CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

EXCEPT FOR THE whine of the V8 in reverse, the gut-wrenching anticipation of impact sucked all sound from the universe. I clutched the wheel, my foot braced against the gas pedal and my back against the seat.

Then war came to the quiet oak country fringing Austin. Gunfire burst from all directions, followed instantly by the mangled screech of the airborne squad car slamming down a few feet in front of us—the siren dying abortively. Shattering glass ripped through the gap where my truck’s windshield had been.

Blinded, I spun the wheel and hit the brakes. Turning 180 degrees, I did the only thing I could think to do and jammed the gas pedal back to the floor. A cloud of dust and smoke overtook us, followed by a searing shockwave as the squad car exploded.

“Turn right! There!” Marisol jabbed her hand toward the ditch west of the road.

I couldn’t see a damn thing, but trusted her instincts. Spinning the wheel, we fishtailed while accelerating off the road into the ditch at over 30 mph. The glass beside me shattered, followed by the pop of more gunfire. “Where’re we going?”

“Stay down and go straight!” Marisol pushed my head into the steering wheel as what sounded like shotgun fire struck the side of the truck.

Dizzy, I kept my foot to the floor. “I can’t see, dammit!”

She let up. “The cattle guard! Take the dirt road.”

I raised my head enough to peer across the top of the hood. Thirty yards ahead I spotted a break in the fence with a cattle guard.

She turned in her seat for a look behind us. “It’s gonna be a massacre. They don’t have any idea what they’re up against.”

“Neither do I, so what now?”

“Pull up next to that shed.”

“Please tell me we’re not making our stand here.” I gunned the engine, bucking across a small gully before skidding to a stop right beside what looked like a feed shack made from corrugated steel.

“Just a pit stop.” Jumping from the truck, she templed her ARGs and barked orders to no one in particular, “Full breach, authorization Marisol Cruz.” A light flashed from the door as it swung open. “Keep the engine running!” She disappeared inside the small building.

“Come on, Marisol.” I strummed the steering wheel while looking back toward the main road. No one had followed us, yet. The officers from the two squad cars blocking our retreat cowered behind their vehicles. All things considered, it seemed the smartest course of action. A whirlwind of smoke and debris rose from the center of the wrecked auto, creating a towering tornado over 300 feet high.

I ducked as a stray bumper whizzed overhead, striking the ground beside the shed like a javelin. “Marisol!”

A second later she emerged from the shed laden with firepower. “Follow the dirt road north, parallel with the street.”

“What the hell is this place?”

“Emergency closet.” She climbed in and slammed the door. “Now go!”

I spun the wheels, rooster-tailing dirt and gravel behind us.

Marisol templed her ARGs. “Police frequency, access 8-6-Beta-Echo-3.” She paused a moment as we jolted across dry ruts in the road heading north. “Officers under attack, this is Chief of Petra Labs, Homeland Security, Commander Cruz. I’m in the truck you pulled over.” She pointed out a large ditch.

I corrected course, slowing down and angling across it.

“You are under attack by highly trained mercenaries, enemies of the state. I advise you to converge on my vector. Repeat, converge on my vector.”

I focused on navigating the rutted dirt road at the highest speed possible.

Marisol ground her teeth. “Negative! You are out-gunned. Head west now! By car or by foot!” She put her hand on my shoulder before tossing her head toward the back of the truck.

I nodded, slowing down.

She placed an AR-15 on the seat. “Wait for my signal and head west toward the house. Stay just ahead of the mess.” She templed her ARGs speaking again to the officers, “I’ll cover your retreat. Go now!” Opening the door, she leapt into the bed.

Moments later two squad cars barreled into view in front of a wall of dust, sirens still blaring, lights flashing. Jarring across the landscape, swerving between scrubby oaks, they’d neglected to follow the road.

Marisol thumped the top of the cab. “I’ve got no angle!”

“Where to?”

“No. They’re not going to make it.” Marisol seemed to be coming up with a plan B. “Get to the house now, and maintain a direct channel with me.”

