No Surrender: The Devlin Group, Book 3

by Shannon Stacey

  Gunshots.

  Carmen pulled off the rubber band and slid her fingers through her hair to unravel the tight braid. Then she gathered it high on her head and yanked it through the elastic.

  “Okay, babe, I’m on the move again.”

  Her breath whooshed out of her and she picked up the .22. “Good, ’cause I’m about to flash the bad guys some Sitting Duck Barbie.”

  Before her brain could veto the insanity, Carmen popped out from behind the rocks, leading with the gun.

  A spatter of return fire, then a couple shouts of surprise. Mission accomplished, she ducked back under cover, listening to the excited chatter of French.

  Yes, mon dieu, she was a woman. Yeah, she had great tits, and that last guy? He was doomed to disappointment. But the debate on who was going to stick what where was keeping them busy.

  “What’s going on there, Carm?”

  “Rock Paper Scissors for who does me first.”

  “Keeps their fingers off the triggers.”

  She dared a peek around the rock. “They’re pulling back.”

  “Did they see your .22?”

  “Yeah, when I shot it at them.”

  “They’re going to move out of your range. Take potshots at you, make you burn through your ammo.”

  A tiny wisp of hope curled through her belly. “So I fire enough shots to make them think their plan is working, but not so many I run out of bullets before you get here.”

  “Even with the range, you can’t slip away?”

  “Not without them seeing me, but I’ll have a head start if I need to run.”

  “Not yet. Nowhere to run to. But it won’t be long before those guys have company.”

  “Maybe they won’t want to share and I can slip away during their Civil War.”

  “I need you to—shit!”

  Static. His comm was dead.

  Jack shoved Isabelle’s head down and held it there while O’Brien hit every rut and bump between the cliff and the helicopter.

  The pinging of bullets against the truck from the pursuing guerillas grew less frequent, but O’Brien never let off the gas, careening along the narrow, moonlit jungle path as if he’d driven it his entire life. Since the truck was nothing more than an ancient, stripped-down, open-air safari Jeep, it wasn’t a smooth ride.

  “Ohmigod,” Isabelle whimpered when the rear quarter panel slapped a tree in a particularly tight corner.

  Jack stroked her hair, but his attention was on their backtrail. “We got dirt bikes coming. Three, I think.”

  O’Brien swore into the mic. “We need to lose them before we meet up with Rossi in…maybe three minutes?”

  “Stop when you find a good spot.”

  Isabelle lifted her head, her blue eyes wide with fear. “We’re stopping?”

  “If we don’t stop them now, they’ll stop us at the helicopter.” He didn’t elaborate, being a little busy taking stock of the weapons left behind by the truck’s previous owners. A bunch of highly used shit, mostly.

  “I’ll take that one,” Isabelle said, reaching around him for an old thirty-ought-six, of all things. “And those shells over there. They go with it.”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Hello…rich outdoorsman dad? Hunting expeditions, all that. I’m a good shot, and I can help.”

  Yeah, by curling herself into a tiny ball on the floor of the truck so he could concentrate. By being the smallest target she could be. “There’s a big difference between shooting an animal and shooting a man, and I don’t want you dealing with that on top of everything else.”

  She paused in the checking of her rounds like a pro. “There might be a difference between shooting an animal and a man, but trust me, there’s not much difference between these men and animals.”

  “Stopping!” O’Brien shouted as the truck skidded to a stop.

  Jack raised his weapon, trained on the breaks in the trees, hoping to take down their pursuers before they even knew they’d stopped.

  A glimpse of chrome and Isabelle fired first. A shout and a bike tumbling. Jack caught the next guy and the one after that. They spared a full thirty seconds, but didn’t hear anymore coming.

  He told O’Brien to go, then looked at Isabelle. Calmly, she flipped the safety on and reloaded the gun with hands trembling so slightly he almost didn’t notice.

  “Isabelle?”

  She looked up at him and it was there in her eyes again—that calm and resolute strength he’d seen in the video of her, when she’d faced death with the determination at least she’d die well. “I’m okay.”

