Hit Hard

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Now, the path to her master was wiped clean, the only evidence tucked inside a skin pouch dangling at her hip. None could be trusted, and she was the only one to see it so.

  She followed the sound of gunfire.

  Project Silent Fire

  US–UK Command Post

  Major General Al Gerardo rarely showed his emotions. It’s what made him the consummate professional and well respected from the president down to the corporal who answered his phones. Gerardo never did anything halfway and for him, there was always a better solution, some tiny point that could be improved. It drove his staff crazy, but to work with him on this project, they’d learn to accept and respect it. His small idiosyncrasies had often foiled disaster.

  Even in the most desperate moments of the nation’s defense, he showed unquestionable authority and control. Only those who’d known him for years could recognize his anxiety.

  Lt. Colonel Mitch Callahan was one of them. Gerardo rolled a quarter over his knuckles without looking, as if it was a part of him. All while he watched the video feed, the camera mounted on a Marine’s helmet, the U.S. team backing up British Royal Marines.

  “Be advised, the target is our only source right now.”

  The night vision lens glowed green as the feed went smooth for a moment, then staggered as it focused. Royal Marines had been posted around the small house and though there’d been no movement for over an hour, they knew who occupied the home.

  “Execute,” the general said. The team moved in, Royal and U.S. Marines covering the small house like a blanket. Gas went in first, masks down, then a Royal Marine broke through the front door, just as another team came in through the rear.

  “Clear,” echoed through the head mikes and to Gerardo’s console. They watched the mission unfold. Each room was swept, floors checked for traps before the men moved to the last door, the bedroom where Hassan was hiding. All exits were covered, the second floor spotted with the red dots of laser scopes.

  A U.S. Marine kicked in the door, men quickly sweeping the room. Several suddenly gasped and groaned. “Room secure, Jesus, it stinks in here.”

  They turned to the source. “Mother of God.”

  Gerardo leaned forward as his man got close. “Damn.” He dropped the quarter on the console.

  Mitch leaned for a better look.

  Hassan was strapped to a chair, every inch of his clothing stained with blood already turned black. There were so many cuts on the man’s body it was hard to tell what was a wound or a blood trail. Blood congealed on the floor beneath him. Dead for days.

  A warning came, men lifted NVG goggles and the lights came on. The glare of light focused on just the victim.

  The room was sparse, a bed behind the chair.

  Gerardo said, “Those wounds aren’t fatal.” Each near a vein but not an artery. Enough to slowly bleed him dry.

  “Yes, sir, I noticed,” a Royal Marine said. “But these are.” He tipped the helmet, the video relay showing that the man was missing his toes.

  “The back of his knees are cut,” one Marine observed. “What’s the point of that? He’s strapped to the chair.”

  But Gerardo knew. In many cultures, it was a final disgrace that the victim would never walk in the next life with his ancestors. Whether it meant anything to the victim was inconsequential. It meant something to his killer. But the lead, the most viable one they had, was lost.

  “Secure and let MI-6 techs in there.” Gerardo pushed away from the monitor and stood. He picked up the quarter again.

  “Maybe we’ll get something from the house,” Callahan suggested.

  Gerardo waved that off, rolling the quarter. “Perhaps, but they’re thorough.”

  Whoever had the weapons schematics was long gone by now. Gerardo looked at the surveillance printouts. Their people had gone over the photos of Hassan and any associate several times, trying to digitize the shots and pull something for identification. Hassan led a small, lonely life. A janitor with a security clearance, for the love of Mike. The man had no idea what he’d done, the danger he’d let loose when he stole the plans. Gerardo looked back at the monitor, video frozen on the victim’s tattered face.

  Perhaps he did.

  Hassan was betrayed by his contact, obviously, and it hadn’t been difficult to locate the man. That kept Gerardo up late. Someone knew the Standard Operating Procedure, the SOP of how reactionary forces worked. And that meant they had help—from the inside.

  He looked at Mitch. “Wake everyone up.”

  “Sir?”

  “Get every watchdog we have out there. I want visuals on the worst.”

  “Counter intelligence is already working on this, sir.” They had visuals of several known terrorists.

  “Not good enough. Get them in the trenches. We need photos, movement, associates, and if we have to dig into the gutters, we will.”

  “That’s usually where they are, sir.” Mitch reached for the phone, and dialed.

  “Not this time. This group, they have financing, and damn good intel. Or they wouldn’t have made it past the door.” He looked back at the still video on the screen. “They’re cleaning up their trails.”

