

“What?” Elizabeth asked.

He straightened, his brow crinkled with confusion. “The symbol was chosen because the Sanskrit word chakra means ‘wheel.’ It is said to represent a Gypsy’s wagon wheel, symbolic of our nomadic heritage, while still honoring our Indian roots. But there were always rumors that the symbol had deeper, more ancient roots among the clans.”

As the others discussed the significance, Elizabeth studied the coin in silence, beginning to sense at least one truth.

Gray leaned toward her, reading something on her face. “What is it?”

She met his steely gaze. She held up the coin and pointed to the temple side. “My father pulled strings to get me that position at the Delphi museum shortly after finding this.” She flipped the coin to the chakra side. “At the same time, he started to investigate the Gypsies and their connection to India. Two sides of a coin, two lines of inquiry.”

Elizabeth turned the coin on edge. “But what lies between the two? What connects them?”

She turned to Abhi Bhanjee. He had not told them everything.

“Where did my father go?” she asked with a bite to her voice.

A shout from one of the villagers answered her. A man came running from the outer fires. The music died away—but a distant drumming continued, a heavy beat that thumped to the chest.

Gray jerked up.

Elizabeth stood, confused, and stared out toward the hills, trying to discern the direction of the noise, but it seemed to come from everywhere—then three lights speared out of the overcast sky.

Helicopters.

“Everyone back to the SUV!” Gray shouted.

Abe yelled in Hindi, barking hard orders. Men and women fled in all directions. In the tumult, Elizabeth got separated, spun by passing bodies. Disoriented, she fought to follow their group.

Like diving hawks, the helicopters swept toward the village, then split wide to circle. With her eyes on the skies, she stumbled, but a thick arm caught her. Kowalski scooped her around the waist and lifted her to her toes, urging her faster.

“C’mon, babe.”

He forded through the chaos, a rolling rock.

At the edges of the village, the helicopters settled to a hover. Ropes slithered out from open side doors. Even before their ends reached the ground, dark forms slid down the lines, heavy with helmets and gear.

They would never make it to the SUV.

8:38 P.M.

PRIPYAT, UKRAINE

Nicolas snapped his cell phone closed. So that was one less problem to worry about. He crossed down the hallway toward the gala. Music wafted, a traditional Russian composition from the nineteenth century, “Snegúrochka,” “The Snow Maiden.”

He drew his palm down the lines of his tuxedo. While others dressed in modern couture, Nicolas had handpicked his outfit in Milan, a single-button Brioni cashmere jacket with a peaked lapel and shawl collar. It was classic and elegant, chosen because the Duke of Windsor had worn such suits in the 1930s and 1940s. It had a vintage look that melded with Nicolas’s rhetoric, but he had updated his appearance by replacing the traditional bow tie—which never looked good with his trimmed beard—with a silk pleated tie, accented by a diamond tack set in Russian silver.

Knowing how well he looked, he entered the ballroom.

New marble floors shone under the light of a dozen Baccarat crystal chandeliers, a charitable donation by the company for this event. Tables circled an empty dance floor. But the true dancing had already commenced. The crowd mingled and swirled in eddies of political power, vying for the right nod, a moment alone with the right potentate, a whispered deal.

Russia’s prime minister and the U.S. president created the largest pools. Each was vying for support in regard to how to handle sanctions against burgeoning nuclear threats. An important summit on the matter was scheduled in St. Petersburg after the ceremony here. The sealing of Chernobyl was the symbolic start of that meeting.

Nicolas stared over at the pair, surrounded by a sea of people. He intended to wade into those waters. With his growing popularity as the spokesman for nuclear reform, those seas would easily part for him.

He should at least shake the hands of the two men he planned to kill.

But before he waded into those waters, he headed over to Elena. She stood by one of the arched windows. Heavy silk drapery framed both the window and the woman. She cut a stately figure in a black dress that flowed like oil over her lithe form, a Hollywood matinee idol brought back to life. She carried a flute of champagne in one hand, as if forgotten. She faced the darkness beyond the window.

He joined her.

Beyond the ruins of the city, bright lights twinkled near the horizon. Work crews would labor throughout the night to ready the viewing stands and ensure that the installation of the new Sarcophagus over the shell of Chernobyl went smoothly. The eyes of the world would be on the event.

