Diablo Mesa(96)

“All right,” he said, voice low, chastened. “You’ve convinced me. I’m on board.”





63



THEY MOVED BACK into the corridor, slipping around the corner that led to the motor pool, keeping out of sight. In front was a neat row of open-topped jeeps, along with the two guards she’d already noticed. Beyond the helicopter, resting on its elevator platform, she could make out two other guards, rifles slung over their shoulders. She could also see a couple of mechanics working behind one jeep, and a person in an officer’s uniform speaking to one of the guards. They might not be on full alert, but they would wake up fast.

Corrie felt the sweat beading on her brow. Maybe Watts was right: this was suicide. Even though they had the advantage of surprise, they were up against trained professionals. Not only that, but they were outnumbered, with limited ammunition, and the moment they started shooting, it would be like ringing the dinner bell for the whole—

Her thoughts were interrupted by Watts, who had slipped up beside her and braced himself in a shooting stance. The time for thinking was over. She followed suit, then they raised their weapons simultaneously.

“On three,” Watts whispered. “One, two, three!”

They both stood up and opened fire. Watts got off four shots in rapid succession, immediately dropping three guards. Corrie concentrated her fire on the officer, scoring a hit and sending him sprawling.

With a bloodcurdling yell, they charged in, Corrie and Watts flanking Skip. Corrie continued firing in the steady, measured way she’d been taught in countless live fire exercises at Quantico. Everyone in the motor pool who wasn’t shot had immediately taken cover. In the brief moment before the soldiers returned fire, Corrie and Watts sprinted toward the closest vehicle while Skip tossed Molotov cocktails at the helicopter. There was the sound of shattering glass, followed by a whoosh: blue flames spread like spilled flambé across the floor around the chopper, flames licking up its sides, causing instant panic.

They reached the jeep and Corrie, being closest, leapt into the driver’s seat, relieved beyond measure to see a key in the ignition. She turned it as Watts landed in the passenger seat. A burst of gunfire raked the vehicle, smacking the glass and hammering the armored sides, and they ducked, keeping their heads below the level of the glass. More soldiers were appearing from beyond the chopper, temporarily held back by the flames.

Head still down, Corrie threw the vehicle into reverse and pressed the accelerator. It shot backward with a squeal of tires. She angled toward Skip, who was lobbing his last Molotov, and jammed on the brakes, the gunfire deafening in the enclosed space, hammering the sides of the jeep. Skip vaulted into the back and Corrie floored it, tires screaming, the rear of the jeep fishtailing as more gunfire pounded the armored sides. She accelerated out of the motor pool toward the long hallway, back in the direction they’d come.

“Whoa, shit!” Watts yelled as they veered into the corridor, Corrie braking hard, sliding into the wall with a heavy smack, the vehicle bouncing and swerving. Trying not to think of all the soldiers she’d seen boiling into the motor pool, Corrie concentrated on her time at the high-performance driving track at Quantico, turning into the skid and recovering.

Ahead of them, far down the corridor, soldiers were hastily assembling, blocking the way and aiming their weapons.

She had no choice but to go straight at them. Gunning the engine, Corrie shot down the hall as rounds struck the front windshield, turning it into a web of cracks, not penetrating but making it impossible to see through. Corrie was forced to raise her head, exposing herself. The gunfire was deafening in the enclosed hallway, and she could feel the snap of rounds passing her head—once heard, never forgotten. Some soldiers were firing low, but so far, the jeep’s bulletproof tires were taking the punishment.

“Aaaahhhhh!” Corrie screamed as the vehicle closed in, the shooters leaping to either side as it tore through, hitting one and flinging him up against the wall. She kept her foot pressed on the accelerator. A moment later, fire began pouring upon them from the rear, once again stopped by the glass.

“Toth is just ahead!” Skip shouted.

Corrie raced onward, glancing off one wall and almost losing control, then slowing, sliding over the slick concrete floor, bouncing once again off the wall before fishtailing back on track.

“Here!” Skip yelled.

They rammed through the double doors into the medical lobby, screeching to a halt at Toth’s door. The corridor here was narrow, and Corrie could barely keep the jeep from sliding into an unrecoverable wedge between two walls. Watts jumped out and rushed into the room, cut the bedrail handcuffs with a few well-placed shots, and appeared a moment later carrying the engineer. He dumped her unceremoniously in the shotgun seat while she yelled in pain, then vaulted into the back himself.

“Now we get my sister!” Skip yelled. “Where were they taken?”

“Through the doors, then right,” Toth gasped.

Corrie bashed back out the set of doors and roared down the wide corridor, following Toth’s directions. But, as she sheered the vehicle around a dogleg, they came face-to-face with a near phalanx of soldiers. The squad lowered their weapons, and then—with the bark of an order—unleashed a withering barrage, so intense it finally penetrated the windscreen, shredding it and sending bits of glass like gravel everywhere.