by Louise Dawn
“That asshole is playing you like a chump.”
Kris turned towards Max. “I never take a man’s last words seriously. They stem from desperation and fear.”
The fear wasn’t for himself, it was for Abby. He’d spoken the truth. Roman was a snake who’d destroy Muller, and Abby would get caught in the crossfire.
Kris paraded up to Max like a vain cock. “You’ll be shot in the head knowing you’ve failed at your job and you’ve failed her. Joey’s mine now. Think about that in your last kak-ass moments. I’ll keep her around for a couple of years and when she’s lost her pretty mojo, I’ll bury her in my backyard.”
Max blocked out the prick’s taunts as Scarface and his two sidekicks walked over with suppressed M4’s. If they got close enough, Max could take one target out and acquire the weapon. Survivability sat below the ten percent mark. He’d faced crappier odds before—well, maybe not this crappy, but his homicidal rage might tip the scales.
Kris broke in. “Not in here. I don’t want a blood-soaked floor, that’s a bugger of a stain to clean up. Take him into the bush; the vultures will clean the carcass. Keep your distance. He’s a lethal bloody bastard.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lock up the place and pay off the staff. We’ll meet over the border in a few days.” Muller left to join Khalid.
The crappy odds were now happier ones. Max allowed himself to be freed. The men were cautious, having no idea that they’d just become chickens in the coop and Max was one bloodthirsty fucker. They shoved him up a hill. The opposite direction to the house. Then down a path, crossing over a cattle grid and into the bush; arguing over the best spot for an execution. Max slowed his gait, listening for closing distance. A couple more steps and he’d make his move.
An unknown gunman burst from the surrounding brush and fired at the men. Max dove, twisted and tripped up Scarface’s legs. He gripped the M4, wrestled it from the brute’s hands, then slammed it upwards into the asshole’s nose. Scarface went limp. One shot to the face and Max realigned his sights on the second mercenary, who staggered back under the stranger’s fire. A double tap from Max and the man fell dead on impact. The third target groaned in the sand with a gaping chest wound. Max pointed the assault rifle at the lone ranger.
“I’m with you, don’t shoot!”
The man looked Indian or Pakistani.
Mutali emerged from the bush, stepping between bodies, before slashing away at the dying man with a machete. “This is Rashid. He is my good friend.”
“Thanks for the assist, buddy.” Max rolled to his feet before checking the M4 and the dead men for ammunition. He had to get to Abby.
“You’re from Pakistan?” Max asked Rashid in Urdu.
Rashid shouldered his weapon. “My parents came from Karachi, I grew up in Johannesburg. Mr. Muller came to our local mosque and hired five of us to work on his farm. We had no idea that he worked with these extremists until it was too late. Men like him give Islam a bad name.”
Gunshots from the east caused Max to pause. He switched to English.
“How many of you are there on the property, fighting Muller’s men?”
“Ten staff members. We have machetes and guns we’ve stolen from the guards.”
“I’m going after them. Where is that gunfire coming from? Are those your men firing?”
“I doubt it. Most of the staff are at the lodge. It’s coming from the road that leads out. It splits, if you go right, you’ll head to Mr. Muller’s private airstrip. Turning left will take you ten kilometers towards the main freeway.”
“Thanks. I need a phone.”
Mutali dug in his pocket and handed Max an old Samsung.
“I’ll replace the phone once this is over. Is there any coverage?”
“Only on the main road. Do you need any backup?” Mutali called to Max’s back.
“No, look after your people. My team will be rolling in shortly. Don’t shoot at them.”
“What do they look like?”
“Nasty mothers like me.”
Gunshots continued, indicating Abby was caught in a firefight. Max hotfooted it, not allowing the ankle to slow him. Mercenary thugs ran through the shadows, hindering his progress. Max encountered and eliminated three bogies before approaching the front gate, but by then it was too late.
◊ ◊ ◊
A burst of rounds kicked up around the van. Khalid literally sat on Abby, smashing her into the floor mat and yelling at the driver to move as his minions piled in. The escalation of violence began when they were making their way to the transport parked near the entrance of the lodge.