He touched her arm.

She was not startled, having noticed his reflection in the mirror.

His voluptuous Rasputin.

“It is almost over,” he said and leaned to her ear.

According to his man, the concussion charges had already been secured in place. Nothing could stop them.

8:40 P.M.

PUNJAB, INDIA

Gunfire erupted before Gray could reach the edge of the village. Screams and shouts echoed. Helicopters thumped overhead. He flattened himself against a stone wall. Beyond the pair of garbage fires, the Mercedes SUV rested at the edge of the glow.

A soldier in black gear ran low across the open ground, assault rifle at his shoulder. Others had to be already solidifying positions around the village, locking the place down. Then they’d close in for the kill, sweeping through the maze of the village.

Gray knew the only hope for the villagers was for his team to flee, to draw off the hunters. They had to make their escape before the village was secured.

He stretched an arm back to Rosauro. “Keys.”

They were slapped into his hand, but Rosauro had more bad news. “Kowalski. Elizabeth. They’re not here.”

Gray glanced back. In the mad rush through the twisted alleys, he’d failed to notice. “Find them,” he ordered Rosauro. “Now.”

She nodded and dashed away.

Gray stared hard at Luca. “Guard the professor. Stay out of sight.”

The Gypsy nodded. Two daggers glinted in his fingers.

Gray could wait no longer.

Crouching low, he ran out of hiding and into the open.

Elizabeth fled with Kowalski down a crooked alley. A sewage trench lined one side, reeking and foul.

“Follow that,” she urged. “It has to lead out of here.”

Kowalski nodded and took the next corner. He had a pistol clenched in a meaty paw. She kept to his shoulder.

“Do you have another gun?” she asked.

“You shoot?”

“Skeet. In college.”

“Not much difference. Targets just scream a bit more.”

He reached under his jacket to the small of his back and slipped out a small blue steel Beretta and passed it blindly back to her.

Her fingers tightened hard on the grip, drawing strength from the cold steel.

They set off. The alleyway was deserted, but gunfire spat from the outskirts as villagers defended their homes and lives.

One of the helicopters swept low overhead. The wash from its rotors scattered leaves and bits of garbage. They ducked out of sight into a mud hut. Elizabeth caught a glimpse of children huddled behind a low cot.

After the helicopter flew past, Kowalski tugged her toward the door—but then piled back into her. A soldier in black dashed past the opening. The war must be moving into the village proper. Kowalski peeked out, waved for her, then led her back outside.

“We’ll strike for the hills,” he said.

They zigzagged through two more turns and reached a straight shot toward open hills. Bodies lay on the street ahead, blood sluicing into the sewage drain. At least one of them wore black camouflage. Kowalski kept close to one wall and hurried forward. He led with his pistol up.

A spat of automatic fire chattered beyond the village.

How would they get past that?

Kowalski paused at the soldier’s dead body. He tugged off the man’s helmet.

Maybe a disguise, Elizabeth thought. Not bad thinking.

But as Kowalski yanked, the soldier’s head came off with the helmet. Shocked and horrified, he fell back into her. Tangled, they both stumbled to the ground.

A dark shadow appeared behind them.

Another soldier.

She raised her pistol and shot wildly. The rounds cracked stones and ricocheted, missing the target but driving him back around the corner. Kowalski’s weapon blasted behind her, sounding like a cannon in the narrow alley. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw two more soldiers at the end of the street.

They were pinned down and outgunned.

Gray ducked out of the alley and into the open. He dove under the bullock cart that still stood by the pyres of burning garbage. Sliding on his stomach, he edged even with one of the fires. Shielded by the cart, he reached out to the edge of the bonfire. If the gunshots and helicopters didn’t spook the ox from its post, then Gray would have to light a fire under its tail.

Literally.

Snatching up a chunk of burning tire from the pyre’s edge, Gray flipped it into the oily pile of refuse still stacked atop the cart. It didn’t take long for the flames to catch and spread. With a burning branch in his other hand, he crawled fully under the cart and goosed the ox in the hind end.

It roared a loud bellow and kicked back at him, knocking the cart a good blow. Gray snatched the front board of the wagon as the ox took off, lowing angrily. It shot straight for the hills, dragging the cart, leaving behind a trail of flaming garbage.

