Oslo, Norway, March 2, 1:30 p.m.
“Detective Schumacher, there’s been a triple murder in the red light district. Report just came in to Homicide.”
Irritated, Jens looked up from his desk, where he was reading through the initial affidavits in the Krag case. “If you’re going to work with me, Ivo, call me Jens. Hearing my last name all the time makes me feel old.”
“Yes, sir, Jens.” A pause. “Sir.”
Jeez. As if being called sir was any better! The kid sounded scared of him. He rolled his eyes and returned to looking at the witness statement. “And why is this triple homicide of particular interest to us?”
“Because the perpetrator, after randomly going psycho, is still alive.”
Jens looked up quickly. “Really? Can we talk to him?”
“Her. She’s in the Rikshospitalet University Hospital.”
“Let’s pay her a visit her, shall we?”
Ivo nodded and held up a set of keys. “Thought you might say that. I’ll drive.”
Jens closed the Krag file and picked up his ratty coat. He had a thing about wearing decent clothes to crime scenes and ruining them. A waste of perfectly good money.
When they got to the hospital, Jens was disappointed to find out the woman was in a coma and not expected to live. Apparently her bodily systems were experiencing what the doctor called cascade failure. A nice way of putting it.
He tried hard not to picture Astrid lying in the same bed so still and lifeless. He would not let this happen to his little girl! What the hell was going on out there in the streets of Oslo that was making people go crazy like this?
“What was she on, doc?” Jens asked.
The doctor shrugged. “We’re running blood toxicology now, but I couldn’t say for sure. She doesn’t show the usual symptom set for anything. Apparently got wired real tight, attacked several people, then briefly went extremely lethargic, and passed out.”
“Let me know what you turn up.” Jens passed the physician his business card and did his damnedest to ignore the panic twisting in his gut. Not Astrid.
The doctor nodded. “I’ll call you as soon as we have something.”
Somewhere in the North Sea, March 2, 6:00 p.m.
A satellite phone rang nearby, but there were other people to answer it. The man lying in the swinging hammock was too seasick to care who might be calling the ship right now anyway. At least the rope bed was damping out the worst of the boat’s rocking. But not enough. He hadn’t kept down a bite of solid food since the small cargo vessel left Glasgow yesterday.
He’d argued strenuously against placing the lab in such a godforsaken corner of the world where rough seas and bitter cold would make transportation and supply operations a royal pain in the rear. But he’d been overruled by his superiors. They’d insisted on utmost security for this most secret and important of operations and had chosen the most unlikely, most remote place on the planet for him to run this show.
He only hoped they were enjoying sitting on their fat asses on a Pacific Island, sunning themselves on a beach while he froze his ass off up here. He’d never express such a sacrilegious thought aloud, of course. He’d be struck down dead before the words barely left his mouth
“Phone’s for you, Isa,” one of the crewmen said too goddamned cheerfully. They all seemed to be having a great laugh over his misery.
“Tell them I’m dying. I can’t talk now.”
“The call’s from Indonesia.”
Isa swore under his breath. His boss. He stuck out his hand for the phone. Why couldn’t the sailor have said so in the first place? He planted the phone against his ear as the ship—and his stomach—gave a great, heaving roll.
“Hello, sir. This is Uthman.”
As always, the top brass in the network didn’t beat around the bush. Afraid of traces on their calls. This call would last under a minute. “How’s the Oslo experiment going?”
Isa brightened a little. It was always good to have positive news to relay. “Beyond our wildest expectations, sir. The city is falling into chaos, and we only released a single kilo of the chemical.”
“How much is stockpiled at the production site?”
“Roughly three hundred kilos so far. But, I’ve got my men working round the clock making more. In another several weeks, we should have close to five hundred kilos ready to go.”
“Make it six hundred kilos and have it ready in two weeks.”
Isa sucked in a quick breath between his teeth. “We’re green-lighted to go with the global release, then?”
“That is affirmative. Our spiritual leader has received a vision from God. It is time to punish the decadence of the West. We will release your chemical into the drug supply across the western world—North and South America, Europe, and Australia. Our heroin producers in Afghanistan and Pakistan are prepared to cut your additive into their outbound supplies as soon as it can be delivered.”
