Something to Die For Read online

  Anya swallowed and let out a breath, trying to ignore the ache in her hand and the twinge of embarrassment her outburst had provoked.

  ‘You’re wasting your time, you know.’

  Spinning around, Anya was surprised to find someone had approached without her knowledge, moving swiftly and silently across the padded floor of the gymnasium. A woman she recognised from their one and only meeting six months earlier.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Freya Shaw continued, amused by Anya’s discomfort. ‘I admire your dedication. And the tough female soldier routine is just… delightful. But that’s one fight you’ll never win.’

  ‘How did you get in here?’ Anya demanded, both irritated and a little unnerved by the intrusion. Camp Peary was a high security military facility, designed for special forces units and CIA field teams to train and prepare for active operations.

  It was not the kind of place a civilian could simply walk into.

  Shaw didn’t answer this, though Anya saw a flicker of a smile as the older woman moved slowly around her. Sleek and elegant, well dressed and perfectly groomed, she was everything Anya wasn’t; a fact that both women were acutely aware of in that moment.

  ‘It doesn’t matter how many weights you lift or how far you run. You’ll never be as big or as powerful as they are,’ she explained patiently. ‘You’re simply not built for it, Anya. And the harder you try to overcome that, the harder reality will push back against you.’

  Anya’s hands curled into fists as she glared at Shaw. This arrogant, manipulative woman who dared to lecture her on what she was and wasn’t capable of.

  ‘I have made it this far,’ she pointed out. ‘Many people like you have tried to stop me, or tell me I couldn’t. But here I am.’

  ‘Here you are indeed,’ Shaw agreed. ‘That tells me two things about you. You’re resilient, and short-sighted. One of those makes you an asset, the other a liability.’

  Anya could feel her heart rate increasing as Shaw’s words seeped into her mind like poison, somehow cutting to the very core of her psyche. Seeking a distraction, she bent down and picked up her bottle of water.

  ‘I came here today to find out which of those qualities is stronger in you. Whether I can make you into something useful, or whether you’ll always be just a dumb “valstietis” who wants to play soldiers…’

  Anya stiffened at the vulgar insult in her native language. She’d heard more than enough. Smashing the glass bottle against the nearby exercise frame, she whirled around and brought the jagged end up against Shaw’s throat.

  Shaw didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle as Anya held the improvised weapon barely an inch from the vulnerable skin.

  ‘This “girl” has killed people smarter and stronger than you,’ Anya hissed. ‘Say the wrong thing and we will find out how much of liability I really am.’

  Anya had killed plenty of men up close and personal before, but never a woman. Not that she had any unique compassion or loyalty towards her own sex, just that the opportunity had never presented itself. The thought even crossed her mind that it would be interesting to see if they died any differently.

  But far from being afraid, as she rightly should have, Shaw met her baleful gaze with a look of cool, detached satisfaction, as if she’d made a point in some academic debate.

  ‘I suppose I should add “easily provoked” to the list.’

  Anya brought the jagged edge of the bottle closer so that it touched the skin right around her carotid artery. She knew just the right angle and amount of force to use, and that if she did so, Shaw would be dead in under a minute.

  ‘Do you think this is a game, Freya Shaw? Shall we play together, you and I?’

  ‘That’s one way to look at it,’ Shaw replied. ‘That being the case, you ought to think more than one move ahead. For example, you could kill me right now—’

  ‘Give me a reason not to.’

  ‘If you did, the two snipers covering this gym hall from the overhead windows would drop you before you’d taken three paces.’

  Anya held her stare for a second or two before glancing up at the building’s windows. Sure enough, she saw at least one figure crouched down beside a window that had been opened to let fresh air in, saw the long barrel of a rifle trained on her.

  ‘Planning and foresight. You can’t take my life without sacrificing your own. So here we are – stalemate.’ Shaw’s expression took on a harder, more commanding look. ‘Now take that thing away from my throat before I lose my patience.’

