Hard Edge

by Pamela Clare

  Sander flipped on the turn signal and pulled to the side of the highway. “You two are crazy. Haven’t I proved myself to you? I brought you safely all this way, and now you point guns at me?”

  Gabriela could hear the guilt in his voice. “You’re a liar, Sander.”

  “Everything I’ve told you is true.”

  “It’s what you haven’t told us that bothers me. You plan to turn us over to el SEBIN.” Gabriela lowered her pistol, let Dylan handle that part of it. “Why didn’t you betray us to your friends at the first roadblock?”

  Sander exhaled, squirmed, and broke. “I wanted to get paid by the Agency first. I told them I would bring you to them in San Cristóbal.”

  “You double-crossing bastard.” Dylan looked angry enough to kill.

  “Greed is a mortal sin, Sander.” Gabriela sat forward, spoke next to his ear. “Now you won’t get anything—no more money from the Agency and nothing from Sánchez or the Andes Cartel, either. They’re going to think you betrayed them. Worse than that, you’ve exposed yourself as a CIA asset. You know what el SEBIN does to traitors.”

  Dylan held his pistol steady. “Should I blow his brains out here?”

  “No.” Gabriela glanced over her shoulder, checking traffic. There couldn’t be witnesses. “Give me your phone, Sander.”

  “Slowly,” Dylan cautioned him. “I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”

  Sander handed over his phone.

  Gabriela pocketed it. “We wait for a break in the traffic, and then search him and put him in the trunk. I’ll drive. We’ll take side roads into town.”

  “They’ll find you anyway. You can’t make it across the border.”

  Dylan pressed the pistol into Sander’s temple. “Open your mouth again, and I’ll shut it permanently.”

  When the road was clear, Gabriela and Dylan stepped out, walked around to the driver’s side, and opened Sander’s door. “Pop the trunk. Get out. Leave the keys.”

  He did what they’d told him to do and stepped out of the car, hands raised.

  While Dylan held the pistol on him, Gabriela searched first the trunk and then Sander, removing a tire iron from the trunk and a pocket knife from Sander’s trousers, along with his pass and his cash. When she was certain he had nothing on him, she gave him a shove. “Climb in. Make it fast.”

  He hesitated, rage and fear on his face.

  “Do what Sister María tells you to do, or I’ll kill you here.”

  Sander climbed into the trunk, glared up at Gabriela. “You’re no nun.”

  “I’m not?” Gabriela feigned shock. “¡Mierda!” Shit.

  “I’ll tell them.” Sander laughed, a sick, terrified sound. “They still think you’re a nun, but when they find out—”

  “Watch what you say, hijoeputa. Those words will get you killed.” Dylan slammed the trunk.

  Gabriela hurried to the driver’s seat. “We need to turn around and head back to the last exit. We can use your phone to navigate.”

  When he got back into the passenger seat, Dylan had a big grin on his face. “I like watching you work.”

  “There’s a bridge up ahead.” Dylan glanced up from his phone, his M4 back in one piece and in his lap. Because they were escaping rather than evading, he’d put on his gear again—camo shirt, body armor, chest rig, helmet with NVGs. “I hope it’s wide enough for the vehicle.”

  He’d hate to have to retrace their route and try again.

  In the valley below, the lights of San Cristóbal glittered, seeming as distant as they’d been an hour ago.

  Sander’s phone buzzed again with another message from an unidentified number.

  Where the fuck are you, you bastard!

  Dylan typed in a response.

  We stopped outside Santa Barbara. The nun has to pee again, you stupid cocksucker.

  He chuckled as the next message arrived—nothing but profanity.

  “I don’t like this.” Gabriela glanced over at him, worry on her face. “How do we know the guerillas won’t betray us like Sander did? They have close ties to the cartels and no love of the US. An Agency officer and a Navy SEAL are a valuable prize. They could take us prisoner and try to sell us back or kill us and turn our bodies over to Sánchez to exhibit on the news.”

  Dylan didn’t like it either. “We ought to find a way into Colombia ourselves.”