“Understood.”
Another voice cut into the conversation. It announced emotionlessly, “Thirty seconds elapsed call time.”
“Two weeks, Isa.”
And then the line went dead.
Northern Norway, March 2, 7:00 p.m.
Karen studied the encampment in fascination. On the surface, it appeared crude, but upon closer inspection, it was incredibly efficient. The families lived in a tight cluster of sod huts. A large communal building stood on one side of the circle, and a lean-to shelter attached to it provided a windbreak for a huddled herd of reindeer.
Hard to imagine that it was the twenty-first century and people anywhere on the planet were still living like this. Surely it must be a source of tension between the Sami people and other Norwegians. She’d bet Sami kids were deserting villages like this in droves. It was a shame, really. This culture had survived for thousands of years pretty much like this, and it was probably only a few decades from disappearing entirely.
“The siida-isit, he comes soon,” one of their guides announced. “For now, we go to gathering place.”
“What’s a siida-isit?” Karen murmured to Anders.
“Siida is the Sami word for their tribal unit. It’s mostly clan based. This group of hunters and their families is one siida. Their chief is called the siida-isit. He is village leader, shaman, counsellor, and justice giver all in one.”
Karen nodded. In other words, the big dog.
The Medusas and their hosts ducked inside the main building. It was about the size and shape of a quonset hut and would probably seat thirty or forty people. Although, given how small these people were, maybe it would hold more like fifty. Among the women and children who’d crowded around to stare at them when they arrived, she’d felt like Ms. Jolly Green Giant.
Several men lifted aside the reindeer-skin door and stepped into the hut. A woman followed, scuttling around them to throw more reindeer chunks on the fire. The small, smoky fire filled the space with a strong smell of manure. The woman offered them skins of what turned out to be water so cold it made Karen’s teeth ache. Which was probably just as well. The aftertaste of bear grease and reindeer skin was foul. She’d hate to experience it warm.
Isabella, the team’s resident language sponge, started pointing at objects around the room and asking the Sami word for them. Before long, all the Medusas had joined in and were repeating the words aloud, to much laughter and many corrections by the locals. The Samis seemed pleased at their effort to learn the Sami tongue. Bowls of stew were passed around, and the Medusas dug into their own packs and contributed beef jerky and chocolate bars to the impromptu feast. Nothing like a little Hershey’s diplomacy to loosen things up.
Through it all, Larson sat quietly in the corner. The men kept turning to him and trying to engage him in conversation as if he was the team’s leader, until finally he said something in what sounded like quick, fluent Sami. Show off.
Whatever he said, it made the native men stare, open-mouthed.
“What did you just say to them?” Karen asked.
“I told them I was a servant of the goddess and you’d beat me if they didn’t quit treating me like you.”
It was Karen’s turn for her jaw to sag. “You didn’t.”
He looked her dead in the eye. “I did.”
Her own gaze narrowed. So that’s how he wanted to play this game, eh? Fine. “Then get me something to drink, oh servant of mine.”
His eyes glinted in the firelight, flashing silver irritation. But, he rose from his cross-legged stance to his feet in one fluid movement and ducked outside the tent.
Karen glanced at her teammates, who were all staring at her. “Everything okay, Python?” Vanessa murmured.
“Yup. Couldn’t be better,” Karen replied cheerfully. She was all over ordering Mr. Chauvinist around like her servant.
The skin swung aside, and Karen looked up expectantly. But instead of Larson, a wizened little man stumped into the room, wrapped in a bulky fur blanket. He looked about a hundred and ten years old. He gazed around the group of women. His black, bird-bright gaze lighted on Karen, and he startled her by bowing deeply. He rasped something in the Sami tongue. Ten-to-one he’d just welcomed her to town. With some difficulty, he straightened once more, looking at her expectantly.
O-kay. What was she supposed to do now? Vanessa flashed her a subtle hand signal to say something.
Karen said, “Please, have a seat by the warm fire your kind tribeswoman has provided for us.” While somebody translated for her, she gestured toward the fire and then indicated with her hand that he should sit.
