Isabella held the door of the armored SUV as Anya climbed out into the secure parking garage under the Hamilton Arena. The skater had her game face on tonight. She had a distant look in her eyes and wasn’t speaking to anyone. She hadn’t since the American skating coach had shown up at her door to lead her through the usual verbal run-throughs of her program.
He’d had her jump a bit in the middle of her room, too, to practice something she needed to remember about her arms. It had been impressive to see the girl fly up into the air from a standing start, twirl around three times and land on one foot. It was easy to forget just how extraordinary an athlete Anya was. Only a handful of the greatest ballet dancers in the world could jump and twirl like that, and they weren’t landing on a knife edge going upwards of thirty miles an hour.
Anya ignored the arena’s security measures as Isabella led her through them tonight, so focused was she on the performance to come. Judy Levinson was going to meet them at the rink with the fire dancer costume, and Ashley Caldwell, who’d brought Anya’s skates the last time, had volunteered to do it again. Isabella let the American skater do it, more because Anya was being superstitious today, wanting everything to be exactly identical to her preparations for her last two skates, than because Anya’s skates were in danger.
Isabella was pleased to see the tension surrounding the entry checkpoints. Word had clearly gotten out to the building security team that something bad might be planned. This was the premier event of the entire Winter Olympic Games. Tonight, both the men’s and ladies’ singles finals would be skated. Many times, international competitions paired ice dancing with ladies’ singles. But because of the global nature of this event, the ISU had decided to do both competitions on this Saturday evening to maximize the worldwide audience. The men would go first. They were slated to begin in an hour, in fact.
Anya and Isabella made it through the last checkpoint and headed for the ladies’ dressing room. Isabella put the girl’s hair up in rollers while Anya applied her makeup.
It was almost time to take Anya’s hair down and Isabella was starting to sweat it because the Russian coach wasn’t here to bail her out when a voice made Isabella turn around.
It was Lily Gustavson, the ISU official. “Ms. Khalid. You have a visitor.”
Liz stepped out from behind the taller woman. Anya squealed and launched herself at her coach, but checked herself and only gave her coach a gentle hug. Which was probably a good call given how pale and drawn the Aussie looked. Liz said sternly, “You didn’t think I’d let you skate in the finals of the Olympics without me, did you?”
Anya smiled from ear to ear.
“Okay, young lady. Let’s get your hair out of those rollers while you go over your program for me.”
Isabella sagged in relief at escaping further hair duty. She stepped close enough to murmur to the coach, “My colleagues are just outside the dressing room. A brigade of bad guys couldn’t get in here right now. I’m going to go out and have a look around.”
Liz nodded, absorbed in gathering Anya’s hair into a long clip.
The plan was for Isabella to leave Anya in the locker room while she helped the Medusas pull out Lazlo’s family. Now that Liz was back, Isabella felt a whole lot better about doing so. As soon as she stepped out of the locker room, she murmured into her collar mike, “I’m out.”
Vanessa replied, “The fourth skater in this group is skating now. You have about fifteen minutes to get in place.”
“Sorry I cut it so close. Liz is here, though. Looks like hell but isn’t about to miss her girl skating.”
“That’s great!” Vanessa replied.
Isabella hurried to the concourse level. Kat, Misty and Aleesha should already be inside the women’s restroom she’d just passed. Karen would be hiding in a stall of the men’s room nearby. All of them had worn the distinctive black wool coats of Olympic officials tonight, along with hats and scarves. If Vanessa wasn’t already out front in the SUV on loan from the FBI, she would be soon.
Isabella found the entrance into the right section of seats and had a look below. The arena was crammed to the rafters. It was a sea of bright color, and dozens of huge halogen lights washed the ice in brilliant light. Television backdrops dominated a full quarter of the arena down at ice level, and lights bathed those as well. The atmosphere was electric. This was the holy grail of figure skating, and the worshipers were out in force to pay homage to the quadrennial event.
Isabella leaned against the steel railing to one side of the tunnel, trying to look like she was merely standing at her post. She scanned the arena and spotted several security men, unobtrusively strolling around the very top of the arena behind the nosebleed seats. She’d lay odds they were snipers carrying concealed rifles. Dozens of other security types were here, combing the place for any sign of the two nerve agents, but she didn’t spot any of the teams.