  She shook her head. “That would be hard. The guerillas and cartels control all of this—the border, the jungle, the river. They use these mountain roads to smuggle. They know where the Rio Táchira is safe to cross, and they watch those areas.”

  “Then we cross where it’s not safe. Can you swim?”

  She nodded. “In a swimming pool, yes, but I’m not a SEAL. In some places, the banks are steeper, and the river is faster and much deeper.”

  He reached over, rested a hand on her shoulder. “I can get you across, Gabriela. I’ve made my way through territory much more hostile than this and come ashore through pounding surf far more dangerous than anything the river can throw at us.”

  A small wooden bridge loomed ahead of them.

  “That’s the bridge?”

  “Stop here. Let me check it out.”

  The moment the vehicle stopped, Sander began screaming and shouting, perhaps believing that there were others around, someone who might hear.

  Rifle in hand, Dylan got out of the Aveo, lowered his night-vision goggles into place, the landscape around him taking on a green glow.

  No movement, no sign of human beings.

  He walked to the bridge, looked down to find a rocky ravine perhaps twenty feet deep. He walked across, tested the bridge’s strength. The wooden beams creaked, but they seemed free of rot and sturdy. But would they hold the weight of a car?

  There was only one way to find out.

  He motioned Gabriela forward, gestured for her to steer a little to her left, gave her a thumbs-up. Wood groaned as the front tires moved onto the bridge, riding on the very edge of the structure. Dylan walked backward, signaling her to keep moving forward, his gaze on the front tires.

  If she moved even an inch to one side or another…

  Slow and steady.

  His feet hit dirt, and a moment later, the car’s front tires did the same. He stepped aside, making room for the vehicle to pass.

  Gabriela stopped, spoke in a silky voice. “Hey, stranger. Need a lift?”

  Dylan climbed in, lifted the goggles. “Teamwork.”

  Then he noticed the digital display. ¡Coño! “Let’s pull into that clump of trees and turn off the lights. I’m late checking in with Tower.”

  Tower answered on the first ring. “You’re late. What’s your situation?”

  “The Agency asset betrayed us, but Ms. Marquez was onto him and saved our asses.” Dylan quickly explained. “The bastard is locked in the trunk.”

  “He’s a liability. You might have to dispose of him.”

  “I know.” Dylan wasn’t sure what Gabriela would think about killing an unarmed prisoner. He didn’t like it himself, but he couldn’t let Sander give them away.

  “Sánchez’s men are probably searching for that vehicle.”

  “We’re hoping to ditch it once we get into San Cristóbal.” He decided to come right out with it. “After what happened today, neither of us wants to risk putting our lives in the hands of guerillas or smugglers. They’re too closely tied to the Venezuelan government and the cartels. I’d rather figure it out from here on our own.”

  “The Agency isn’t going to like that. They’ve cut some arms deal with the guerillas—a certain amount of military hardware in exchange—”

  “Fuck the Agency!” Dylan didn’t want any part of that. “If we’d followed their last plan, we’d be in Sánchez’s hands by now.”

  “The Agency authorized this operation. They’re paying for it. I can’t tell them to fuck themselves.”

  Dylan opened his mouth to speak, but Tower cut him off.

  “But I can tell the
m that their asset betrayed you and that you had to go to ground. I’ll tell them I don’t know where you are.”

  “Good enough.”

  “Listen to me, Cruz. No matter what, do not let yourself be taken or killed. The political fallout would be disastrous.”

  No pressure. “Understood.”

  “I’m trusting you to get yourself and Ms. Marquez out of there alive.”

  “I’ll get the job done.”

  “I know you will. And Cruz?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Godspeed.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Dylan ended the call, found Gabriela watching him. “He cut us loose. We’re on our own.”

  “I need to eliminate Sander.” Dylan said this out of the blue.

  Gabriela’s stomach knotted. “Couldn’t we just gag him and tie him to a tree?”

  They had to do something. She understood that. They couldn’t allow him to give them away—or to reveal to SEBIN that they’d been here.

