Lady Death

for the secondary. The minutes ticked by at an agonizing pace.
When the elevator stopped, he began to panic. He stopped panicking when the doors slid open. The parking area at the mouth of the mountain greeted him. More security troops waited.
Talman charged ahead, M16 to his shoulder, firing as he moved. One guard dropped. The others scattered to take cover behind vehicles. Talman found an SUV to hide behind and fired over the hood. He squatted behind the front passenger fender and fired around the bumper. He reversed and moved to the rear bumper, emerging from behind the car, his muzzle tracking targets. One burst, another. Two men down. He dropped and rolled as return fire came his way. Rising, he fired again, found another SUV for cover, and changed magazines.
The mouth of the mountain lay ahead. Several security troops remained between him and freedom.
Return fire smacked into the SUV. Talman flinched with each hit. He fired over the hood, then dashed around the rear once again. Another security officer, running from one car to another, winged a shot at him and missed. Talman’s single shot took him down mid-stride.
Talman broke into a sprint for the opening. He fired as he ran, driving the final security guard to cover. Bullets buzzed past him as he reached the mouth and turned left. His feet finally crunched on dirt. He wore no shoes, and terrain bit through the bottoms of his feet and made him wince. He kept running, gaining the hot tarmac of the paved road. He raced across the shoulder of the road into the forest.
He grunted in pain as his feet landed on the rough forest floor. He pushed away the discomfort. Talman tore through the foliage, leaping over logs and debris, curving left as the ground began a downward slope. His lungs burned and sweat coated his body. He didn’t dare stop to wipe his face.
Dried leaves, rocks, and pieces of twigs ripped into his feet as he ran. He had far to go and no time to waste.
The CIA had thought their Blue Ridge facility was top secret, but the Islamic Union had known about the location for a long time. The information had been easy to acquire. Too many people who worked there talked in public, at bars, and restaurants. Steady surveillance had enabled the Union to gather intelligence over a period of two years prior to Talman’s capture.
The commanders, including the White Widow, reviewed the information on a regular basis. They’d determined the best landing spot for a helicopter was a natural clearing 500 yards west of the facility. Standing orders for anybody captured, should they escape, were to head for the clearing and await pickup. If Tanya hadn’t infiltrated, he’d never have known they’d be waiting for him.
He kept running. Any troops still standing at the facility would be organizing a search, but he was well ahead of them. And if he died before reaching the clearing, it was fine with him. They’d struck at the heart of the CIA and their illegal prisons. The escape and slaughter inside would give the Agency a black eye for years.
They’d made a huge mistake when they thought Omar Talman had been broken.
He waited at the edge of the clearing. His breathing had finally slowed to normal. The effects of his escape were beginning to creep through his body. Everything hurt.
When he heard the rotor blades of the rescue chopper, his spirit brightened. He tossed the M16 and ran into the grassy field. He spun around as he looked. The chopper cleared the trees and dropped into the field. He ran for the craft. The side door opened. Tanya waited inside. She urged him on. Talman jumped into the cabin, landing hard, and Tanya pushed the door shut. The chopper lifted off.
“Omar!” she yelled. He rose and embraced her, holding her body tight against his. He touched her soft black hair, let it tangle around his fingers. There were some nights where he wondered if he’d ever feel her close to him again.
He wanted to say something, but his dry mouth prevented the words from forming. No matter. They would have plenty of time to talk later. For now, he held her close, and she didn’t pull away.
Victory felt sweet.
Victory meant crushing the man she loved against her once again. Tanya Jafari finally broke the embrace and waved at Sila Kaymak, who sat at the controls. The Turkish Islamic Union assassin sent to “kill” her in Stockholm steered the chopper away.
Tanya stared into her lover’s face. Omar looked thin, worn out. The blue jumpsuit didn’t fit him at all. But fire sparkled behind his eyes. The same fire she’d fallen in love with. His arms felt strong, his body still lean. He’d held out against the worst his captors had delivered and pulled through.
She kissed him. He responded slowly. When he pulled away, he smiled.
“Come on, sit.”
As the chopper banked, she helped him into a chair, taking the seat next to him. She grabbed his hand. He asked for water, and she grabbed a bottle of water from a side pocket of the chair. He drank the bottle down and finally spoke.
“You made it,” he said.
“And now they will pay dearly for what they’ve done to us,” Tanya Jafari, the real White Widow, told him.

Part II


1
Five Years Earlier
Berlin, Germany
It started with a phone call.
Tanya Schrader took a frozen dinner from the freezer and read the instructions. The long day at the office left her in no mood to cook tonight. When her phone rang, she set the package down and grabbed her phone from the purse on the counter. The caller ID said Francesca. She answered. “Hey.”
“Where are you?” Francesca Sloan, a British employee of her father’s company, also worked in the accounting department.
“Home.”
“Come to the bar.”
“Why?”
“Speaker’s rally tonight. Some local Muslims are going to talk about the truck crash last week.”
“Fran, I’m beat.”
“You should see the main speaker. I’m