I scrambled to my feet, slipping and sliding, unable to get traction. Something whizzed past my ear, and I let myself fall back to the ground just as the tail rotor cartwheeled over my head. An explosion pounded the air followed by a hot whoosh of an inferno.
I wasn’t sure how long I lay there. Ten seconds? Twenty? But eventually I found the strength, wherewithal, and balance to lift my head and push myself to my knees and then to my feet. The chopper lay in a silver heap of contorted metal, black smoke carrying the stench of burning fuel, plastic, and human remains.
With at least two broken ribs, maybe more, and extensive bruising, I was the lucky one in this fight. But I knew my luck wouldn’t hold. The Instructor would be offering the cartel a lot for them to put in this much effort. They wouldn’t give up.
Grabbing my pack, I noticed the canvas was not only gnawed apart by bullets, it was also wet. I unzipped it the rest of the way, and pulled out the water jug, the plastic at the top punctured and more than half the water gone.
“Great,” I said, choking back a hysterical mixture of laughter and tears. “Holy water.”
No time to assess what other damage there might be, I carried the jug by hand to protect what I had left, plodded through the rock-strewn arroyo, and climbed back up to the truck. Cresting the bank, I spotted two pickups. Late models with dual wheels in back. It didn’t take much to guess they were cartel reinforcements.
One of the trucks continued down the road. My guess was that he aimed to circle the arroyo, see what had become of the chopper. The other split off in the opposite direction, heading through town.
I had to get rid of Heath’s chip and disappear.
I made it to the truck and slipped inside. Glass from the side windows littered the seats, and cracks spiderwebbed the windshield. I slipped the key in the ignition and prayed—to Jesus, to Allah, to the Virgin of Guadalupe, to Santa Muerte, to anyone I could think of—for it to start.
The engine fired to life.
I drove through the lot and pulled out onto the dirt road. The highway led in three directions, north to the border crossing into Lukesville, Arizona, and south where it split at the Plutarco E. Calles Monument, one fork leading into Sonoita and farther south, the other through La Botella and then angling back north and west along the border.
I opted for La Botella, hitting open highway and driving west. Heat burned through the windshield, the cracks making it hard to see the road. The temperature was soaring into triple digits. Not having had a drink since we’d been interrupted at the hotel, I was starting to feel ravenously thirsty, and I took a swig of the water I had left, not bothering to waste a drop washing the remnants of sand from my mouth, swallowing every bit.
With who-knew-how-many cartel soldiers hunting for me, my first priority was to get rid of the chip. My second was to destroy the virus. I still had a good amount of water left in the jug, and unless my situation changed, it would have to be enough.
I left La Botella and continued west. The border between the United States and Mexico is a long one, and although it was fenced and heavily patrolled at some points, like the lines between Tijuana and Chula Vista, Ciudad Juarez and El Paso, Nuevo Laredo and Laredo, there were other stretches where the barriers were made by nature. Rivers, mountains, and deserts.
Such was El Camino del Diablo, or the Devil’s Highway.
The area of the Sonoran Desert stretching between the border and Highway 8 that connected Phoenix and Yuma, the Devil’s Highway was crossed by thousands of illegals every year. But desert and mountains weren’t the only features of the area. The Barry M. Goldwater Air Force Range stretched between the Gila Mountains to the west and the Sand Tank Mountains to the east. The land was also used for training by Marines and flown over by the Air National Guard.
And of course, there was La Migra: the US Border Patrol.
But even for all this, the area was so vast and desolate I figured it was my best bet.
Through the open passenger window, I could see the border fence only yards away, running parallel to the road. Once I was clear of the more populated area, the fence became little more than nothing; some staggered posts running with barbed wire mixed in among tall saguaro cactus, creosote bush, and bur sage.
