"Heas betrayed us," Warlord said.
"No doubt about it," Magnus answered.
"Benjieas always been the one to take the easy road. I wonder what they promised him?"
"Money."
"No. Respect. Thatas what our foolish Benjie craves." Warlord thoughtfully dabbed at the blood on his split lip. "Very well. Bring him to me. Letas see if I can convince him to give me a different version of the events."
"Down by the fire pit?" Magnus asked.
"Oh, yes. Definitely down by the fire pit." Warlord clapped Magnus on the shoulder. "Bring him in."
When the Scotsman left, he was whistling.
Warlord opened a chest, pulled out a long-sleeved T-shirt, and dragged it over his head. He tucked it into his jeans, b.u.t.toned up, pulled out a studded leather belt, and slipped it through the loops. Seating himself, he pulled on wool socks and heavy black boots that laced up his calf. Reaching into the chest once more, he extracted two sharp, slender knives and slipped them into his boots. He stood and shook his jeans down, then strapped a large holster around his chest and a smaller one around each arm. He placed a Smith & Wesson 952 in the larger holster, Kel-Tec P-32s in the smaller ones.
The man was gunning for bear.
He pulled on a loose black coat, checked his weapons, then glanced at Karen.
She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.
So of course she didnat hear him approach, didnat know he was there until he whispered in her ear, "I wonat be long, darling. Youare tired. Stay in bed."
She sat up so fast she cracked him under the chin with her head.
He laughed and rubbed his battered face. "Itas not my day."
"This is real trouble, isnat it?"
"What makes you think so?"
"Magnus. .h.i.t you. You donat let anyone hit you unless . . ." Turning her head, she looked up into his facea"the pale skin covered by the heavy beard and surrounded by the wild hair, the strong nose, the supple lips, and, dominating the whole, those black, black eyes.
"Unless I deserve it?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what I love best about you?"
"Iam not stupid?" she said tartly, but at the same time she lightly touched the split in his lips.
He corrected her. "I used to lie on my stomach above the construction site and watch you."
"You watched me?" That explained that p.r.i.c.kly feeling she used to get at the back of her neck.
"I couldnat tear my eyes away. You work hard. Youare smart. Youare stubborn. You shine with an inner light, and I hated what you were doing to me, making me realize what Iad become, changing me against my will. Iave had other women, but I remember only you. You fill my mind. You fill my soul."
d.a.m.n him. How dared he try to enchant her?
"Itas a little late for sweet talk." She turned her head away. "Are you going to kill him? That Benjie?"
"It depends on how much heas willing to tell us and how fast he gives out the information." Warlord sat back on his haunches. "Why? Do you feel sorry for him?"
"No. Not if heas betrayed his comrades."
"You donat think much like a woman."
"How does a woman think?" She froze him with a steely cold gaze.
"Women are always all"a"he wiggled his fingers and made his voice high and girliea" " aOoh, donat hurt him.a "
"Youave been watching too many old movies, the ones where the female always falls down and twists her ankle while trying to escape. " She bared her teeth in a feral smile. "Try Kill Bill. Itall give you a new appreciation of just what violence a woman is capable of."
"Youare such a pretty woman. Such a strong woman. A construction manager." Leaning over her, he slid his fingers through her hair. "What made you decide to become a construction manager?"
Like she was going to tell him about her early private h.e.l.l. "What made you decide to become a ruthless warlord?" she countered.
His fingers never paused, and his eyes gleamed like obsidian. "I have a natural talent for murder." Yanking her hair, he tilted her head back and kissed her deeply.
She tasted his blood on her tongue anda"
The first grenade flew from his hand in a beautiful arc through the bright blue Tibetan sky, right into the convoy, and landed in the lead Jeep. The little p.i.s.sant of a driver screamed; then the explosion rocked the pa.s.s and blew the Chinese general into a million pieces of chicken chow mein. In the moment of shocked silence that followed, Warlord smiled with bone-deep delight; the mean son of a b.i.t.c.h would never again beat a woman to death and firebomb a nomad settlement in retaliation for offering hospitality to an American.