It must’ve been the right thing to say, for the old man smiled and rather creakily folded himself down to the floor underneath his fur robe. The same woman who’d tended the fire tucked the blanket in around him and pressed a steaming mug of something into his hand. He sipped it slowly and seemed to relax.
Larson slipped back into the tent, but Karen hardly noticed him, so fascinated was she by this character before her. Short, old and unassuming though he might be, his presence was commanding. Here was a leader among his people. Of that, she had no doubt. Larson sat down behind her and to her right.
Finally, after the old man had drained his mug, he looked Karen in the eye and said in heavily accented English, “Is it time?”
“For what?” Karen asked.
The elder answered in Sami.
Karen looked over at her impromptu servant. “Translate, will you?”
“Isn’t that using me to help your mission?” he asked dryly. “I wouldn’t want to break the rules.”
She rolled her eyes. “Enough people here speak English or Russian or something else one of us speaks that we’d eventually communicate with these people. I dunno ’bout you, but I’m tired and hungry. Let’s get this over with this week. Just translate.” Then, in the interest of diplomacy, she flashed him her most winning smile. “Please.”
It was a blatantly girly tactic, but she wasn’t above using her gender as a weapon. All was fair in love and war—this being war, of course.
Larson shrugged. “And I quote the village elder, ‘Ah. You test me. We have received the prophecy and faithfully repeated it for all the Sami to hear. Your yoik has spread like a great blizzard driven on the strongest north wind across the land.’”
“What the heck is a yoik?” she muttered to Larson.
“A chanted song. Used to record history, legends and religious prophecies.”
Louder and to the old man, she said, “May I hear this yoik?”
He nodded and began chanting in a warbling, rusty, old man’s voice. In the native language, darn it.
Larson murmured as the guy sang, “The old ways are lost by all but a few. The old beliefs are gone. It is time to restore them. We come to make it so. Restore your people. Restore your lands. Restore the faith. We come presently, and we are the sign. I shall cleanse your lands of the scourge upon it now, and then you shall be free. So said the warrior goddess to Naliki who walked in dreaming wakefulness.”
The old man fell silent.
“Who’s Naliki?” Karen asked the siida-isit.
The old man answered, speaking rapidly at Larson. He must have realized the Norwegian soldier was translating for the women.
“Naliki is the noaide to whom the goddess—that’s you—gave the vision. And the yoik he just sang was written by this Naliki person. Apparently, the Sami people have been waiting for a sign from the gods for a while that it’s time to rise up and take back their native lands and lifestyle.” Larson added lightly, “And here you are.”
Karen turned to stare over her shoulder at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“What’s this gentleman’s name?”
Larson said something in rapid Sami.
The old man replied in halting English, “I am Padmir, siida-isit of the Siida Cholma.”
Larson interjected, “Siida-isits are highly respected among their people. It is a great honor that he speaks to you as outsiders.”
Padmir retorted, his black eyes snapping. “It is a great honor for you that I speak to you, Norse man. It is a great honor for me that the goddesses sit at my fire and speak to me.”
Karen laughed at the chagrined look on Larson’s face. She liked this old guy, Padmir. He’d certainly put the big, bad Norwegian commando in his place. “Translate for me, please, Oberstløytnant Larson.”
He nodded with a certain amount of annoyance.
Looking at the old man, she said, “Siida-isit Padmir, my companions and I come on a quest. We seek six strangers to these lands, much the same as us. They have come recently and set up a camp of sorts. Do you, by any chance, know where to find them?”
Larson scowled, but seemed to translate the message verbatim.
Padmir said something to the other men, who until now had been seated quietly behind him. The hunters’ faces lit up, and there was a spate of animated talk, accompanied by a great deal of hand waving.
Larson muttered, “They’ve already been looking for the place where you will cleanse the land of outsiders, and they say they’ve found it. Apparently, it’s less than a day’s walk from here to the north and east.”
She was a little confused as to how the Samis knew to be looking for intruders a full day before the Medusas came, but she wasn’t going to look this gift horse in the mouth.