The last skater in this group of men took the ice. Four-and-a-half minutes until the intermission. Until the Petrovich family would excuse itself from its seats and head for the bathrooms. Her job was to spot whether or not Ilya or his men were following the family. The Medusas had a plan for it either way, but one was considerably more violent and dangerous than the other.
There would be a fifteen-minute break while the Zamboni resurfaced the ice and a six-minute warm-up period for the last group of men. After that, the sixth through first place men would skate their programs in reverse order. Lazlo was in sixth place going into this evening’s competition, so he would skate first.
His mother and sisters were in the stands all wearing long robes and full burkas, ostensibly in protest over Anya’s upcoming performance. In reality, however, the coverings would play a pivotal role in the family’s escape from Gorabchek.
Soon, now. Adrenaline started pumping into her system, revving her up to full combat speed.
The last skater fell twice in the last minute of his program, and took a disappointed bow as his music ended. No lengthy ovations for him. A few flowers sailed onto the ice and were picked up, and then the Zamboni drove out. A crowd of people rushed the tunnel, heading for the snack stands and restrooms. She held her position against the flood, all the while keeping a close eye out for Lazlo’s family.
There they were, coming up the steps toward her. The black robes and veils were hard to miss. Interestingly enough, they weren’t the only women here tonight so attired. She had to wonder if the women under those veils truly objected to Anya’s skating. But then, maybe she was just cynical.
She kept an eagle eye peeled for Gorabchek or his associates, but saw no sign of their bulky forms in the crowd anywhere near the Petrovich family. “They’re clear,” she said. “Heading your way.”
The family had been warned to expect to stand in long lines to get into the restroom and the Medusas had counseled them to be patient and wait their turns like everyone else so as not to draw attention to themselves. Isabella turned and headed for the concourse, trailing the family at a distance. No sign of any tails from here. She loitered nearby, getting two drinks from the drinking fountain and even standing in the bathroom line herself for a while to mask her continued presence in the area.
“Papa Bear just went inside. Mama Bear and the cubs are about two minutes from inside,” she reported.
A few seconds later, Karen came up. “Got him. Man, did some folks squawk when that end door suddenly turned out to be unlocked. Starting the switcheroo.”
Karen and Papa Petrovich would exchange clothes. She would put on his red jacket and ski cap and he’d don her sober Olympic security coat. At six feet tall, Karen was almost exactly the same height as the elder Petrovich. A spray-on tanner had matched her naturally fair skin tones to his darker ones. With her hair up in a cap, she could pass for the man at a distance. Well, maybe if the viewer was drunk and squinted very hard. Fortunately, all Karen had to do was pass for the guy at a glance.
“We have contact on our targets,” Kat announced. “They’re coming into the stall with us now.” The three Medusas had claimed one of the oversized handicapped-access stalls in which to make their clothing changes with the Petrovich women.
Karen replied, “We’re done. Call us when you’re ready to roll.”
“Roger,” came Kat’s muffled reply. Sounded like her head was in a sweater.
Vanessa piped up. “FYI, I’m ready to roll out here as well.”
In no more than a minute, Kat spoke again. “Visibility sucks in this burka. No wonder women can’t drive in these getups. They can’t see anything!”
Isabella grinned. “I gather then, that you’re ready to roll?”
“Yup, they’re all dressed up as Olympic officials and we Medusas look like Black Moving Objects.”
Isabella took one last look around the concourse. “All clear out here. Let’s do it.”
All four Medusas, now wearing the Petrovichs’ distinctive clothing, emerged from the bathrooms and met in front of the drinking fountain. Without making eye contact with Isabella, they headed purposefully back toward their seats to watch “their son” skate.
Meanwhile, a somewhat motley group of “Olympic officials” made its way down the concourse and toward the nearest exit. Isabella trailed just behind them, covering their six and making sure none of them freaked out or did anything stupid.
“Coming at you, Viper,” she muttered as the family passed through the exit doors.
“In sight,” her boss replied tersely.
Isabella stepped outside and looked left and right. All clear. Papa Petrovich opened the back door and helped his family into the vehicle. Then, after a long look over his shoulder, he climbed into the front seat and pulled the door shut. For a second there, she hadn’t been entirely sure he’d get in the car. He’d been violently opposed to fleeing before his son skated. But his true reluctance was precisely why the plan would work. Gorabchek wouldn’t expect them to run before Lazlo skated.