  There was no time to make sure of it as they broke into a clearing and the helicopter was there, fired up and ready to fly. O’Brien slid the truck to a halt and Jack jumped out of the back to catch Isabelle as she went after him.

  He got her in her seat, strapped her in tight, aware that Rossi was exiting the cockpit.

  “I’m staying,” the boss said. “Get out of here.”

  A metallic thunk in the side of the helo and Jack heard Isabelle bite off a scream. Through the open door he saw them coming from a different direction—a couple of jeeps who’d probably wanted to cut off the escaping truck and instead had found a bigger prize.

  “No time! Whole shitload of them on our ass,” O’Brien shouted. “Take us up!”

  “I can’t leave them!”

  “Don’t be stupid.” O’Brien shoved him toward the pilot seat. “They’re alive. You get off this bird, you’re not. You can’t help them from here, but there won’t be shit for help later if we’re all fucking dead in this tin can.”

  For a few crazy seconds, Jack watched Rossi believe it was worth the risk, then he shouted something in Italian and went back to his seat. Another bullet struck near the door and Jack curled himself around Isabelle as the rotors picked up speed.

  Finally they were in the air, leaving hell behind, and Jack kissed the top of her head. “You’re safe now, honey.”

  Her body shook in his, and he tightened his arms around her. With danger dropping away behind them, he could breathe again. He’d done it.

  “Charlotte,” Rossi barked into his mic, “you find out who has what satellites up there and get me fucking eyes on that jungle. Anybody, I don’t give a shit who it is, tells you no on this, I’ll throw all the Group’s resources into ruining him. You spread that around. Whatever you have to do to help us get them the fuck out of there.”

  As the smoke from the fires grew pale and small on the horizon, Jack sent a silent prayer out to whoever or whatever might be listening. He’d gotten Isabelle out.

  But at what cost?

  Five minutes passed with nothing but static, and Carmen started thinking a Plan B was in order. Or C or D or Q or whatever plan they were down to at this point.

  Whether it was another false alarm or not, losing comm with Gallagher again drove home the fact he might not come and sitting around waiting to run out of ammo wasn’t a great strategy.

  She’d leave her hair in the ponytail, but she slipped her arms back into the jumpsuit and zipped it. Closing her eyes, she visualized the photo layout of the area they’d assembled. Where she was. Where the helicopter had been. Where Gallagher was supposed to have been and which way he’d be coming for her.

  She was going to go a little wider out. As much as she wanted to run into him, she couldn’t take for granted he’d be there to run to. One way or another, she needed to be closer to anywhere but here.

  Scoping out the area behind her, Carmen noted the rocks, the trees. A deadfall. Groupings of leaf-heavy branches. No, this wasn’t her element, but she could control one factor and that was herself. Silent and invisible. That was her job and she was damn good at it.

  They’d fallen into a routine—the bad guys would take potshots at her, she’d fire back, then they’d laugh and stand around, smoking and continuing their argument on who was doing what to her first.

  Just in case it was only his outgoing feed that was down, Carm
en talked quietly into her mic, telling him what she was up to and where she hoped to be going. It helped calm her, helped her believe he was on the other end, listening. Probably cursing her. But there—still alive—just unable to communicate.

  It would also tell Charlotte and the rest of the team where she was, not that there was a damn thing they could do about it.

  Digging into one of the jumpsuit’s many pockets, she pulled out a length of fishing line, then drew her knife. It took her a minute, but she managed to secure and saw off the bottom four inches of her ponytail. After finding a long enough stick within arm’s reach, she tied the four inches of hair to one end of the stick and sharpened the other.

  A bullet pinged off her rock, followed immediately by another, which buried itself in a tree truck over her head.

  She took a deep breath and readied herself. At this point she didn’t have much to lose. She waited—there would be at least a half-dozen shots fired in her general direction—and then she stood.

