Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(59)
Blind faith was a powerful thing. It had to be, because right now that’s all they had going for them.
Cav kept both hands on the wheel and one eye on the rearview mirror as they topped the rise of yet another steep grade, then rolled down a thirty-degree decline toward a long metal expansion bridge.
Straight out of an old erector set, it spanned a wide river basin flanked by deep ravines and lush grass. Small green islands floated like clouds on water the color of café au lait. A herd of brown horned cattle grazed placidly along the banks. Tall, jagged mountain peaks towered in the distance. And directly ahead of them hung the blazing ball of the sun, guiding their path down the road like a beacon.
The scenery was beautiful, idyllic and serene, and all Cav could think about was how in the hell a chopper was going to manage the wind currents that were bound to be prevalent at this altitude.
“How much farther?” Carrie yelled over the wind and the motor and thump thump thump of the deflated tire.
Cav glanced at her. She looked like a Rambo wet dream with the AK balanced across her lap, her unbound breasts straining against her tight olive T-shirt, and her long legs encased in green camo pants.
And she looked like a woman he did not want to let down. Ever.
“Getting tired of my company?” He was only half joking.
“Getting worried about that dust trail that just topped the hill behind us!”
His gaze shot to the rearview mirror and he saw Junta jeep.
“Fuck!”
He’d hoped they’d had a big-enough head start to meet up with their ride before the soldiers arrived.
If they met with their ride.
He searched the road ahead of them, scanned the sky for a chopper. Except for the sun and a flock of birds nada.
He slammed down on the accelerator to spread the distance between them and the Junta, who were no more than a quarter mile away.
“Hold on!” he yelled and charged toward a pothole the size of a small ox.
Carrie clamped one hand around the roll bar, dug her fingers into his thigh, and let out a scream as the jeep hit hard, then went airborne. They crashed back down with a bone-rattling bang.
Miraculously the chassis held together.
“Hold on!” he repeated as they began to climb a forty-degree incline, the flat tire giving him ten kinds of grief as he struggled to keep the jeep on the road.
The sun was completely hidden by the hill rising in front of them; all he could see was road and sky. The motor whined and complained but he never backed off the gas. He was practically lying back in the seat as they struggled toward the peak, fishtailing and clawing for purchase.
Just when he thought they were going to stall out they crested the rise—and there, silhouetted against the burning sun, was a big, bad Huey hovering above the road like the Goodyear blimp.
The big bird was gray and gorgeous, with the thwump thwump thwump of the main rotor drowning out everything but his rebel yell. It was the most welcome sight he’d ever seen.
“OhmyGod!” Carrie ducked, a knee-jerk reaction to the low-hanging Huey.
“It’s the cavalry!” Wyatt had promised a Huey and damn if he hadn’t delivered.
The pilot was good. The Huey banked hard left, made a full one-eighty, then flew straight down the center of the road toward them.
“Thank you, Wyatt!” Cav pounded the flat of his palm on the steering wheel.
“Are they going to land?” Carrie yelled, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder as the Junta vehicles—a truck had joined the jeep—showed no sign of backing off.
“That was the plan,” Cav yelled back, straining to be heard as the decibel level reached new heights. But when one of the chopper’s crew appeared in the open doorway and kicked out a coil of rope he knew the plan had changed.
“Oh, God!” Carrie went pale. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
Cav studied the terrain ahead of them, which allowed no spot for the chopper to land. He glanced at the Junta behind them. The truck had gained ground and a gunner had gotten into position behind the big gun mounted on a tripod on the truck’s roof.
Not just a big gun. Ma Duce. A Browning .50-caliber heavy-barreled belt-fed machine gun. Christ. Each projectile weighed an ounce and a half, and if one of them hit either the Huey or their jeep, there’d be nothing left but fireballs, fumes, and red mist.
Fire flashed from the big gun’s muzzle and a series of roaring booms reverberated through the air.
When the road exploded ahead of them, Cav swerved hard right. The jeep skidded, fishtailed, and nearly slipped off the side of the eroding shoulder before he regained control.
Shit! If the bastard got any closer they were done for. “Switch places with me!” he yelled.
Shifting his left foot from the clutch to the accelerator to maintain speed, he scooted toward the middle of the bench seat. “Take over driving so I can catch the rig.”
Her wild gaze flew to his face. “What rig?”
He hitched his chin skyward.
She looked up, saw the rope, and gasped. “You’re serious?”
“You can do this! Now move!”
She gave herself a nanosecond to come to terms, then, God love her, flew into action.
He’d never switched drivers in an open vehicle racing fifty mph down the road while being chased by men with guns, but they somehow managed to shift and shimmy and change seats with barely any loss of speed or control.