Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls #3)(9)

“Wait.” Cheryl was looking out over the water. Rain speckled its surface. “Where’s the boat?”

Mac pivoted. The river was empty and silent. Even if the boat had rounded the bend, the motor should still be audible. Despite the intense and steamy heat of the jungle, his insides went cold. He shoved at her. “Move. Back to camp.”

She nodded. The rain increased to its usual afternoon torrent. A gunshot rang out, and Cheryl’s body jerked.

He dove for cover, one arm catching Cheryl around the middle and taking her to the ground.

Cheryl. Mac rolled her to her back. She blinked at the canopy, raindrops beating on her face as blood spread across the chest of her soaked safari shirt.

Another bullet zinged past. Mac draped his body across her torso, shielding her as best he could.

“Hold tight.” Mac lurched to his feet.

He grabbed her under the armpits and dragged her into a patch of underbrush. Then Mac pulled a clean bandana from his back pocket, folded it, and pressed it to the wound high on her chest. He took her hand, put it over the square, and whispered, “Pressure.”

Eyes wide and shivering, Cheryl pleaded in a whisper, “Don’t leave me.”

Another shot rang out. Mac got to his feet and hesitated. He needed to do something about the men with the guns. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

“No.” She shook her head. Rain slicked her hair and face as blood darkened the entire front of her shirt. She reached out for him.

Backing out of the foliage, Mac put a finger over his lips. She needed to be quiet. If they found her, she was dead.

A voice yelled, “Get them!” in Portuguese.

He sprinted down the trail toward camp. He needed the satellite phone, and the SUV was their best hope for escape. If these men had come from the boat, they wouldn’t have land transportation. He also had to warn Juan, although their guide certainly would have heard the gunshots.

Vegetation sliced at Mac’s arms and face as he raced down the rough path. Behind him, over the echo of his thundering heartbeat, men shouted and foliage snapped as bodies crashed through the jungle. He broke into the clearing. No Juan. Odds were he had run. Money could buy interpretive and guide services, but not loyalty. Had Juan sold them out? Mac ran behind the supply tent and skidded to a stop.

The spot where the four-wheeler should have been parked was empty. The SUV was gone.

A figure burst into the clearing. It was the man from the bow of the boat. Brown skin glistened with sweat as he slashed a machete toward Mac’s head. He ducked. The blade kissed his hair.

Mac lunged forward and grabbed his assailant’s right wrist with both hands. A solid front kick drove the ball of his foot into the man’s solar plexus. The machete fell to the ground. Mac kicked out again, this time striking him in the side of the knee. The man’s leg buckled, and he swung out with his left hand. Light glimmered on a short blade. Mac yanked hard on his right arm, throwing him further off balance.

A twig snapped. In his peripheral vision, Mac saw the second man enter the clearing, an AK-47 in his hands.

The bastard who’d shot Cheryl.

Anger surged hot through Mac’s veins. The muzzle of the AK arced toward him. He whirled around, swinging Machete Man between him and the gunman as a shield. Shots burst from the rifle muzzle with orange flashes. The man in Mac’s grip flailed as the bullets cut across his middle. Something hot stung Mac in the side.

The trigger clicked on an empty cartridge. The gunman snapped the magazine off the bottom of the rifle and reached for his pocket. Mac tossed Machete Man’s dead body aside and lunged toward the machete on the ground. He snatched it off the dirt as the gunman shoved a new magazine into the AK.

The muzzle lifted. Jumping forward, Mac swung the blade. The razor-thin tip sliced the gunman’s forearm to the bone. Mac jumped closer, too close for the man’s AK to be of any use. Turning the long blade, he brought the tool up and across the gunman’s body, slicing him open from thigh to shoulder. The AK dropped to the ground. The gunman fell on top of it.

Mac wiped the blood from the machete on the ground.

He’d always wished he hadn’t grown up with a borderline psychotic and highly trained military father obsessed with turning his four offspring into a tiny paramilitary force. But the Colonel—and all the batshit-crazy survival weekends, weapons training, and combat drills he’d forced on his children—had just saved his youngest son’s life.

Mac rolled the gunman to his back to make sure he was dead. No worries. Mac’s conditioning had ensured his strike would be deadly.

The surge of relief was cut short as a sudden wave of agony sliced through his side. He put a hand just below his ribs. Hot blood seeped red through his T-shirt.

Not good. He was Cheryl’s only hope of getting help.

He ducked into the supply tent. The sat phone was gone, and the first aid kit was in the missing SUV. Son-of-a-bitch Juan. He hadn’t taken everything, just the essentials.

The village was a mile-long hike through the jungle, the day was getting shorter, and Mac was leaking. He found a bottle of Juan’s tequila, opened his shirt, and assessed the wound. The bullet had grazed the fleshy part of his side. Hoping it hadn’t hit any vital organs on its journey, he dumped alcohol on the wound. Pain burst through him as bright as a flashbang, blinding him and buckling his legs. Panting, he dropped to his knees and waited for the dizziness to pass.