“Just sit tight. And if we move, grab that black bag right there and stay on my heels.”
She nodded and sat quietly in a chair. He knew he should speak to her—reassure her or comfort her, something—but he didn’t have it in him. He needed to concentrate on the critical moments ahead.
One mistake could cost lives and he didn’t intend for them to be his people.
They ran, dodging from cover to cover but mostly going for distance, then another crack. Gallagher hit Carmen in the back and they went down together, so he got yet another face full of damp dirt and plant decomp. It was starting to really piss him off, but the asshole’s aim was definitely improving.
“Give me that,” he said, reaching for her .22.
“He’s out of range, so there’s—”
“Give me the goddamn gun.” Time for that fucker to eat his share of jungle floor.
He checked the safety, then braced his left shoulder against a tree, waiting.
There.
The fucker was grinning, knowing he was out of range and he took his time raising his own weapon. Came closer. Cocky.
Closer still.
Gallagher raised the .22, found his target.
The target laughed.
Leaning back against the tree, Gallagher pressed the butt of his left hand against the slide. Pulled the trigger with his right hand, restricting the slide’s kick with his left, forcing added velocity.
The target stopped laughing and crumpled to the ground.
“Neat trick,” Carmen said.
“He was pissing me off. Give me your comm for a few minutes.”
She passed it over and then started rebraiding her hair. He paused in settling the earpiece. It was shorter—her hair—and it looked like it had been hacked pretty badly. A story for another day, God willing.
“Hey, Rossi,” he said into the mic.
“Holy shit, it’s good to hear your voice.”
“Likewise, dude, but we need a plan. Yesterday. Between us we have three knives, a flash bang and six .22 shots.”
“We’re working on it,” Rossi told him, his voice brittle with stress. “They’ve set up an outer perimeter and mounted an organized search pattern, bulk of it coming in from the west. They have an idea where you are and it’s a foot race.”
“Get O’Brien on.”
“Hold on, he’s en route.”
“I’m here,” O’Brien said when he was on comm.
“Dude, you ready to kick it old school?” Gallagher asked him.
It took a few seconds for his brain to catch up. “Jesus, G. Are you shittin’ me?”
“What’s going on?” Rossi demanded.
“G’s carrying a rapid extraction harness. All he needs is a hook. But that’s a solo rig.”
“I know that,” Gallagher said.
Rossi took a moment to swear in two languages, and then he got down to business. “Charlotte, pull up topo and aerial. Tell Tony to find a place where we can do this thing.”
“With minimal canopy,” O’Brien added. “This is gonna suck for her, big time.”
“I’ll have Charlotte monitoring the feed,” Rossi said. “The provisional government’s gonna be pissed we poked the tiger, so we’ll evac straight to Gabon. Charlotte will ID the best hospital and have the medical staff there on standby, giving them real time status updates.”
Gallagher heard a click as Tony Casavetti joined the conversation from Texas. “How far is Olivera good for?”
“The situation’s getting hot, so we’ll be going hard. The closer to our current position, the better.”
“Half-ass clearing eight-tenths of one mile south-southeast of your position. Light canopy cover.”
“I don’t have a hook, man,” O’Brien said. “I’m going to have to catch it with the skid and Donovan’s going to have to get her in.”
They talked time, distances and logistics for a few minutes, and then Gallagher was left with nothing but selling Carmen on the plan.
“Come up with something?” she asked when it was obvious the conversation was over.
“Just under a mile from here, there’s a clearing. Not enough to land a helo, but enough of a break in the canopy to extract by air.”
“What? Like dropping a ladder, or a rescue basket? That helicopter stands still more than a few seconds, those assholes will fill it full of holes.”
“It’s not going to stand still. Hell, it’s barely going to slow down.”
He wasn’t surprised when she gave him the skeptical raised eyebrow look. It wasn’t exactly standard operating procedure.
“It’s a harness system,” he explained. “There’s a ring, and when you pull it, the canisters fire and it’s going to send up two balloons. There’s a thin cable between them. Since we don’t have a C-130, the helo’s going to hook the cable with a skid and you’ll be flying until they can get you inside. It ain’t fun. It’ll fuck you up, maybe in a bad way, but it shouldn’t kill you.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Down here you will die. Less comforting.”
“How long until it comes back for a second pass?” He didn’t answer, and then she got it. “There’s only one harness.”
“Getting you out of here is priority one. Alone, I can be invisible.”
“I can be invisible, too, you jerk. Most of the time that’s my job.”
“Jungle combat’s different, babe.”
“Don’t babe me. I am sick of your condescending, sexist bullshit, and—”
“There’s nothing sexist about it. We all have strengths and weaknesses and your biggest weakness is your inability to be honest about yours.” She opened her mouth, but he bulldozed over her. “I’m in charge of this op and your presence is detrimental to my safety, so I am ordering you onto that helo.”
A resounding fuck you sat on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t spit it at him.
It was all there on his face. In his eyes. Everything he felt for her. His desperate determination to get her out alive. His willingness to do whatever it took—even dying—to make that happen.
His fear for her.
His love.
