by Marc Cameron
A man on the plane leaned out to pull up the boarding door. Quinn sent him tumbling onto the ground with two quick rounds to the chest. Incoming fire from one of the other sentries sent Quinn diving for cover as the pilot spun the Caravan and threw on the power, causing it to gain speed quickly since it was five people lighter than expected.
Quinn returned fire carefully, counting his shots and expecting the weapon to run dry at any moment. For all his professional demeanor, the dead soldier had used up much of his magazine in the first full-auto burst to protect the Caravan.
Scanning over the top of the rifle sights, Quinn tried to figure out what Aleksandra was doing with the grenade. A booming concussion answered his question. Shrapnel screamed through the air, rattling through the jungle leaves. For a split second a blossom of black smoke and falling debris obscured the Caravan’s tail.
To Quinn’s horror the plane kept rolling unaffected by the blast or the rounds. Aleksandra continued to engage the two surviving sentries while Quinn focused on the rapidly departing Caravan. With the engine pointed away he aimed for the thin walls of the fuselage, hoping to throw enough rounds into the avionics to stop them. If he was lucky he’d hit the pilot. Two rounds later, he was empty.
The plane continued to roll, picking up speed with every yard down the grass strip. It was airborne in a matter of moments, banking hard right to get beyond the trees. Quinn ran for the downed soldier, ignoring the bullets that thwacked the dirt at his feet as he grabbed for a fresh magazine on the dead man’s belt.
Aleksandra silenced the last sentry with a commandeered rifle at the same moment the Caravan disappeared over the treetops.
Quinn stood in the middle of the clearing wrapped in stunned silence. He held the freshly loaded Kalashnikov to his shoulder, though there was nothing to shoot at but air. By degree, the shrieks and chatter of the jungle crept back to normal as if the gunfight had never happened and Borregos’s plane had not just flown away carrying a five-kiloton atomic bomb.
CHAPTER 66
Movement along the edge of the grass strip caught Quinn’s eye. When he went to investigate, he found the man who’d fallen out of the plane was still alive.
Quinn’s first round had hit him in the chest, but the second had gone low, entering the back of the knee as he tumbled down the boarding stairs. He lay in the grass with his leg turned unnaturally underneath his body. Dark eyes had sunken into deep sockets as if the life was seeping out from behind them. His chest heaved in ragged breaths.
He didn’t have long.
Quinn turned to Aleksandra. “Ask where they’re taking the bomb.”
She did, prodding his wounded leg with her toe to get his attention.
“Laa! Laa!” he cried. No, no.
Quinn looked down, shocked. He was speaking Arabic.
“Who are you?” he asked in Arabic.
The wounded man looked up, blinking his sunken eyes.
“Allahu Akbar,” he sighed with his last breath, the sound of air seeping out of flattening tire. God is great.
“Damn you stupidly shit!” Aleksandra attempted to curse in English, kicking the man again in frustration.
Quinn touched her arm.
“Let’s think,” he said. “This guy is an Arab and there were Yemeni AQAP reps at the party where you and I met. Borregos was there as well, but I’m betting this guy’s people picked the target. Borregos is a narcotics smuggler . . . probably moving the bomb for a share in the profits.”
Quinn stooped to search the dead Arab’s pockets and found a satellite phone. He pressed the power switch and held his breath as it cycled. As he suspected, they’d been in the jungle long enough the battery was completely spent.
“Dead,” he said, holding up the phone so Aleksandra could see it.
“There is a small generator beside that building,” she said.
None of the other guards had a satellite phone or a charging cord, but there were a handful of tools and a few spare aircraft parts in the shed. It took over four hours of scrounging wire and other materials to jury-rig a charging cord that would attach to the satellite phone’s battery—and another two to get the generator chugging long enough to give the phone enough juice to make a call.
It was nearly noon by the time Quinn was finally able to connect with Win Palmer. He had no idea how long the battery would last and uncharacteristically told the boss to shut up and listen as soon as he answered. He gave Palmer a CliffsNotes version of the past few hours’ events.
