Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(83)

It was all I had. I’d better be right.





CHAPTER 24

Find somewhere to put the fear, Rosie. A place inside where you don’t have to look very often.

—Doug Ayers. Private conversation.

Wind buffeted the truck as we headed east. The sun came in hard through the windshield, slanting through the cab and flashing off our sunglasses.

Dougie drove while I rode shotgun, Clyde between us on the bench seat.

The engine in the rancher’s truck we’d rented from the couple at the motel whined at a top speed of sixty-five—twenty miles over the posted limit. The truck bed smelled of hay and manure, the interior of coffee and cigarettes. Rips in the seats oozed stuffing, something loose rattled inside the dash, and a network of cracks splayed across the lower left corner of the windshield, glinting a rainbow of fractured sunlight.

The old Ford had been young when Elvis was. But it provided cover. A rancher and his wife, out for a drive.

Now why would you want to borrow this old bucket? the rancher had asked us back at the Coach Motel.

We’d spotted the Marine decal on the truck’s rear window, and now Dougie all but stood at attention. We need it, sir. It’ll get us in.

The old rancher’s eyes narrowed as his gaze moved back and forth between Dougie and me, taking us in. After a moment, he gave a small nod. No doubt he’d seen faces like ours before. At Hué and Khe Sanh. In his own mirror. War faces. Is this a matter of life or death?

It’s a question of both, sir.

He looked over the gear we carried. Are you the good guys?

Yes, sir. We are.

If my truck will do the trick, please take it. Bring it back if you can. He fished the keys out of his pocket and handed them over.

Appreciate it. Dougie jerked his chin toward the rancher’s Circle F Feed & Supply hat. That ball cap. Looks like it does a good job keeping the sun off.

Consider it yours.

As we climbed into the cab, I heard the old man whisper, Semper Fi, Mac.

Fifteen minutes along, we exited the highway and moved to side roads. From there, we wound our way onto narrow paths carved out years earlier by the locals.

The prairie stretched out in undulating rolls of green and brown. The occasional herd of cattle watched our passage as the truck rattled over metal cattle guards and bucked through ruts deep enough to swallow the truck right up to the side mirrors.

“We’re ten minutes out,” Dougie said.

We’d studied online maps before we left. Highway 36 approached the Valor complex on a straight path from Denver—it was probably the road Kane had taken when he snapped the pictures. Way too risky for us to follow all the way east.

We would approach the complex from the north, staying on private property and hopefully eluding both the locals and anyone from Valor who might be keeping watch. The truck was the only disguise we had.

Per an old online topographical map, a thirty-foot-high ridge ran east-west just inside the blurred area. It would provide both cover and a good place from which to surveil the site, assuming it got us close enough to whatever was going on inside the pixels.

The transmission complained as Dougie dropped gears and we edged down a dry wash that cut across the road.

My phone buzzed. Sarge. I hit speakerphone.

“I’m twenty miles along the highway to Bullhead,” Sarge said. “Zero traffic and no tail.”

“We’re heading to where we think they’re holding Cohen.” I filled him in on what we’d learned about Laura Almasi and Valor.

“The Alpha’s a woman? I should have figured.”

“Because women are tough and determined.”

“Yeah . . . that’s what I was thinking. I’ll call back as soon as I’ve located Rick’s box. Keep those fingers crossed. If it’s empty—”

I locked the doubt away with the fear. “If there’s nothing, then you’d better get back here and pick up our carcasses in case things go wrong. We’re going in for Cohen no matter what.”

As I disconnected I caught my reflection in the window. The woman who looked back at me wore her combat face—lips a thin line, eyes flat and cold.

Dougie wore the same look.

The only thing missing was war paint.



“We’re inside the pixelated area,” Dougie said a few minutes later as we jounced over another cattle guard.

I studied the grassland around us—360 degrees of empty beneath a flat sheet of washed blue. Just visible in the distance, a herd of pronghorn stood on dancer’s legs. Closer by, a jackrabbit darted into cover.

“So far, so good,” I said.

Five minutes later, we hit trouble.

Dougie tapped the brakes as we rounded a curve and a roadblock came into view—an orange-and-white gate with a sign that read ROAD CLOSED. On the right was a guard shack. As we watched, a man appeared at the window, then strode outside. He wore a khaki uniform and carried a rifle.

“No time to backtrack,” Dougie said. “We’re going through.”

He gunned the engine. The truck responded with a groan, creeping up toward thirty miles an hour. Ramming a barricade on a stretch of road like this felt as though we were running in slo-mo.

The guard signaled for us to stop.

“Take the wheel,” Dougie said.

“He’s just a contractor.”