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“I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honour and that of his country—Victory or Death.” — William Barret Travis
Rita
In seat 29F on American 1171, LaGuardia to El Paso, Rita Goldman stewed. She toyed with her silent phone as the Boeing 737 idled in a long line of departing flights and debated badge-whipping the flight attendant with her FBI credentials. She wanted to call Dolph Ahlberg again, despite FAA nannies and their stupid rules. Seriously, how many delicate instruments would they need, creeping along the tarmac, waiting their turn to take off? One cell call wouldn’t cause a mid-taxiway collision. Could it?
The engines spooled up, and the aircraft moved another six inches toward escape then stopped.
“Nervous?” The guy crammed in the middle seat—six pounds of sausage in a five-pound can—eyed the way she fidgeted with her cell.
“No.” Rita slipped the phone into an inside pocket of her blazer. “My friend probably died in a plane crash, and I’m going to hunt for his dead body.”
“Oh, I, uh...” The man flushed, and his eyes darted away, seeking escape from her glare.
“Read your Skymall, ’kay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Rita went back to watching the ground crawl past the distorted lens of the porthole. Four hours to Dallas, then she could call Dolph again. Maybe he would have a lead on Bartlett they could follow, figure out what the crooked prick was up to. Not that it would help find Cable.
You big, stupid jerk. Why can’t I think of anything else besides you dead in a plane crash? Why is my stomach all in knots? It’s not like we even dated.
Heat built behind her eyes, and Rita bit a knuckle to hold on to her emotions. A boo-hoo party would be an admission of defeat, and Rita Goldman didn’t back down, didn’t back up, and never quit.
Since she learned of the crash, Rita’d been running on adrenaline and determination. Pursuing leads on Bartlett had felt a lot like forward progress, but in reality, it had sidetracked her from thinking too much about Sam Cable, broken and bleeding in a pile of twisted wreckage.
Images in a continuing nightmare of ghoulish scenarios played across her mind whenever she lost focus. Cable, burned beyond recognition. Cable, bleeding out his life while she drank a latte and searched for clues on a rogue federal agent. Lifeless blue eyes—
In the middle of a record search, she’d banged the laptop closed, grabbed her go-bag, and headed for the airport. On the way, she called her boss to tell him she was taking PTO then called Marshall.
“I’m going to New Mexico,” she announced when the Ranger captain answered. “I can’t sit around anymore.”
“I’m already on my way. Meet me in El Paso.”
Two hours later, Rita had a flight to the Texas-New Mexico border city, connecting through Dallas. She would hook up with Marshall, rent a car, and make the two-plus-hour drive to the command post for the search in Silver City, New Mexico. With any luck, they would make it by three or four in the morning and be in the Gila National Forest by dawn.
The plane rolled forward, and a ping announced they were next in line for takeoff.
“Finally.”
I’m coming, Cowboy. Don’t be dead.
~~~
Sam
WHEN A RANGER FALLS in a forest, can you hear him scream?
I squeezed my eyes shut and clamped down on the shout of pain that wanted to burst from my chest. Held it. And held it some more. Held it so hard, I couldn’t breathe.
Stone moved to come help me; Marlon slumped against the rock wall. I held her back with a raised hand, unable to speak.
Darkness receded, or vision returned, I wasn’t sure which. I drew a shaky breath and let the nerve endings loose to go find all the bad places where I hurt.
Shoulder, check. Arm, wrist, hand, triple check. Knee? Holy mother of all checks. A frozen sun wrapped my knee and sent flares of icy fire shooting out in all directions.
“Fuck,” I hissed. “That hurts.”
“Hah,” Stone popped out a dry laugh. She held Marlon pinned in his rough-used sleeping bag. The trooper’s head lolled to one side, resting on her shoulder. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you use an f-bomb.”
“And you wouldn’t hear it now,” I gritted out, “if my mother was anywhere near. She’s grim death on foul language and rude behavior.”
I sat up and put my back against the wall of the cut. First things first. I ignored the distress flares bursting from my knee and fumbled the M4 around to get a look at it. I popped the magazine and cycled the bolt, dropping the expelled round into my lap. I checked for grit in the receiver, dry-snapped the trigger, and took a look down the muzzle. I managed not to cry for joy when I found all the moving parts still worked.
The only bad news came when I took a look through the Aimpoint sight. The optics were spiderwebbed with cracks. “Could be worse,” I told Stone. “Iron sights will have to do.”
“If you’re through playing with your gun, I could use a—”
“Shh!” I held up a finger in warning.
The cracking of gunfire rattled in the not-too-distant forest. A jumble of quick shots, a pause, then four more rapped out. A longer pause, followed by a single shot.
“That sounded like one weapon,” I said. “One shooter, no return fire.”