Bumped and jarred underneath the cart, Gray kept a hard clamp on the front board and made sure to stay clear of the heavy wheels. The ox and cart reached the hills and bounced across a runoff ditch.

Gray let go and sank into the watery mud and muck.

The cart continued off into the hills, a fiery meteor sailing to points unknown. Gray hoped any eyes in the sky would keep watching that flaming trajectory.

In the dark, Gray swam and pushed along the muddy ditch as it circled the village. He reached the far side of the Mercedes and waited for the nearest helicopter to drift farther away—then lurched out of the gully and ran low to the ground, keeping the SUV between him and the village.

He’d have to get inside the vehicle quickly. The SUV’s dome light would illuminate when he opened the door. Keys in hand, he took a deep breath.

He could wait no longer.

Pinned in the alleyway with soldiers at both ends, Elizabeth searched for an escape. She found one. An open window. A step away.

She nudged Kowalski and pointed.

“Go!” he growled.

She dove through the opening. Cradling her pistol, she landed in a rough tumble. The room was empty, just a dirt floor. Kowalski came barreling in after her. She barely got out of the way in time. Gunfire strafed at his heels. Boots pounded toward them from both directions.

“Door,” she called.

On the opposite side from the window, a low archway led into another alley. Together they fled outside—

—and right into a clutch of another four soldiers.

With surprise on all sides, they scrambled with weapons. But before a shot could be fired, flashes of flailing steel rained down upon the soldiers. Elizabeth and Kowalski backed together. One man pointed his pistol out at the attackers, but steel snapped and sliced his hand from his arm. Another fell to his knees, his throat slashed open.

In a heartbeat, all four men lay dead, torn apart.

Their rescuers were three men.

Abe and two of the villagers.

Their weapons were unique to the country. Urumi. The infamous whip-swords of India. Each sword was a flail of four flexible blades, each an inch wide and five feet long—yet so thin that the steel coiled like a whip. Elizabeth’s father had shown her demonstrations of the fighting known as Kalaripayattu. With a flick of the wrist, the blades unfurled and cleaved flesh with more force than any standard sword.

“Come!” Abe said. “Your friends are this way.”

He led them back into the village. They followed a circuitous path both around and through village homes and huts. Abe lashed out with the sword occasionally, striking even around corners to blind and maim. Then he’d jump out to finish the job with his men.

Kowalski’s eyes gleamed in the darkness as he watched the slaughter. “With a weapon like that, no wonder they’re called untouchable. I have to get me one of those.”

Coming around another corner, Abe slashed out—then jerked his arm back with a glint of thrashing steel. A cry of surprise sounded from around the corner.

“So sorry,” Abe said.

Rosauro appeared. She held a hand across her cheek. Blood seeped from under her fingers. But her eyes widened when she saw who accompanied the swordsman.

“Thank God I found you,” she said. “Hurry!”

As a group, they fled after her.

After a flurry of confusing turns, a familiar pair of fires glowed at the end of an alley. Crouched between two mud huts, Luca waved to them. Elizabeth spotted the professor, huddled deeper in the shadows.

Where was Gray?

As answer, a heavy engine roared to life beyond the village.

“Get ready!” Rosauro growled at them, blood running down her face.

Ready for what?

Gray shifted into drive and floored the gas pedal. All four tires catapulted him forward. The SUV lunged as one of the rear-side windows splintered. He shot past the twin garbage fires.

A helicopter swooped into view ahead. It had no mounted gun, but it did have someone hanging from its side door with a machine gun.

Gray pounded the brakes. Bullets strafed through the mud just past his front bumper. He threw the truck into reverse, hit the gas, and hightailed it backward with the strength of five hundred horses.

Yanking the wheel, he whipped around his back end, lifting up on two wheels. Landing on four tires, he shot back toward the alley and hit the rear hatch release. A warning light flashed on the dash as the back hatch swung open on hydraulic hinges. He crashed between the two fires, scattering flaming garbage.

He braked to a stop, nearly striking Rosauro in the thighs as she rushed at him with the others. They clambered and dove into the back cabin. People fell in a tangle in the middle row, making room. He spotted a familiar shaved bulldog’s head. They’d found Kowalski.