Abby had ignored their hasty withdrawal, instead fighting and straining her ears for the round that would obliterate her world, killing her brave Max. It was all her fault, she’d tried to save him and failed. He was right. She was a Sharon Nasari, luring friends and lovers to the rocks of her sad existence, smashing lives along the way.
When the gunshot came, Abby jerked before stumbling in a haze of pain. The volley of distant pops that followed had her holding her breath. Something had gone wrong, or in her case, right. Max might still be alive and fighting back. Abby bent over with her hands on her knees, sucking in mournful breaths. Please be alive. Please be alive.
Khalid paused to listen and yelled commands in Arabic; men scattered. Some ran back towards the lodge; the remaining men hustled her towards the vehicles.
A bodyguard unlocked a Jeep. Kris turned away to redirect two guards, Abby spotted the fleeting look exchanged between Khalid and Roman, a Judas Kiss that pushed Kris out of the circle of trust. Roman readjusted his grip on his Glock, and in a split second, Abby chose the side that was lesser of the two evils.
“Kris! Watch out!” Abby screamed as Roman raised his pistol, splitting the Al Juhani-Muller alliance for good. Kris dove sideways, getting nicked in the arm as opposed to the head. Men scrambled to choose sides as shots were exchanged. Kris scurried off. Abby was shoved into the vehicle with Khalid landing roughly on top.
Now the Jeep mowed down guerrillas as it bounced wildly towards the exit. Roman was an excellent shot, ruthlessly eliminating anyone who got in the way. More of Khalid’s men piled into a second van, then they bolted for the airstrip.
◊ ◊ ◊
Two vehicles roared away as Max broke into the paved clearing. Bodies littered the road. An engine screamed, and a Ford pickup smashed its way out of a shed, aiming directly for Max, who dove to the side. Bullets slammed into the ground as he scrambled for cover behind the abandoned guard house. The vehicle drifted around in a skid, Muller’s face at the wheel, flashed in the moonlight. Taking aim at the ranger, Max’s bullet slammed into Kris’s shoulder. The truck swerved violently before accelerating out of the grounds, heading left towards freedom.
Only one sedan remained with a shot-out windscreen, but thankfully the keys were still in the ignition. Max pulled a dead mercenary from the driver’s seat and grabbed the dead man’s R4 rifle as an additional backup weapon.
Pulling onto the sand road, Max prayed he’d be in time. A call to Johnny confirmed that the team were ten minutes out, too late to provide support in grounding an aircraft. Max immediately gave up Gabe’s location. Mandla’s Spec Ops unit in the Cape could evacuate Gabriel and Noleen before Khalid got to them.
Two miles of bone-jarring driving and Max smashed through the brush at the end of the runway just as the jet ascended. Engines roared, the landing gear retreated. Max raced onto the tarmac, yelling at the plane’s retreating form. He skidded to a stop and dialed a number with shaking fingers.
Black night was all that remained, consuming his sanity.
Slater answered on the first ring.
“Where the hell are you!” Max shouted.
“Three clicks away.”
“Three clicks too fucking late, we’re all too fucking late! I’m parked on Muller’s airstrip. Move your damn asses!” Max hung up and stepped out into the darkness. He cradled the large rifle as he sank to the gro
und.
How had the mission that mattered most turned into such a clusterfuck? Two years of working seamlessly as a team and this was where they’d ended up? Losing valuable hostages in the field.
Abby’s value was all wrapped up in Max. He couldn’t survive without her, yet he’d pushed her away when she’d needed him the most. As team leader and her protector, the blame lay squarely at his feet.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Fifteen minutes after takeoff, Abby had to delay Khalid and his four guerrillas. There were too many of them to take on herself, especially with a limited knowledge of self-defense. If she guessed correctly, the flight was only eighty to a hundred minutes of flying time. You can do this, girl. Take what you know about aircrafts and formulate a plan. A history of extensive flight safety training might just give her an edge.
Two of the four guards were buckled in their seats. One man in the lavatory while Roman stood near the cockpit. Khalid tapped away on his laptop, seated towards the front of the aircraft on the plush seats facing the cabin. The cold bastard behaved like an ordinary businessman on a work trip. The guard seated opposite Khalid was buckled in. Abby was positioned in the back row, on the left side of the aisle.