“You promise me,” she said in a low voice, “that if I go, you will get out of here alive.”
“If I know you’re safe, I can do anything, babe. Nothing could keep me from getting back to you.”
“You’re not bulletproof.”
“No, but this is what I’m trained for. Alone, I have a chance.” He cupped her cheek in his hand and ran his thumb across her bottom lip. “I’ve been doing this most of my life.”
“You still haven’t promised,” she whispered, even though she knew it was one he couldn’t give. Theirs was a world with no promises.
“I promise you if you get on that chopper, I’ll have a fighting chance, and that’s all I’ve ever needed.”
That was as close as she was going to get.
He tipped her chin up so she looked him in the eye. “No matter what, you get your ass on that bird.”
Carmen nodded once. She would, because that was the only way to save him.
“Let’s get the harness on you and then do some stretching. You’re about to run the hardest mile of your life, babe.”
Rossi ripped his headset off and replaced it with a portable comm unit. It was time to move.
“Isabelle, we’re leaving. Make sure your head is covered and try to arrange your kanga—your robe thing—to hide your hands.”
She obeyed without hesitation while he used the Flash Drive of Doom, as Charlotte called it, to fry each of the computers. Then he made a quick sweep of both rooms, making sure they didn’t leave anything that wasn’t expendable.
Most of the gear that Gallagher hadn’t taken was on the helicopter, so it didn’t take long. After making sure his disguise padding was in place, he grabbed the small camera he’d carry as part of their cover.
“Closing up shop,” he told Charlotte, so she could let the others know they were done at the Hot
el Jardin. “Isabelle, let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” she asked as he gave her the once over. She’d hidden her hands and the bag well enough with the draped fabric, and her head and face were covered. Hopefully, in the early dawn hours, she wouldn’t stand out a blonde, white girl.
“Airport.” He grabbed the black bag by the door and slung it over his shoulder. “Now listen to me. We’re going to take our time and look relaxed. I’ll be talking to you about…whatever. I’ve been seen talking to a lot of people for this fake documentary, so we shouldn’t attract attention. When we get to the airport, you just do what I say.”
He couldn’t give her any more direction than that because things were going to get very fluid at that point.
Though he hated the idea of being on the move while things were going down, it was time to get the hell out of Matunisia. As soon as he found the right aircraft to borrow, he and Isabelle Arceneau were heading for Gabon.
All he could do was pray he’d be reunited with his team there.
As their pace steadily ate up the distance, Carmen almost convinced herself it was a good plan. Gallagher was the real deal, and he did stand a fighting chance with her out of the way. Alone, he could do what he needed to do.
“We’re almost there,” he called to her, and he didn’t even sound winded. “You’ve got the plan?”
“Yes.” She didn’t like it, but she got it.
“Just a few more—”
He grunted and she turned her head enough to see him fall in her peripheral vision. She slowed, but he was on his knees, pushing himself to his feet, half-crawling toward her.
“Go.” His lips formed the word and her heart broke.
Then he was hit again. And this time he didn’t get back up.
No matter what, you get your ass on that bird.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and Carmen realized that would be the last time she saw Gallagher. Ever. His fighting chance was gone and he was as good as dead.
Assuming he was even still alive.
She spent about five seconds considering the rest of her life without Gallagher in it before she turned, fired three shots into the woods and ran back to him.
He was alive.
Conscious of the critical time slipping away, Carmen dropped the Ruger into her pocket, then crouched and hauled Gallagher across her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Her leg muscles trembled and resisted, but she managed to stand.
Thanking God for every punishing workout she’d ever forced herself to suffer through, she managed to start moving again.
A bullet whizzed past them, thunking into a tree, but Carmen just kept putting one foot in front of the other. They’d make it or they wouldn’t, but she wasn’t going without him.
“Approaching clearing,” she yelled into Gallagher’s mic, purposely not giving his status. This was their only shot, and she didn’t want them aborting for any reason. “We’re under fire.”
“Affirmative.”
Pain seared across her left side, stealing her breath. She stumbled and Gallagher’s weight gave her momentum. They crashed to the ground and he rolled away.
Their numbers were about up, and the adrenaline kicked in in a big way. She scrambled to Gallagher and hoisted him again. There was no time for return fire. No time to wonder if she could do it or not. She just went.
Carmen broke into the clearing. Her breath came in ragged gasps and the pain in her side was excruciating. Her shoulders and legs were screaming and she could almost feel her spine compressing.
She reached the center of the clearing and collapsed. Gallagher rolled, still unconscious. He was bleeding from a couple of places, but she didn’t have time to administer first aid at the moment.
Remembering his instructions, she checked the clips on her harness, then reached behind her back and pulled the pin. There was a popping sound—like a gunshot—and when she looked up she could see the cord making an inverted triangle from her back up to the two balloons.
Carmen dragged Gallagher upright, looking for some way—any way—to clip him to her vest. They both had carabiners and she hooked them together. It wasn’t enough. There wasn’t—
A low, rapid whoop whoop.
She grabbed at him, hooking her arms under his and getting a leg under his crotch. Then her entire body jerked—snapped—and then she was hurtling through the air.