“I’ll take some photos of these guys with my phone and text them to you as soon as we get a signal,” Quinn said. “We could use an extraction for two ASAP. In the meantime, I suggest you get Diego Borregos’s photo out to every law enforcement agency within two hundred miles of the border.”
“I’ll get someone to you right away,” Palmer said, pausing. The sound of clicking computer keys dominated the line. “Bo is stable, by the way,” he said while he typed. “And Thibodaux is too damned stubborn to take it easy until we know for sure about his eye.”
“Thanks for the update,” Quinn said, relieved. “I wonder—”
“How long is the strip there?” Palmer spoke before Quinn could ask any more about Bo.
Quinn looked from one end of the grass field to the other. “Maybe twenty-five hundred feet,” he said. “But I got forty feet of jungle canopy rising up right off both ends of the runway.”
“Twenty-five,” Palmer inhaled sharply. “That’s awfully tight for anything fast enough to get to you anytime soon and big enough to carry you both. . . .” His voice trailed off giving way to more clicks of the keyboard. “Okay, I think I have something,” he said at length. There was a long silence, followed by a resigned sigh. “Hope you don’t get airsick.”
CHAPTER 67
2:00 PM Bolivian time
Quinn recognized the high-pitched whine of the Cessna A-37B before it screamed over the treetops, rolling slightly so the pilot could get a better look at the cramped jungle runway. The twin GE turbofan engines gave rise to the aircraft’s nickname of the Tweety Bird or Super Tweet—but Quinn had always agreed with those who called it a six-thousand-pound dog whistle. All but mandatory in just about every South American coup since the 1970s, the A37 had a slender tail and broad, tandem cockpit that gave it a toady look. Bulbous tip-tanks hung at the end of each Hershey Bar wing. A seven-round rocket pod was attached to the pylons on either side, midway between a second set of fuel tanks and the fuselage. This one was painted olive and brown and bore the red and white flag of the Peruvian Air Force.
“We are supposed to leave on this flying tadpole?” Kanatova scoffed as the little jet made another low-altitude pass. It skimmed the trees, low enough Quinn could clearly make out the pilot as he turned his head back and forth, planning his landing—and his eventual takeoff—in such cramped quarters.
Two minutes later saw the squat aircraft banking over the treetops, minus the external fuel tanks that had been under each wing. Engine whining, airbrake deployed, it settled in over the grassy strip and rolled to a stop with a nearly two hundred feet to spare. Both Quinn and Kanatova plugged their ears as the twin turbofans—little more than kerosene-burning sirens—pushed the little jet to the end of the field and finally spooled down.
A short, bantam rooster of a man with broad shoulders and stubby legs to match his airplane flipped up the bubble cockpit cover and climbed out. He wore a green Nomex flight suit and a flight helmet with a dark face-shield.
He peeled off a Nomex glove and extended his hand.
“J. C. Fuentes,” he said with only the slightest of Latin accents. Black hair hung across his forehead in a Superman curl. “Fighter Squadron 711 of the Peruvian Air Force. Are you Señor Jericho Quinn?”
“I am.”
“Very well then,” Fuentes said. “Climb aboard and we’ll get under way. My orders are to fly you to Talara at once.”
Aleksandra looked at the cockpit, then turned to the pilot. “There are only two seats.”
Fuentes shrugged. “I am lighter on fuel now. It will be tight, but you are small enough we can fit you in on Señor Quinn’s lap. Unfortunately, neither of you will be able to wear a parachute.”
“Then do not crash,” Kanatova said, giving the jet a sullen frown.
“As you wish.” The pilot smiled. “I will remove crashing from my list of things to do today.”
Aleksandra wrinkled her freckled nose, not amused.
Quinn worked his way into the Super Tweet’s right-hand seat, one leg on either side of a control stick matching the pilot’s. He was surprised to find the low sidewalls made him feel as though he was sitting on rather than in the plane.
“It’s interesting to see the Peruvian Air Force here in the middle of Bolivia,” he said, buckling in.
“Your friend Señor Palmer is our friend Señor Palmer.” Fuentes held Kanatova’s hand as she stepped gingerly into the aircraft. “He made a call to my commanding officer and my commander made a call to me. It is simple really.”