“The vehicle is pulling out now,” Isabella advised her teammates inside the arena. She doubled back quickly to the tunnel to keep an eye on her teammates who were still in the aisle, slowly making their way to the Petrovichs’ seats. “Remove the robes now and get to safety.”
Karen bit out, “I just spotted Gorabchek. He’s sitting in the stands.”
“Did he see us?” That was Misty sounding a bit tense.
“No,” Karen answered. “There’s Lazlo coming onto the ice to skate. Ilya and friends just turned to look at the kid. Robes off, now.”
“Where are the tangos?” Isabella asked. “I’ll cover your retreat if you guys can back out of that area now.”
“Twenty rows up from the ice, left of the aisle by about ten seats. All three side-by-side. Four empty seats in front of them.”
“Got it,” Isabella replied. “They’re looking around now. Starting to act concerned now that he’s seen the seats are empty. Aw, crap. They’re getting out of their seats. Get out of there, ladies. Scatter!”
Each of the four Medusas headed in a different direction. Kat went down toward the ice, passing Ilya and friends at a range of about twelve inches. Karen moved left at the intersecting horizontal aisle, Misty headed right. And Aleesha came straight up the stairs at Isabella. Mamba passed her by, making eye contact and giving a fractional smile. Isabella held her ground and continued to lean against the steel railing. “Ilya and friends have split up.”
Isabella pulled out her cell phone and hit the speed dial for the security team. “A little help in section 106. Three subjects have just left their seats. Male. Black leather jackets. All three are probable hostiles. I repeat, probable hostiles.”
A flurry of voices responded to that as FBI agents and OSG security forces converged to pick up pursuit of Gorabchek and his men.
Dex came across the frequency. “If one of those guys takes a piss, I want you there to help him. These guys do nothing and go nowhere without eyes on them. Everyone got that?”
A murmur of affirmatives.
Dex ordered, “Backup Channel 1 will be devoted to Gorabchek. Channel 2 to the taller of his two buddies, Channel 3 to the short one…”
Isabella tuned out as he divvied out surveillance teams to watch the three men. If the terrorists tried to approach a hidden cache of nerve agents, they’d have so many people on top of them they wouldn’t know what hit them.
She headed back down toward the locker room and Anya. She monitored the surveillance of the three Chechnyans on her radio, but based on their movements, it sounded like the three men were merely searching the arena for Lazlo’s family. She’d leave them to the teams upstairs. She had a skater to look out for.
Isabella tried to stay out of sight and out of mind as Anya completed her final preparations for the skate of her life. Sixteen years of daily practice, sore feet, missed fun, and hard work all boiled down to this moment.
The first six women were called to the ice. The ladies’ final would run in the same fashion as the men’s with a break after the first six skaters to resurface the ice followed by the final six skaters. Including Anya.
Too restless to stand in the warm-up area any longer watching Anya stretch and listen to music, Isabella headed for the ice. If Red Jihad was going to do anything tonight, it would have to be soon. This group would take a little less than an hour to skate and be judged. Then, fifteen minutes for the Zamboni, another hour of skating, and it would all be over.
As she emerged from the long tunnel leading to the ice, she looked around the arena. If possible, the atmosphere was even more charged than it had been for the men. She wondered idly how Lazlo had finished. She hadn’t paid the slightest bit of attention. He probably hadn’t pulled up into a medal position from sixth place, but he’d still had a great showing for the representative of a tiny country at its first Olympics.
What was the Red Jihad planning? She could almost feel the violence of it in the air. The anticipation was so thick she could slice it. Of course, maybe it was just her own nerves about Anya’s upcoming skate. If the girl really hit her program, she might even pull out a medal. And how big a statement would that be to the world?
Isabella fretted through the first group of skaters. But she saw nothing. During the fourth skater’s performance, all three surveillance teams reported that the three Chechnyans had left the arena. Completely, as in outside. Bye-bye. What was up with that? A rolling surveillance team followed them to see where they headed.
Please, God, let this whole threat to the skating venue not be a giant feint to disguise some other target! All of the OSG’s security resources were concentrated here!
The Medusas reported in now and then. None of them had spotted anything suspicious. The last skater in the first group flew past Isabella on the other side of the boards, nearing the end of her program. From this angle, the ice looked like unnaturally white glass, despite six long programs having just been skated on it. Holt’s super ice held up well to hard usage. It glistened with an almost magical quality. Some ice-skating rink this was.