  Again she fired three shots, which didn’t have a chance in hell of hitting them, and then they laughed. Again. She ducked down and tucked the gun away. If all went according to plan, she wouldn’t need it. If things didn’t go according to plan, it wouldn’t be much help anyway.

  She stuck the stick into the ground, making sure the end of the gathered hair was just visible over the top of the rock. People generally saw what they expected to see, and she’d help them along. The longer they thought she was crouched back there, the further away she’d be when they realized she wasn’t.

  It was hard work and took up the better part of three or four minutes, but Carmen managed to squeeze her body through the stand of trees behind her. With any luck, her friends wouldn’t get bored enough to take shots at her for another five to six minutes. Then, when she didn’t shoot back, they’d probably assume she was out of ammo, but they’d approach cautiously, just in case. That could buy her another five to ten minutes, which was more than enough.

  Time to disappear and then—please, God, let her run into Gallagher.

  Rossi put the helicopter down and Jack quickly dressed Isabelle in the traditional Matunisian women’s wear Carmen had stowed under the seats, taking special care to hide her face.

  They were monitoring Carmen, knew she was on the move, but they couldn’t raise Gallagher and the tension was nearing the breaking point.

  Rossi started for the door, but O’Brien stopped him with a hand to the chest. “We need to take a minute.”

  “I don’t have a minute.”

  “We need to get the camera equipment and walk off this helicopter like we just got some great documentary footage and we’re drafting our Oscar speech.”

  “Bullshit, let’s—”

  “We need this cover until they’re out of the jungle and we can blow this popcorn stand.”

  Jack agreed, but he kept his mouth shut. The boss was running on emotion and adrenaline and if Jack got in his face, he was going to bear the brunt of it. Fair accusation or not, it was his and Isabelle’s fault Rossi had left people behind. Rather than risk a blow-out, he’d let O’Brien do the talking.

  Rossi sucked in a breath and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Okay. Just…get the shit and let’s do this.”

  The walk to the Hotel Jardin was uneventful, much to Jack’s surprise. It was a Murphy kind of day, and he took every step expecting the boogeyman to jump out of the shadows and grab them by the throats.

  When they reached their room, he grabbed a bottle of water and a protein bar and hustled Isabelle straight to the bedroom. The curtains were already drawn, and he set the snack on the dresser.

  “Stay in here, out of the way, and stay away from the window.”

  She nodded, her expression telling him she understood the situation was still critical. “Can I…can I take a shower?”

  “Not yet. Take a nap if you want, but stay fully clothed.” And, oh God, it was not the time for his mind to go there. “You need to be ready to move.”

  She was quiet until he turned to go and then her composure cracked. “Jack, I’m…please stay with me.”

  “I can’t. I need to get back to my team. Gallagher and Carmen are still out there and…” And it was his fault. “I’m going to have to go out, and I probably won’t get a chance to say goodbye. Rossi will be with you. The Italian guy? You can trust him.”

  “You’ll come back, right?” Her eyes were huge against her pale skin. “After your job is done, you’ll come back here?”

  He should tell her no. Tell her his mission was accomplished, Rossi would see about getting her a flight out and wish her a good life. “I’ll try.”

  “Try hard, because I’ll be waiting.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  If somebody sneezed, Rossi was going to shatter into a million pieces. He knew it—knew he was wound too tight—but he couldn’t take that internal step back.

  “Talk to me, Charlotte,” he told his exec admin over a closed comm channel while Donovan monitored Carmen. O’Brien was refueling the helo, making sure it was good to go with a second’s notice.

  “We owe favors to three countries, but I’ve got eyes. Every techie we have is monitoring some inch of jungle, but we haven’t seen them yet. Tony wrapped up his job and he’s watching the camp itself. They’ve almost got the fires contained and it looks like they’re organizing to head out.”

  “But they haven’t brought anybody in? Dead or alive, Le Roux would bring him in to—” He swallowed. Hard. “Goddammit.”

  “No, Alex. There’s no sign of him. And if we even think we’ve got something, I’ll let you know.”

