Whitewater (Rachel Hatch #6)(60)

The brightness surrounding Ayala, regardless of its significance, real or imagined, vanished into shadow as the man casting it fell into the water lapping at the rocky shore.

Miguel Ayala lay face down in the riverbank, exchanging a blood payment for crossing through its invisible forcefield. Hatch pulled Ayala from the water and into the raft as the second shot missed Angela, sailing by the teen’s head with only a gnat's ass separating her from an instant death.

Without Angela's body to stop the shot, it continued its path to the rubber floorboard of the raft while nicking the thwart, a long inflatable cross tube used to keep the raft rigid.

That second shot did something else, maybe not for Ayala or Angela, but definitely for Hatch and most likely Sanchez. This bullet told of its origin. When the first shot rang out and Ayala dropped, Hatch had immediately scanned the jagged horizon for sign of the shooter. The second shot gave her that.

A black, wide-brimmed hat loomed above the scope of the rifle.

Sanchez shoved the raft from shore. Hatch didn't ask the why. When she had found the shooter, so had Sanchez. A good operator is a good operator, regardless of the team they play on.

And although Hatch and Sanchez had never before worked together, the training that molded them and the battlefields they were tested on were the same. And so, they too were the same. The bond of brotherhood, of sisterhood, occurring in those briefest of shared seconds, was established in a way few could achieve in a lifetime of friendship.

The battle cry of warfare instantaneously bridges years in minutes, forging while at the same time sealing a bond rarely broken. That happened in the millisecond both realized they were thinking the same thing at the exact same time.

The car can't be reached. The only way out is through.

Hatch was on point while Sanchez steered. Angela tended to Ayala's wound.

Hatch had her Glock out the second she safely placed Ayala in the raft. She tucked her knees between the lip of the man tub and the floorboard, stabilizing her shooting platform. The wet rubber was now more blood than water as Ayala's blood steadily drained from his shoulder. Hatch pushed the gun out and fired six steady, controlled shots in the direction of the hat.

The distance would've been tough for any shooter but the fastmoving river made it nearly impossible to hit the target she was aiming at. Hatch was not just any shooter, but even her skill was tested by this obstacle. So, she did the next best thing.

To keep the impending third shot from coming, Hatch used the rounds to keep the shooter's head down. That's not to say she didn't take aim. The shots weren't delivered in a burst. Rather, she paced her shots to conserve ammo while giving Sanchez enough time to steer in front of the rock the shooter hid behind.

It was Hatch's sixth and final shot that hit its intended mark, or at least close to it. In the moment before Sanchez brought the raft past the shooter's nest and blocking the aim of the man in it, Hatch saw the bullet hole.

Hatch found it strange the shot hadn't knocked the hat off. She reasoned it must've been glued to the man's head. The third shot never came. The only sound filling the aftermath came by way of Ayala's murmured groans and the sound of the rushing water, all of which were drowned out by the hiss of the leaking stabilizing tube as they raced down the river and away from the killer wearing a peculiar wide-brimmed black hat that now had a hole in it.





Thirty-Eight





Blood leaked from Ayala's shoulder, soaking into his shirt, and transferring some of its spillage to Angela's clothes, whom Ayala had landed on top of when Hatch pulled him into the raft.

Everyone remained low, pressing themselves flat against the floor of the raft as best they could until they passed a thick cluster of trees and disappeared around the bend. With Sanchez handling the navigation of the river, Hatch requested Angela care for the wounded Ayala. When she turned, Hatch was happy to see the teen was already applying pressure. She'd undone his green fishing vest and used it to pack the holes on both sides with a relative degree of effectiveness. Hard to tell with the water mixing in, but the flow seemed to have slowed.

In the lull of the battle that followed the protection offered by rocks and trees, Sanchez offered his explanation as to why a third shot had never come after they passed by to the other side of the boulder.

He said, and Hatch agreed, it had been doubtful and highly unlikely the shooter, if still alive after Hatch's headshot, would have been capable of navigating the distance by foot. Sanchez had been correct in his assessment.

"Next place he or anybody else will be able to use will be a place called The Devil's Hand."

"What’s with all the devil this and devil that?" Hatch asked, only half-joking. After having entered through The Devil's Pass, it seemed only fitting she'd pass by The Devil's Hand on the way out. She hoped, if the devil stopped by for a visit, Hatch would get to personally thank him for the hospitality.

The cross tube looked like a popped balloon. Deflated of its purpose, the raft became less manageable for the strong ex-special forces operator steering it. Sanchez’ lean muscles worked the oar. The silver wings of the tattoo on his left forearm fluttered under the rippled tension of the constantly pulling water.

The tattooed emblem of Sanchez' former unit, the elite Fuerzas Especiales special forces unit he'd served with, depicted a green and black shield split by a yellow bolt of lightning and covered a silver anchor mounted on a silver pair of aviator wings. Under the anchor's pointed bottom were the words. Fuerza, Espíritu, Sabiduría. Strength, Spirit, Wisdom. And again, Sanchez exemplified them all. And after all they'd been through in their brief acquaintance, Hatch wholeheartedly agreed.