Wait a minute. Ice-skating rink. Harlan Holt said he’d put the powder in the rink. Not in the arena. In the rink specifically! He was a scientist, not a skating expert. He wouldn’t necessarily have used the proper terminology to distinguish between the ice surface and the facility which held it. Lots of people called the ice itself a rink.
Holy shit.
Could it be that the Agent Alpha was right there in front of all of them? In the rink itself? In the ice?
The current skater, Alexandria Marweshandra of India, finished her program and commenced taking her bows.
Isabella thought furiously. It was all there, right in front of her. Harlan Holt inexplicably insisting that the ice be torn up and resurfaced right about the same time his wife disappeared. The hit from the chemical detectors on the paper bag of poop—that had lain on the ice! The anomalous readings when this place was searched last night. A trace of vapor rose from the ice when it got cold in here, like late at night. A tiny amount of the Agent Alpha was evaporating into the air—from the ice! Even Holt’s distraught remark last night that he’d put the powder in the rink made sense. He’d told her exactly where the Agent Alpha was. He’d mixed it into the ice!
Marweshandra headed off to the kiss-and-cry area. Meanwhile, a gate opened at the other end of the arena where the Zamboni would enter as soon as the girl’s scores were posted.
Her brain leaped to the next step. How would the Agent Bravo come into contact with the Agent Alpha? Think, ’Bella, think! It was liquid. There’d need to be a whole lot of it. Hundreds of gallons. It would have to come into direct contact with the ice.
A rumbling engine coughed to life at the far end of the ice.
Oh shit.
The Zamboni!
She yanked out her phone, hit the speed dial, and screamed into it, “Stop the Zamboni! It’s the Agent Bravo! The Alpha agent has been frozen into the ice and the Zamboni is about to spray the Bravo agent right on top of it!”
She looked around wildly at the coaches and skaters milling along the boards. What had that scientist said? The nerve gas was slightly heavier than air. It would sink. But she’d said that if it was stirred up, it would mix with the air in an enclosed space!
“Get back!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “Everyone, get back from the ice! Head down the tunnel!”
Dammit, they weren’t moving. They were all staring at her in uncomprehending shock. Like she’d lost her mind.
“Poison gas,” she shouted desperately. “From the Zamboni! Terrorist attack!” She was about to yell “Fire!” if they didn’t get moving soon. She grabbed the arms of the people nearest to her and shoved them toward the tunnel.
Over her shoulder, she heard the Zamboni rumble out onto the ice. Holy crap. Thirty thousand people were about to get nerve gassed.
Into her phone she shouted, “Somebody stop the Zamboni! Make an announcement over the P.A. system for everyone from the bottom rows of the building to move up higher as fast as they can. Evacuate the place, dammit!”
Chaos erupted over the radios.
A few people around her began to pick up on her panic and moved in alarm toward the tunnel.
But that damned Zamboni kept rumbling closer, spraying its heated load of Agent Bravo in a glistening sheet of liquid death.
An agitated male voice came over the building’s loud speaker. “We need everyone in the lower rows of the stadium to move to higher parts of the building immediately. A hazardous fumes sensor indicates that the Zamboni machine may be emitting a dangerous gas at the level of the ice. Please move as quickly as you can.”
She noted dimly that the guy didn’t suggest they do it in an orderly fashion.
“Move!” she screamed yet again to the crowd of people around her. In combination with the general announcement, they finally got the lead out and headed for the tunnel en masse. A traffic jam resulted, but with her shouting behind everyone like a bulldog nipping at their heels, the mob shoved forward and kept moving.
The Zamboni rounded the corner at the end of the ice and drew parallel to her position. She looked back over her shoulder in horror. The Zamboni driver was swarthy. Bulky in build. And looked like a carbon copy of Ilya Gorabchek. Brothers, maybe.
But what really captured her attention was the maniacal gleam in his eyes as he looked over at her. And smiled. That was the smile of a man anticipating meeting his Maker in Paradise. The bastard knew what he was about. He was committing suicide. She yanked out her pistol and took off running from the tunnel entrance toward the Zamboni and its cargo of doom.
She ran out onto the ice, slipping and sliding wildly. She ran after the machine, which was moving at a fairly stiff clip. When she was as close she could get to the guy, she fired every last one of her rubber dum-dum bullets at his head. He tilted over and the Zamboni swerved wildly.
