It didn’t take long for him to reach the chicken coop, where he stopped and looked back up the hill for the front of the truck and its headlights, but the intervening brush obliterated them.
Annoyed, he didn’t know what to worry about more, not knowing if Sara was going to stay put, or whether Dillon had already left without the memory stick. Either way, he needed to hurry, so he followed the only obvious path to the house, hoping Dillon hadn’t encountered any trouble on his way to the airplane.
Peeking inside the kitchen window, he spotted two guards with machine guns pointed directly at Dillon, and thought,
great
, here we go again. Because, gee, they hadn’t had enough crap happen in one day already, now they were going to have to arm wrestle with a couple of AK-47’s.
Well, at least a few of his questions were answered. No, Dillon wasn’t gone yet. Yes, he was in trouble. And hoo boy, he looked madder than spit.
‘Cause yeah, getting a rifle poked up your nose would probably piss Jake off too. He inched back down and checked the clip in the Uzi. Full in, full on.
Probably not a good idea to go in with guns blazing, since the first person likely to get shot would be Dillon. Resting on one knee, he listened while he thought of a plan.
“You stupid bastards. Playing cards? Sanchez will have your lazy butts in a sling.”
A second voice followed, “What do we do with him?”
The first voice replied, “Tie him up. I’ll call Sanchez on the radio.”
Jake let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. Even though Dillon had a gun aimed at his head, he was still alive, but if Jake didn’t hurry, that happy little fact might change. He needed a distraction.
He needed—
He needed to stand up, raise his hands and smile at the nice man with the pistol poking him in the back.
<><><>
Sara couldn’t relax. Something was wrong, it had to be. Jake had been gone for over twenty minutes, and surely by now he’d have had time to find Dillon. Or, if Dillon was gone, if they were too late, Jake would have been back to the truck by now.
Right?
With a deep breath, she tried to analyze the situation logically.
What if Jake had twisted, or even broken, his ankle and was laying somewhere just waiting for her to show up? What if something awful had happened and she was just sitting here on her butt, doing nothing? She’d planned this whole thing so she could help, and sitting here doing nothing was not helping.
What was taking them so long?
Dark silence surrounded her, closing in like a creepy shroud. She squirmed, tapped her foot and wished they’d hurry up. Then she stopped fidgeting and told herself to stay calm.
But what if the guards had somehow heard them and had taken both Dillon and Jake captive? What if they had machine guns? What if Dillon and Jake didn’t come back? What if one, or both, of them was hurt? Or, God forbid, dead?
She couldn’t stand it any longer and she opened her door, scrambled out of the truck and into the darkness.
Between her and the farmhouse was the row of trees Dillon had parked behind. Slowly, she made her way toward the trees and stopped behind the thickest one. From this vantage point all she could see was the front window of the farmhouse lit with a dim yellow light.
Well, there was only one way to the house and barn, and if she stuck to the path, she’d either run into Jake hurt on the path, on his way back, or she’d find out what was going on.
Sticking the holstered Glock in the waistband of her fatigues, she ran to the car and grabbed a grenade, just in case.
In case of what?
Yeah, Rambo, in case of what?
She had no idea, but figured it couldn’t hurt to stuff one in her pocket.
Wait a minute.
The duffle bag was still in the car. Dillon wouldn’t have left a bag full of weapons behind, would he? And he’d had plenty of time to come back for it by now, so...
He was in trouble. He had to be.
The path was slick, it was dark, she didn’t have a flashlight, and after five minutes of slipping and seeing nothing but that dim, yellow light, she was almost ready to turn back.
Except now she couldn’t see anything behind her.
She kept moving forward.
Maybe that’s why Jake hadn’t shown up, maybe he was lost.
Or maybe he’s in as much trouble as Dillon.
It took her five more minutes to get to the kitchen window. She poked her head up just enough to see inside, and what she saw put ice in her belly.
She sucked in a breath and ducked down.