“At least it wasn’t pointed at us.” Stone shuffled into a better position.
Marlon groaned, and his eyelids fluttered. “For now,” he said with a scratchy, weak voice.
“Yeah.” I sized up the short ledge we had to mount to get out of this box. My knee screamed for attention, and I flexed the hand that had borne the brunt of my fall. It ached, and I had a nice road rash oozing droplets of blood, but all the mechanical bits seemed to work.
My brother Luke, the leader of the Cable boys and a self-professed tactical genius even before he became a Spec Ops soldier, had always found complicated ways to get into trouble. His favorite phrase once we were deep in the shit: work the problem.
Problem one, stand up. Keeping my right leg stiff, I shifted, crabbed, rolled, and pushed my way upright. Success.
Problem two, get up the freaking ledge, this time without falling. I hopped over and stacked the rifle and backpacks next to Stone. “Wait here.”
“God, you’re hysterical.” Deep lines of exhaustion cut into her face. Sweat dripped from her hair, and a droplet clung to her nose.
“You still have the pistol I gave you?”
She nodded.
“Good. Save the last bullet for yourself.”
Stone rolled her eyes, but a tiny smile crimped the corners of her lips. “Stop fooling around, jackass. Marlon’s getting heavy, brother or not.”
“I can help,” Marlon grumbled. For the moment, his eyes seemed clear, though too bright and watery.
“About time you woke up, sleepyhead. Hold still and try not to put pressure on your leg.”
“You too.”
“All right.” I gripped the shelf and settled my left foot on the rock cairn while keeping my bad leg off the ground as much as I could. Every time I joggled the knee, hot knives stabbed the joint. If a woman weren’t close by, I probably would’ve cried. “One time for all the marbles. Huhh!”
I shoved and pushed up until I could flop, face-first, over the rim, both legs dangling. Taking a deep breath—because the next part was going to hurt—I squirmed and twisted until I could swing my left leg up first, followed by the everlasting-damnation-hurting right.
“Jesus wept,” I hissed. I laid my cheek on the ground, and dust puffed when I blew out a breath. Sweat and grit burned my eyes until I blinked them away. “Come on, Sam. No time to rest. Now comes the hard part.”
“What are you saying?” Stone rasped.
“Nothing, dear.” I scooched into a position—semi-kneeling, semi-standing, one leg stuck out straight—where I could grip Marlon’s sleeping bag at the shoulders.
“Ready?”
“No, Sam, I’d rather stand here another hour.”
“Nag, nag, nag. Okay, on three. One, two, three!” I pulled, she pushed, and Marlon grunted in protest. His right arm flailed for purchase on the ledge. No telling how much damage this was doing to his already-torn-up body, but I didn’t see any good choices. “C’mon, son. Up!”
I dragged Marlon with me, more a matter of me falling backward than anything else. He wound up in my lap, grumbling in a sleepy-bear way. But he was on top of the ledge.
Stone passed up the rifle and the backpacks when I could maneuver back to the lip. I caught her hand and gave her a boost up, as well.
We lay side by side next to Marlon, panting. The last little bit of daylight painted the mountaintop behind us. Night bugs were singing, and a frog croaked his love song.
“How’s your leg?” Stone murmured.
“Shrieking in excruciating pain. Thanks for asking.”
“Mine too,” Marlon said.
“Can you walk?” Stone asked me.
“Can you carry both of us?”
“No.”
“Then I guess I have to.”
“The cave’s not far.” Jade rolled to her feet and brushed her butt with both hands. “Let’s go.”
I remained prone. “You really are a nag. You know that?”
Her teeth flashed in the darkness. She picked up the rifle and both packs. “Stop checking out my ass and get up, Ranger Obvious. Marlon doesn’t have time for your hormones.”
My witty comeback died for lack of wit.
I struggled upright and tested my right foot on the ground. The good news was I didn’t fall down. The bad news... Well, to borrow a sentiment from Forrest Gump, that was all I wanted to say about that.
“Get me out of this bag,” Marlon said. “I can hobble along.”
“Easier for you to stay put for the moment,” I told him.
Taking up the carry pole, I bit my lip and lifted when Jade did. Sweat ran down my face, and I wanted to throw up the lining of my stomach. Then we started walking. Shuffle-step-hopping was a better description. But I managed not to whimper.
We made it to the slope, which led into a brush-choked screen of trees. Beyond that, according to Stone, a hideout waited. A place we could pause and gather our strength until we hiked out of the mountains.
A fiery knife stabbed me in the knee, and I buckled.
Hike out? Who am I kidding?
Like Marlon, the only way I was getting off this mountain was prone.
~~~
Bartlett
BARTLETT REVELED IN the burn of his powerful leg muscles driving him—no, propelling him up the slope. Times like this, he felt like a force of nature: unstoppable, implacable, and utterly without mercy.