Up ahead a pickup trundled along the road, moving west, its bed filled with a jumble of cardboard and other discarded goods, probably heading to be recycled and sold. I accelerated, pulling along his right side, my tires kicking up a cloud of dust on the shoulder of the highway. Dipping my hand into the pocket of Filena’s jeans, I found Heath’s chip and pulled it out, then I lofted it into the back of the truck.
So much for providing The Instructor someone to track. Now I needed to disappear.
I followed the truck another mile, then turned off to the north, following a set of ruts that led to the border fence. Up close the fence was even less impressive, its wires easily ducked under or climbed over. Of course, this wasn’t much of a defense, but what border security pundits on American cable news didn’t mention was that the desert itself was a more formidable barrier than any fence.
Mountain ranges and blistering sun, and air so dry you could feel it leach the moisture from your skin, greeted anyone desperate enough to cross this section of the border. I stopped near the fence, safely out of eyeshot of the highway, to call Fleming. Once on the other side of the border, I would head for Highway 8, stretching between Tucson and Yuma. I planned to hitch a ride at that point, or hijack a car, if it came to that, but if Fleming had ideas of how to get me back to wherever she was, I was open.
My phone searched and searched for a signal but found none. I gave up after a minute of waving my hand around. Why people did that, myself included, I had no idea. As if those extra few inches would bring you close enough to a cell tower to get a connection. Once I was back in the USA and clear of the desert, it would be easy to find a phone signal. I could call Fleming then.
I plowed straight through the fence, taking out posts and flattening wire, then jolting and lurching, I pushed the bullet-riddled truck into the wilderness.
My path was dictated by the convergence of many mountain ranges, but eventually I twisted and turned my way into a sweep of utter desolation.
Now the hard part began.
I parked the truck near a jut of rock and tangled mesquite and climbed out, carrying my shotgun, my backpack, and my holy water with me. With the side windows shattered, the air conditioner hadn’t done much to cool me on the drive, but now that the wind was no longer streaming in, I realized just how high the desert temperature was.
I peeled off my body armor. Pain wrapped my rib cage, a sharp jab with every breath, amplified by a continuous, deep ache. I almost put the vest back on for support and then thought better of it. The air outside was well over my body temperature, and I still had hours to go before sundown. If my body couldn’t cool itself, I would be finished.
Steeling myself, I pulled out my Paragon SEAL knife and got to work hacking the branches off the mesquite bushes and piling them in the back of the truck. Once it was full, I stacked more branches underneath the vehicle until I had myself a bonfire.
Sweat poured from my skin, barely surfacing before evaporating into the dry air, and I stopped to take another long drink from my plastic jug.
Opening the pickup’s gas cap, I pulled the section of hose I’d taken from Filena and fed one end into the gas tank. The other end I stretched downhill and took between my lips. Luckily the tubing was transparent, and as I sucked, the gas fumes making me want to retch, I could see the light yellowish cast of the fuel moving toward me. As the gasoline reached my end, I took the tube out of my mouth and let the accelerant flow onto the brush I had stuffed around the tank.
The gas flowed well, finally petering off after I’d given the dry wood a good soaking. Leaving the tube in the tank, I moved my gear a good distance away and picked up my shotgun.
I pumped a shell into the chamber and let the dragon breathe fire.
Th
e gasoline erupted into flame with a whoosh! that I could feel even at this distance. And with the fire, came more heat.
Eyeing the burning tank, I let out a small laugh, thinking of Harry’s stupid comment. I would never tell him I’d actually ended up destroying the Ebola by shooting it.
Provided I lived to ever see the annoying bastard again.
Years Ago…
Her codename was Scarlett, and she couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Milan.
It wasn’t that the city itself was so bad. She supposed it was all right on some days, but the entire country of Italy annoyed her. The men were too forward, the climate too hot, and she preferred a nice French Bordeaux over cheap-ass Chianti.
When she’d taken the job, she’d liked the idea of traveling. She’d failed to take into account that not all destinations were created equal. In fact, some were shitty.