  Dylan took a suppressor out of his backpack, screwed it onto the barrel of his pistol. “We can’t take him with us, and if we leave him behind, he’ll eventually tell his bosses everything he knows, including the fact that you’re an Agency officer.”

  It was true—every word.

  “I’ll make it quick and painless, which is more than el SEBIN will do. You don’t have to see it or be a part of it.”

  “I’m not weak.”

  “I know you’re not, but you’re not used to this.”

  “Are we sure there’s not another way?”

  Dylan shook his head. “He made this choice for us when he decided to betray us.”

  It hadn’t upset Gabriela when Dylan had killed Pitón. In fact, she’d told him to pull the trigger. The bastard would have killed her. What Dylan was doing now made operational sense. But Sander was unarmed and a prisoner.

  He was ready to hand you and Dylan over to Sánchez.

  “Pop the trunk.” Dylan climbed out, taking his rifle with him.

  Gabriela pulled the lever, watching in the rearview mirror as Sander climbed out, rumpled and angry.

  “Were you going to leave me in there all night, you stupid bastard?”

  “Do you want to piss or not?” Dylan gave Sander a shove. “Into the trees.”

  Sander walked ahead of Dylan into the forest.

  Gabriela squeezed her eyes shut but heard nothing.

  A few minutes later, Dylan reappeared, pistol pointed at the ground.

  He climbed into the car. “He didn’t see it coming.”

  Gabriela nodded and swallowed—hard.

  “I don’t like to kill.”

  She fought to keep her voice steady. “Of course, you don’t.”

  They drove on, the silence interrupted by Dylan’s directions.

  “A right here should take us into the city.”

  A chigüire—or capybara—ran in front of the car. Gabriela gasped and slammed on the brakes. The animal scurried across the road and into the trees.

  Dylan rested a hand over hers. “It’s okay.”

  She met his gaze, doing her best to put her emotions aside. There was no room for compassion in a survival scenario. “Thank you for doing what had to be done. You’re risking everything to rescue me.”

  “I’ll get you home, Gabriela.”

  They passed San Cristóbal at nine in the evening, taking back roads toward San Antonio del Táchira, which sat right next to the Rio Táchira and the border.

  “Park in that stand of trees.” Dylan studied the satellite image on his phone. “We’ll set out on foot from here, head north for a while before crossing.”

  “We should search the car, see if there’s anything we can use.” Gabriela looked through the glove box and trunk, found a flashlight but nothing else that might be useful. “What about Sander’s phone. We shouldn’t take it with us.”

  “I left it with his body so they can find him.”

  They set out, Dylan with rifle raised, pack on his back. The night was dark, but Dylan used his NVGs to guide them—and watch for the presence of guerillas lurking among the trees. Compared to her, he moved almost soundlessly, each step deliberate, controlled. Then again, he could see much better than she could.

  She tripped on a tree root.

  A strong arm shot out to steady her. “Careful.”

  They’d gone for about ten minutes when he motioned for her to get down.

  She dropped to the ground, taking cover beside him, Glock in her hand, heart thrumming. She’d begun to wonder if Dylan was seeing things when she heard it—men’s voices. Distant at first, they grew nearer.

  Then six armed men in black appeared among the trees, headlamps lighting what Gabriela saw was a footpath.

  Guachimanes.

  Sánchez’s men were patrolling the forest, watching the river, searching for them.

  “She’s a nun, so maybe God is watching over her. Did you think of that?”

  “You’re a fucking idiot.”

  “They’re probably hiding somewhere in the city, waiting for morning.”

  “Quiet! Do you want them to hear you coming?”

  “What does the boss need us for anyway? He’s got drones. They can see in the dark. They’ll find them.”

  “Stop talking!”

  Drones equipped with thermal vision?

  Shit.

  Gabriela’s pulse spiked. For the first time since this began, she was truly afraid.

  Then from overhead, she heard it—a soft whirring sound.

