CHAPTER TWO

      Jennifer Kinsey saw the U.S. Embassy compound from about two blocks away. Another block ahead of her, state police armed with automatic weapons had blocked all roads leading to the embassy with wooden sawhorses and officers. She guessed the Marines and Diplomatic Security Service agents also had doubled up their efforts since James Lee’s murder.

      A shudder that had nothing to do with the biting cold seized her. Unconsciously she pulled the burqa’s heavy fabric tighter around her, as if doing so would protect her from homicidal bastard that had pursued her now for how long? Three days? Four days?

      Underneath the thick black robes, she still wore her navy-blue business suit and white silk blouse, both stained dark crimson by James Lee’s blood. She chewed at her lower lip for a moment as unbidden memories of Lee’s death flooded her consciousness.

      Almost immediately, she shook her head to purge the memories. Stay strong, she told herself. If you want to fall apart, that’s fine. God knows you deserve it. But do it after you’ve gotten inside the embassy. Not before. You’ve been through worse and you’ll survive this, too. Just stay strong.

      Kinsey bowed her head and started walking. She had bought the burqa from a young woman. It had cost her all the two hundred dollars in emergency cash that she carried in a small belt under the waist of her skirt, but had been a worthwhile purchase. In her right hand, she clutched a .25-caliber pistol that she normally kept strapped to her thigh. She could handle much more substantial ordnance. But the State Department frowned on their people carrying weapons, regardless of what hellhole they sent you to. So, from her way of thinking, carrying a smaller weapon was a compromise of sorts. The stubby weapon was no good at distances, but she knew she could jam it into an attacker’s throat or eye and inflict plenty of damage.

      She hoped it didn’t have to go that far.

      She began threading through the sea of people gathered outside the embassy. It took a conscious effort to not push past people, particularly men who’d stand in a woman’s way on principle. It rankled her to be so passive, to walk seemingly without a purpose, to yield to anyone. Jennifer Kinsey hadn’t climbed the ranks of the CIA or the State Department by being submissive. She’d fought tooth and nail for every promotion, every letter of commendation.

      Now she was fighting for her life.

      A man bumped into her, knocking her off her feet. She fell to the ground, banging her knees and skinning her hands. Her cheeks grew hot with anger as she stayed on all fours a moment. The man continued on, not bothering to offer a hand or to apologize. She chewed her lip and took a deep breath to clear her head. Let it go, she told herself. Get to the embassy and tell them what you saw.

      Of course, she didn’t expect them to believe it. She hardly believed it herself. That a group of Islamic extremists would attack her and Lee—or any American, for that matter—came as little surprise to Kinsey. Any U.S. diplomat who stepped into the country and expected a warm welcome, needed her head examined. Or at least needed to read a damn newspaper.

      But Lee had been slain by a comrade. Not a friend, but one of his own.

      Several of his own, in fact.

      Hugging her arms tightly around her midsection, Kinsey found herself within forty yards of the nearest police checkpoint. She hurried toward it.

      Again she could smell the smoke, hear the voices.

      See the face.

      It had been sheer pandemonium. The limousine’s front end pinned against the wall, shoved there by another car. When Kinsey first felt the impact, heard the grind of metal on metal, the explosion of radio traffic from the security team, she wondered if they’d been the target of a car bomb.

      In some ways it might have been better that way, she thought.

      The DSS agents had put up a valiant fight, of course. Stay in the car, they’d said. We’ll call for help, fight these guys off.

      A swarm of militants, all dressed in civilian clothes, most armed with AK-47s, faces obscured by hoods, had set upon Lee’s vehicle almost immediately. The DSS agents had given little ground, burning down half a dozen of the bastards in the first few seconds of the fight. They were well trained, well armed, quite simply, the best.

      But Kinsey was convinced that a person couldn’t be trained to survive a live frag grenade dropped just out of reach, particularly when an opponent was willing to sacrifice a few of his own men to kill you.

      Grabbing an abandoned 9 mm SIG-Sauer, Kinsey had stepped from the vehicle, staking herself as the last line of defense between Lee and his attackers. Old habits died hard, she supposed. And she’d fought like the damn devil to nail a few of the guys, hoping against hope that help would arrive. Her life for Lee’s. It had seemed like a fair trade at the time.

      She’d exhausted the SIG-Sauer’s fifteen rounds in no time. With those gone, the remaining militants had set upon her, beating her with rifle butts, fists and feet.

      “She goes alive,” a voice had called out. “She’s mine.”

      The words had caused Kinsey to freeze, a sensation she was unaccustomed to. Turning her head, she saw a big man standing near the shattered limo. He looked at her as he aimed a Browning Hi-Power at the back of a kneeling Lee’s neck.

      “I said, she’s mine.”

      Jon Stone. Here, in Islamabad. Killing his former boss.

      Why?

      She had shuddered at the words then and did so now. He turned his attention to Lee. She kicked one man in the balls, crushed a second’s windpipe and fled. The gunshot that murdered Lee rang in her ears as she’d run away.

      She still wondered—no, obsessed was more like it—about whether she’d done enough to save Lee. What she knew for sure was that Stone, a former teammate, had assassinated a government official and probably wanted to do likewise to her.

      So she could second-guess the hell out of herself all she wanted—later. After she took care of the job at hand.

      The closer she came to the police checkpoint, the less regard she had for maintaining her disguise. Maybe it was fatigue or hunger. She hadn’t slept at all and had only eaten a few scraps of food along the way. Maybe she just wanted the sweet relief of her home territory.

      Regardless, she almost missed the warning signs.

      A Pakistani man came in close, a blade clutched in his right hand. He grabbed her arm and stepped just a few inches away. He kept the blade pointed into her stomach.

      “Come with me,” he snarled.

      In response she shoved the