“Snipers, take him out!” she screamed.
And then she dared not say any more. The scientist’s warning about a single lungful of the poison gas killing a person was vivid in her mind. A faint mist was rising from the ice, swirling around her legs. She held her breath and ran off the ice clumsily, praying not to fall down. For to do so would mean death.
At least the report of her pistol had put the fear of God into the spectators who, until that point had been making their way in fairly leisurely fashion up the stairs and milling around on the concourse level walkways.
“Everyone out of the building!” a voice bellowed over the loudspeakers.
The reports of several rifles firing simultaneously rang out deafeningly.
Screams erupted, and she caught a glimpse of pandemonium above as people fought their way to the exits, now appropriately hysterical.
As she stumbled off the ice, she glanced back and saw a black lump lying on the obscenely white surface, a bright red stain spreading under it. The Zamboni weaved wildly down the middle of the ice, driverless, slipping almost sideways as it careened out of control, still spraying its load of death.
She used what little oxygen she had left to herd the last few remaining people near the ice toward the tunnel. The four men and two women of a pair of camera crews ran with her down the tunnel. Her lungs were on fire, her chest about to burst. Stars danced in front of her eyes. She was going to have to breathe soon.
The group fled past the big steel blast doors, and she nodded at the frightened men manning them, signaling with her hands for them to close the doors. She stopped and took a gasping breath. And prayed it was clean air.
“Everyone out of the building,” she shouted down the tunnel. Her voice echoed impressively, and the people running ahead of her picked up the pace even more. They went through the parking garage and outside into the cold, dark night. It had never felt so good to draw in bracing, fresh air to her lungs.
People poured out of the building from every exit, screaming and yelling and running in search of loved ones. She herself looked around wildly, trying to spot Anya and Liz to make sure they got out.
“Report,” Vanessa’s voice yelled in her ear.
Isabella waited her turn in the standard order they used, and after Kat, she came up and said, “I’m outside.” Aleesha reported in, and Isabella sagged in relief. They’d all made it out.
Vanessa said, “I’ve dropped off the Petrovich family at the safe house and am on my way back. I’m almost there. I’ll meet all of you in three minutes. Head for the north entrance and rendezvous there.”
That was on the other side of the giant building. Isabella took off running. She wove in and out between hundreds of other running, panicked souls, many of them screaming names as they went. Total chaos reigned. Fire trucks and police cars were pulling up, but they didn’t stand a chance of imposing order on this mess.
Firemen in full oxygen suits ran for the entrances. Although it wasn’t as if victims of the gas would need assistance, if the descriptions of its lethality were accurate. Hopefully, they’d cleared the place before the Agent Bravo created a deep enough cloud to reach—and kill—too many people.
The emergency radio frequency that came across her headset in addition to the discrete Medusa channel crackled with people shouting instructions and calling for help. And then one voice in particular caught Isabella’s attention as she ran across the parking lot full of people dodging between cars.
“Tally ho on hostile target. I have Harlan Holt in my sights. Requesting instructions.”
That was one of the snipers. Asking for permission to shoot Holt.
She came up on the frequency urgently. “Negative on taking down Holt. Say location of target!”
“West side of the arena. Moving toward the building, approximately sixteen rows of cars out.”
She wasn’t far from there. They needed to apprehend Holt alive. Find out what had really happened with him and his wife. If he had been helping the terrorists, he’d be put to death later for treason. She veered to her left, away from the arena. A man moving toward the building shouldn’t be too hard to spot in this melee. Everyone else was running away from the rink and its cloud of death.
Ten…eleven…she counted the rows of cars as she ran past. She looked left and right, visualizing his features. Tall. Lean. Dark-haired. Glasses.
Over there. She took off to her right, circling back to get between Holt and the arena. Running in a crouch, she dived in and out among the vehicles full of terrified people.
She ducked left and stood up. If she’d calculated correctly, he should be coming right at her. There he was. Two cars over. She sprinted at the guy, approaching him from the side. She left the ground in a running leap and tackled Holt around the waist in a blow an NFL lineman would have been proud of.
Holt fought like a wild man. She hung on, rolling with the guy and gradually working her way into a better grip until she was able to give one last heave, flip him on his back, and sit on top of his chest.
“Gotchya,” she panted.