  Anya stubbornly kept it there for a few more seconds, hoping to make her sweat, hoping to ruffle that infuriatingly flawless composure. When it became apparent that it wasn’t going to happen, she finally lowered the broken bottle and withdrew a few steps.

  ‘Good girl.’ Shaw looked as if nothing remotely unusual had just happened. ‘Now, there’s another reason I came here today.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I like you, Anya.’

  Anya snorted in amusement. ‘If you must lie, at least make it believable.’

  ‘I’m serious. You have intelligence, courage and determination. I know what you went through in Afghanistan.’ At a sharp look from Anya, she held up a hand. ‘Relax. Something like that would have broken most people, man or woman. But you made it out. More importantly, you had the courage to get back in the game.’

  A flicker of an ironic smile showed at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘And as I just discovered, you haven’t lost your fire.’

  Anya closed her eyes and sighed as the truth dawned on her. ‘This was a test.’

  It was becoming apparent that Freya was always thinking ahead. Everything she did, every seemingly inconsequential action or conversation, served a higher purpose.

  ‘Now you’re starting to understand.’ Taking a step forward, Shaw nodded at Anya’s body, lean and fit after her strenuous workout. ‘You’ve developed this as much as you can.’ Then she held a finger up and lightly tapped her temple. ‘But this… this is far more dangerous.’

  Anya looked at her closely, trying to discern the woman’s intent. Normally she could read people with ease, but with Shaw she found herself unaccountably lost.

  ‘When people look at us, they see weakness. And who can blame them, really? We’re smaller than them, softer, less aggressive. We can’t run as fast, lift as heavy or hit as hard as they can. From the moment we’re born, we’re at a disadvantage. They know this, and in our most honest moments, so do we.’

  Anya bristled visibly at this statement. She had been told similar things for much of her life, and hearing it coming from a woman did little to improve her mood.

  ‘But don’t you see, Anya? That’s not a handicap at all; it’s our greatest advantage. We’ll always be ignored, overlooked, underestimated. No one sees us a threat, so no one sees us coming. We don’t fight against that, we use it.’

  Anya was listening to her now, but not with the casual disdain and irritation she had felt before. Now she was really listening. Somehow, Shaw seemed to have seen right through her, laid bare her own fears, insecurities, hopes and grievances.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘You’ve spent the past five years playing their game. You played well, but it will always be their game, their rules. That’s the kind of game you never win.’

  Shaw’s expression changed in that moment. The mask of confidence and composure slipped a little. And Anya suddenly understood that Shaw had been in the same position, had fought the same battles long before herself. She had made those same mistakes, but she had learned from them.

  ‘But what if I showed you how to change the rules of the game? What if you were able to be the person you’re supposed to be, instead of breaking yourself trying to fit someone else’s mould?’

  ‘And what am I supposed to be?’ Anya asked, wary of flattery and empty promises.

  ‘You’re supposed to be better,’ Shaw said firmly. ‘Better than us, better than me. You’re supposed to be t
he future. With my help, I think you can be just that. If you trust me.’

  Anya scrutinised her closely, seeking some hidden tell, some insidious sign of deception, and yet finding none. As best she could tell, Shaw’s offer and her intentions appeared to be sincere. And after everything she had been through in the past year, everything she had lost and sacrificed for someone else’s cause, it would be a lie to say she wasn’t tempted by it.

  ‘For most of my life, I have been other people’s pawn. I won’t be one for you.’

  At this, Shaw smiled. Not a devious or malicious smile, but a smile of acknowledgement. And, perhaps, a touch of respect.

  ‘Anya, by the time I’m finished, you won’t be a pawn. You’ll be a queen.’

  Jerusalem, Israel – April 26th, 2011

  An uneasy quiet hung over the ancient city of Jerusalem, the crescent moon rising over a cityscape of antiquated stone buildings, narrow cobbled streets lined with acacia trees, secluded courtyards and back alleys. There was a tense stillness in the air, an unspoken sense of anticipation in a city that had known little else but war and conflict throughout its long history.