  16

  Dylan had only a moment to react. “Stay down. Get ready to run.”

  He raised the rifle, sighted on the drone, and fired, alerting the Guachimanes to their position. Then he switched his rifle to a three-round burst, sighted again.

  Rat-at-at! Rat-at-at! Rat-at-at!

  Four men fell. The other two ran for cover.

  Rat-at-at! Rat-at-at!

  “They know we’re here.” He stood, drew Gabriela to her feet. His last glance at his phone had showed the riverbank no more than a thousand meters west of their position. “We head due west to the river and cross it here.”

  They moved as quickly as they safely could through the trees, Dylan picking their path and doing his best to guide her. The last damned thing they needed was for her to break or sprain an ankle. That had happened to a human-rights lawyer his Cobra buddy Connor was trying to get out of Myanmar, and it had nearly gotten them both killed.

  The terrain became steeper, and the trees began to thin, making their cover scant. And then it was there, maybe fifty meters downhill below them—the river.

  Dylan dropped to his knees, searched the forest around them and the riverbank beyond for any sign of hostiles. “The moment we leave these trees, we’ll be visible to any eyes in the sky, as well as anyone watching the water. The river is narrower here, which means it might be faster and a little deeper. We get across as fast as we can, climb up the other side, and shelter among the trees.”

  Gabriela nodded, catching her breath. “I understand.”

  He raised his goggles so that he could see her with his eyes. “Prepare your mind for the water to be cold. Don’t let that stop you. I’ll do my best to stay close, but if you get swept away, aim your feet downstream and use them to keep yourself from hitting submerged rocks. Navigate with your arms to reach the riverbank.”

  “Feet downstream. Use my arms to steer.”

  “That’s it.” He glanced around again. “Ready?”

  Gabriela pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Stay safe. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I care about you, Dylan.”

  His heart seemed to skip a beat, warmth building in his chest. “You take care of yourself. If anything goes wrong, maintain your cover. You’re an innocent. I abducted you because I’m a mean, awful gringo.”

  “I won’t say anything to get you killed. Listen to me! You’re Cuban, not a gringo. You took me because I saw your face. You promised to let me go when we reached Colom
bia.”

  He caught her chin. “Don’t worry about me. You do what you have to do to survive and get home.”

  They stumbled, slipped, and slid their way down the steep embankment, soil shifting beneath their feet.

  Dylan clipped his M4 to his chest rig, took Gabriela’s hand, and stepped into the water. It was icy cold and moving fast.

  Gabriela sucked in a breath as the water came over her waist. She was shorter than he was and weighed much less than he did, making this harder for her.

  “Grab onto the strap of my backpack, and don’t let go!”

  She reached to do as he’d asked—and the water took her.

  Dylan lunged, grabbed for her, but she vanished beneath the surface, her baseball cap floating free and disappearing downstream.

  Gabriela!

  He watched for her, saw her surface a few meters away, her feet pointed downstream, her arms paddling desperately.

  He let the current take him, too, but he had much more experience in the water. Using his arms to propel himself toward her, he managed to get in front of her.

  She crashed into him, coughed, her arms wrapping around his neck.

  “I’ve got you.” He kicked hard and paddled with one arm, bringing them both to the other side. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, shivering. “J-just c-cold.”

  There wasn’t anything he could do about that now. They were visible to anyone with eyes on the river—and that included fucking drones. They’d lost time, and they’d gone a good two hundred meters downstream from their original position.

  “We need to move.” He drained the water out of his M4, looked up the bank, unable to see over it to what might lie beyond. “Do you still have the Glock?”

  She nodded, drew it from her waistband, shook out the water, then slipped it back into her jeans, and covered it with her T-shirt.

  “Let’s go.”

  The two of them scrambled up the riverbank.

  He reached the top first and knelt, searching the forest with his NVGs for any sign of people, but the landscape was hilly, making it impossible for him to see what lay beyond the rise. He was certain the bad guys were on their way. The drone had gotten a good look at them before he’d shot it down. It would have sent their GPS position.