Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(95)

As the first SUV reached the gate, a ball of flame exploded into life with a savage boom, red-orange flames licking out, the mass roiling with dark clouds. Sections of fence appeared in the sky like startled crows. Our truck shuddered as dirt and debris pelted glass and metal.

Leverage.

The first vehicle leapt into the air as if from a catapult and came down on its side. A second later, the driver’s door popped open, and a man crawled out. He reached back to help a second man as fluids in the engine ignited.

Cohen accelerated onto the runway.

A series of booms echoed across the prairie. Beyond the SUVs, smoke poured from the high windows of the training center, and a tongue of flame licked out. A fissure appeared halfway up the wall; then, in slow motion, the building collapsed in a cloud of dust.

Two seconds later, one of the construction trailers shot into the air on a current of flame. Then a second one.

“How much explosive did you have?” I asked.

“I found additional supplies.”

Now I knew what had taken him so long.

I glanced back at the airport hangar and felt something cold in my stomach as I imagined multimillion-dollar jets exploding, the flames sweeping across the dry prairie. “Is there more?”

Dougie wore a look of grim satisfaction. “Not for the moment.”

Cohen cut the wheel, and we left the runway and went cross-country, barreling over the fields toward the highway. Behind us, flames shot into the air.

We hit Highway 36 and skidded onto the asphalt, burning rubber.

A minute later, we pulled into the lane of oncoming traffic and shot around a brown sedan trundling toward Denver. I glanced over as we went by.

Gorman sat behind the wheel, eating a sandwich while the world burned behind him.





CHAPTER 27

God teaches forgiveness. But he first cleaned house.

—Avi Harel. Former Mossad K9 Trainer.

“I’m worried about Clyde,” I said.

“Swap places with me,” Dougie said. “I’ll take a look.”

Cohen pulled over to the side of the road. We’d traveled at least twenty miles from the compound with no sign of pursuit. Dougie’s bombs were keeping Almasi’s people busy—the billows of smoke and ash rising from the bombed structures looked like a huddle of frightened sheep on the horizon.

“I’m not going far, buddy,” I whispered to Clyde as I eased out from beneath him.

I’d removed his vest and harness, given him all our water, then held his head and murmured prayers while Cohen and Dougie sat in the front and swapped name, rank, and serial numbers.

I was pretty rusty when it came to having any kind of conversation with God. The last time we’d chatted, I might have said a few unkind things. But if he was listening, I hoped maybe he’d just be happy to hear from me again. Like getting a phone call from a child you’d all but written off.

Clyde moved his head to watch me as I opened the door and stepped out into a searing heat so dry it felt like poison filling my lungs. A swirl of wind and dust entered the cab, and Clyde whimpered.

Then Dougie appeared at the door. “Hey, pal, we’re okay.”

Clyde quieted.

I held the door open against the wind as Dougie climbed in.

“I haven’t heard from Sarge,” I said. “And he isn’t picking up.”

Dougie looked at his watch. “He’s probably boarding. We’ll talk to him as soon as he lands.”

I thought of Almasi’s Mona Lisa smile, the one she’d shown when I mentioned the video.

“You’re probably right,” I said.

Dougie heard my uncertainty. “One thing I’ve learned, Rosie. Worrying won’t help.”

I felt a slap of anger. “This is Sarge we’re talking about.”

He leaned in and touched his forehead to mine. “The more we care, the more we need to tell ourselves we don’t. It’s how we keep our feet.”

Lessons from the war. If it matters, shove it into a box.

I caught Cohen’s eyes on me as I stepped away. He had to be wondering how Dougie and I knew each other. And why we were together.

As soon as I was in the front seat, Cohen put the vehicle in gear and popped back onto the road. A mass of tumbleweeds hit the front bumper, pulled free, then went sailing past.

In the back seat, Dougie opened his backpack. He’d brought the same supplies he’d used to treat me at the hotel, and now he went to work.

“Okay, pal,” he said. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

I unbuckled and leaned over the seat. Dougie snapped on disposable gloves, then gently examined the wounds while Clyde turned his head and rolled his eyes, trying to watch.

“Near as I can tell, it’s a clean shot through the muscles on the back side of his femur,” Dougie said. “Lateral entry and exit wounds. He needs surgery, but I don’t think any bones are involved.”

“That’s good,” Cohen said.

“It’s better than good. Turn off the a/c. We need to keep him warm.” He braced himself as the road curved. “Let’s start with a happy pill.”

He reached into his kit, pulled out a blister pack, and broke the foil.

“Thirty milligrams of morphine,” he said.

He crouched on the floor. In a single deft motion, he grasped Clyde’s snout with his left hand and used his fingers to pry open Clyde’s mouth. He placed the pill on the back of Clyde’s tongue, then rubbed Clyde’s throat to get him to swallow.