Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(58)

She gave him a brave smile. She was rock solid and steady. “Monopoly’s more my style. But I suppose I’ll let you choose the game, being you’ve got the gun and all.”

He didn’t know many women who could keep their sense of humor over a broken nail, let alone keep their head in a life-or-death situation. He was damn proud of her.

“You’re a pretty good time, you know that, Carrie Granger?”

“Oh, honey, wait till you see me when I’m not scared half out of my mind. I’ll show you a real good time then.”

“It’s a date.”

He hoped to hell he could keep it, because he needed to get them to the extraction point in less than half an hour.

THE SUN BURNED like a brand. Sweat trickled between Cav’s shoulder blades as he hunkered down behind a small wagon hitched to a donkey and watched the military jeep parked across the street.

The wagon was filled with vegetables and fruit, and the owner was currently relieving himself in an alley. For the most part, the street was as quiet as the rest of the village. Most of the residents were either napping out of the sun or loafing and shooting the breeze with friends. The only ripple in the pool was the military presence. Four Junta soldiers had just pulled up in the jeep, jumped out, and started working their way down the line of shops.

Cav gauged the distance to the jeep, the distance of the soldiers from the jeep, and the probability of reaching it without being seen. Doable. It wasn’t as if they had a lot of choice. Of the dozen dilapidated vehicles he’d spotted in town, Cav didn’t think he could count on a single one to transport them across a street, let alone over twenty miles of winding mountain roads.

But a sure thing sat just ten yards away, provided they could get to it. And provided he could start it once they did. He figured it for a 1988, maybe ’90 model. No roof, no doors, just a roll bar and sprung seats. Strictly a bare-bones imported civilian model, which meant it would need a key that was most likely with the driver.

He drew the Warthog out of his leg sheath. There was more than one way to skin a cat.

“On my go, we head for that jeep,” he told Carrie, who was mouse quiet beside him. “You dive for the floor in the back. Keep your head down and pray like hell that I can get that sucker started before the nice men with guns come back for their ride.”

“I can do that,” she assured him.

He shoved the AK into her hands and hoped his lesson had stuck. “On my word, you point at the bad guys and squeeze the trigger, okay?”

She gave him a quick nod.

“One major point: even with the safety on, keep your finger off the trigger when we’re running. Then neither of us has to worry about you shooting me in the back.”

All the blood drained from her face. “Oh, God.”

“You can do this. Ready?”

She drew a bracing breath and gave him another nod.

“Atta girl.”

He did another visual recon of the street, saw the soldiers disappear inside a building, and shot to his feet. “Go.”

He sprinted across the dusty street, peripherally aware of Carrie keeping pace beside him. The few seconds it took them to cover the ground felt like an eternity, but they made it without being spotted.

Carrie followed orders like a good soldier and scrambled onto the floor in the back. He dove for the floor in the front, then checked around for a key. No such luck.

Keeping low, he smashed the hilt of the Warthog against the steering column until he broke the plastic molding around the ignition and exposed the lock. Then he held his breath, unfolded the blade, stuck its tip into the hole, and turned it.

Nothing.

Cursing and sweating, he fiddled with the blade, reached down and depressed the clutch, and tried again. Bingo! The engine grumbled to life with a hiccup and a whine. He shot up off the floor before the motor fell into a rumbling purr, slid behind the wheel, and shifted into first gear.

“Keep your head down,” he reminded her and peeled rubber, sending a rooster tail of fine dust flying in their wake. They’d made it! Almost.

The unmistakable pop pop pop of an AK-47 shattered the passenger-side windshield. So much for getting out of here unnoticed.

He glanced over his shoulder. Four Junta soldiers were squared up in the street behind them. All four had shouldered their rifles and were firing on full auto.

“Need some cover fire, sweetheart!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Just aim and squeeze. And keep your head down!”

Less than five seconds later he heard the AK shucking out rounds from the backseat.

The return fire stopped immediately.

He laughed out loud. Jesus. What a woman.

“Nice going, deadeye!” he yelled over the whine of the motor as he lead-footed the accelerator and they roared out of town.





Twelve

“Still clear,” Carrie told Cav from the passenger seat.

She’d climbed into the front shortly after they’d cleared the village.

That had been a good ten miles ago and if his GPS coordinates and crash map lesson were correct, this narrow, serpentine road would lead them to the designated landing zone where the extraction team would be waiting for them in—he checked his watch again—less than five minutes.

Providing the team was waiting for them.

And providing they could limp their way there with one flat tire. One of the Juntas had scored a hit. The flat had slowed then down, but there was no way in hell Cav could stop and change it.