Jake and Dillon were both standing against a wall, arms raised, three men had guns on them, and a fourth was standing at the kitchen counter talking on some kind of radio.
Shit, shit, shit.
No way was she going to win against three, maybe four men with guns.
Although, she did have that grenade.
And what are you going to do with it? Toss it through the window and kill everybody?
No. No, she wasn’t. But she was going to give Jake and Dillon a fighting chance.
She held the grenade up and looked at it. Not too complicated. If fact, there was really only one thing to do with it. Basic common sense. Pull the pin and throw.
So that’s what she did. She held the safety lever, pulled the pin, then pitched it over the roof toward the front of the house and ducked.
<><><>
Dillon and Jake had a plan. For just about every worst case scenario, special ops all had some sort of blueprint they’d been trained to work from. And this was pretty much a worst case. In about ten seconds, they were going to disarm the man closest to Dillon, use him as a shield, and—
The earth quaked and a deafening blast shook the house. Both men dove headfirst into the guards in front of them. Random shots fired into the ceiling and wall. Dillon dropped the first guard, snatched his gun and landed a blow to his skull.
Jake rolled across the floor, grabbed his pistol off the table and shot guard number two. After that, guard number three was easy. He looked stunned, hadn’t moved, and Jake snatched his gun away just like taking candy from a baby.
Once he saw he was outnumbered, four didn’t even try. He laid his gun down and raised his hands.
Dillon looked around. None of the guards were dead, hurting yes, but not dead.
“What the hell just happened?” Dillon yelled over the ringing in his ears.
For the first time since Dillon had known him, Jake actually looked sheepish. “I’m thinking Sara to the rescue?”
“Sara?” Dillon’s jaw dropped.
“I left her at the top of the hill. She was supposed to stay there.” Jake moved to guard number four and started tying him up.
“And why was she at the top of the hill?” Dillon’s jaw clenched.
“She thought you might need this.” Jake pulled from his pocket, of all things, the silver thumb drive. He tossed it to Dillon.
Just when Dillon thought he couldn’t absorb anything more, three shots sounded from outside.
“That would mean trouble.” Jake said, looking unperturbed while he tied up guard number three.
“What kind of trouble?”
“My guess would be we’ve got company. I told Sara to keep a look out and fire three shots if she saw someone coming.”
“I see.”
“I’ll finish here, you’d better get outside before she inadvertently shoots herself or somebody else.”
“If you hear World War III going on, come join us. Otherwise, I’ll be back in a few for the plane.”
“Good enough.”
“Don’t forget to kill the radio.”
“Got it.”
Dillon grabbed his pistol from the table and left Jake the Uzi with a full clip. On his way out the door, he said over his shoulder, “Thanks, man, I owe you one.
I think.”
Jake grinned, looking for all the world as though he were enjoying himself.
As Dillon emerged from the side of the house, he spotted a dark figure running back through the field toward the car. Considering the barn, and the plane, were in the opposite direction, he didn’t quite get why Sara was racing flat out going the wrong damn way. He didn’t get why she was running at all. She should have been hiding close to the house somewhere.
He caught up to her just as she was cresting the hill. Grabbing her arm, he put the brakes on. “Where the hell are you going?”
Her breath came in short bursts. “Let go! There’s--”
The spit of an automatic rifle sounded and bullets splintered the wood of a tree mere inches from Dillon’s face.
Here we go again
, he thought, and spinning on his heel, shoved Sara down behind him as he raised his weapon.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Journal Entry
Sanchez and I had been sitting in the courtyard, discussing the next shipment of cocaine--where it was coming from and its final destination. “Bangkok,” Sanchez said. “You have security in place?”
“I do,” I said. I also have a man on the inside who is going to make sure that, oops, the one-ton shipment gets spread all over the Gulf of Thailand as well as making it look as though everything that goes wrong goes wrong on the other end. So far I’m a saint in Rafe’s book, and I damn well plan on staying that way. I can’t sabotage every shipment Sanchez makes, but the times I can, without raising suspicion, I do. I’ve also made sure every shipment’s been fully documented.
