“So…that’s it, I guess,” he said and, after a moment of looking uncertain as to whether or not he should shake her hand or slap her ass or what, he shrugged. “See ya on the flipside, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe,” she said automatically, and he winked at her over his shoulder as he walked away. Panic squeezed her chest. She wasn’t done yet. “John!”
He stopped, but didn’t turn. His shoulders hunched just for a second, as though he’d taken a blow, and then they straightened and he looked back at her.
“I can’t do this right now, Carm. You’re killing me and there’s no room for it here. Not today.” He started away again, shaking it off.
She knew that, but she couldn’t have stopped herself. She couldn’t let him go without some acknowledgement of what was between them. Not that she knew what it was or what she even wanted it to be, but there was something.
He stopped again. “God-damn-it.”
He turned back and in four long strides she was in his arms. He lifted her, yanking her body against his as his mouth claimed hers. Carmen breathed him in, feeling his strength and determination washing over her.
She clung to him, even when the kiss ended, burying her face in his neck. He stroked her hair, then tipped her chin up so she could see his face.
“When this is over, will you let me take you to dinner?”
Her heart skipped. “Like a date?”
“Yeah, some of that normal-type stuff guys do you were talking about.”
“I’d like that.”
He smiled, that carefree, naughty smile that knocked her socks off, just for a second. “Then I’ll definitely be back.”
“I believe you.” When he looked at her like that, all fierce and ready to go off to war, she did.
“You can always believe in me, babe.” Then he turned and walked into the woods where they’d stowed his gear.
“Don’t call me babe,” she called after him and his laughter lingered behind him.
While Rossi flew the chopper as fast and low as he dared in the dark, Carmen strapped her vest and matching knee-length chaps over her jumpsuit.
They weren’t exactly fashionable, but they were state-of the art, lightweight and bulletproof. Designed to protect her vital organs and femoral arteries, they were still flexible enough not to constrict her movement. Everybody on the team was wearing them, even Rossi, who’d be staying with the helicopter.
“Gallagher checked in.” Charlotte’s voice was low in their earpieces. “It’s a go.”
Good news, but she’d rather hear it from Gallagher himself. Knowing he was out there, sneaking around in Le Roux’s jungle had cost her some of her battle nap, despite his checking in whenever he could.
“You okay, Carm?”
She looked over at O’Brien, who was going through the same gearing up she was. “I’m good.”
“Anything you wanna go over?”
She smiled. “Anything you wanna go over?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Just let me lead, try to stay in my sightline and keep me in yours.”
Nodding, she stowed her .22 in her thigh pocket. She’d carry a Heckler & Koch G36 tonight, but the only thing she did without her little Ruger close at hand was shower. Like a cold and lethal security blanket.
“Carmen.” He said nothing else until she made eye contact. “You have nothing to prove to me or anybody else on this team. Don’t try to be Wonder Woman, just follow my lead and watch your ass.”
Or Gallagher’ll have mine. He didn’t need to finish that thought. No doubt he’d been given an earful on how to properly secure the bubble wrap.
She gave him a quick nod to let him know she heard him, but her mind was already back on Gallagher—right back where it shouldn’t be at a time like that.
What if she was the one with the authority? Would she have wavered on sending him alone into hostile territory at night? Sent O’Brien instead?
Turning her attention to tightening the laces of her boots so O’Brien couldn’t see her face, Carmen forced herself to consider the question.
If she had the power, would she use it to keep Gallagher out of harm’s way?
It had nothing to do with respect, she realized now. God knows she respected the hell out of Gallagher’s ability to do his job.
Something to think about—
“Showtime,” Rossi said.
Later.
As signals went, four five-hundred gallon tanks of gasoline exploding at four-thirty in the morning were pretty hard to miss.
Donovan’s feet hit the floor as Isabelle sat upright on the bed, groggy and confused.