Viktor sat across the aisle from her. The gargantuan Russian was the one who’d broken Meg’s arm that fateful night. Ignoring his shoulder-holstered gun, Abby spotted an ankle strapped piece, exposed as Viktor’s cargo pants rode up his leg.
If she could get to that weapon she could shoot Khalid, a rooted fantasy that would be suicide. She was outgunned. The old pre-Max Hansen Abby from a month ago would have jumped at the chance to sacrifice herself for the greater good. The new post-Max Hansen Abby wanted to live, even if he never forgave her.
Abby refused to think about those last angry words fired in her direction. Did he really think that badly of her? She’d been trying to save him and all he saw was a self-serving bitch. No. That was just ugly desperation pulling them apart. Abby was determined to stand with her fierce warrior, and the time was now.
She glanced at the window to the left. They were on a Gulfstream G150. She was trained on Airbuses and Learjets—they were her old friends—but she’d flown once before on a Gulfstream. This was a roomier aircraft than most private planes with six plush leather seats taking up most of the space. Four facing forward and the two front seats facing the cabin. The windows were small and round.
Her plan formed. The estimated altitude was twenty-five thousand feet. Shooting out a window would cause an immediate decompression. With luck, the unbuckled men would receive injuries as they were thrown around the cabin on an emergency descent. The pilot would drop rapidly to a safer altitude to avoid oxygen deficiency, and then divert to the closest airport for an emergency landing.
Khalid would find a way to get to Cape Town but delaying them as much as possible bought Max and his team precious time. Abby had solid faith that Max had used his Jason Bourne skill set to escape, and it was time for them to catch up on Khalid’s head start.
Viktor was not an attractive giant, with his crooked nose nestled between beady eyes. Abby ran eyes down his steroid-soaked body, noting his position as he dozed with legs stretched out. No one paid her much heed, thinking she wasn’t going anywhere. Wrong. She was about to go somewhere called ape-shit. Hurricane style.
Unbuckling the seatbelt without drawing unwanted attention was the next step. Abby slipped as many fingers between the metal bits as she could and pulled the clip handle slowly. A dull click barely registered. She subtly repositioned herself. Moving fast was essential and her aim had to be accurate. This was going to hurt; Khalid’s retribution would be a bitch.
Abby dove for Viktor’s feet, grabbing the ankle-strapped gun. Mercifully it slid out on contact, and it helped that the safety clip was located on the trigger. Swiveling, Abby aimed at the window as Viktor lunged forward, pulling his primary weapon. He moved incredibly fast, shifting the gun towards her head. His seatbelt restricted his movement as he tried to twist in the chair.
One of them had to die and it wouldn’t be her. Abby swung the gun around and pulled the trigger. The bullet traveled upwards through the bottom of his jaw, exploding out the back of his head. Viktor’s brains splattered across the ceiling, a horror she’d never erase. Abby re-shifted her aim to the window. One shot, two shots and her aim was true.
The cabin erupted into chaos as men fumbled with seat belts, tripping over themselves. Roman rushed up the passage, with a teammate following close behind. Abby threw the gun away and raised her hands. Roman ripped her upwards into the aisle. Her head bounced off the back of the seat in front. Pain ripped through her neck, but all Abby focused on was one glorious sound—the cracked window sucking out whistling air.
Roman threw her face forward into the aisle, and she scrambled to her knees and reached over the seat, grabbing a seat belt and wrapping it around her wrist. A knee slammed into her ribs. Abby nearly vomited but held on, knowing what was coming. Sure enough, a huge bang echoed as the window blew out. Roman’s startled eyes met hers as Abby pulled in a deep, yet painful breath. She had approximately twenty seconds to get to an oxygen mask before hypoxia set in.
Time slowed as men dove for safety, grabbing for anything as air tried to suck their bodies out. Roman was nearest the blown-out window and held onto an armrest. Carts broke free in the galley. A coffee cup flew past only to be pulled out into the atmosphere. Oxygen masks finally dropped down, bobbing frantically in the wind-torn cabin.