  “I need a miracle here,” he said, talking low so the nerves maybe wouldn’t show. “I think he’s used his up—the helicopter crash, finding that cabin, getting Isabelle Arceneau out of there… I think he’s used up his allotment and we need to make a miracle for him. Somehow.”

  “We’ll get…hold on. Hold on just a second, Alex.”

  He couldn’t hold on. He needed to move, to do something, not be put on hold.

  “We just caught a quick glimpse of Carmen through the treetops. She’s moving away from the compound and she’ll be out of range of the rocket launchers in…less than a mile.”

  “Hold on. Donovan, you go with O’Brien. Get that bird in the air and we’ll figure out how to get her on it before you get there. Hopefully.” When Donovan looked over his shoulder at the closed bedroom door, Rossi shoved him away. “I’ve got her. Get your ass in the air now.”

  It killed him to stay behind, but somebody had to stay with Isabelle Arceneau. And somebody had to be Plan C. If something happened to O’Brien and Donovan, it would be up to him to get Carmen out.

  He owed Gallagher that much.

  What the fuck was a Blue Jay doing in the middle of the Matunisian jungle?

  Gallagher—working in the dark since his piece of crap, supposed-to-be-waterproof comm battery pack had shit the bed when he went down in a swampy area to avoid a bullet—stayed hidden. Somebody was watching him, he knew that much. But he didn’t know who.

  And there it was again. A freakin’ blue jay.

  Carmen. He had no idea if she could whistle bird calls, but it was a little farfetched for anybody else in the jungle to be mimicking arguably the most distinctive bird song in North America. Other than the loon, maybe, but loon calls were a bitch to imitate.

  Taking a chance, he whistled a sound bite from a television show he knew they both watched. The show’s counter-terrorism unit’s phones had a distinctive ring and they’d both had it as their cell ringtones for a while.

  When she whistled it back to him, he almost cried like a girl. She was alive and she’d managed to slip her leash. It damn near killed him, but he somehow kept his focus as he slowly made his way in that direction. Then he saw her, low in a thick mass of ferns and leaves and—hell, yes—he ran the last few yards, practically throwing himself into her.

  Her arms wrapped around him and her warm breath blew
in hard bursts against his neck. Pulling her onto his lap, he rocked for a few minutes, just holding her and not giving a damn where they were or how they were going to get out. He’d found her.

  “They’re on my backtrail,” she said when the emotional release had run its course. “I hear them shout every once in a while, at a distance.”

  “We’ll move. I just…I just need to hold you a few more seconds.”

  “I lost you,” she said. “I didn’t know if you were…I didn’t know if you’d be coming, so I had to move.”

  “My battery pack got wet. It must have been cracked or something, because it shorted on me.” There was a crack and he lay flat, pulling Carmen with him. “We need to move, babe. I should probably tell you I’m out of ammo, too. I managed to retrieve a couple of weapons from DBs. One guy’s was also low on ammo and the other moron had overheated his and melted the fucker.”

  “So we have a .22 with seven shots. Wonderful.”

  “Just means we do a lot more running and hiding than fighting. And it’s time to run, on my go…”

  Rossi stood and stretched his back, taking a few deep breaths. I see Gallagher. He’s on his feet, coming this way.

  It was the miracle he’d been looking for. Almost. But on the heels of that news came Charlotte’s report. The guerillas were mobilized, pissed and had a pretty good idea of where their prey had gone to ground. Worse still, Le Roux had called in outlying men to form a new outer perimeter. Finding a place for the helo to rendezvous with Gallagher and Carmen was going to be a logistical nightmare.

  Scratch that. It was going to be impossible.

  He knocked on the bedroom door and opened it, surprised to see Isabelle Arceneau sitting on the side of the bed, fully awake. “There’s stuff going on. I need you to come out here in case we have to move fast.”

  She didn’t hesitate, grabbing her water and following him into the main room. “Is there anything I can do to help? Relay information or…watch a screen or something?”