“Put your shoes on,” he hissed. They’d been sleeping fully dressed. Besides encouraging him to keep his hands to himself, they were also ready to move in seconds.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” She was shaking, trying to focus, and he put his hands on her shoulders to steady her.
“Another minute or so to let them get focused on the front of the camp, and then we’re going.”
“I’m scared, Hans.”
“Jack,” he said, tightening his grip just a bit. “My name is Jack Donovan.”
She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. He stiffened, then wrapped his arms around her and held her for as long as he dared. Tears glistened on her eyelashes when he pulled back.
“I’m ready,” she whispered. “If we live through this, promise me I’ll see you again.”
“We’ll live,” he said, avoiding making a vow he didn’t think he should keep. There were so many reasons to stay away from her he couldn’t articulate just one. “You do exactly what I tell you, and we’ll live.”
Sadness flickered in her eyes—she’d noticed the omission and didn’t understand her feelings for him weren’t real. “If I stay I’m going to die anyway, so I might as well go for it, right?”
He was quiet for a few seconds, listening as the chaos moved beyond their hut and toward the front. In the distance he could make out the rapid burst of machine gun fire and he wondered how Gallagher had made it sound like there was an entire army bearing down on the encampment.
“When I say go, you follow me out the door, and stay behind me. It’s going to be dark in places. Keep your hand on my back and if you trip and fall, don’t scream.”
“I’m sorry you have to go through this for me.”
He smiled. “I’m not. Now…go.”
Gallagher moved through dense leaves, listening as Charlotte quietly and calmly relayed information between Rossi and the other agents.
He knew Carmen and O’Brien were approaching the outpost on the cliff by foot, on schedule. He knew how many seconds until the next charge went off—charges designed to keep Le Roux’s guerillas occupied toward the front of the compound, away from the cliff and in the opposite direction of the helicopter.
The increased activity and heightened panic fractured the guerillas’ attention, allowing him to slip unnoticed through the jungle.
“Gallagher,” Charlotte said, “you need to be en route to extraction point now.”
“On my way.” Reluctantly, and dragging his feet the entire way.
What he wanted to do was work his way over to Carmen, roll her up in industrial bubble wrap and get her the hell out of Matunisia. But if he didn’t stick to the plan, he wouldn’t reach the rendezvous point ahead of the truck and they’d have to risk being Swiss-cheesed or leave without him.
Neither appealed, so he veered off toward his escape route, forced to trust Carmen to do her job and O’Brien to keep her safe. If everything went according to plan, they’d be leaving Matunisia within the hour.
Screaming. Gunfire. Shouting. More explosions. It was like navigating hell without a GPS.
Jack ran, keeping close to the buildings, with Isabelle’s hand pressed against his lower back. He could feel her there, knew she was keeping up.
As he ran he scanned the cliff, sporadically lit by the fires, trying to think like Gallagher. If he’d been a
ble to drop a rope, where would it be?
There. Angled away from the camp, deep vertical crevices and vegetation offering shadows.
He took a sudden left, Isabelle’s hand never leaving his back. The camp around them was in chaos, nobody seeming to find it odd that two people were running in the dark.
When they reached the edge of the camp, however, he slowed them, taking a few seconds to look around. He could hear the gunfire at the top of the cliff, knew at least a couple of Devlin Group agents were up there, waiting for them.
“See that dark ridge running up the cliff over there?” He pointed and she nodded. “If they were able to drop a rope, that’s where it’ll be. If not, there are cracks and trees. On my go, run and don’t stop until you get to the top.”
She nodded again, fear shimmering in her eyes. “You’ll be right behind me, won’t you?”
Maybe. “Absolutely. Now… Go!”
In the short distance to the base of the cliff, no shots or shouts rang out in their direction. Less than a minute later, he found the rope and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw all the knots tied into it. They’d make it easier—hell, they’d make it possible—for Isabelle to make the climb alone if she had to.
