Once down, the doctor leveled a finger at Utkin’s face. “You! You almost got us killed. Again.”

“Abram, I did not—”

“Quiet!” Tucker barked. “We have only a few minutes before Felice finds a way to reach us. We need to get out of here without being seen.”

“How?” Anya asked, wincing. It appeared she had either sprained or broken her wrist.

“A window in the cockpit is smashed. That’s our way out.”

He turned and clambered back through the door that led to the cockpit. He swung his legs until he was straddling the coaming.

“Grab our packs!” he ordered. “Then Anya up first.”

Moving quickly, Tucker shuttled everyone out of the cabin, past the cockpit, and through the broken window. It was a tight squeeze amid the broken branches, but it allowed them to exit directly into dense forest, keeping off the open beach.

Utkin was the last of the three to leave. He looked at Tucker. “You’re wrong about me. I wish you would believe that.”

“I wish I could.”

As the man shimmied out, Tucker turned to Kane. “Ready to go, pal?”

Kane wagged his tail and belly-crawled after the others.

Tucker followed, but not before grabbing Elena’s Shpagin machine gun. He slung it across his back, while staring down at the young woman’s lifeless body.

“I’m sorry . . .”

The words sounded idiotic to him.

I’m sorry you’re dead. I’m sorry I dragged you into this.

Anger stabbed into him, fiery and fierce. He used it to steady the edge of panic, to clear his head to a crystal focus.

Felice, you’re dead.

He made a silent oath to make that happen.

For Elena.

Turning away, he crawled out and joined the others huddled together in the darkness of the forest. The neighboring beach looked like polished silver under the moonlight that pierced the clouds.

“What now?” Bukolov asked. “I don’t see the helicopter. Perhaps they think we are dead.”

“It’s possible, but you’re their prize, Doctor. They won’t leave without knowing your true fate.”

“What about your people?” Anya asked.

He checked his watch. It was still a few minutes until they were supposed to arrive.

Tucker dug through his duffel until his fingers touched the satellite phone. Even without looking, he knew the phone was shattered. The casing had split open, and the innards lay in pieces at the bottom of his pack.

“Stay here,” he ordered and crawled to the edge of the sand. He scanned the sky, while straining to listen. He thought he heard the distant thump of rotors, but when he turned his head, the sound faded.

Options, Tucker thought. What do we do?

Felice had them pinned down.

Again, Tucker heard thumping.

The helicopter was definitely out there, moving with no lights, like before, lying in wait.

And not just for us, he suddenly realized.

No wonder she didn’t immediately come after them.

He pushed back to the others. “Kharzin knows this is the rendezvous point, that others must be coming. Felice is out there waiting for them, intending to take them out, to catch them off guard like she did us, leaving her free to deal with us after that.”

“What are we going to do?” Anya said.

“I don’t know—”

Utkin suddenly bolted past Tucker, his heels kicking up sand as he broke from cover and stumbled out onto the open beach.

Tucker’s first instinct was to raise the Shpagin, but he stopped himself. He still couldn’t shoot an unarmed man in the back.

“Stop!” he called out to Utkin. “There’s nowhere to run!”

A strobe of navigation lights burst above the treetops at the northern tip of the island. A floodlight bloomed, stabbing down to the beach. The helicopter’s nose followed the beam down, picking up speed.

Utkin got caught in the light, sliding to a stop. He lifted his arm against its blinding glare and waved his other arm.

“What is that idiot doing?” Bukolov said. “Does he think they’ll pick him up?”

“He’ll get away,” Anya cried.

Skimming the trees, the chopper reached the beach in seconds and banked over the crashed Beriev. All the while, the floodlight kept Utkin pinned down.

Suddenly fire winked from the chopper’s open cabin door.

Bursts of sand kicked up, and a bullet struck Utkin’s leg. He toppled forward, lay for a stunned moment, then started crawling in agony toward the trees, pushing with his good leg.

The gun flashed again from the helicopter’s doorway.

A second bullet struck Utkin’s other leg. He pitched flat to the sand. His arms paddled as he tried to push himself back up.

From the precision of the shooting, it had to be Felice.

He knew what she was doing, torturing Utkin to draw him out. She didn’t know that the traitor had been exposed—or maybe she didn’t care.

A part of Tucker knew Utkin had brought this upon himself.

But another part railed against such brutality.

He felt his ears pop, a rush of hot air, the screams of his fellow rangers filled his head. He saw a mirage of a limping dog, bloodied and in pain—

No, not again . . . never again. . .

He broke from cover, sprinted past the wreckage of the Beriev, and across the sands. He charged forward, eating up the distance until he was twenty yards away. He dropped to one knee, jerked the Shpagin to his shoulder, and took aim.

He fired a short three-round burst. The Shpagin bucked in his grip. The bullets went wide. He tucked the weapon tighter to his shoulder and fired again, squeezing and holding fast. Bullets shredded into the chopper’s tail.

Smoke gushed.

The helicopter pivoted, exposing its open doorway. A lone figure stood there. Though her lower face was hidden behind a scarf, he knew it was Felice.

He opened fire again, stitching the fuselage from tail to nose.

She stumbled out of view.

Abruptly the chopper banked hard left and dove for the ocean’s surface and picked up speed, heading away, trailing oily smoke.

Furious, blind with rage, he kept firing after it until it had vanished into the darkness. Critically damaged, the helicopter wouldn’t be returning any time soon.

He swung over to Utkin, dropping to his knees beside him.

During the firefight, the young man had managed to roll onto his back. His left thigh was black with blood. His right poured a crimson stain into the sand, spurting from his leg, with a brightness that could only be arterial.

Tucker pressed his palm against the wound and leaned on it.

Utkin groaned heavily. One hand rose to touch the hot barrel of the machine gun. “Knew you could do it . . .”

“Quiet. Lay still.”

“Someone . . . someone had to flush out that evil suka before she ambushed your friends . . .”

Hot blood welled through his fingers.

A sob rose in Tucker’s chest, escaping in shaking gasps. “Hold on . . . just hold on . . .”

Utkin’s eyes found his face. “Tucker . . . I’m sorry . . . my friend . . .”

Then he was gone.

9:02 P.M.

Tucker sat on the sand, hugging his knees. Kane lay tight against his side, sensing his grief. A small fire burned on the beach, created by igniting driftwood with some of the leaking fuel from the wreckage, a signal to those who were coming.

It seemed to have worked.

The drone of an engine echoed over the water. A moment later, a seaplane swept above the beach. Anya waved with her good arm. From the plane’s side window, a flashlight blinked back at her, signaling the identity of their rescuers.

As the plane circled for a water landing, Bukolov wandered over to him. “I still don’t understand why he did that.”

Off to the side, Utkin’s body was covered by a tarp.

“Redemption,” Tucker said. “I think he purposefully drew the chopper out of hiding, so I’d have a chance to take it out before the others arrived.”