And Elizabeth, too.

Presently crushed under the large man.

Rosauro called from the rear, “Go!”

Gray kicked the gas and punched the hatch release to close the door.

Ahead, two helicopters aimed toward him from opposite directions. Twin lines of bullets chewed through the mud.

Gray swerved, juking one way, then the other.

The helicopters matched his moves.

A torrent of fresh gunfire erupted from the village behind him—aimed at the birds in the sky. The barrage was impressive, even laced with fiery tracer rounds. A few of the villagers must have confiscated some of the assault team’s automatic weapons.

One of the snipers in the helicopter fell from his perch. Its searchlight shattered and went dark.

The other bird veered. Gray ducked past its hail of fire and reached the hills. He kept the gas floored. With his headlights off, he followed the path of the bullock cart, hoping whatever path the ox took would be passable with the four-wheel drive.

He shot away from the bright fires of the village and out into the rolling darkness. Two helicopters followed, chasing them with searchlights. The third lowered at the edge of the village, dropping lines to the ground, collecting stray men.

Rosauro leaned forward. “They’re Russians!”

“Russians?”

“I think so,” she explained. “The commandos were carrying AN-94s.”

Russian military assault rifles.

In the rearview mirror, Gray caught a worried glimpse on Masterson’s face. First an American mercenary team, now Russians…How many people wanted this guy dead? Answers would have to wait for the moment.

Gray could see that the helicopters, reflected in his mirrors, continued to close the distance. While Gray had succeeded in his plan—getting the team clear of the village and drawing off the assault team—now what?

“Turn right at the bottom of the next hill!” a voice called behind him with a British accent. Gray glanced back and saw they had a stowaway.

Abhi Bhanjee.

Rosauro explained, “He knows a way to shake our tail!”

Hitting the bottom of the slope with a splash of water, Gray took a hard right and followed the muddy valley.

“Now left past that next fencerow!” Abe yelled.

What fencerow?

Gray leaned forward. Without headlights, it was too dark to see. If only he had more lights…

A helicopter swept past, its searchlight blazing. It was not exactly what Gray had been hoping for. Still, with the better illumination, he spotted a fence of stacked stones ahead. Unfortunately the beam also spotted them. Brilliant light swamped the SUV.

A salvo of gunfire erupted, peppering the water, pinging his back end.

With no time to spare, Gray reached the fence and yanked to the left. Even with the four-wheel drive, the back end fishtailed in the water and mud. But the tires finally gripped, and they fled up a short rise and out of the water.

The helicopter swept wide. But its spotlight pivoted smoothly and kept fixed to them, tracking their passage below.

Shooting over the top of the next rise, the SUV lifted into the air for a breath, then struck down hard enough to knock Gray’s teeth together. Cries rose from the rear.

At the bottom of the slope and to the right, a black sea divided the gray landscape ahead. It was not water, but a vast forest.

“Mango orchard!” Abe said. “Very old farm. Very old trees. My family has worked many generations there.”

Gray shot toward that dark orchard.

The spotlight followed. Gunfire rained at them, but Gray kept a slaloming, unpredictable course. Not a single bullet touched them.

With a final roar of the engine, they barreled into the orchard. Trees towered in straight rows. Branches arched into a continuous canopy, cutting off the glare of the spotlight. Gray slowed as the light vanished and darkness fell around him. Still, he made several turns, running perpendicular to their original path. The thumping of the helicopter’s blades faded. Gray fled deeper, like an escaped prisoner running through a dark cornfield.

“How large is this orchard?” he asked, calculating how well they’d be able to hide here.

“Over ten thousand acres.”

That’s one big cornfield.

As the danger ebbed, everyone settled themselves more comfortably into their seats.

Rosauro leaned forward. “There’s another reason Abe insisted he come along.”

“Why’s that?”

She lifted a coin into view. It was the Greek coin with the chakra wheel on the back. She pointed to the temple.

“He knows where this is.”

Gray glanced into the rearview mirror. He spotted Abhi Bhanjee seated in the back row next to Luca. Even through the gloom, Gray recognized the man’s terror. He remembered the Hindu man’s description about where Archibald Polk had been headed when he’d vanished.

A cursed place.