“Use the knots, hand over hand. It’ll be faster to walk up the wall, but if you get tired or slip, lock onto a knot with your feet, just like in gym class.”
She didn’t hesitate and, once again, Jack admired her courage. They had no idea what was waiting for them at the top, but this was their only chance and she didn’t waste any time crying or wringing her hands.
They were halfway up when a shot ricocheted off the rocks, startling Isabelle. Her concentration broke and she slipped, but caught a knot between her feet, just as he’d instructed.
In his mind she kept slipping. Falling. Her fingernails would gouge his wrists as she tried to hold on.
He wouldn’t be able to hold her. Which name would she scream as she fell?
Jack? Or Hans?
“Jack! Keep climbing! Jack! You’re here with me. Stay with me.”
He wanted to tell her he knew where the hell he was, thank you very much, but his freakin’ jaw wouldn’t unclench.
“One hand over the other, Jack.”
For chrissake, he knew how it was done. He’d been climbing since before she was born. Jesus, maybe literally. No. He did the math. It was close, but no.
“Please, Jack. Oh God.”
Couldn’t she see he was trying? No, probably not. Just the sweat and the trembling, and she’d probably notice when he tossed his dinner in about two seconds.
“Your friends are waiting for us at the top.” He could hear the panic edging into her voice and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. “They’re here to help us, Jack, but we have to climb to get to them.”
“Go,” he managed, in such a low, teeth-clenched way she probably didn’t hear him.
“No. Not without you.”
Then she was going to die, and it would be his fault. Just like Chris. Just like Carmen and O’Brien when they figured out he was a useless fuck-up and tried to come rescue Isabelle themselves.
No. Fuck no.
He shifted his weight, tested his grip. Swallowed back the searing acid of fear until he was fairly sure he could talk. “I’m…okay. Let’s go.”
She only went a few feet before looking down to see if he was lying.
“Don’t stop,” he barked. If he stopped he might not be able to start again.
The next, inevitable bullet hit two feet to the left of Isabelle’s head and she screamed. Slipped again, hit him hard. He tightened his grip, holding both their weight.
The panic clawed at his brain, but the adrenaline kicked onto high gear. This was now, and right now he wasn’t going to let Isabelle die. “You’re okay. We’re okay. Take a breath and then climb.”
“I can’t. Ohmigod, they’re shooting at us.”
“It’s a lot harder to hit a moving target, and we can’t go down. If you want to live, you have to go up. Move.”
Carmen moved, fired, moved again, struggling to keep her focus in the chaos.
“Four o’clock!” O’Brien shouted.
She spun, found her target and fired. There were only half a dozen guys at this guard post, and her partner was doing a fine job of dispatching them, but Donovan needed to get that girl up the cliff before their friends from neighboring outposts came to see what was going on.
A bullet whizzed by, a little too close, and she threw herself sideways. She whacked her elbow on a rock, but rolled and fired. Another movement and she spared the half-second necessary to register it wasn’t O’Brien, then shot that guy, too.
“They’re climbing,” Charlotte reported through their earpieces.
Thank God for Donovan’s watch, Carmen thought. At least they knew they weren’t doing this for nothing.
Then a glimpse of movement far off in the trees to the east caught her eye. Shit.
“More company coming,” she said to O’Brien. “I’ll hold them off while you help haul them over the edge.”
O’Brien was a better shot, but he was physically stronger and there was no telling what shape the girl was in.
She moved away from the cliff edge—away from the truck—and took up a position that put a large rock in front of her and a cluster of trees behind her, then waited.
“They’re almost to the top,” O’Brien reported.
A half-dozen men were moving through the thin vegetation in front of her and Carmen took aim at the first. Fired. He dropped, but the others dove for cover.
“I have the package,” O’Brien said and Carmen let out a short sigh of relief. It was almost over.
Then the guerillas opened fire on her.
Rossi listened, helpless and alone in the helicopter, as the plan went totally, irrevocably, to shit.