Larson muttered, “This is cheating. You were supposed to find my guys on your own.”
Karen muttered back, “The rules of engagement said to use all the available local resources at our disposal. I’d say these guys are local resources, wouldn’t you?”
Larson didn’t reply, but his narrowed gaze was answer enough.
“Sit there and be quiet, like a good servant,” Karen bit out. “It’s part of Delta training to make friends with the locals and then enlist their help. And if you ask me, we girls are doing pretty well at both with these folks.”
A woman came in, carrying another big, steaming pot, undoubtedly more food of some kind. Larson jumped up to help her with it and hung it on a hook by the fire for her. Whether he did it out of chivalry, or to rub Karen’s nose in his ability to make friends, too, she couldn’t tell. Either way, the native woman smiled shyly at him.
It turned out to be reindeer stew. It tasted surprisingly good. Nonetheless, Karen ate sparingly. These people didn’t look like they did much more than subsist, and seven soldiers with hearty appetites would no doubt strain the tribe’s limited resources.
Padmir finished his soup and set aside his carved wooden bowl. Larson translated as the chief announced, “Tonight, I send forth the word for a gathering of all the Sami people in the heart of our native lands The Great Restoration is upon us.”
“Great Restoration?” Karen repeated.
Larson shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I’m only the hired help.”
She rolled her eyes at him.
Vanessa piped up. “Would it be possible for these guys to draw us a map to the encampment of the outsiders?”
Larson relayed the question to the Sami men. “They’ll do you one better and will guide you goddesses to it. It will be an event to sing yoiks to their grandchildren about.”
Vanessa replied dryly, “Really, a map will be fine.”
Larson shrugged. “You won’t talk them out of it. If they don’t lead you, they’ll follow you.”
Vanessa sighed. “All right. We’ll head out first thing in the morning. That’ll put us in range of your guys by nightfall. And I’d really rather hit them in the dark if I can.”
Oslo, Norway, March 2, 9:00 p.m.
Jens dug his cell phone out of his breast pocket and took a look at the caller ID. Finally. The Oslo Police’s forensic chemist. And a really nice lady. He flipped open the phone.
“Hi, Marta. Thanks for returning my call. What can you tell me about my daughter? Is she displaying any of the classic signs of violent psychosis that the other victims have just prior to their deaths?”
“No.” Jens couldn’t help letting out a sigh of relief.
“That doesn’t mean she’s out of danger, though. We’re just now interviewing surviving family members and friends of the attackers. This drug seems to build up in the system over a period of time, and the symptoms become more pronounced and more…severe…gradually.”
“How much time?” Jens asked tensely, his gut right back in the twist it had been in ever since he’d discovered Astrid stoned at the kitchen table on God knows what.
“Days or maybe weeks. Hard to tell. Most of the victims, as far as we can tell were regular recreational drug users or outright addicts. We’re fairly certain a bad batch of drugs was put out on the streets, and that something in the drugs is interacting with other chemicals present to cause the psychotic episodes, convulsions and death.”
Jens cursed under his breath. “What do I do for my daughter?”
“Keep her off any drugs at all, and at the first signs of erratic behavior, get her to a hospital and in restraints, for her own safety and yours.” The pathological chemist added grimly, “And you could pray. Whatever this stuff is, it’s powerful and nasty.”
That was one way of describing it. People were dying all over Oslo. In the past week, they’d had more murders than the city averaged in a normal year.
“Thanks, Marta.”
“I’ll let you know if I find out any more.”
Jens disconnected the call. He knew of something else he could do besides wait and pray—neither of which he could do worth a damn. He could find out who Astrid had gotten her drugs from. Starting with that louse, Willie.
Northern Norway, March 2, 10:00 p.m.
The Sami people shifted around their sleeping arrangements and freed up two turf huts for the Medusas and Larson. When Karen and Larson were shown to one hut and the rest of the Medusas to another, Karen wasn’t the slightest bit amused.
He translated dryly; it turned out that as the preeminent goddess among the group, Karen was expected to have her own quarters. And of course, she’d want her servant with her to wait on her. The lesser warrior goddesses were given the other hut.
