Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(71)
A look of hope.
I’m hiding behind Kyle’s truck—or what’s left of it—which means I’m halfway between the tanker and my truck. My truck has a large colorless puddle underneath, and the air has reeked of gasoline since the sniper first shot it up, so I assume the gas tank’s been punctured.
I pull the cap off the flare, exposing the igniter button on the end. I hold the sandpaper surface on the igniter, ready to strike. Watching from the tanker, Ariana gives me a nod.
As soon as I scratch the rough surface against the flare, brilliant, burning light bursts from the stick and the air is filled with the smell of sulfur. Molten chemicals spray onto my shirtsleeve.
I rise to my knees and lob the flare up into the air toward my truck, like I’m back on the football field making a short pass over a line of defenders to a receiver across the goal line. Only instead of my tight end, I’m throwing to a puddle of gasoline.
The flare lands right where I want it, and the effect is instantaneous: flames erupt around my truck. A column of thick black smoke rises into the air.
When Kyle was digging into his storage box, he must have had the realization that if we could light one—or both—of the trucks on fire, we might create a wall of smoke that could cover our retreat.
McCormack’s men seem to realize what’s at stake because they spring into action. The ATV motor roars, and I risk a glance to spot the gunmen charging down the hill. They’re not far away at all—fifty yards from the tanker, maybe closer.
“Run!” I yell to Ariana, and I light the second flare.
I back away from Kyle’s truck and give the flare a sidearm toss to squeeze it between the bumper and the ground. The gasoline underneath the truck ignites with a whoosh, and suddenly the air around me is twenty degrees warmer. I run, keeping the wall of smoke between me and the sniper on the hill. Bullets from the M24 come sailing through the cloud, but Gareth is firing blind. Without even discussing it, Ariana and I meet up and race toward a rocky ravine up ahead that bisects two hillsides and looks like it will be out of Gareth’s sight.
The ATV roars around the tanker, carrying two of McCormack’s men, the driver gripping the wheel with both hands and another guy on the back trying to steady his AR-15. Before he can get his bearings, I draw my pistol and spin and shoot, all in one fluid motion. The gunman on the back tumbles off, his flaccid body like a sack of dead weight.
The driver skids to a stop and reaches for the TEC-9 strapped to his chest. He swings the gun toward us, but I don’t give him the chance to pull the trigger.
He slumps over the steering wheel, one of his eyes replaced by a bullet hole.
Then Ariana and I continue to sprint toward the cover of the ravine. The AR-15s start up like chainsaws, ripping the air apart. Bullets fly through the smoke, tearing giant clumps of dirt from the ground. But the shooters can’t see us and don’t realize that we’ve already retreated from the spot where they’re concentrating their fire.
We arrive in the ravine but don’t stop running. It’s a tight corridor choked with brush and cacti, but we barrel through it all, ignoring the thorns tearing our clothes and needles stabbing into our skin.
As the ravine narrows into a slot canyon that might provide an escape route, I risk a look back. Through the chaos, I spot two of the men using fire extinguishers on the flames. These guys are fearless, getting right up on the vehicles, determined to get the fires out before the gas tanks explode. I’m not sure where the extinguishers came from. Maybe the cab of the tanker. Another might have come off the ATV.
A wildfire would bring a whole army of firefighters to this area, something McCormack definitely doesn’t want. His men know they need to get the fires out as badly as they need to catch us. And it looks like they’re doing a good job. The initial exposed gasoline has burned off, and neither vehicle ever became fully engulfed. The vehicles are still smoking terribly, though, which I’m thankful for. We need the cover.
While the two men fight the fires, they’ve sent one man ahead to keep pursuing us. I spot him at the mouth of the ravine, walking on foot through a thin veil of smoke and scanning the brush with his AR-15 shouldered and ready.
I recognize our pursuer immediately.
It’s Mr. Broken Nose.
Chapter 89
ARIANA AND I slip farther into the slot canyon. The sides aren’t high at first, but quickly they rise around us until we’re standing in a canyon that’s twenty feet deep but only three or four feet wide. The sandstone walls narrow at points where we have to squeeze through sideways. I’m over six feet tall and this kind of passageway wasn’t built for someone my size. Our rifles make it even harder to maneuver through the tight passages.
Fortunately, Mr. Broken Nose is even bigger—not taller, but more muscular—and he’ll have a hard time getting through. That he’s coming, I have no doubt. He’ll see the entrance to the canyon and know where we went.
Part of me thinks I should send Ariana ahead while I wait in hiding, ready to take him out. But a gunshot—even just one—will alert everyone else to where we are.
Our best bet is to make it out of the canyon and into some kind of hiding spot.
When the canyon widens, Ariana and I hurry as fast as we can. The silt-covered ground is loose and difficult to move through, like running on sand dunes. Rays of sunlight shine down from the opening above. Dirt clouds float in the beams.