Charlotte: Opening all comms now.
Olivera: I’m under fire.
O’Brien: Package is on board. Move it, Carmen.
Gallagher: Get your ass on that truck!
Olivera: I’m pinned!
O’Brien: Jesus! Jack, get her down on the floor. Trucks coming in from the north. We’re under heavy fire.
Gallagher: Throw the girl on the floor and get a gun, Donovan!
O’Brien: We can draw them away, but we’ll be boxed in if we don’t go now.
Donovan: Move, O’Brien!
Olivera: Go! I’ll find a way to get out.
Gallagher: No!
Donovan: Jesus Christ, O’Brien! Get us the fuck out of here!
Olivera: Get the girl out of here.
Gallagher: O’Brien, you motherfucker, you wait for her!
O’Brien: Status?
Olivera: Pinned. Go now!
Gallagher: Shit!
O’Brien: Package is en route.
Gallagher: You hold on, Carmen. I’m coming.
Chapter Thirteen
Plan A—balls to the wall through the compound, guns blazing as he mowed down any Matunisian motherfucker who got in his way.
Go…go…go… The urge pounded through Gallagher’s brain, demanding he haul ass, but he resisted. Stayed hidden. If he got killed, she would die. That plain, that simple.
Focus, goddammit. He breathed in through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, driving back the adrenaline-fueled rage by force of will.
Plan B. A methodical, stealthy, ammo-conserving move in her direction. Not slow, but careful. A few more precious seconds to center himself—to immerse himself once more in his surroundings—and he began to move. A wider path than he would have liked, but most of Le Roux’s men were focused around the compound.
“My gun jammed,” Carmen said in his earpiece. Thankfully she kept her voice low so the guerillas didn’t know, but he could hear the tinge of panic. “I can’t…shit, I can’t clear it.”
“All right. Can you lift a weapon from a DB? Any near you?”
“No. I can’t move.” He heard the deep breath, and her vo
ice was calmer when she spoke again. “I have my .22, so I’m not unarmed.”
As good as, with nothing but that. Hell, she might as well chuck fucking rocks at them. “Is it light enough to they can get a good look at you?”
“I can see them, so they can see me. There’s not much canopy here, so it’s getting light fast.”
“Here’s what I want you to do,” he responded with an absolute confidence that was absolute bullshit. “You have your hair braided?”
“Yeah, I always do. What the hell does—”
“Lose the braid, put your hair in one of those ponytail things. Take the vest off, drop the top of your jumpsuit and tie the arms around your waist, like you would if you were hot.”
“And how is hangin’ out in my sports bra going to…oh. No. No. No.”
“They won’t kill you if they want to—” He couldn’t say it. “Just do it, Carmen. Let them get a glimpse of you.”
“And if they get their hands on me?”
“Every second you’re not dead is another second I have to get there, babe.” A bullet buzzed by his ear and he dropped. Shit.
He tuned out her mutterings about a freakin’ striptease in the middle of the goddamn jungle and scanned his surroundings. Nothing moved, a sure sign they were looking for him as hard as he was looking for them.
“Gallagher? Are you listening?”
A rustle in the underbrush. A loud ragged breath from some moron who’d held his breath trying to be quiet.
“Gallagher?”
The soldier saw him, but it was too late. Gallagher fired, then waited, listening.
Carmen froze in the act of trying to get out of her vest without sticking any body parts out in the open. “John?”
Being the newest sex toy on the guerilla block was bad enough on a temporary basis, but if Gallagher was… If he couldn’t come for her…
If he couldn’t come, she’d have to find another way to get herself out. As quickly as she could without breaking her cover, she tied the arms of her jumpsuit around her waist. Top half bare but for her black sports bra and the prickle of sweat, she strained to hear anything at all through her earpiece. A grunt. A breath, no matter how shallow.
No Surrender: The Devlin Group, Book 3 Page 11