A burst of static sounded in Scarlett’s ear.
It was about damn time.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Go,” came the voice in her earpiece. “They’re expecting you.”
Scarlett pushed the gurney-like massage table into the hall. Already on the fourth floor, she took the elevator to the fifth and started for the end of the corridor.
Two bodyguards stood outside the ambassador’s suite, and they watched her approach with blank stares. The larger one was particularly stupid-looking, built like a retired football player, just slightly on the fat side of fit. Despite a mustache that needed trimming, the smaller of the two looked sharp enough, at least physically, but Scarlett could take him if the need arose.
“So you’re the masseuse, huh?” said the big brute. Not waiting for an answer, he started giving her table the once-over, looking through the folded towels, robes, and scented sheets for anything that might be used to hurt the VIP he was paid to protect.
Of course, by now he was already too late.
Mustache man grinned. “And I’ll need to check you.”
“Lovely,” said Scarlett, not meaning it.
He skimmed his hands down Scarlett’s sides, his fingers molding over her breasts on the way. “Do you give naked massages?”
“Massage is usually done that way,” the man’s brutish partner said. “You strip down, lay on a table and—”
“I mean where she’s naked. You know. Happy endings and all the trimmings?”
Reaching her ankles, he reversed direction, moving up the insides of her legs. His check of her inner thighs rose a bit higher than it had to, but instead of saying a word, Scarlett thought about all the ways she could kill him.
“You’re clear,” said toothbrush ’stache, winking at her. “You have extra time and want to make extra cash, maybe we can arrange something.”
She gave him a deadpan stare. “You couldn’t afford me.”
Chuckling, the big one knocked twice, opened the door, and let her into the room. “Set up in the sitting room.”
Scarlett gave a curt nod, and when the door closed behind her, she moved on to more important things.
Rolling the massage table to the center of the room, she folded back the top sheet and moved quickly into the bedroom. The ambassador was stretched out on the bed, and judging from his lack of breathing, he’d already gotten the hell out of Milan.
But Scarlett wasn’t here for the ambassador.
Fresh air wafted from the far window bank—if the jumble of odors riding the hot currents could be considered fresh—and Scarlett could see the wire stretching between the two open panes.
Unbuttoning her uniform shirt to expose her bra, Scarlett crossed to the window, focusing on the wire stretching between the two open panes. She glanced out the window at the figure climbing down in the dark, fitting her fingertips under her breasts and gripping the edge of the bra’s underwire. Prying upward, she freed the piece of metal, not underwire at all, and folded it into its true form.
Wire cutters.
Scarlett placed the blades on the wire.
“Waiting for your signal,” she said into her mike.
“Hold. We don’t want her dead. Just crippled. Give her another few meters…now!”
She didn’t wait to see the damage. That would be verified from below, and frankly she didn’t care about the woman at the end of that wire either way. Scarlett was here to do her job and move on to the next op. So with thoughts of a return to Paris or New York in her future, she closed and locked both windows, returned to the entrance to the bedroom, and screamed for the bodyguards.
Fleming
“Revenge can be served at any temperature,” The Instructor said.
Fleming stared at Scarlett, not sure how to react to the story she’d just told. It had enough details to be true.
If so, this woman was responsible for the greatest tragedy of Fleming’s life.
“Why?” Fleming finally asked. “We were both on the same side.”
“He wanted you sidelined. He had your IQ tests, or some other aptitude bullshit like that. Knew you’d be more valuable riding a desk than doing fieldwork. But he also knew you wouldn’t do it willingly. That fall was just supposed to cripple you. And I gotta say, I did a spectacular job.”
Fleming knew who the he was. The Instructor.
During rehab, he’d visited with her. Got her working on integrated circuits and encryption codes, eventually leading to the device that launched a nuclear attack on London and blew up the president.
He, and Scarlett, had done this to her, just because The Instructor decided her mind was more valuable than her legs.