His eyes were frantic. Unseeing. And then they finally focused on her face and a strange thing happened. He went still. “You,” he gasped. “Thank God.”
She blinked in surprise.
“You’ve got to help me find Emma.”
“Come again?” she asked.
“She’s here somewhere. They brought her in a van. Said I could have her back if everything went well inside. But it didn’t go well, did it? All these people got out! They’ll kill her for sure unless we get to her first!”
“What van?” Isabella bit out.
“I don’t know. They only said a van. They said they’d drive it up to the north entrance and I could meet them there after…well, after.”
Isabella transmitted into her radio, “Harlan Holt’s wife is in the parking lot somewhere in a van, possibly on the north side of the arena. The terrorists who kidnapped her will kill her if they get to her first. Medusas, start checking vans. Look for a bound and probably gagged woman inside.”
She climbed to her feet and dragged the scientist to his feet as well. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll kill you myself.”
The guy nodded.
“You and I are going to take off running again and check inside every van we come across. No stunts. I’ll call in a sniper shot and you’ll be dead before you know what hits you. Got it?”
He nodded vigorously. “Yes. Now please, let’s go!”
The two of them took off, weaving through the parking lot from van to van, peering inside the windows frantically. She transmitted as she ran, “I’m on the west side of the arena, working my way north. They said they’d bring the van to the north entrance, so let’s assume it’s parked where they can see that door.”
“Roger,” came the brief reply from her teammates. They all sounded like they were running around out here, too.
“I’m just pulling in,” Vanessa reported. “Everyone meet me at the north door and we’ll fan out from there. Plus, I’ve got weapons.”
Of course. The Medusas had put loaded guns in the getaway vehicle in case Gorabchek and his pals decided to play rough.
“This way, Harlan,” Isabella called. “Follow me.”
“Where are we going?” he called back as they sprinted around the arena.
“To even up the odds.” There was the SUV. Vanessa was at the back door, pulling out the canvas bags that held their guns and ammunition. Misty and Kat were already arming themselves.
Isabella screeched to a halt beside the vehicle. Vanessa shoved an MP-5 submachine gun into her hands along with two spare clips of ammo. “We’ll divide the north parking lot up in wedges,” her boss said. “Go to the back of the lot and work your way toward the arena. Odds are they parked well away from the building. Take the center section. I’ll be on your immediate right and Mamba will be on your immediate left. Go!”
Isabella and Holt took off running. It took them several minutes to reach the back end of the giant parking lot. They turned around and began crisscrossing their portion of the asphalt as they ran from van to van, looking in the windows. As they ran, she panted, “How many men are there, Harlan?”
He replied in a half sob, “Four came into our bedroom to kidnap her. I’ve only seen three at a time since then.”
“What do they look like?” Isabella demanded.
“Young. Early twenties. Dark complexions and hair. Western clothes. One of them looked older, more like late thirties or early forties. He was the leader.”
Isabella relayed the descriptions to her teammates. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was better than nothing. The good news was that in their panic, frantic spectators had completely grid-locked the parking lots. Nobody was going anywhere soon.
They’d worked their way about halfway through the lot when Vanessa radioed, “Adder, do you have that gray van in your nine o’clock, or do you need me to get it? I’m on the far side of my sector.”
“We’ll check it,” Isabella replied, spotting the vehicle in question. Light gray utility van. No windows in its sides or back doors. A group of maybe twenty people was just passing by it. She ran around the minor mob to have a look in the passenger side window. It was dark in the back of the vehicle. No seats, just storage space. She might’ve run on by when there were no obvious signs of a person lying on the floor, but her gut said to have another look. She darted around to the driver’s side window, yanking out a flashlight as she went. She shined it in the window.
The first thing she saw was a small cardboard box lying on top of some wires. Then she saw a heavy canvas drop cloth stained with paint. And then she saw the foot sticking out from under one corner of it.
“I’ve got her!” Isabella called over her radio. “Medusas to me!”
“Get down!” Vanessa shouted. “Incoming!”
Months and months of round-the-clock training kicked in, and acting on reflex, Isabella dived for the ground in response to her boss’s command. She grabbed Harlan Holt’s arm on the way down and knocked the poor guy off his feet as well.
“What in the world—” he started.
Isabella rolled, simultaneously pulling her MP-5 out from under her coat. A sharp metallic ping sounded just above her head.
Son of bitch. Somebody had just fired a bullet at her!