“But Peru?”
“Bolivia is landlocked.” The pilot shrugged. “My government has an agreement to give her access to our seaports. In return, she is friendly to us at times such as this when we need a little favor.”
Quinn put his arms around Kanatova, resting them on her thighs to keep them out of the pilot’s way. Though spacious for two pilots, shoehorning three into the cockpit wasn’t anywhere in Cessna’s specs. Quinn found himself hyperaware of the rudder pedals at his feet and the array of controls just asking to be bumped or flipped in the close confines of the cockpit.
“I used the extra tanks to get here from my base in Arequipa.” Fuentes nodded toward the wings once he was seated. “I have enough fuel to get you to Talara in time for your connecting flight.”
“What sort of connecting flight?” Quinn asked. Oppressive heat and humidity closed in around them and he was anxious to get into the air.
“I honestly do not know, señor.” Fuentes buckled his seat belt and turned before putting on his helmet. “I only know Señor Palmer wants you back in the United States as soon as possible. I am left to assume that, whatever it is, it will be extremely fast. Now, if you will excuse me, I must figure out how to make this airplane jump off the ground like a helicopter.” He pulled on the helmet, then pushed a button in the console to bring the Plexiglas bubble down over the cockpit.
Fuentes had plenty of swagger. He’d been able to set the plane down in the narrow jungle gash without a problem, but taking off with the added weight of two more people would prove much more difficult. He’d need every bit of his swagger—plus a healthy dose of skill and luck.
Quinn pulled Aleksandra closer in an effort to make them both as small as possible during the dicey takeoff. The smoky odor of the jungle clung to her hair.
Fuentes brought the turbofan engines to whining life, standing on the brakes as the entire plane began to shake and tremble, trying to move. When he appeared to be satisfied that all the instruments on the console were reading correctly, he released the brakes and let the plane jump forward, hurtling down the narrow strip. The jungle loomed ahead, dark trees growing quickly as the end of the bumpy runway screamed up to meet them. Three fourths of the way down, with less than five hundred feet to spare, he tugged back gently on the stick.
The little jet leaped into the air, engines screaming. Without warning, Fuentes fired two missiles at the trees in front of him. Each left its respective wing-pod with a hissing shriek. The little jet flew straight through the rolling ball of flames and black smoke.
“Did you do that to clear the trees?” Quinn said, surprised at the tactic.
Fuentes flipped up his dark visor, chuckling. He appeared relaxed now that they were safely in the air. “No, señor.” He grinned. “Far too much peace lately. I do not often have the opportunity to fire missiles.” He banked the airplane hard, coming around again over the little strip. “I think I will shoot a few more and give the drug lords a little surprise the next time they try to land.”
CHAPTER 68
Idaho
Marie held the baby tight to her chest. She kept her back to the corner, her knees drawn up defensively. Lourdes stood across the room beside the doorway to the kitchen, swinging the hook and chain in front of her like a hypnotist’s watch. Bright red lipstick formed a wicked smirk across the darkness of her face.
Pete perched at the edge of his recliner. The lustful stare in his eyes said he was about to profit from something bad.
“It’s time to play our little game,” Lourdes said, speeding up the chain to make it whir through the air.
Marie shuddered. She was past the point of being sick. There was nothing left to throw up, nothing but worry and despair. Pressing her back against the wall, she pushed to her feet. “I’m not going to make this easy,” she said, amazed at the calm in her own voice.
Lourdes’s eyebrow twitched, rising to disappear beneath the stark black line of her bangs.
“Funny enough,” she said. “Pete and I had a wager that you would wet yourself when the time came.”
Pete stood up from the recliner, folding his arms across his chest. “And it just so happens that I win,” he said, leering at Marie. “You are braver than she thought you’d be. And that means you and me get to spend a little quality time together before . . .” He chuckled. “Well, you know.”
Lourdes leaned against the wall, yawning as if she was bored.
Pete shot her an annoyed glance.
“What? Are you gonna stay and watch?”
