Page 37 of Into the Gray Zone

She saw the other men snap upright at the action, all of them bewildered. She pivoted to the left, running to the glass of the French doors.She saw one man pull out a pistol and shout at her, and realized she didn’t have the time to pause and use the door handle.

She wrapped her arms around her head and launched forward, using her body to shatter through the glass and wood of the door. She spilled onto the balcony and leapt up, wrapping one arm around the railing and launching over it. She hung for a split second, until the momentum of her body swung back, and then let go.

She hit the railing below her perfectly, like a cat, and rolled off onto the balcony below. The man above her began shooting through the balcony floor, the rounds peppering around her body. She scampered away from the bullets, saying, “Contact! Contact on the second-floor balcony!”

Brett came back, “I have no shot! I have no shot!”

She leapt up, her brain screaming to get out of the funnel of fire, and the rounds shifted to the edge. The man with the pistol continued shooting into the night, blocking her escape. She turned and sprinted to the door, finding it locked. She saw the man in the room looking at his phone and pleasuring himself, his erection wilting at the commotion. He saw her outside and closed his bathrobe, his face registering shock.

The bullets kept coming down and she backed up a step, lowered her shoulder, and smashed through the glass and flimsy wood like she had done above, spilling into the room.

The man simply stared at her. She ignored him, running to his door and shouting into the radio, “New plan, new plan. I’m exiting from the inside. I’m exiting from the inside.”

She flung the door wide and turned toward the stairs at the front of the hotel. She saw an Asian man burst out from the stairwell, blocking her route, and turned the other way, sprinting flat out.

Brett came on, saying, “Give me a lock-on, give me a lock-on.”

She kept running, saying, “Back door. Back door. Front is blocked.” She heard a shot fly by her head.

Jesus Christ, they want a thief that bad?

She hit a stairwell, jerked the door open, and began taking the stairs four at a time, tumbling down them. She heard the man behind her, then a round hit the concrete wall to her front.

She screamed, “He’s behind me and shooting!”

She heard, “I’m here, I’m here. Keep coming.”

She looped around the landing, glancing back and seeing a man with a gun hell-bent on stopping her. He fired again, the round smacking off the concrete next to her head. She leapt down the final stairs, hitting the ground floor, and burst out next to a swimming pool.

She didn’t see Brett and began sprinting toward the darkness at the rear of the hotel. She heard the door slam open behind her and then a man scream. She turned around and saw Brett standing over a body, his fists working in tandem like a jackhammer, bouncing her pursuer’s skull against the ground.

After the body became still Brett stood up, racing to her and saying, “I have the exfil. Follow me.”

He took off at a sprint and she fell in behind him, both of them running flat out. He dodged around a small courtyard and she saw two people sitting on a bench, both watching them rush past, their mouths open. They reached the back of the facility, and he jumped over the iron fence. She followed, and within seconds they were in another narrow alley. They kept going until they reached Tito’s Lane, spilling back into the neon and blaring music.

He slowed, then stopped, looking behind him before sagging against a building. She did the same.

He said, “Well, I didn’t use my weapon, so this can’t be my fault.”

She laughed, letting out the emotion, feeling the adrenaline leak out.

She said, “I told you this was going to be a cakewalk.”

Chapter22

Kamal heard the wheels of the train start to brake, then saw everyone around him begin shuffling to the open door. Calling this a passenger car was giving the train too much credit. More like a cattle car. Yes, they could move in between the cars, and yes, there were benches to sit on, if one were lucky enough, but they were cattle, nonetheless.

It was no different from any train in India. It just was what it was. The trains were efficient by modern standards, making their stops exactly when they said they would, but were also incredibly deficient in any sort of amenities. Just an open box crammed full of people, with some riding outside the carriage itself, hanging on for dear life.

His car was a jostling mass, all surging toward the door. He let the initial explosion of people leave before he followed, stepping onto the platform of the Sadar Bazaar train station and getting swept away by the crowd like a leaf in a stream, moving with them to avoid being trampled.

He reached the main platform and the crowd thinned. He took a moment to get his bearings, then waited for his men to catch up. When they did, he said, “Follow me,” then pressed through the crowd, exiting outside the station and onto the street.

The heat was oppressive, the outside of the train station no betterthan the claustrophobia inside, the open-air terminal itself having no climate control at all. They ignored the beggars and children all clamoring for a handout, Kamal flagging down two rickshaws. He waited until his men were loaded, then gave the driver an address: the Jama Masjid Mosque in Old Delhi.

The rickshaws wove through the Delhi congestions like masters, ringing their bells as if it would make a damn bit of difference within the absolute chaos of the traffic. Eventually, they were in a back alley full of vendors selling everything from silk scarves to mango smoothies. They pulled up to the front of the mosque’s eastern gate, the men exited and Kamal paid the drivers, then watched them return to a line of other rickshaws, awaiting their next passenger.

Kamal waited until they were out of earshot and his men were around him, then said, “This is supposed to be the meeting site.”

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