Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(80)

When Cervantes pushed her between the shoulder blades, she whirled on him. She’d shifted her weight back on one foot and turned to grab his arm, trying to force it up as she grappled for his gun, swinging around, using her entire body weight for leverage.

“Now!” Ross climbed to the top of the slope and scooted downward on his rear and back. Chad did the same, right next to him. The slope was steep enough that gravity did the work of pulling them down, and they could brace their elbows against their chests and sight carefully as they slid. A cascade of rocks and disturbed vegetation heralded their arrival.

They fired, but it was still dark; they were moving on their backs and their targets were at least fifty feet away. Their first couple of shots missed the mark, but stealth was no longer an option.

All four drug dealers looked up. Machine guns turned in their direction. Abby straightened, having used her bound hands to slip her small pistol from her ankle holster. The stout, short Chechen got off a few rounds that sprayed dirt and pebbles next to Ross, but then she’d fired at point-blank range into his meaty thigh. He screamed and fell to his knees. She smacked him over the head with her gun butt and he went down.

Ross had ignored the shots striking uncomfortably close and focused on the one thing that could save them all: accuracy. He needed to think not of his own mortality, or even Emm’s struggle, at this moment. He needed to think only of his front sight. Ignoring the rocks and thorns piercing even through his heavy pants, ignoring the grunts and insults coming from Emm’s direction as she fought Cervantes for his pistol, Ross narrowed his gaze on a tiny, bright dot, iridescent in the moonlight—his front sight. Even when bullets sprayed around him, he focused on the little dot centered on the piece of forehead he could see above the Jeep as Tomás braced his machine gun on the roof and fired at them.

Bracing his elbows on his chest to steady his aim, he squeezed off a shot. He was rewarded with a spray of red mist and other heavier matter as Tomás’s head exploded. He fell behind the Jeep, the machine gun sliding harmlessly off the roof.

Without a pause, Ross next moved his aim toward Cervantes. They were slowing now as they neared the bottom of the slope, allowing them to aim more carefully.

It also made them easier targets.

Ross tried to aim at Cervantes, scared to death Emm would lose the struggle with the drug lord, but Cervantes and Emm kept switching places as they fought.

Chad had missed the tall Chechen the first couple of times, allowing the man to chitter slugs at them. One glanced off Chad’s heavy chest plate, ricocheting into the night. Chad was disoriented for a second, but another shot pinged off a rock right by his ear, bringing him back to his senses. He took a deep breath and did as Ross had done, wagering his life on his front sights. As he squeezed off another shot, he saw the Chechen aim a fusillade at Ross. He heard Ross cry out. Chad’s next shot caught the Chechen in the neck. He went down, also dropping his gun, but Chad was a few seconds too late. Ross had been hit.

As they both slid to a stop at the bottom of the slope, Chad moved to turn toward his partner, but meanwhile Emm had finally lost her precarious grip against Cervantes’s brutal power. Abby had turned her small pistol in Cervantes’s direction, so she didn’t see the half-dazed Chechen on the ground when he reached for her ankle to pull her off balance. Then she and the Chechen were grappling for her weapon, but Abby, without compunction, kicked him in his thigh wound. He screamed and shrank away. This time, when she clocked him, she used his fallen machine gun butt. He went down and stayed down.

While she was fighting the Chechen, Chad leaped up and rounded the tree so he could have a clear shot at Cervantes, who was turning his pistol on Emm. She fell to the ground as if defeated, but when Cervantes pointed the gun down at her, she grabbed up a small, sharp rock and rammed it upward into his ankle. He cried out, his gun hand wobbling, and Chad was able to shoot to wound, not kill. He caught Cervantes in the gun arm, and the pistol finally fell to the ground.

It landed right next to Emm . . . She looked around for the first time, seeing Ross lying still, blood trickling under him into the dirt. She grabbed up the gun and scrambled to her feet, pointing at Cervantes. “You sorry son of a bitch,” she said, and her finger tightened on the trigger.

Cradling his wounded arm with his other hand, Cervantes cast a quick glance toward the Jeep and must have seen the remnants of his son. Grief distorted his face for a moment, and then he snarled, “Chupa mi verga, puta fea.” And then, in English, “Shoot.”

As Emm’s finger tightened, “Emm, no,” came a weak plea from Ross’s direction. “I don’t want to lose you to the Mexican court system. We need him alive.”

Chad had reached the two of them, and he gently pulled the pistol from Emm. “I have the *. See to Ross.” When Cervantes turned to flee, Chad used the butt of the .357 to pistol whip him a couple of times, forcing him to his knees. Chad cuffed him. He looked around, seeing Abby had the rest of the situation under control.

She’d obviously found a knife and sawed through her own bonds, and was now doing the same with the general’s, who’d climbed back out of the Jeep. When the plump Chechen on the ground stirred, the general reared back his leg and booted him in the forehead. The Chechen went limp again. The general spat on him.

Meanwhile, Emm had run to Ross, still sprawled at the bottom of the slope. She pulled frantically at his body armor until she’d bared his t-shirt. His shoulder wound was still bleeding. She pulled Ross’s shirt up and used it as a bandage, pressing hard to stop the bleeding. The other slug had grazed his side, leaving a raw, oozing line but no bullet hole.