“Fuck!” She heard O’Brien shout through the disc in Gallagher’s ear, and felt the dip as the helo reacted to the excess weight.
Gallagher was slipping. She clawed at the back of his vest, feeling the pop pop of agony as her fingernails gave way. She got one leg between his, trying to brace him.
The wind grabbed at her, blinding her and trying to rip Gallagher away. Branches and leaves scored her body like razor blades. Something smacked her hip hard and he slipped again.
Her shoulder tore, muscle ripping away from bone and cartilage. She screamed, searing her vocal cords and allowing the wind into her lungs. Her other fingers found purchase in his vest and she held him, his weight grinding her bones.
Then the wind tried to take him again, and she fought, squeezing him with her legs. It was all she had left.
“Carmen!”
Still she screamed, clinging desperately to him.
“He’s in!” A man was shouting at her. “You’re both in. You can let him go now, Carmen. Please let him go.”
The man was untangling her legs, then peeling her throbbing fingers away from Gallagher’s vest.
“You’re safe now,” the man said. It was Jack Donovan, and he was still yelling—she could barely hear him over her own ragged sobs. “We’re on our way to a hospital. You hang on.”
She wanted to ask if Gallagher was alive, but she couldn’t breathe—couldn’t talk.
Then the first muscle spasm hit and she screamed again. And kept screaming until the world went blessedly dark.
Alex Rossi was on his knees, the hospital chapel’s plain, nondenominational cross looming over him. Despite a Catholic boyhood, he wasn’t a praying man. And he wasn’t exactly praying then. He was just…waiting. Bargaining. Seeking solace. Hell, he didn’t know what he was doing.
He didn’t need a debriefing. Both guys on the helo were wired for sight and sound, and he’d watched the recorded feed after Gallagher and Carmen were rushed beyond swinging doors he couldn’t bully his way through.
He’d watched the skid catch the line in a textbook maneuver from O’Brien’s view, and then watched it all go to shit from Donovan’s.
As Donovan—clipped to a safety line—had stepped out onto the skid and worked his ass off getting enough cable to feed into an improvised pulley, Rossi had witnessed Carmen’s fight for Gallagher’s life. He’d seen her pain and he’d heard it. Her screams…
O’Brien had cut Gallagher’s microphone, but not before her screams reverberated through their earpieces and his speakers—an agonized, inhuman cry that would haunt each of them for a very long time.
Alex ached for Grace and Danny. He wanted to see them. Needed desperately to hold them until his heart stopped hurting.
Donovan walked up and knelt beside him. “Doc’s looking for you.”
He sounded too solemn and Alex’s fists clenched even tighter. It was time to suck it up. Be a man. Do what he had to do.
His breath hiccupped in his chest.
“Gallagher’s still holding his own in surgery,” Donovan went on. “But Carmen… You’ve got the medical power of attorney, so the doctor… It’s time to make a decision, boss.”
Chapter Fifteen
Gallagher seemed to swim through the murky haze forever before he finally broke the surface. The light was blinding, and there was a lot of beeping and hissing and squeaking of rubber-soled shoes.
Hospital. “Carmen.”
Nobody responded, and he thought maybe he hadn’t said it out loud. “Where’s Carmen?”
His voice was croaky and his mouth was desert-dry, but at least there weren’
t any big tubes shoved into his sinus cavities. Just a nasal cannula stuck in his nostrils. At least that’s what the nurses called it the last time he got shot.
A nurse hovered over him. “Mr. McLaine, you’re awake. How do you feel?”
Since that was about the stupidest fucking question he’d ever been asked, he ignored it. “Carmen Olivera. Is she here?”
The nurse’s brow furrowed in pseudo-maternal concern. “Let’s talk about your pain. On a scale of one to ten?”
Eleven. “Where. The fuck. Is Carmen?”
The nurse slipped away, replaced by a doctor who probably looked intimidating to normal people. “Mr. McLaine, we need to focus on you right now. Tell me about your pain.”
Gallagher managed to lift his head off the pillow. “We’ll be talking about your pain if I don’t get…some…”
He slipped back into the haze, cursing intravenous morphine.
Jack stood in the small airline terminal, assigned to turn Isabelle over to the reasonably capable-looking federal agents waiting by the doors. They wanted her back in the States ASAP, safe and under wraps.
He was all for her being safe, but now that the time had come to let her go, he didn’t know what to say to her.
“I wish I could stay longer,” she said, seeming no more eager to head toward the door than he was to send her. “Your friends risked their lives for me and I didn’t even get to meet them.”
Thinking about Gallagher and Carmen made his gut ache. “Now’s not a good time.”
“I should say thank you, at least. They helped save me from…” He watched her inhale slowly through her nose, pushing the horror back. “You all saved me.”
“You should change your name,” he told her. “Maybe take your mother’s maiden name. We can help you change your paperwork and find a good therapist. You can make a new life for yourself—whoever you want to be.”
“I’m not going to hide from this. I’m going to fight for my father.”
“Your father’s going to prison. He helped hurt and kill a lot of people, Isabelle.”
No Surrender: The Devlin Group, Book 3 Page 13