I floored my baby, one hand on the dash, reassuring her she could get the job done. “Why bother? I can hear—”

“I’m getting out.”

In the rearview mirror I watched helplessly as she kicked open the tailgate and rolled out.

I templed my ARGs, opening the connection. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”

“These guys are after you. I’m just staying clear of the target,” she retorted between heavy breaths. While distancing herself from the truck, she rattled off the rest of her amended plan—one that sounded more insane by the second.

I bucked across a briar patch, brambles scraping by at 25 mph, before swinging back onto the dirt road heading to Marisol’s isolated home, smack dab in the middle of a few hundred acres of family land. Over the connection I could hear her heavy breathing as she sprinted north in an effort to gain an angle on the pursuing twitchers, which she expected to be on foot. On the verge of panic, I swallowed the fear of losing her and Evie both.

In the rear view I spotted the two squad cars bombing blindly across the scrub without any clear destination. Suddenly they lifted off, losing all tether with the rough country around them, flipping trunk over hood. The officers inside bailed several yards above the ground.

My connection with Marisol clipped as she opened fire from her new position. Stunned, I watched as the twitchers emerged from the wall of dust the squad cars had been throwing into the air behind them. Having spread into a “v” pattern, they were running at a clip over 35 mph.

I jerked, nearly losing control of the truck, as the squad cars smashed into a stand of oaks fifty yards to my nine. Redoubling her efforts, Marisol engaged the grenade launcher under the AR-15 barrel. She fired twice, the whump of the grenade launches audible over the connection.

Explosions of torn trees and earth rose directly in front of the lead twitcher, but the debris deflected off the air around him as if he bore a spherical shield. I heard Marisol swear over the connection. Assuming that meant it was time for me to prepare for the worst, I opened the window behind my head, one of the two still not broken, and directed the AR-15 over the bed.

Trying to keep my eyes on both the road and the gaining twitchers, now less than a hundred yards behind, I waited for Marisol’s signal. The whole time my background mind flashed warnings. Each one decreased the likelihood of the plan’s success.

“Now!”

I squeezed the trigger, my arm locked at the elbow, firing bursts of three 5.56mm rounds as accurately as I could manage. In the air several yards above the twitchers’ heads, a burst of chemical fire spread rapidly. It arched in every direction until showering the landscape around them. Twice more Marisol blanketed the patchy oak forest with napalm as I continued to feed my entire clip of ammunition out the back window.

“Burn, you bastards!” Marisol’s voice rose over the din within the truck’s cabin. Her vitriol rattled inside my head as if the words had been my own. She fired again, this time closer to her own position. Black smoke already billowed one hundred feet into the sky as the trees, dry from unseasonal heat, sparked instantly into flame.

“I’m out!” I waited for her response. “Marisol?” My ARGs flashed the number of an incoming call across the lens view—15-38-64, the same number from the letter left at the Parker Lane station. Evie. I had to take it.

The woman with the Southern accent burst into my head the moment I answered. “You have to stay ahead of them.”

“I just want my daughter.” Sporadic machine gun fire rang out behind me. “I’m following directions, dammit. For the love of God, call off your goons.”

“Jim, you can’t possibly think—” a gargle of static interrupted her.

Marisol’s voice crackled on the line. “How far are you from the house?”

I judged the distance, flagging my background mind for a better approximation. “Three hundred and fifty feet.”

“Good.” Her voice clipped. After a pause, two more napalm suns burst into existence against the creeping twilight. “I’m right behind you. Activating perimeter defenses now.” The connection went dead. I’d lost her and the Southern belle.

“Marisol, you read? Marisol!” Within a hundred and fifty feet of Hacienda Cruz, I spun the truck around and rocked to a standstill. Flames encircled the house on three sides at a distance of over a couple hundred yards. Peering through the missing windshield, I scanned for moving silhouettes against the flickering orange and yellow of the fire. She was cutting it close.