Unfortunately, said lesser goddesses were so busy containing gales of laughter that they weren’t the slightest bit of help at all in talking the Samis out of this sleeping arrangement. Fuming, Karen was forced to retire to her own hut. With her manservant.
The sod structure was surprisingly warm. Even with only a small fire in the center beneath the smoke hole in the roof, the interior was shirtsleeve warm. Either that, or Karen was acclimating faster to the cold than she’d realized. A Sami woman carried in a load of dried reindeer dung and a fresh skin of water, and then, backed out of the hut. Karen and Larson were alone.
She pulled out her sleeping bag and plunked down on top of it, glaring at her roommate. “Okay, Einstein. Talk to me about Norse mythology. Who, exactly, am I supposed to be?”
He leaned back against his pack, stretching his feet out to the fire. “The Samis think you’re no less than Freya herself.”
“And Freya is?”
He grinned. “The Norse goddess of love and fertility. Oh, and she’s also the goddess of war and patron of all female warriors.”
“Female warriors?” Karen echoed.
He shrugged. “The Vikings have a long history of women fighters. When the men were away conquering and pillaging foreign lands, somebody back home had to protect the village from being taken and plundered.”
“Tell me more about this Freya.”
“She was exceedingly beautiful and clever, as any self-respecting goddess should be. She possessed several notable magic items, including Brising’s necklace, which made her so beautiful that she was irresistible to men. She also had a cloak made of falcon skins that she used to fly with on occasion. She shared Odin’s love of battle, and the two of them split the spirits of all warriors who fell in battle. Half went to Odin’s hall, Valhalla. And the other half—including all the fallen women warriors—went to her hall, Sessrumnir.”
“Ahh. That’s the place the first Sami guy asked me if I’d come from.”
Crud. Maybe it hadn’t been such a great idea to go along with this business of the locals thinking she was Freya. But darned if she was about to admit that to Larson! “Anything more I ought to know about Freya?”
“She got her golden necklace by sleeping with four mythical dwarven smiths. In return, they crafted Brising’s necklace from the stars and the fruitfulness of the earth. It enhanced her beauty so much that mortal men could hardly bear to look at her, and all men who saw her fell hopelessly in love with her.”
Karen made a face. “Who’d want men fawning all over them all the time anyway?”
Larson grinned. “I know plenty of women who think it would be wonderful to have men worship at their feet.”
Karen shook her head. “They’d get in the way. You’d end up tripping over guys everywhere you went.”
He laughed. “The American warrior is practical as well as smart and strong and beautiful. Maybe you do have a bit of Freya in you after all.”
More than a little uncomfortable with this whole goddess comparison thing, she abruptly changed subjects. “Tell me about yourself.”
Larson looked startled. “Not much to tell.”
“Where are you from?”
“I come from a little island called Heng. It’s off the coast of southwestern Norway, not far from Stavenger.”
“I gather then you grew up around water and boating.”
He laughed. “It’s hard not to in Norway. And yes, I did. My father is a ship captain.”
“What sorts of ships?”
“He started in the Norwegian Navy but spent the last twenty years of his career piloting a container ship. One of the super-cargo carriers.”
“A military family then. Was he tough?”
Larson’s eyes darkened from light blue to dull gray. “You could say that.”
Well, then. That hit a nerve. “Okay. So you grew up around boats and the navy. Do FSK officers have to go to college?”
He nodded. “I studied ship design and Norse history at the University of Oslo.”
“Then what?”
“Then I joined the army.”
Yup, definitely tension between father and son. “Going army had to really twist your father’s knickers, what with him being navy and all.”
Larson answered too blandly, “I suppose it did.”
“Any hobbies?”
He frowned. “Who has time for hobbies?”
Karen grinned. “I know what you mean. Ever since I took this job, I’ve been going nonstop. If it’s not a mission, it’s more training. It’s like drinking from a fire hose.”
He laughed. “Your Special Forces aren’t so different from ours, except for—”
He broke off, and his next words hung unspoken in the air. Except for the part where the U.S. allowed women inside the fence.
