He swerved crazily, then jerked hard to the left to scrape the side of the van into Mira's sedan. She dug deeper, foot to the floor on the gas, arms shaking with the effort to hold the wheel steady against the opposing force of the van. When the driver suddenly hit his brakes, Mira realized her mistake. Too late to stop her forward momentum, she ended up in front of the van.
Not even a second later, he rammed her from behind.
The hit was off center, smashing the rear right side of her car. Her body flew sideways with the impact, slamming her shoulder and head into the driver's-side door and window. Light exploded inside her skull. She smelled blood, felt warm, wet heat spread over her scalp and down the left side of her face.
Her vision was fading, filling fast with a thick black fog as the sedan lurched into a vicious spin. Everything slowed . . . then stopped.
Voices coming closer now.
She didn't know how many. Couldn't reconcile where they'd come from, until she lifted her head and glimpsed the black van. All of her senses were blanketed in a heavy gauze, sight and sound a confusion of input that her brain struggled to process. She tried to move, but her limbs refused the weak command.
"Come on, Brady. We don't have time for this." A man's voice, clipped and anxious on his approach. "We gotta roll now!"
"You heard Bowman's orders on this job." The reply was female. "No casualties, Vince. Secure the target and get out. That was the plan."
"And we've got Ackmeyer, so mission accomplished. Now let's get the f**k outta here."
"I'm not going anywhere until I make sure she's okay." A long-legged gait rushed toward Mira's slump in the car. The driver's-side door groaned open. "Jesus. Oh, shit . . . go get Doc. I need him out here on the double."
"She dying?"
"You better pray like hell she's not." A terse answer. "Go get Doc, right now."
Through the thick fog swamping Mira's senses, she felt the air stir as the man crept closer. Heard his sudden indrawn breath as he leaned over his comrade to get a better look. "Holy hell. This bitch is one of the Ord - "
"I know who she is," snapped the woman. "Go back to the van and get Doc. And have Chaz get busy switching out that wasted tire. I'm calling the base. Someone's got to tell the boss we just f**ked this thing up big-time."
She didn't seem to notice the tiny flex of Mira's fingers. Didn't real-ize that the twitch of muscle response bumped Mira's hand against the hilt of the dagger lying on the floor next to the front seat where she sat slouched.
Mira focused on the cold metal hilt of her blade as the man ran off to carry out his instructions, and the woman turned away to contact the one who led them.
"They should be here by now." Bowman's voice was more snarl than words as he stalked through his stronghold nearly three hours after the call came in from the botched field op.
The petite young woman in charge of communications for the rebel base camp located south of Boston hurried to keep pace with him in the bunker's gloomy corridors. She hooked a lock of her short indigo-dyed hair behind an ear bearing a dozen tiny metal loops. "I've been trying to reach them for a situation update, but so far no response."
"When's the last time you tried, Nina?"
"Five minutes ago."
Bowman's answering curse echoed off the dank, block-granite walls. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and the trim goatee that darkened his chin. "Try them again. Do it now."
"Yes, sir." She already had her comm device activated, speaking the command that would connect her to the team en route. It took only seconds before she gave him a grave shake of her head, big brown eyes serious with concern. "Still nothing."
"Son of a bitch." Something was wrong. Something worse than the obvious complication that took place at Ackmeyer's house a few hours ago.
Bowman wasn't about to sit around with his dick in hand, wondering and waiting. He'd hated the taste of that inactivity from the moment he gave the okay on this job. Now it burned like acid in the back of his throat.
Combat boots striking hollowly on the concrete floor of the abandoned military fort, he rounded a corner to head deeper into the bunker, toward a hand-hewn tunnel leading underground to the gun battery that served as the rebel base's small fleet garage.
"I'm sure they'll be here any minute," Nina said, jogging to stay alongside him. "I'm sure they've got everything under control now."
Bowman grunted, kept walking. If only it were that simple to just sit back and wait it out, knowing how badly things had gone off the rails out there.
"What are you going to do? You can't mean to go after them . . ."
He didn't answer, didn't slow down.
Damn it, he never should have put this job into play. He'd had a bad feeling about it to start with, but after waiting months for the opportunity to make his move on Ackmeyer, he hadn't been willing to risk losing that chance simply because it was a daytime grab to be conducted under less-than-perfect conditions.
Less than perfect seemed the understatement of the century as he stormed down the long corridor with Nina racing behind him, making another frantic attempt to reach Brady, Doc, and the others.
How long had they been developing their plan to get close to Ackmeyer? Nearly a quarter of a year of meticulous espionage, of putting out the right feelers to the right people, of waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It might have taken months more to get the necessary pieces in place. Too long, and hesitation could prove catastrophic, if Ackmeyer was permitted to continue his work. All the worse, should he decide to profit from the formidable fruits of his labor.