Tracker by James Rollins Page B

Kabul . . .
    He shied from that painful memory.
    Never again . . .
    His whole unit had helped him escape with the dog.
    But that was another story.
    He switched on the phone, tapped a few icons on the screen. Then a video appeared: of his backside, walking away, the feed coming from Kane’s camera.
    All was in order.
    Tucker pocketed the phone and followed the tall hunter through the doors of the church. Inside, massive spiral pillars held up a cavernous space. All around, the plastered walls displayed a frenzy of brilliant golden frescoes depicting the deaths of Hungarian saints, brought to life by the flickering of candles throughout the nave. Farther down, a series of chapels opened off to the sides, containing a few sarcophagi and a museum of medieval carvings. The entire place smelled vaguely of incense and mildew.
    Tucker easily spotted the target, again standing out in her ivory coat. She sat in a pew halfway down the length of the nave, her head bowed.
    The hulk of a man took a post near the entrance, leaning against the wall, preparing to wait her out. Clearly, the group was afraid to nab her in front of witnesses and was biding its time before making a move. With the sun almost down and the church emptying out, it would not be a long wait.
    Unless Tucker did something about it.
    He slipped past the wide bulk of the man, noting the earpiece in his left ear, then continued into the main church. He moved down to the pew where the woman had parked herself and slipped in next to her. She moved a few inches farther down the bench, barely glancing his way. She had taken off her hat and sunglasses in respect for the church. He reached up and did the same with his cap.
    Her hair shone like gold in the candlelight. Her eyes, as she glanced at him, were a watery blue. In her hands, she fondled a cell phone, as if unsure whom to call—or maybe she was hoping for a call.
    “Do you speak English?” he asked softly.
    Even the whisper made her flinch, but after a long pause, she answered curtly, “Yes, but I prefer not to be bothered.”
    She spoke the words as if she had said them countless times before. Her accent was distinctly British, as was her reserve as she slid a full foot away from him.
    He knelt down in the pew, offering a less intimidating pose, bowing his head to his hands as he spoke. “I wanted to warn you that three men are following you.”
    She tensed, looking ready to bolt.
    “I think you should pray,” he said, motioning her down.
    “I’m Jewish.”
    “And I’m only here to help you. If you want it.”
    Again that calculating pause, but she slipped gently to her knees.
    He whispered without facing her. “They are watching each door out of here.” When she tried to glance back, he tightened his voice. “Don’t.”
    She bowed her forehead to her hands. “Who are you?”
    “Nobody. I saw those armed men following you. I saw how scared you looked—”
    “I don’t need your help.”
    He sighed. “Okay. I offered.”
    He began to stand up, knowing he had done as much as his conscience demanded. He couldn’t help those who were too proud or stubborn to accept it.
    She reached low and pinched the sleeve of his jacket. “Wait.” When he settled back to his knees next to her, she asked, “How do I know I can trust you?”
    “You can’t know for sure.” He shrugged. “Either you do or you don’t.”
    She stared at him, and he met her gaze. “I remember you. You were sitting at that patio with a dog.”
    “ That you noticed. Not the armed thugs trailing you.”
    She turned away. “I like dogs. She was pretty.”
    He smiled into his raised palms, warming up to this woman. “ His name is Kane.”
    “Sorry. Then he was handsome.” She moved a little closer, sounding calmer. “But what can you do?”
    “I can get you out of here. Away from them. What you want to do from there is up to you.”
    That was one of his specialties.
    Extraction.
    She glanced over to him, swallowing hard.