Lourdes threw up her hands, wagging her head. “Very well, I will take the worm for his walk in the woods and come back for Mommy after I am finished with him. . . .”
Jacques Thibodaux sat on the frozen ground with his back to the toolshed, a scant fifty feet from the back door of the red brick farmhouse. A stubby MP5 hung around his bull neck on a single-point sling. His Kimber rested comfortably on his right thigh so he’d have easy access while wearing his ballistic vest. A heavy patch, matching the rest of his black clothing, covered his right eye.
Palmer had wanted him to sit this one out, but he’d argued that a one-eyed Marine was worth two and a half mortal men and sitting out a mission was not in his skill set.
Palmer grudgingly agreed, assigning Emiko Miyagi and Ronnie Garcia to round out the team because of their experience working together.
Though she was rarely his fan, Miyagi had been the consummate professional from the start. Since Thibodaux had tactical command of the operation, she took direction as though he’d been her boss for years. Each had spent the last ninety minutes creeping up on the house, wearing white parka smocks and pants over their tactical gear so they would blend in to the snow. Kneeling just to the right of the back door, Miyagi had already placed two small charges of C-4 in the jamb and now knelt just to the right, MP5 around her neck, her finger on the detonator.
Ronnie lay belly-down in the snow beside Thibodaux, her eye pressed to the night-vision scope on an M4 assault rifle. Her razor-sharp intellect and tactical savvy made her a perfect third person for the team.
Thibodaux held an iPhone his hand, tilting it back and forth to maneuver a tiny, unmanned aerial vehicle next to the dusty living room window. Known as a Dragonfly, the UAV was not much larger than its namesake. It was intuitive to operate, using the phone’s gyro technology to control pitch, roll, and yaw and sliding a thumb up or down to climb or descend. A micro camera and laser microphone relayed video and sound back to the Bluetooth headsets of all three operators.
None of them liked what they were hearing.
“I won the bet fair and square,” Pete said. “You have to give me some time with her.”
“You will have plenty of time to do what you need to do,” Lourdes scoffed. “Make certain you are finished with her before I return—”
“Stop it!” Marie hissed. “No one will touch my baby while I’m alive.”
Pete smirked, unbuckling his belt. Lourdes laughed softl
y. She let the hook and chain slither from her hand to the floor, then took a black revolver from behind her back. Her face fell into a pinched frown.
“Make no mistake, my dear. We will touch whatever, whenever we please,” she said. “Shall I explain to you how this will go? First, I will shoot you in one knee. While you flop around in pain, thinking it cannot possibly get any worse, I will shoot you in the other knee for good measure. I will then allow you to experience that pain for a few moments before I very gently and against your hopeless sobs, peel the little worm from your pitiful grasp.”
Marie breathed in short pants. She and Simon were dead, that was a given—but how they died was not yet written. She’d do what this evil woman didn’t expect. She’d take the fight to her, force her hand, and take away the fun of torment.
The crash of breaking glass took a moment to register. Out of habit, Marie shielded Simon from the sudden noise. Lourdes turned toward the sound. Pete held up his pants with one hand, reaching toward the recliner for his pistol with the other.
A half second later the room exploded in a brilliant flash of light. A sudden woofing bang shook the paint off the ceiling and rattled the dishes in the kitchen. A series of muffled pops filled the smoky room. Blinded by the intense flash, Marie was vaguely aware of someone standing in front of her, shielding her from the events unfolding only a few feet away. As her vision began to clear, one of the biggest men she’d ever seen came into focus.
A black patch covered one eye.
Emiko Miyagi blew the door an instant after she tossed the weighted flash grenade through the living room window. Thibodaux rolled through the opening, peeling left to cover the woman and her baby while Garcia and Miyagi engaged the two bad guys. The idea was to take them alive if possible. Peter De Campo had gone for his weapon, forcing Garcia’s hand. A string of nine-millimeter rounds to his chest from her MP5 dropped him instantly. He was thought to be a minor gun thug hired by Zamora strictly for this part of the operation, so was likely to be of little help regarding Baba Yaga.
