The guard struggled to his feet, his right hand clamped onto his left arm.

“The knife,” she said. “There, on the ground.”

Not a hint of pain seeped from the man’s mouth. She tried to remember his name, but could not. Viktor had hired each one of the Sacred Band, and she’d made a point not to become attached to any of them. They were objects. Tools to be used. That’s all.

The man staggered to the knife and managed to lift it from the ground.

He came close to the ropes, lost his balance, and fell to his knees.

“You can do it,” she said. “Fight the agony. Focus on your duty.”

The guard seemed to steel himself. Sweat poured down his brow and she noticed fresh blood oozing from the wound. Amazing he wasn’t in shock. But this burly soul seemed in superb physical shape.

He raised the knife, sucked a few breaths, then cut the bindings that held her right wrist. She steadied his shaking arm as he passed her the knife, and she freed herself from the other rope.

“You did well,” she said.

He smiled at her compliment, his breath labored, still on his knees.

“Lie down. Rest,” she said.

She heard him settle on the ground as she searched the forest floor. Near the other body she found a gun.

She returned to the injured guardsman.

He’d seen her vulnerable and, for the first time in a long while, she’d felt vulnerable.

The man lay on his back, still gripping his shoulder.

She stood over him. His dark eyes focused on her and, in them, she saw that he knew.

She smiled at his courage.

Then aimed the gun at his head and fired.

SEVENTY-SIX

MALONE GLANCED DOWN AT THE ROUGH TERRAIN, A MIXTURE OF parched earth, greenlands, rolling hills, and trees. Viktor piloted the chopper, a Hind, which had been parked on a concrete pad a few miles from the palace. He knew the craft. Russian made, twin top-mounted turboshaft engines driving a main and tail rotors. The Soviets called it a flying tank. NATO dubbed the mean-looking thing the Crocodile, due to its camouflage color and distinct fuselage. All in all a formidable gunship, this one modified with a large rear compartment for low-capacity troop transport. Thankfully, they’d managed to leave both the palace and Samarkand with no problems.

“Where’d you learn to fly?” he asked Viktor.

“Bosnia. Croatia. That’s what I did in the military. Search and destroy.”

“Good place to build your nerves.”

“And get killed.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

“How far?” Cassiopeia asked through the headset.

They were flying east, at nearly three hundred kilometers an hour, toward Ely’s cabin in the Pamirs. Zovastina would soon be free, if not already, so he asked, “What about anyone coming after us?”

Viktor motioned ahead. “Those mountains will give us cover. Tough to track anything in there. We’ll be into them shortly, and we’re only minutes from the Chinese border. We can always escape there.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me,” Cassiopeia said. “How far?”

Malone had intentionally avoided answering. She was anxious. He wanted to tell her he knew she was sick. Let her know somebody cared. That he understood her frustration. But he knew better. Instead, he said, “We’re moving as fast as we can.” He paused. “But this is probably better than being tied to trees.”

“I assume I’ll never live that one down.”

“Something like that.”

“Okay, Cotton, I’m a little upset. But you have to understand, I thought Ely was dead. I wanted him to be alive, but I knew-I thought-” She caught herself. “And now-”

He turned and saw excitement in her eyes, which both energized and saddened him. Then he caught himself and finished her thought, “And now he’s with Stephanie and Henrik. So calm down.”

She was seated alone in the rear compartment. He saw her tap Viktor on the shoulder. “Did you know about Ely being alive?”

Viktor shook his head. “I was taunting you on the boat in Venice when I told you he was dead. I had to say something. Truth is, I’m the one who saved Ely. Zovastina thought someone might move on him. He was her adviser and political murder is commonplace in the Federation. She wanted Ely protected. After that attempt on his life, she hid him. I haven’t had anything to do with him since. Though I was head of the guard, she was in charge. So I really don’t know what happened to him. I learned not to ask questions, just do what she said.”

Malone caught the past tense observation concerning Viktor’s job status. “She’ll kill you if she finds you.”

“I knew the rules before all this started.”

They continued flying smooth and straight. He’d never flown in a Hind. Its instrumentation was impressive, as was its firepower. Guided missiles. Multibarrel machine guns. Twin cannon pods.

“Cotton,” Cassiopeia said, “do you have a way of communicating with Stephanie?”

Not a question he wanted to answer at the moment, but he had no choice. “I do.”

“Give it to me.”

He found the world phone-Magellan Billet-issue, provided by Stephanie in Venice-and dialed the number, slipping off his headset. A few seconds were needed before a pulsating buzz confirmed a connection and Stephanie’s voice greeted him.

“We’re headed your way,” he said.

“We left the cabin,” she said. “We’re driving south on a highway marked M45 to what was once Mt. Klimax. Ely knows where it is. He says the locals call the place Arima.”

“Tell me more.”

He listened, then repeated the information to Viktor, who nodded. “I know where that is.”

Viktor banked the copter southeast and increased speed.

“We’re on our way,” he told Stephanie. “Everyone here is fine.”

He saw that Cassiopeia wanted the phone, but that wasn’t going to happen. He motioned no with his head, hoping she’d understand that now was not the time. But to comfort her, he asked Stephanie, “Ely okay?”

“Yeah, but anxious.”

“I know what you mean. We’ll be there before you. I’ll call. We can do some aerial recon until you get there.”

“Viktor any help?”

“Wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for him.”

He clicked off the phone and told Cassiopeia where Ely was headed.

An alarm sounded in the cabin.

His gaze found the radar display that indicated two targets approaching from the west.

“Black Sharks,” Viktor said, “coming straight for us.”

Malone knew those choppers, too. NATO called them Hokums. KA-50s. Fast, efficient, loaded with guided missiles and 30mm cannons. He saw that Viktor also realized the threat.

“They found us quick,” Malone said.

“There’s a base near here.”

“What do you plan to do?”

They started to climb, gaining altitude, changing course. Six thousand feet. Seven. Nine. Leveling at ten.

“You know how to use the guns?” Viktor asked.

He was sitting in the weapons officer’s seat, so he scanned the instrument panel. Luckily, he could read Russian. “I can manage.”

“Then get ready for a fight.”