He said hastily, “I do like to cross-country ski. I race in biathlons.”
“You’re one of the Olympic medalists who were chasing us, then?”
“Yeah.” An awkward silence fell. Into it, he said, “Biathlons originated in the Norwegian Army in the 1760s. We take it as a point of pride to be the best in the world at it.”
It was startling to realize that she and the Medusas had been keeping pace with an Olympian for the past few days. But then her gaze narrowed. “You’ve been taking it easy on us women, haven’t you? You threw the fight with me because you didn’t want to hurt me,” she accused.
He retorted, “No, I didn’t. You surprised me and took me off guard. And then you put a superior wrestling move on me.”
She subsided, surprisingly disappointed. It might have been nice to think he was bigger and stronger than her. But no. She was the Freya look-alike. A manly-girl who could whup up on an Olympic athlete for God’s sake. Humiliation roiled in her gut.
“But I’ll win next time,” he added confidently.
Right. Because after all, he was a man. And she was only a woman. A woman who couldn’t make up her mind about whether she liked this guy or hated his guts. Nothing like a little good old-fashioned dose of “you can’t live with ’em and you can’t live without ’em” to mess up a girl’s head.
Karen hmmphed and crawled into her sleeping bag. She turned her back to Larson in disgust and tried to think small, feminine, fragile thoughts.
It didn’t work.
She fell asleep pondering creative ways to break Larson in half.
Northern Norway, March 3, 6:00 a.m.
It might as well be the middle of the night for all the light there was out here, but that was okay. The night belonged to them. The Medusas and their Norwegian sidekick were suited up and ready to go when the Sami trackers gestured that they, too, were ready to head out.
Karen walked past a number of Sami girls and women milking the reindeer and picking up the night’s deposits of fresh fuel by the reindeer. All in all, she’d rather be toting forty pounds of electronics, explosives and weapons and heading out to kick some Norwegian Army butt.
They walked until after sunrise, breaking at midday for a bite to eat and a short rest. And then they walked most of the afternoon without pause. These Sami men might be small, but they were tough as nails. Even Anders was showing signs of having to work a bit to keep up with them.
The sun set, and they walked about one more hour, which made it about four-thirty in the afternoon. And all of a sudden, the Sami men stopped and crouched. They murmured something to Anders.
“The hut of the outsiders you are here to cleanse from the land is over the next ridge. You can see the heat rising off it now.”
Karen looked where the hunters were pointing. Now that they mentioned it, she could see a faint shimmer of warm air rising in a column. There was no visible smoke, just that nearly invisible disturbance in the air. Good eyesight these Samis had. Must come from hunting for a living.
Vanessa spoke quietly. “Karen, tell these guys to head home.”
Karen turned to the two men. “Thank you for your guidance. Now it is time for you to leave.”
It didn’t take a translation of their agitated outburst in reply to figure out these guys didn’t want to leave. They wanted to hunt beside the goddess. She swore under her breath as Larson threw her a big, fat, I-told-you-so look.
She huffed. “Tell them this is our quest. We shall return to the village to fulfill the prophecy when we are finished here. But this is not a fight for men. It is ours.”
He raised his eyebrows but made the translation.
An ‘ahh’ of comprehension came from the two hunters. They nodded their understanding and turned immediately to go. Leaving six women alone to fight a gun battle, they couldn’t wrap their brains around. But a quest by the gods—that they could understand.
The two Sami men disappeared over the ridge behind the Medusas. “Okay, fellow goddesses. Let’s get on with this quest,” Vanessa commented dryly.
The others laughed quietly.
Their surveillance showed no activity outside the building. The Norwegians must not expect the Medusas to find them for several more days. And why should they? Had the Samis not led them right to it, locating this log cabin would’ve been like finding a needle in a haystack. The structure looked like an old hunting lodge. It wasn’t huge, but given the expense of hauling in all those logs, it looked downright luxurious for the region. The women guessed it slept maybe a dozen men.
There had only been five Norwegians and Jack on the helicopter, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t picked up more manpower before flying here. The women decided to plan for twelve men. Two to one odds wasn’t bad, especially when they had the element of surprise on their side.