  Fraught with tension and division it might have been, but people still flocked from all over the world to visit the place. American Jews revisiting their ancestral homeland, Muslims on pilgrimage to the mosque on Temple Mount, tourists from scores of countries there to experience the sights and learn the history.

  For all of these reasons, Jerusalem had a vibrant night life, with restaurants, bars, cafes and underground nightclubs flourishing in streets and districts that had stood for millennia.

  In short, it was a perfect place for a white woman who’d assassinated a high-ranking Mossad officer just days earlier to disappear. And it was in one of these busy underground bars that Anya found herself, seated in a corner with her back to the wall, an empty glass of vodka in front of her. Normally she wasn’t a big drinker, preferring to keep a clear head, but tonight was different.

  She felt troubled and restless after her mission in Tel Aviv two days ago, brooding on what she’d learned from Russo. The name Vizur could only refer to Vizur Qalat, a Pakistani intelligence officer that Cain had met with last year to broker a clandestine intel-sharing deal. Why would this man have ordered her capture? She had never even met him, to the best of her knowledge.

  The deeper she dug, the more questions she came away with. And yet she was determined to keep going. Whatever scheme Qalat and his accomplices had concocted, it had resulted in the destruction of her unit and four long years in a Siberian prison. That was something which couldn’t go unanswered.

  This would be her final mission. Not for a flag, a country, an ideology or a secret organisation, but for herself. As for what came after, she didn’t know. Perhaps there wouldn’t even be an After.

  She glanced up as the bartender wandered over, a bottle of vodka in his meaty hands. He was a bear of a man, well over 6 feet tall and 300 pounds of fat and muscle, but his imposing appearance was belied by his cheerful, gentle demeanour.

  ‘You want one more?’

  Giving him a weak smile, Anya held a hand over her glass. A couple of vodkas had helped take the edge off, but she couldn’t afford to overdo it.

  Nodding understanding, the bar owner moved off to tend to other customers. But as he did so, Anya happened to catch another man’s eye, seated at the far end of the bar. She caught the interest in his expression as he stood up to approach.

  Anya’s hand slid beneath the table, gently thumbing off the safety on her weapon as she looked him up and down. He was about her age, she judged. Average height for a man, but in good shape, no fat on him. Sandy brown hair, medium length. Bright blue eyes, rugged features that bordered on handsome, and a tanned, weathered complexion. He was wearing a loose cotton shirt, worn jeans and dusty desert boots that looked like they’d seen decent use.

  ‘Forgive the intrusion, but it breaks my heart to see a beautiful woman drinking alone.’ His accent was British. Smooth and well spoken. There was a glimmer of attraction in his eyes.

  ‘I’m not drinking,’ Anya pointed out, nodding to her empty glass. She had little desire for company tonight, and certainly not the romantic kind.

  ‘But you are beautiful, and alone,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps I can help with that.’

  He slid into to a chair opposite without waiting for permission. Seeing the new arrival, the bartender came over to take his order.

  Ordering a beer for himself, he added, ‘And a vodka for the lady. Stumbras, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You are very forward,’ Anya remarked as the bartender fetched their drinks, both irritated by his presumptuous move and just a little impressed. Plenty of men feigned aggressive confidence, but this one was of a different sort.

  He shrugged. ‘When I see something I like, I go after it. Life’s too short not to. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘It depends what you go after,’ Anya replied. ‘Not everything is as it seems.’

  ‘That’s true, but isn’t that what makes people so interesting? Everyone has a story to tell.’ He took a sip of his beer. ‘Your accent, for example. Lithuanian, if I’m not mistaken?’

  Anya’s brows rose in surprise, which prompted an amused laugh.

  ‘The way you stress the Rs and the Ls. A dead giveaway. Of course, it’s softer in your case, with a hint of East Coast American too, I think. I assume you grew up in Lithuania before moving to the West.’

  ‘You assume a lot.’

  ‘Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.’

  Anya said nothing to that, which prompted a wry smile.

  ‘In my line of work, details count. One learns to pay attention to them.’