As the aircraft descended into a nose dive, screaming men flew backwards, their bodies battering the rear bulkhead like tenpins scattering. Gravity pulled Abby up the aisle, her legs floating as she clung to the seat belt. Securing herself and grabbing the oxygen mask flapping about was her primary objective. Desperation tore at her lungs but there wasn’t any oxygen to be had. Agonizing pain ripped through her body, indicating damaged ribs. Eyes tearing, Abby clawed her way into the seat. Once latched in, she pulled on a mask and took her first breath, keeping the dizziness at bay.
Moans rolled through the cabin. Abby smiled at Khalid, who sat buckled in with a mask settled over his smoothly handsome face. There would be retribution if the look on his face was anything to go by. His white knuckles clutched at armrests and his eyes spat with fury. It was foolish, but she couldn’t resist goading him. She’d waited too long for this moment and would rather die than let this monster touch her son.
Abby pulled the mask up and mouthed the word, “Oops” before settling back and donning a cloak of control.
Once the plane landed, Khalid stood up and sorted out the bedlam. One dead. One broken wrist. Roman fared well with just a gash marring his manly forehead. Abby wished he’d been cabin-whipped into oblivion, but he still looked as smooth as hell.
Stomach churning, Abby watched them drag the Hulk’s almost headless body up the aisle, tossing it in the rear galley. She’d done that, blown the back of a man’s head off. Blood spray still dried on her forehead and she trembled in morbid shock. Max had warned her about taking a life. She’d gone and done it and couldn’t look away. The metallic smell of blood coated her lungs.
Abby glanced up vacantly. Roman grabbed her hair, the seatbelt strained in protest and her poor ribs were cracking in two.
“You killed my comrade, now you will fucking die.” Roman slammed the butt of his gun into her cheek. Pain exploded. He reared back again.
“Enough!” Khalid’s voice cut through dizziness, Roman didn’t pause, instead grinding the muzzle against her forehead. Warm blood trickled down her face.
With a flat look, Roman adjusted his stance. “Close your pretty eyes, it’s time to clock out.”
Abby had taken it too far and now she would die. She closed her eyes, not because the douchebag asked. She needed to see what mattered most. Max was holding Gabe. He’d go to the ends of the earth to rescue her son. They could have been an actual family; her little family who would never be together in this life. How badly she wanted that. Gro
wing up in constant loneliness had isolated her soul in cynicism. With Gabe, she’d thought her family was complete. Max shattered that image, replacing it with something so much better. That dream would be snuffed out, along with her fragile life.
“I said enough!” Khalid stepped closer. “If you kill her, I’ll be very disappointed. I need her alive to find my son.”
“You know where your son is!” Roman shouted.
“And what if Muller’s wrong?” Khalid swore in Arabic. “You take orders from me.”
Roman’s finger stroked the trigger slowly. “Khalid had his turn with you, but it’s my turn next, I’ve been waiting a long time.” As he shoved her roughly back, Abby smiled.
Her dazzling life included a sweet baby boy and a strong man by her side. Max would annihilate anyone who got in his way. Abby had just turned the tables, outfoxing Khalid, and the arrogant fool didn’t even know it.
◊ ◊ ◊
The helicopter landed just north of Johannesburg at Lanseria Airport. Max leapt onto the runway, followed by Donnie, Slater, and Anton. Go-bags were provided as they raced to a private aircraft, fueled and ready for takeoff. Mandla Nkosi and Johnny greeted Max at the bottom of the stairs. Johnny dude-hugged him before breaking the news. “Khalid hired additional help. We didn’t get there in time. Our drone saw five men entering Noleen’s safe house. They’re holding them hostage until Khalid arrives.”
Mandla grabbed Max’s bag. “My six-man team got there as quickly as they could but we were too late.”
“For fuck’s sake. Do those mercenaries know your men are watching?” Max asked.
“My unit is keeping a low profile. They commandeered a vacation home across the way.”
That gave them a good site to work from, but Gabriel was now also Khalid’s captive, and that messed with Max’s head.
Mandla stepped in his way. “There’s more.”
“Unless it involves miraculously getting to Cape Town before Khalid, there’s no time.” Max pushed past, but Mandla’s next words stopped him in his tracks.