“You’re angry, I bet. I’d be. You merely shot my leg, and I’m ready to set a box of kittens on fire. I can’t image the pain you went through. All the surgeries. All the rehabilitation. Years of it. And for what? You’re still a freak who can’t walk.”
Fleming kept her tone neutral. “I set the warehouse on fire.”
“Indeed you did. The Instructor is going to be irritated.”
“Since I can’t walk, and neither can you, how do you think you’ll be able to get us out of here?”
Scarlett’s brow furrowed. She obviously hadn’t thought things through.
“There’s something else you haven’t considered,” Fleming said. “Obviously, The Instructor has gone through great lengths to keep me alive. That means you can’t shoot me.”
Scarlett’s eyes became wide, and Fleming’s hand shot out and grabbed her good ankle. She yanked, putting all Scarlett’s weight on her bad leg, and the woman crumpled like a house of cards.
Once on the floor, Scarlett didn’t have a chance. Fleming was all upper-body strength, and grappling, even for her life, was one of Scarlett’s weaknesses according to her dossier.
She quickly disarmed Scarlett, breaking her arm in the process. As Scarlett screamed, scrambling to get away, Fleming grabbed her ankle, applied some simple leverage, and broke her leg. Then Fleming put Scarlett in a full nelson, holding the gun to the back of her head.
“What do you think, Scarlett?” Fleming whispered through clenched teeth. “You think turnabout is fair play? I break your legs in fifteen places each. Maybe your arms as well. Think about all the surgeries. All the rehabilitation. Years of pain, Scarlett, just for you to end up in a wheelchair anyway.”
“Please,” Scarlett whimpered. “Anything you want.”
“Where’s Bradley?”
“Room 17, Corridor C.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Shot him in the ear. That’s all. I swear.”
Unless Scarlett was the best actor of all time, Fleming believed her. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair?”
“No. Please God no.”
“I don’t want that either, Scarlett. You’d give the rest of us cripples a bad name.”
Fleming fired, blowing the back of Scarlett’s head out through her face. Scarlett slumped over, and Fleming released her and sat up, staring at the body. She’d done the right thing, for both Scarlett and the handicapped
community. No one liked a whiner.
“Fleming?”
Fleming brought up the gun, and saw Bradley standing there. Her relief was short-lived when she noticed someone following him.
Julie.
Fleming swung the sights from Bradley to her.
Julie was an Ebola carrier. Too dangerous to live.
The smart thing to do was kill her right now.
“Fleming?” Bradley’s smile dropped off his face. “It’s OK. This is Julie. She isn’t one of them.”
Fleming didn’t take her finger off the trigger. She watched Julie’s eyes flare in fear.
“Sorry,” Fleming said.
Then she did the right thing, even though it was hard.
Heath
“Forget about your family,” The Instructor said. “They’ve already forgotten about you.”
Heath wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the drug and alcohol haze when he finally regained his senses, the muscles of his belly screaming. He rolled to his side, grabbed the tequila, and raised it to his lips. The delicious burn down his throat and into his stomach wouldn’t be enough to stem the pain, not of the surgery or of losing to Chandler. But the Herradura Seleccion Suprema was damn good, and he might as well drink while he had the chance.
He supposed he should be angry that Chandler had betrayed him, but he knew that wasn’t the whole story. By taking the tracking chip, she was making herself a target, drawing the cartel soldiers away from him, giving him time to get his sorry ass together and disappear. A noble and gracious act.
But she’d also stolen the virus. If she made it out of town without being killed, she would destroy it, and along with it, the opportunity he’d been working toward since that day in his father’s house when he’d made a deal with El Diablo.
A crash came from the outer room, then voices, Filena and two men, the hum of their voices drifting through the walls.
He set down the bottle and rolled from his side onto his hands and knees, the mattress shifting under him. Shuffling to the edge of the bed, he eased onto the floor, focusing on his breathing to mitigate the pain.
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