Then the Chinese soldiers sprang into action, spraying the rocks with bullets. His men returned fire. The narrow pa.s.s rang with shots. The smell of gunpowder stung his nose, and still he smiled as he fitted the bayonet to his weapon, charged down the hills, and spitted the yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.ds until blood spattered him from head to toe.
A bullet struck him in the back. Pain exploded in his lungs. He staggered. Dropped to his knees.
But no one on this battlefield could kill him.
Twisting, he looked up at the guy pointing the pistol at him.
Victor Rivera was an older mercenary. He was taking advantage of this opportunity to rid himself of a raw young American interloper. He was from Argentina. And the word he screamed when Warlord speared his gonads was pure Spanish profanitya"and the last word he would ever speak.
Warlord lifted Victoras genitals on the tip of the bayonet. Blood dripped down his rifle onto his hands, and into the sudden silence he roared, "This is my enemy! Who else is my enemy?"
The Chinese gaped, then broke ranks and ran.
Riveraas mercenaries moved in.
Warlord laughed, pulled Riveraas pistol from his belt, and shot the lead man in the head.
He was going to h.e.l.l.
Noa"he was in h.e.l.l.
With a gasp Karen returned to the present. She was in Warlordas tent. Warlord was gone. She lay p.r.o.ne on the bed. Her heart pounded, shaking her chest. Wildly she lifted her hands and looked at them. They werenat covered with blood. She looked down at herself. She wore a loose, pale, sheer nightgown, unstained by gore.
Porcelain clinked softly. Mingma knelt beside the low table, arranging the breakfast dishes and pouring tea into a mug. The scent of her tobacco wafted across the tent. Everything was . . . normal.
Yet Karen was not. She had been somewhere, seen something she should never have seen.
She had tasted Warlordas blood; then she had seen a terrible event long past, and seen it through Warlordas eyes. "Where is he?" she demanded.
Mingma looked up, and Karenas expression must have been alarming, for she stood and backed away. "He left. Said to let you sleep." She gestured at the food. "Breakfast?"
Karen sat up and cupped her head in her palms. What was happening to her? How could she be in Warlordas mind? In his past? Had she truly, finally gone completely crazy?
"Miss?" Mingma touched her shoulder.
In a violent gesture, Karen knocked her hand away. "Donat touch me." She hadnat forgotten Mingmaas betrayal, and right now she didnat need some supernatural acid trip to smell trouble brewing. No matter how sincerely kind Mingma seemed, if the Sherpa had been willing to sell her out to Warlord, she would be willing to sell out Warlord to whatever forces were brewing. Not that Karen cared about him, but she knew he protected her, and in a camp of one hundred men surrounded by hostile territory, protection was a commodity to be valued.
Lifting her gaze to Mingma, she said, "Step out and tell me whatas happening out there."
Mingma walked to the tent flap and lifted it.
Karen heard a high, thin scream.
"Benjie," Mingma said.
"Wonat he talk?"
"He is afraid." Mingma stared out into the camp, then scanned the horizon.
"Afraid of Warlord?"
"I think . . . afraid of the Other." Mingmaas serenity was cracking.
"What Other?"
"The men speak of the Other, a mercenary who will wipe Warlord away and hold this territory forever."
Karen spied the opportunity shead been looking for.
She stood. She pulled on a robe. She knelt by the table and began to eat. "Leave me."
"Miss, if you try to run again, he will kill me." Mingmaas voice shook.
"If Warlord falls, who will pay your fee? Who will support your son in America?" Karen prodded Mingma in her weak spot. "Shouldnat you think about leaving?"
The color drained out of Mingmaas brown face, and she backed away from Karen. "Miss, you see the future?"
"Only a fool wouldnat see this future." Karen ate steadilya"she would need the sustenancea" and didnat look up.
