Page 67 of Gryphon

“Hi, Val. About to call you.”

Actually Holly had been too busy over the last half hour to think about the director of the CIA’s Russia desk.

After the gunshots, Tad’s pals from the Georgian 43rd Mechanized Infantry had built a fast perimeter. The loan of bulletproof vests and helmets was appreciated. They wouldn’t stop a direct hit by a 7.62 mm round, but they’d deflect a grazing shot.

The Georgians had charged head-on toward the shooter, finding no one and nothing. She’d looked it over with a trained eye, not even any stray brass. Someone had been careful.

The rounds must have been fired from close by the perimeter fence, but she found no fresh boot scuffs. There was an access road both inside and outside the line. The shooter had been in a vehicle but could have been on either side of the fence.

By pure chance, they’d found the single round, now clutched in her freezing hand.

After flying through the two acrylic windows, the first round had been stopped against the side of one of the Didgori armored trucks. Mostly spent, it had barely scuffed the truck’s camo paint. A soldier found it when it rolled under his foot; good awareness that even a pebble a third of an inch across shouldn’t be on the same pavement as jets. The other round was still buried in the dead soldier’s face.

“M993,” she’d guessed.

Tad had nodded his agreement. “Armor piercing to eighteen millimeters of RHA rolled steel.” He had tapped a finger against one of the Didgori trucks. No thunk of thin metal, rather the soft thump like heavy steel. “Can still kinda see the black tip marking the round before it got all mushed up.” M993s were marked with a black tip on the bullet.

The 43rd’s commander had everyone there show their kit. The few who carried that round still had every one accounted for.

The bullet certainly would have had no trouble passing through her or Mike’s head along with the two windows as the second round had proven. Miranda’s Citation M2 was meant for commercial flight, not stopping NATO rounds. And the side windows were far thinner than the windshield because they wouldn’t have to survive bird strikes at speed. The metal hull wasn’t much thicker.

Mike had stepped up beside Tad. “No one this side of France has replacement windows in stock. They’ll be sending out a team tomorrow to fix them, the seat, and the outside panel.”

He’d been shot at, and still took care of business. Holly had seen plenty of soldiers come apart under similar circumstances. She hadn’t given him a thought in the last thirty minutes. She’d gotten him stashed inside an armored Didgori—rated to stop the size of armor-piercing round still resting so heavily in her palm—and focused on the battlefield.

And Mike had arranged to have Miranda’s plane repaired as cool as a fresh draught.

It might be one of the most impressive acts of bravery she’d ever seen in a civilian—except Miranda. That wasn’t really a fair comparison because Miranda’s hyper-focused attention often didn’t see the danger she was walking into during a crash investigation. But Holly had certainly seen trained soldiers crumble at their first time in such a near-death experience.

Now she could think about the who behind the what. Except she didn’t have a clue.

“What have you got for me, Val?” Holly paced back and forth to try to build some body warmth. Also to avoid looking at this new side of Mike. Guys that she’d been sleeping with for three years weren’t supposed to change, they were supposed to be comfortable as old shoes. She rolled the mangled 7.62 mm round back and forth across her palm.

“Place closes at three a.m. your time. Show up between three-fifteen and three-thirty. Ask for Max. I’ve texted you the address.” Her phone chimed in her ear. “He’s expecting you. I didn’t tell him why, that’s on you. And Holly?”

“Yeah.”

“It probably won’t lead anywhere, but he hears things. Don’t fuck this up. He’s a solid asset for us.”

“Roger that, Val. And thanks.”

“Yeah, right.”

What had she done to earn the hard edge of Val’s tongue? Though the CIA Russia Desk Director had sounded plenty rough all on her own this morning. What if it was Val’s shit and not hers?

“After this is done, you, me, a pitcher of beer.”

Val groaned. “Look, Holly, you owe me for connecting you to a CIA asset, so do me a favor.”

“Sure.”

“Never, ever again, under any circumstances mention alcohol in my presence.”

“Sure thing,” Holly agreed easily. “I’ll just show up some afternoon with a slab of Coopers. I won’t say a word.”

“A slab?”

“Aussie for a case of beer. Makes an even dozen coldies for each of us, oughta loosen you up a wee bit.”

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