I think that, before much longer, Sanchez is going to bury himself. I have enough data now to nail the SBC not only to the wall, but brick them in for several lifetimes. As soon as the admiral gives me the go-ahead, I’m gathering my team and taking the bastard down.
Until then, I play the game. ~~ D.C.
<><><>
A late model Chevy sped past, speeding down the road away from the farmhouse.
“What the hell?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you!” Sara was practically vibrating in her haste to get moving, so he released her arm and followed her up the hill to the grey sedan.
“Tell me what?”
“Will you please hurry?”
“No, I will not hurry. The plane’s in the opposite direction.”
“Forget the plane. Come on! Those men are going to lead us straight to Sanchez.”
“And you know this be
cause
?”
Sara put Jake’s gun on the seat of the truck so he’d have it for later, grabbed her duffel bag, tossed it into the trunk of the car and all but launched herself into the passenger seat.
“Because I heard them say so, now let’s go!”
He took a second to assimilate this. The plane would be faster if he knew exactly where he was going. But since he only had a general idea of Sanchez’s whereabouts, following the men in the Chevy was probably his best shot at getting to Sanchez before time ran out.
If that was, in fact, where the men in the Chevy were headed.
He got in the car and fastened his seatbelt. “You’re absolutely sure you heard them say they were going straight to Sanchez? Just how good’s your Spanish?”
“They were speaking mostly English and they said something about a gringo, a reward, and telling Sanchez in person, then something about Puerto Vallarta. I focused on the ‘in person’ part. Now will you please go, they’re getting away!”
Dillon sighed, wishing like hell he could leave Sara behind, knowing he couldn’t, because too many people now knew where she was. That meant Sanchez would get to her, over Jake and anyone else who stood in his way. No matter how Dillon looked at it, she wasn’t going to be safe.
He glanced at her, hating that she was in the car, hating that this was happening, and hating Sanchez for his mere existence. “You ready?”
“If you’re asking whether I’m ready to get shot at, again, then you’re going to wait a long time for the right answer. Just
go
.”
Before he could change his mind, he peeled away from the farm, and in seconds they were slinging up mud right behind the dark blue Chevy.
They’d gone about three miles when he saw a white truck stopped on the side of the road with two men standing several feet away from it obviously waiting for something. Probably waiting for their gun-toting friends in the dark blue Chevy. Damn, Sanchez had a lot of people in his pocket. It was getting a little crowded considering the rain and the time. Why weren’t these people at home having dinner?
Because smuggling drugs takes a lot of manpower and money, and Sanchez has plenty of both.
Not to mention the fact that Sanchez was desperate to get his flash drive back and probably had every man on his payroll pulling double duty.
As soon as the two men saw the grey sedan heading straight for them, they sprinted for their truck.
As the Chevy passed the truck on the left, another spurt of bullets exploded through the sedan’s front windshield, shattering it, and ripping into the back of the seat right between him and Sara. He pushed Sara’s head down between her knees. “Get
down
.”
Then he stuck his pistol out the window, trained his sights on the Chevy’s driver’s side and fired. His first shot took off the side mirror, the second spidered the back windshield.
The Chevy swerved but kept going. The passenger stuck his weapon out the side window and let loose with a couple of bursts.
Dodging bullets, Dillon jerked the wheel left, then right, sending them from one side of the narrow road to the other.
“Are you
trying
to get us killed?” Sara demanded from between her legs with both arms crossed over her head. “The car’s going to roll!”
“Yeah,” he ground out, “getting us killed on a crappy road in a foreign country by gun-toting drug runners has been my plan all along.” He stepped on the gas and fired two more rounds at the back of the Chevy. “I’m not going to roll the car.”
Bullets zinged through the rear window of the sedan.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a new set of headlights behind them and gaining. “Stay down, we’ve got more company.” He floored the accelerator.