Mingma backed away toward the entrance, paused and lingered, then slipped from the tent.
Karen gave a small, pleased smile. Getting rid of Mingma was the first step toward freedom. For the first time in two weeks Karen was alone. Now she could do what had to be done.
She needed her hiking boots. She needed clothes that fit and that she could hike in. Most of all, she needed her coat.
She hurried to his open clothing trunk. Kneeling on the Kashmiri rug, she sorted through his clothes.
And there it was. Her coat. She dug in the pockets, and as her fingers clutched the icon she closed her eyes in relief.
The Madonna was safe.
She pulled it out and sat there, holding the icon in her hand, looking into the Virgin Maryas large, dark, sad eyes. As she did, the events of that day swam through her brain like a fevered dream. The discovery of the grave . . . the body of the child . . . those eyes, so much like Karenas, sad, dutiful, and a startling blue-green . . . and the dissolution of the fragile body beneath Karenas touch.
Then the thunder of the rockfall, Philas refusal to leave, Warlordas appearance . . .
Every moment since had been out of her control. But what other course could she have taken? If Warlord hadnat pulled her onto the motorcycle, she would have died. Now here she was, a captive to a man who both frightened and enthralled her.
She had never been religiousa"shead had no chance, for her father had no patience with Bible-thumpersa"but now, in a prayer that came from her heart, she pleaded, "Mary, please help me find the way home."
Home . . . She didnat have a home. Her fatheras dark mansion in Montana was decorated with antlers and brown leather, and although shead been raised there, she was always on edge, looking over her shoulder, waiting for the next sharp criticism, the next impatient sneer.
So why had she begged the Madonna to help her go home?
"What is that?" Warlordas soft voice spoke behind her.
She gasped out louda"when had she become such a girl?a"and brought the icon to her bosom, every instinct commanding that she protect the holy object. "I found it," she said. Had he heard her?
"Where did you find a Russian icon?" Warlord caught her wrist and brought the Madonna into the light. He appraised it with a glance. "The style looks as if it was painted early in the history of the Orthodox Church."
"How do you know?"
"In Russia, before the Sovietsa"and during, sometimesa"the icon was the heart of the family, venerated above all things. Theyare the Gospel in paint, and kept in the beautiful corner, the krasny ugol, the red corner."
"The red corner?" What was he talking about?
"In the Russian culture, red means beautiful. " He spoke with the calm certainty of an expert. "These icons, especially icons of the Virgin Mary, were considered miracles. Every pose, every color had meaning, and there are folk legends of evil and good fighting for possession of the icons."
"What do the legends say?" More important, how did he know? She had lived through weeks of strange events, but this was perhaps the strangest, that this creature of mystery and shadow should converse with such knowledge about the Russian culture.
"You know, the usual. The devil makes a deal with an evil man. To seal the pact the evil man offers to give the devil his family icon, a single piece of wood painted with four different images of the Madonna. But his mother refuses to let her son take the icons. So he kills her, washes his hands in her blood, and while he drinks to celebrate closing the deal, the devil divides the Madonnas and, in a flash of fire, hurls them to the four ends of the earth, where they are lost." Warlord stared at the icon as if he recognized it. "Hmm. Lost for a millennium now."
She didnat like the glib way he recited the story. She didnat like the way he held her wrist. She didnat like the gleam in his eyes.
"May I see it?" he asked, but it was nothing more than a formality, for at the same time he scooped it away from her.
As soon as he grasped the icon, she heard a sizzling sound, smelled burning flesh.
He tossed the icon into her lap. He stepped back and stared. At her. At the icon. Then at his hands.
"What happened?" Picking up the icon, she cradled it in her palms. It wasnat hot, yet he acted as if it had scorched him.
Walking to the washbasin, he plunged his hands into the cool water. Still in that conversational tone, he said, "Those old legends are rife with superst.i.tions."