The next step was some close-up surveillance to figure out what, exactly, these army types were doing way out here. The final step would be the fun part—the surprise assault where the Medusas got even for their loss in the unarmed-combat encounter. This time around, they’d have rubber bullets and rubber-bladed knives. The Norwegians wouldn’t stand a chance.
The Medusas eased forward, each taking a window in the structure to peer through. Keeping a sharp eye out for booby traps, Karen inched forward, one elbow at a time. Surprisingly, she ran across no traps. Maybe the other women hit them on their approaches. But, given that no snaps, pops, bangs or other explosions of noise gave away their approach, her teammates must’ve been successful at disarming any traps they ran across.
Karen tried hard not to think about Larson, creeping along right behind her, but it was hard not to. He dogged her every step, like a pesky shadow that wouldn’t let go of her ankle.
Finally, she eased up to the wall of the cabin, sitting on the ground beneath the window. A stack of twenty or so storage drums of some kind stood beside her. Probably spare fuel and provisions, given how far out in the middle of nowhere this place was. She extended her flexible mini-periscope and tucked its end up over one corner of the window sill over her head.
She was looking at a common room of some kind. It was a large space with a big, stone fireplace off to one side. Except instead of furniture in the room it looked more like a…lab. There were long tables, and machinery that looked way, way too high-tech to be sitting out here in the wilderness. The only light in the room came from a doorway on the other side of the house, so she couldn’t make out a lot of detail as to what kind of equipment it was. But it definitely looked scientific.
“Report,” Vanessa breathed.
Kat reported a bedroom with no activity. Misty and Vanessa reported a kitchen with four men eating in it. Jack was not among them.
Isabella, who was around the corner from Karen’s position, reported a bedroom stacked full of large metal drums and a dozen additional drums sitting outside beside her. They appeared unmarked but were shipping containers of some kind. Anders glided off in the darkness to have a look at the drums, and Karen was glad to be rid of him. Then it was Karen’s turn.
“The living room appears to have been converted into a lab of some kind. It’s full of electronics and scientific-looking equipment. If it’s toys the Norwegian Special Forces are using, I’ve never seen anything like—”
A loud, ominous rumbling noise interrupted her. She whirled around with her back to building. If that was a trap going off, it was a hell of an explosion. It sounded like a freight train coming down the hill.
The whole mountain behind her seemed to be sliding toward her. Crap. Avalanche. She estimated the amount of flat land between the cabin and the mountain. Was there enough space for the snow to come to a halt before it slammed into her?
Larson sprinted around the side of the building, shouting, “Get to the lee of the building!”
That answered that. She dived around the end of the cabin, and joined her five teammates and Larson as the first boulder-sized chucks of ice and snow came hurtling past. The building at her back shook as the remnants of the avalanche slammed into it.
Shouting came from inside the building. Another slamming noise. This time of the front door flying open. Two men leaped out, back-to-back, each facing to the side.
It was a toss-up who was more surprised, the Medusas or the men staring back at them. Everyone raised their weapons simultaneously.
The reports of rifles exploded, deafeningly loud at such close range. The Medusas dived for cover around the ends of the building. Something hot burned across Karen’s left thigh just as she ducked around the corner. She’d been hit by rubber bullets before, and they didn’t feel like that at all.
Larson landed beside her, tearing his rifle off his back.
“What the hell kind of ammunition are your men using?” Karen bit out. “I just got hit and it hurts like hell!”
“Lemme see.”
She rolled onto her side, left leg up, as she pulled out her own rifle and yanked on a pair of night-vision goggles.
“You’re bleeding,” he bit out. “Looks superficial, but you’ve been shot.”
Just then, Vanessa’s voice crackled over the radio, “What ammo are your men using, Larson? Kat and Isabella are both bleeding.”
He ripped the periscope out of Karen’s belt and poked the end around the corner of the cabin. Larson stabbed at his throat mike. “These are not my men. And those are real bullets they’re firing.”
Karen glanced down at her own weapon, loaded only with harmless, rubber dum-dum rounds. Oh, shit.