  Anya tilted her head. ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘I’m a journalist.’ He paused before adding, ‘Freelance, you might say. The name’s Blake. Carter Blake.’

  She’d heard enough. Of all the people she might socialise with, an investigative journalist who already knew more about her than she was comfortable with wasn’t one of them. Downing her vodka, Anya set it down on the table.

  ‘Thank you for the drink, Blake,’ she said, standing up. ‘I hope you find a good story of your own.’

  She saw a flicker of disappointment, though he tipped his beer to her. ‘Likewise.’

  Ascending the stairs into the cool night air, Anya glanced around to get her bearings. She was in the Old Town, the historic centre of the city. About half a mile away, the weathered stone walls, soaring towers and the great plateau of Temple Mount were starkly lit from below by floodlights. And in the midst of it all, the gold-plated Dome of the Rock.

  The Mount was the focal point of multiple religions, a symbol of the endless conflict that had stained the ancient ground of Israel for millennia. Everyone from the Romans to the Persians, the Crusaders and the Knights Templar, and even the Ottomans and the British had conquered and fought over this place, successive empires rising and falling with the tides of history.

  Pulling on a shawl to cover her hair, she set out eastward through the complex labyrinth of cobbled streets and alleyways. Her head was down but her eyes were alert, her posture relaxed but ready, her hands thrust in the pockets of her jacket.

  She turned left off the bustling main street, taking a side alley heading north. The old buildings loomed over her, nearly blotting out her view of the stars overhead. Away from the lights and activity of the main thoroughfare, her senses began to sharpen.

  It wasn’t long before she detected the sound of footsteps behind her. Not running, but keeping pace with her.

  Reaching an intersection of several alleys and small roads, she turned sharply right and picked up her pace. The footsteps followed. Two sets, moving fast but steady.

  She turned right again at the next intersection, passing through an arched wall into a small courtyard beyond. It was overlooked by darkened sandstone buildings, their windows firmly shuttered.

  Just as she’d expected, a welcoming committee was waitin
g for her.

  Anya halted, facing the two men on the opposite side of the courtyard. Both were tall and well built, one black and the other Hispanic. Both were dressed in loose shirts and jackets. The kind of clothes in which one could easily conceal weapons.

  Both were watching her with dark, wary eyes.

  ‘Should have stayed for that drink,’ a voice remarked from behind.

  Anya didn’t need to turn around to know that Blake had followed her from the bar.

  ‘Who sent you?’ she asked quietly, backing towards one corner of the courtyard as the ring closed around her. ‘Mossad? The CIA?’

  Her eyes flicked to each man in turn, taking note of their stances and weapons. The two men in front were armed with tasers – X26 police-issue units. Non-lethal, intended only to incapacitate her.

  The other two were packing automatics. One was a Glock 22, the other was possibly a Sig Sauer P220, though she couldn’t be sure in the dim light. Both had suppressors fitted.

  ‘Nothing as grand as that, I’m afraid. There’s ten million dollars on your head. A man could retire with that kind of money. Now get those hands up where I can see them, please.’

  Anya let out a snort of disgust. ‘You’re bounty hunters.’

  A ripple of laughter passed through the four men covering her.

  ‘If you want to call it that,’ Blake confirmed. ‘It’s nothing personal, just business.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this, Blake,’ Anya implored him. She still had her hands firmly in her pockets. ‘You can still walk away.’

  Unknown to them, her hand was closed around the heavy metal sphere in her pocket, her thumb working against the pin until she felt it snap free.

  ‘That’s not how this story plays out, I’m afraid.’ His voice took on a harder edge. ‘Now show me those hands.’

  ‘You mean this hand?’ Anya asked, holding out the grenade she was clutching, the pin now dangling from her thumb. Half a second later, she released her grip on the fly-off handle, and hurled the weapon at them.

  She saw them flinch slightly, one or two backing away, but Blake stood his ground. His silent reassurance steadied the others, and they held the line, keeping her covered.