by Zoe Dawson
“Bollocks!” Dodger said. “You might be breaking LT’s rule before the night is out. Sounds like that wanker from the truck isn’t giving up. He probably has a fifty cal on the chopper too.”
Hemingway saw a different side of Dodger and understood now why he was a Navy SEAL. The steel in his eyes and the threat in his voice were enough to make any man run in the other direction, except that chopper was coming their way.
Max, poised at the opening to the helicopter, Jugs strapped to his chest, waited for the signal to begin fast roping to the jungle floor. They were three klicks out from the SAM bunker. The mission was to neutralize it so that rescue choppers could make it into the area where Mak and Pitbull went down to save any of the survivors.
He hoped like hell everyone had survived, but he was a pragmatic man. Helo crashes were fucking dangerous regardless of the circumstances. When he got the signal, he grabbed the rope using his hands and feet to slow his descent. Once on the ground, he released Jugs as Fast Lane and the rest of his squad hit the ground.
“Let’s move,” Fast Lane said, and it was a double-time run to the bunker. Once close, and the gunfire started up, it was difficult to get within range to deliver a payload to destroy the launcher and the men who protected it.
But out of nowhere, 2-Stroke ran toward the bullets, and the SEALs increased their firepower to cover him. He threw in a claymore and dropped to the deck. The explosion sent debris everywhere while Dragon sniped the last few remaining fighters.
He radioed in to Kai that the bunker was taken care of, and she called in the chopper who picked them up and flew them to the crash site. Once it landed, they got out but found no bodies inside or outside the chopper.
There was blood leading away from the cockpit, but it ended on the ground just a few feet away. Max bent down and picked up the pilot’s helmet. “Seek,” he said in German.
Jugs sniffed the helmet and then tested the wind, his nostrils flaring. He led them away from the wreck directly to a depression in the ground.
Max crouched down when Jugs whined and petted his K9 partner. He saw the two pilots and called out. “LT. Over here.”
Fast Lane walked over and sighed. “Let’s get them out of there. Then we’ll get Jugs to scent the other helmets and go after Pitbull and Special Agent Littlestar.”
“Copy that,” Max said, feeling relieved that Pitbull and Mak were alive. He’d always admired the big SEAL, and when he’d finally let him into the inner circle by opening up, Max was thankful that this team, who he was beginning to care for more than any of the guys he’d worked with, were finally gelling. Their personal bond would only make them that much stronger.
He hoped they were in time.
God help them if they killed Pitbull. Five of his brothers were going straight down their damn throats and no one would be walking away.
15
When the shot didn’t come, Mak turned to look at her killer over her shoulder.
“I could give you a good send off,” he proposed, licking his lips and looking back toward the camp.
His gaze moved over her with a hunger that made her skin crawl. Apparently, this was her lucky day, and thank God for over-confident males who thought that any woman was easy prey. She was nothing to this man beyond amusement and the heady sense of power. She guessed that most of the violence against women had to do with feeling that power and lording it over someone weaker than they were. But that was where he made his fatal mistake.
She was a Navajo warrior, had been brought up to handle the necessary evils of life, to use her skills in defense and protection. She wasn’t weaker, he was. He overcompensated.
Pitbull was on his way, hopefully pissed off and loaded with a lot of guns. She never doubted he would find her.
Stalling was an excellent idea as she stared down the barrel of his gun, death brushing the back of her neck with icy fingers. She smiled. “Well, you can’t do that if you’re pointing that gun at me.”
A wide, self-important smile twisted his lips. He motioned with the gun for her to go deeper into the jungle. She complied. She would only have one chance at this. If she didn’t get the gun away from him, she was dead.
When they were far enough away, he said, “Take off your clothes.” He looked at her with a feral threat.
Many vile things ran through her mind in that instant, and instead of spitting them at his smug face, she worked at keeping her sultry look and him off guard. She reached for her buttons, and he smiled, his eyes losing their focus as the rounded curve of her breasts came into view. The gun dropped a notch, his hand going slack, his lust overcoming his common sense.
