Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(94)

“Stay down.”

A puff of dust rose as a bullet struck the ground twenty feet away. A second one came closer. The lead SUV roared toward us, but now another vehicle cut across the field from the parking lot, tires slewing in the dirt, the horn blaring to make sure we knew he was coming.

Cohen.

I curled next to Clyde, my body between his and the oncoming vehicles. His tail gave a single thump, and he tried to lick my face.

Blood streaked his fur, just outside the protection of the Kevlar vest.

In my ear Dougie said, “Get up. Get out of there.”

Cohen brought the vehicle to a shuddering stop, placing the SUV between us and the Alpha’s reinforcements roaring toward us. The driver’s door flew open, and Cohen jumped out.

I rose to a crouch.

“Come on, boy, we gotta go.”

Clyde tried to rise, but his right hind leg folded beneath him.

Cohen crouched on the other side of my partner, and we slid our arms under Clyde’s belly.

“On three,” Cohen said.

Clyde stayed quiet as we lifted him. He turned his head, licking the tears where they mingled with blood on my face as we carried him to the truck.

Around us, the rattle of gunfire filled the air. Dougie, laying down covering fire.

“How close are the SUVs?” I asked Cohen.

“Close.” Then, “I got him. Open the door.”

I slipped my arms free and yanked the back door open. I scooted in to help Cohen ease Clyde across the seat and rested my partner’s head in my lap.

“You’re going to be fine, boy,” I told him.

He closed his eyes.

Cohen closed the door and jumped into the driver’s seat. He slammed the truck into gear and spun it around to face east. I wiped blood from my face and watched through the rear window as the lead SUV swerved to the left while the one immediately behind peeled off to the right.

“They’re going to try to head us off,” I said.

“We’ll outrun them.”

Cohen accelerated across the field. The truck jounced on the rough terrain, dust pelting the windows and lifting in a plume behind us. I caught a glimpse of Almasi off to the right, struggling to rise.

A line of holes appeared in the windshield of the SUV on our left. The vehicle swerved sharply, then rolled to a stop.

“Running low on ammo,” Dougie said.

“We’ll be at the back door of the Country Club in three.” To Cohen I said, “Get us to the rear of the brick building.”

I braced myself with one hand and held Clyde in place with the other as Cohen rocketed the SUV across the open space and along the side of the building. At the corner, he slammed on the brakes and took the turn wide, the tires jittering in the dirt. He accelerated again along the back of the building.

The back door burst open, and Dougie ran out. Cohen hit the brakes again, bringing the SUV to a stop in front of the door. Dougie threw himself into the passenger seat, and Cohen accelerated away from the building toward a narrow dirt track that led south to the airplane hangar.

Clyde lifted his head and softly moaned. I rubbed his ears.

Dougie leaned over the back seat, his face a thundercloud. “How is he?”

“He can’t put weight on that leg.” My mind was screaming down a list of things that could be wrong. Shattered bone, severed nerves, bullet fragments grinding their way through soft tissue.

“Soon as we get out of here, I’ll take a look.” Dougie ran a light hand over Clyde’s flank. Clyde flinched and pulled away.

“You’re hurting him,” I said.

“He can move his leg. That’s good.” Dougie looked at me. “He’ll be okay, Rosie.”

Behind us, one SUV and then the second came around the building and accelerated in our direction.

Dougie dropped back in his seat. “They must be the guards from the security booth near the highway.”

Ahead of us, sunlight glinted off a chain-link fence—the one Dougie and I had seen from the ridge.

Cohen’s eyes were on the rearview mirror. “They’re gaining.”

“Turn left,” Dougie said. “There’s a gate farther down.”

I leaned forward. “Can’t we ram the fence?”

Dougie shook his head. “The airbags will deploy, which could cut off the fuel supply. Plus, we want to funnel them through the gate.”

I didn’t ask what he had in mind.

Cohen made a hard left, and we sped along the fence. The pursuing SUVs left the track and angled across the field.

“I can’t outrun them,” Cohen said.

Dougie rolled down the window and picked up the M4. “Just get us through the gate.”

He half crawled out the window with the rifle, braced his legs, and began firing over the roof as our car bucked on the rough road. The staccato rattle of the gun sounded like an earthquake.

Behind us, weeds and dirt flew into the air, and headlights shattered.

The SUVs dropped back but kept coming.

“Get inside,” Cohen yelled as we reached the gate.

Dougie dropped back into the cab, and Cohen jerked the wheel hard. We skidded through the opening and bounced onto the road that ran to the runway.

“They’re going to reach us,” I said.

“No,” Dougie said. “They won’t.”