The quasi-light as the sun dropped away made the footing treacherous and the path vague. Nightfall would be soon. When hunters prowled and prey died squealing. Bartlett grinned at his own fancy.
Based on the sound of firing, Mack had found the woman and her guards and eliminated the threat. Better to say, shot the bitch who’d killed Tommy. Good. They could write Mission Accomplished on this little fiasco, chalk it to the win column, and take their men home for... disposal.
He slowed to a walk and keyed his radio. “Three, report.”
“Up here,” Mack called out in the clear, not bothering with the radio. His voice came from the trees higher and to Bartlett’s right. “It’s all clear.”
Bartlett cut between a pair of low-hanging limbs and climbed along a rock spur until he reached Mack’s position.
In dark tac gear, the hulking form of his subordinate blended into the forest, as invisible as a black hole in space. He knelt by an unmoving human form on the ground. Farther along the narrow deer trail, another body sprawled in a twisted heap.
Bartlett took one look. “It’s not them.”
“No shit,” Mack grunted. “What gave it up? The white hair and plaid shirts or the fact they’re both men?”
“Jesus Christ, Mack. You shot a pair of hikers?”
“Not just hikers.” A dark finger pointed out the radio lodged in the rocks next to the closest man. “Search and Rescue.”
Bartlett felt like an elevator had dropped from under him. Two civilians dead with no explanation complicated the mission to the point of absurdity. For the first time in his life, the thought that he might not get away with something crossed his mind. Only a fourth-quarter touchdown or last-inning home run would save him this time. “The shot clock is winding down.”
Mack’s eyes gleamed. “What?”
Luksa’s voice crackled in Bartlett’s earbud. “Six? Six, this is Two. Position?”
“Stay where you’re at, Two.” Luksa would be less help than a blind man at a shooting gallery. He was such a pussy, he would probably go directly into menstruation when he saw the dead bodies of the two SAR people. If Luksa wasn’t so... creative in bed, Bartlett would’ve moved him out of the organization years ago. One way or the other.
Mack rumbled, “What now, boss?”
“Oh, you shoot fucking civilians, and suddenly I’m boss again, that it? Shut up and let me think.” Bartlett retrieved his water and drank a hefty slug.
Night handicapped tracking Stone’s group. Stumbling around in the darkness after live game would be suicidal and stupid. Not only could they walk into the muzzle of the Ranger’s gun, but they could very likely wander right past their quarry without seeing them. Any tracks or trace evidence would be invisible.
No, better to fort up for the night, make camp while they still could. Everyone had single-person camp stoves, sleeping bags, and freeze-dried food. Getting through the night wouldn’t be a problem.
Bartlett chewed a lip. A gnat whined in his ear, and he brushed it away. Mack remained as impassive as a boulder.
Bottom line, they had a day, maybe half a day, to bring this to a head. If they couldn’t wrap up all the loose ends and be gone before, say, fifteen hundred hours tomorrow, then Bartlett would cut loose his two pals and head for the coast. In his bag, he carried a complete set of fake docs, along with credit cards, a passport, and the keys to a forty-foot Beneteau Oceanis Clipper.
In his head, he carried the account numbers and PINs for three investment accounts chock-full of laundered, clean, safe cash. Two-point-two million, last he’d checked. Enough for a nice run to the Caribbean and points south.
Tommy, you dumbass. Why’d you have to get involved with the lawyer?
Bartlett pulled himself out of his funk. No need to get all hysterical and weepy because of a little setback. Plan B wasn’t a bad option. Besides, he could probably find a tanned, muscular cabin boy to keep everything trimmed out. Win-win.
“We need to get rid of these bodies,” Bartlett ordered, back in control. “Destroy their electronics, find a deep hole, and toss ’em in.”
“In the dark?”
“The fuck, Mack? You shoot it, you clean it. That’s the rule.” He keyed his radio. “Six to Two, come in.”
“Two.”
“Find a defensible position. We need to set up camp and get some chow. Can’t see shit in the dark.”
“What was all that shooting?”
“Three got attacked by a man-eating squirrel. Six out.”
He ignored Mack’s hairy-eyeball stare and toed the cooling body of the old duffer in his plaid CPO jacket. A citizen volunteer, no doubt. A dentist or retired lawyer, playing golf and doing good deeds by looking for people lost in the woods.
“Search and Rescue people this close means we don’t have long.”
“Ya think?” Mack snorted.
“But they can’t operate at night any better than we can.” Bartlett clapped his subordinate on the shoulder. “We’ll get up first thing tomorrow and run these cunts down. Promise you that, brother.” Bartlett swigged more water, swished it around, and spit to the side. “Promise you that.”