With a roundhouse kick to the bastard’s face, her bootheel hitting him with all the pent-up revulsion and anger she felt in that moment, she sent him flying back, stunned. He landed hard enough to lose his weapon. The guy was solid rock.
He jumped to his feet and searched the undergrowth for his gun. When he didn’t find it, he looked at her and charged.
Someone came barreling out of the jungle like a bull, hitting the guy and taking him down to the ground. With a quick maneuver, he rolled over with him, jammed his arm around the guy’s neck and held on until he stopped moving.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Pitbull.
His dark eyes were narrowed dangerously, so intense it cut off her breath for a second. This was the Navy SEAL, the man who fought for his country and won every time, in every way he could. This was the hunter who had dogged her steps and followed behind like a ghost, something that was second nature to him. Never stop, never give up, and never quit were their mottos, and the warrior in her resonated to the warrior in him.
And she had a horrible revelation. If Errol had been her husband, that drug lord scum would have never gotten his hands on their daughter. He would have gone down fighting to protect her, but Matthew hadn’t been a warrior and maybe that was why she’d chosen him back then. Maybe her love for him had been in a much more innocent time when she thought she could make a difference.
But Pitbull was her match. They had the same character, the same steely determination, and the ability to do what was necessary.
Without a word, she walked to him, pulled his assault rifle off his shoulder and double-tapped Asshat in the head, the suppressed shots barely making a sound.
“I already killed him.”
“Right, you did, with your bare hands. We both know it’s insurance and he’s doubly dead now.”
He let the dead man go and got to his feet. “Geezus, you scared the crap out of me,” he said, dragging her behind a big tree, his eye on the camp.
She knew they were still in danger and there was Victor to liberate, but she couldn’t take her eyes off his face, his presence more than physical. Her breathing quickened. He turned to look at her, his shoulders sagging for a brief moment as relief swept through those deep gray eyes. He was on her in a heartbeat, pulling her flush against him. He didn’t have to seek, she was already offering up her mouth like a prize. He sighed, his relief swelling, she could feel it, his hands mapping her contours as the kiss turned raw, primitive. Her hand sank into his hair, pulling hard, demanding, claiming him as he branded her with his hot mouth molding savagely over hers.
When they parted, both breathing heavily, she whispered, “My God you are the best damn kisser in the world.”
“Have you kissed everyone in the world?” he mocked.
She giggled, shocked at her response. She had almost been killed and she was laughing. Maybe that was just the joy of being alive. It felt so good to be standing here in the steamy jungle, so far from home, moving toward a mission that was of utmost importance to her and Pitbull.
“Are you okay, babe?”
“Yes, I’m fine. More cuts and bruises, but okay.”
“Vincent and Victor?”
At her expression, Pitbull swore under his breath.
“Vincent is dead. The chopper crash, head injury.” Mak hated that her voice broke, that he could hear it,
because she sounded so lost. She vowed she wasn’t. There was a way out of this. They just had to have the time to figure it out.
He looked toward the plantation. “Where is Victor?”
“He’s there,” she pointed. “In that smallish looking shed between the house and the barn.”
He nodded. “All right. We’re going to need to wait for just a bit, plan our strategy.”
She gestured toward the body. “They’re going to miss him,” she said wryly.
Pitbull grinned. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
A glossy black helicopter swept in between the trees, then hovered. It circled, moving back and forth in a grid, searchlights glaring randomly and making them start and stop.
Dodger couldn’t get a clear shot at it, the night cloaking them, but if they were caught out here in the daylight, it would be a different story. They needed to stay hidden but get somewhere they could hole up until these assholes found something better to do.
He pulled the map out of his pack and studied it. “I think it’s best to E and E,” Hemingway said. “They’re only guessing we’re hiding here. If we can make it to this town,” he said, showing Dodger on a map, “we could get a room and get some sleep before we make it the rest of the way to Cortez’s compound.”
