She stumbled through the brush wondering where they were. They must
have come in from the south, which meant they were already near the
entrance to the loading bay. Go for that, she told herself, pushing on.
The bramble was scraping her face and hands, tearing her clothes. She
was going to look like she'd been run through a shredder, she thought.
A bloody mess.
Then she heard something whiz by, the first shot, and knew the German
was closing in, his weapon on semiauto. With a rush of desperation, she
threw herself on the ground and tried to merge with the damp leaves and
underbrush. And she felt terrible. Mike had screwed things up, but she
hadn't done much better.
Then, out of the mist just up the hill, a figure appeared. Two figures.
Three. Moving with quick, catlike motions. She wanted to yell, to warn
them, but maybe all she would be doing was alerting the damned German
hood trying to kill her. No, they were supposed to be professionals, so
let them handle it their own way.
Then she heard another whiz of a round singing by and saw a fleck of
dirt fly up only inches from where she lay. Again the hard crack of the
German's automatic followed.
All right, ARM. You're supposed to be such hotshots. Do something and
do it now!
The three dark figures answered the shots as though they were in a
ballet, all dropping to a crouch virtually in unison.
They were using silencers, so the rounds came as a series of dull
thunks, but each figure fired only once, or at most, twice. And when
she turned to look back, her pursuer was nowhere to be seen. . . . No,
he was slumped over a bush, motionless.
As one of the hooded figures came up to her and began lifting her to
her feet, two of the others advanced cautiously on the German. Their
caution, however, was unnecessary. He was as lifeless as the granite
rocks around them.
Well, she thought, these guys sure know how to treat a lady.