by Terry Odell
“After I see the files.”
Outside, a generator hummed. Three cats peered warily around upended tables and a maze of cardboard cartons. Avoiding broken glass, rubber tubing, and other assorted debris, he followed Alvarez across the room. A rusty gas stove stood at the far end next to a small refrigerator, and a Formica-topped table. In a blur, the cats disappeared behind the stove. Opposite, two file cabinets flanked a beat-up wooden desk, and a cracked vinyl armchair. Like an alien presence, a flat-screen computer monitor sat atop the desk.
“One moment.” When Alvarez reached under the desk, Ryan grabbed for his weapon. A button clicked and a hard drive whirred. Ryan exhaled. Maybe this was a cakewalk after all.
The door slammed against the wall. Flash-bang grenades hit the floor. “Get down!” he shouted at Alvarez, who still fumbled with the computer. Covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut Ryan scrambled for cover behind the desk as the room filled with brilliant light and an ear-splitting report.
Deaf and half-blind from the blast, Ryan pointed his Glock near the doorway. Gunfire sprayed the room. Alvarez gasped. Blood flowed from his chest. He turned and pressed a metal tube into Ryan’s hand. The ringing in his ears muffled the man’s words, but Ryan watched his lips. “Importante.” Alvarez clawed his way to the desktop. The computer exploded. Ryan’s body slammed backward. Alvarez sagged to the floor, half his face blown off.
Shit. First Colombia, and now this. Ryan jammed the tube into a pocket of his cargo pants. Blinking to clear his vision, he turned to engage his assailants. Three of them–one of him. Some fucking cakewalk.
The desk and file cabinets provided cover, giving Ryan the advantage. He fired. Two shots to the body, one to the head. Repeat as needed. Two men down.
The third guy, built like a grizzly, bared his teeth in a malicious grin. “You are mine, señor.”
“Sorry. You’re not my type.” Ryan pulled the trigger twice. His assailant fell backward, his weapon firing in a broad arc. A searing pain ripped through Ryan’s shoulder. His arm jerked and his gun clattered to the floor, skittering between the file cabinets behind him. He fumbled for the knife strapped to his ankle. Blood, hot and sticky, ran down his arm, and his fingers slipped on the knife’s hilt. He duck-walked backward for the file cabinets to retrieve his Glock.
He groped for the pistol. The man on the floor struggled to his feet. Body armor. Crap. Ryan’s gun hand was all but useless. The angle sucked. Holding the Glock in his off hand, he took a head shot. The man twitched, swinging his arm. He went down.
Ryan’s satisfaction shriveled when the grenade rolled across the room, stopping under the stove.
“Fuck.” Ryan burst through the door and dove for cover. He grimaced with pain from landing on his knee as the warehouse exploded in flames.
Dazed, he moved into the jungle. When he didn’t check in on schedule, an extraction team would rendezvous according to plan—three days from now. No sweat. Couldn’t be any worse than survival training hell.
It was. In survival training, no one shot you, and then infected you with some nasty jungle bug. His meager rations were useless—he could barely keep water down. His knee looked more like a melon than a joint. His shoulder screamed and his teeth chattered despite the jungle heat. Hiding by day, traveling by night, Ryan reached the extraction point and waited. He wouldn’t be left behind. He only hoped he’d be alive when the chopper showed up.
The appointed time came and went. He fought to stay conscious. Ten minutes. Another five. He could hold on for one more. And one after that. The world faded in and out. Then from above, the welcome whup-whup of a helicopter sounded. Praying he wasn’t suffering from fever-induced hallucinations, he crawled out of his hiding place to the tiny clearing. He squinted into the darkness at the hovering helo and flashed his light in the prearranged pattern. He’d never make it up a rope ladder. He had to.
The ladder dropped. A body scrambled down. Someone—a face he should recognize despite the camo paint—put a hand on his shoulder.
“Your limo’s here, Harper.” Someone lifted him onto a stretcher. “Relax and enjoy the ride.”
A burst of fire shot through his shoulder as someone ripped his shirt open, then a sting in his arm.
And then nothing.
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About the Author
Terry Odell began writing by mistake, when her son mentioned a television show and she thought she’d be a good mom and watch it so they’d have common ground for discussions.
Little did she know she would enter the world of writing, first via fanfiction, then through Internet groups, and finally with groups with real, live partners. Her first publications were short stories, but she found more freedom in longer works and began what she thought was a mystery. Her daughters told her it was a romance so she began learning more about the genre and craft. She belongs to both the Romance Writers of America and Mystery Writers of America.
Now a multi-published, award winning author, Terry resides with her husband in the mountains of Colorado. You can find her online at:
Her website - http://terryodell.com
Her blog - http://terryodell.com/terrysplace
Facebook -http://www.facebook.com/AuthorTerryOdell
Twitter - http://twitter.com/authorterryo
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Other Kindle Books by Terry Odell
Finding Sarah (Pine Hills Police 1)
Hidden Fire (Pine Hills Police 2)
Saving Scott (Pine Hills Police 3)
Nowhere to Hide (A Pine Hills Police spinoff)
Finding Fire (Pine Hills Police—short story anthology)
When Danger Calls (Blackthorne, Inc. 1)
Where Danger Hides (Blackthorne, Inc. 2)
Rooted in Danger (Blackthorne, Inc. 3)
Danger in Deer Ridge (Blackthorne, Inc. 4)
Dangerous Connections (Blackthorne, Inc. 5)
Deadly Secrets: A Mapleton Mystery, #1
Deadly Bones: A Mapleton Mystery #2
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