“Hmmm, yeah, that could work,” Dodger said. “Get on my six and stay there. Follow my every move, and for fuck’s sake don’t get shot. I don’t want to have to explain that to LT.”
“I’m touched by your concern,” Hemingway said, folding the map and tucking it into his pack.
“Food would be good, too.”
Hemingway’s stomach rumbled. “I can’t decide what I want more. Food or sleep.”
“Copy that,” Dodger said.
“Let’s go. Stay with me.”
They ran, the jungle cover so thick, he was sure the chopper couldn’t see them, even with a searchlight. They were going to make it.
Then bullets started flying, and from the sound of it, Dodger had been right. Fifty cal thundering into the night. The big cartridges chunked the ground, spraying dirt.
“Stupid wankers are shooting blind.”
“I’m reminded of the term shooting fish in a barrel,” Hemingway said. “In that scenario, you’re bound to hit something.”
They continued to run because that was the plan. He was right behind Dodger until the ground disappeared from beneath his feet and he was falling, rolling, eating dirt and bouncing like a rubber ball. Then it was lights out.
Mak was beneath him as he lay between her legs. He looked down at her, and even with dirt on her face and delicate neck, blood smeared on her white shirt, her hair in wild disarray around her face, she was gorgeous. Kick-ass striking. Everything about her was vibrant. He might have run full out and rushed out of the jungle to save her, but Mak was a force all her own. She had that guy down, and he’d only felt sorry for the stupid son-of-a-bitch when he’d gone after her. It was clear from Chris Vargas’s description of her taking down Sean Leary that this woman could hold her own in a fistfight with a man.
“Lopez?” someone said from behind him, and Mak on cue let out a soft, disturbing cry, then a sobbing gasp.
Pitbull grunted and started pumping his hips. There was a noise behind him and some low chuckles.
“You better hurry up,” the guy said. “I don’t believe the boss said to fuck her then kill her.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Pitbull said in gruff Portuguese. He heard their retreating footsteps. As soon as they were gone, he stood and helped her up. He pulled up the dead drug runner’s pants and raised his sidearm into the air and pulled off one shot to fool the retreating guards into thinking their buddy had killed Mak.
“My God, the world is full of horrible people,” Mak said as she straightened her clothes. “Rape and murder are a laughing matter? Really?”
He lifted her chin. “You have no idea, babe. No idea.”
She sighed. “I can’t imagine what you’ve seen. I’m sure you’ve been to worse places and seen the depravity and cruelness inherent in humans.”
He nodded. “Yes, I have. It’s why I do what I do, so that never happens to anyone in the U.S.”
She nodded. “At least they bought it,” she said with a wry smile. “Your Portuguese is flawless even when you’re grunting.”
He chuckled. “It will buy us some time anyway.”
She donned the guy’s cap, stuffing her hair up into it, and put his shirt on over her filthy, bloodstained one. They had found the cell key in his pocket. Pitbull was already in military garb and it would be enough for them to get into camp and free Victor.
They moved from the trees, keeping an eye on the camp, walking naturally, Pitbull carrying his own rifle and she the dead drug runner’s.
They walked straight to the makeshift jailhouse and slipped inside. Victor stood up and came to the bars. “I thought you were dead. I heard the shot after that man took you away, but I see your bodyguard got to you in time.”
She nodded. “We’ve got to get you out of here, get to the exchange site.”
He nodded. “I will help you any way I can.” He was a little banged up, dried blood from a gash on his cheek, bruises forming around the cut and on his temple.
Pitbull unlocked the cell and uncuffed Victor’s hands with the keys they’d taken off the dead guard. She went to hand him a weapon, but Pitbull grabbed her wrist. As far as he was concerned, he didn’t arm his enemies.
“He’s not going to hurt us,” she said, shaking off Pitbull’s hand and offering him the handgun. “He’s changed. Haven’t you, Victor? You want to save my friends.”
He nodded, his eyes earnest. “I told you that I had. In prison, I found my faith and it’s all I care about now. Where’s Vincent?”
She reached out and touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry. He died from a brain hemorrhage from the helicopter crash.”
His eyes went sad and glistened as he took a moment to absorb that his twin was dead. “I thought he had left this earth. A twin’s bond is strange. But I was hoping I was wrong, and it was just the stress of it all.”
“We don’t have time for anymore chitchat,” Pitbull said. “I’m sorry about your brother, but two people are still very much alive.” Thunder rumbled overhead.
“I will take care of this when we get to Vero. I will make him understand what happened wasn’t your fault. He will be very upset, but it will be all right. I will be enough for my madre.”
“Thank you,” Mak said and they ran to the door. Pitbull checked for guards, then went out the door. They crept to the edge of the jail just as a guard came around the structure. He shouted and raised his gun, squeezing off two shots before Pitbull dropped him. Lightning brightened the night sky, showing heavy gray clouds.
“Run,” he said as the three of them sprinted for the trees. Rain came down in a deluge, soaking them all to the bone in seconds. They slipped inside the trees as the camp came awake with shouts and calls. He had half a mind to go back with his rifle and take out anyone who followed, discouraging pursuit.
“I don’t think they’re going to follow us,” she shouted above the downpour.
“Why is that?”
“The boss of that place wasn’t too keen on us being there. I think he’ll be glad we’re gone and he doesn’t have to deal with Cortez.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Victor faltered and then stumbled and went down. Pitbull turned at his soft cry.
“Oh, God,” Mak said as she knelt down to him, shielding his face with her body so he wouldn’t take the pounding rain to his face. “He’s been hit.”
Pitbull saw the blood soaking into his blue chambray shirt, his glazed eyes turning to Mak. He reached out and clasped her hand, his voice hoarse. “Promise me you’ll tell my madre that I died with repentance in my soul, that I wanted to be a priest.” He took a shuddering breath. “Vero will kill your friends now. That is certain.”
He swallowed and closed his eyes.
&
nbsp; “Victor,” Mak said in a tear-filled voice.
His eyes popped open. “You must go to where he is hiding.” He rattled off coordinates and an address. “It is the only way to save your friends, and maybe, just maybe, it will save my soul. Pray for me,” he pleaded.
He closed his eyes and breathed out his last breath.
Mad Max heard the gunfire from a mile out, mixing with the thunder and the downpour. They increased their speed, running through small puddles, mud, and muck. By the time they got to the plantation, the trail for Pitbull was fading, the fighting over.
“2-Stroke,” LT said, and his gearhead teammate melted into the undergrowth. He was gone for a few minutes, then came back just as silently.
“They aren’t here, but Vincent Cortez is being buried behind the barn.”
“Great!” Fast Lane growled low. “And the cluster fuck continues. Let’s move around. Try to pick up their trail.”
But Jugs had lost their scent due to the heavy rain, and the only thing they found was Victor’s body, his face serene in death.
16
Slapped into consciousness by the heavy downpour, Hemingway jerked his head up, grunting hard at the pain, dizziness. Then thunder rumbled, but almost immediately he realized it was the fifty cal.
He dug his fingers into the ground to keep from flinching as bullets ripped through the undergrowth around his head. His ears were ringing, his body reeling from the impact and the hard roll down to a creek. His bones vibrated, the cushion of underbrush doing little to soften this goat fuck.
The hard rush of blood drove spikes of pain through muscle and cuts as he felt every sting and bruise. Water sluiced off his face and rolled over his boots. He forced his breathing to slow, gaining enough control to think. He had no idea where Dodger had landed.
He heard footsteps and opened his eyes, squinting in the dark. Above him, spears of light from the chopper’s searchlight flickered over the edge above them, moving away. The downpour was too much and the visibility had to suck.