  The jungle opened up, sunlight pouring down. With good reason. It ended.

  Viva skidded to a sharp stop, slipped and flailed to keep from going over the cliff. Sam’s arm snapped around her waist, drawing her back.

  She clung to him. “We’re trapped.”

  Max rushed to a stop beside them. “We missed some.” He inclined his head the way they’d come, reloading.

  “And the river is in front of us,” she said, peering over the edge. “It’s a forty-foot drop to the water and no way down.”

  “I have one.” Sam pulled his whip from the lashings and cracked it. It looped around a branch extended over the water.

  “Oh, you have got to be kidding.” Even as she spoke, Sam pressed the handle into her palms, then drew her far back from the edge. “Ya know, I’m as adventurous as the next woman, but do you know what’s in that water?”

  “Snakes, crocs, pit vipers—and escape.” With her tucked into his body, he pointed to the small boat. “That’s our only way.”

  “Oh geez,” she groaned, gripping the handle and staring at the wide open nothing. “That thing’s not seaworthy, it’s river garbage!”

  “It’s floating.”

  Max had his back to the river, his Uzi aimed. “ETA less than one minute, guys.”

  “Go, Viva.”

  “I am, I am. Can’t you see I’m preparing to die?” She took a deep breath, backed up a step, then bolted. When her feet left the edge of the ground, she thought, Life was a lot better before Thailand.

  Sam shouted to let go, and she obeyed, dropping into the water like a coin. The impact stung her arms, and she refused to open her eyes until she felt the sun on her head. She broke the surface as Max hit the water.

  She headed toward the boat, looking back for Sam. “Where is he? He’s not there!” The whip was gone too.

  Max swam past her and climbed into the boat. “Come on, swim, swim!” From the bottom of the boat, he scooped up fallen branches and wet leaves, hurling them into the water.

  Self-preservation slammed into her and she swam to the small boat. Max helped her over the side and she instantly sat up, rocking it. Max steered the rowboat away from the bank.

  Viva’s attention was on the cliffs. “Why hasn’t he jumped?”

  “Outlaw, you there? Outlaw, come in!” Max tapped the thread mike at his ear, then yanked it off, cursing. “It shouldn’t be out of commission, dammit.”

  “Try to be upbeat, Max, really.”

  The men appeared on the edge, almost falling over it. Viva grabbed the second decaying oar and dug it into the water. Bullets rained, peppering the water like jumping schools of fish. Max returned it in deadly blasts. Viva ducked low, paddling faster, harder. The boat jolted and she stilled, exchanged a glance with Max as something amphibious rolled barely below the surfac
e before it disappeared into the dark water.

  “A croc?” she asked and hated the fear in her voice.

  “It’s a big one.”

  Max cocked the Uzi and aimed. Viva watched the water, poised with the rotten oar like a bat. “If you surface,” she muttered to the bubbling river, “you’re luggage.”

  Water fountained, the boat lurched sharply, throwing her back. She yelped, and twisted to strike.

  “Whoa, darlin’, take a breather.” Sam hung on the edge of the boat, wiped his face, then threw himself in.

  “I ought to hit you with this.” She still brandished the oar.

  “Row for a little while first, will you?” Sam lay there, breathing hard, and Viva realized he had to have run a half mile to get this far downriver.

  “You okay, pal?” Max said, paddling smoothly and watching the terrain.

  Sam waved halfheartedly. Viva sank into the watery bottom, tiny minnows pecking at her knees. “God, I’m really starting to hate you two.”

  Sam opened one eye to look at her. “Now there’s a surprise.”

  “You owe me an explanation.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Really?” She grabbed his gun, pointed it. “Think again, Outlaw.”

  Sam rose up on his elbows to look at her. Covered in muck and a brownish-green cast to her clothes, she was still a gorgeous redhead. “It’s out of ammo.”

  She fired. It wasn’t.

  Four

  The gunshot went past his hip and into the bottom of the boat. Sam was on her, tearing the pistol from her. “Christ, woman!”

  “Oh God. You lied! Why would you lie?” She backed away from him. Man, he looked scary right now. “That was really dumb.”

  “Don’t point a weapon unless you plan to kill something!”

  “From what I’ve witnessed, that’s your job.”

  “Do you ever shut up?” He popped in a fresh clip. He’d miscounted, dammit.

  Viva reddened with embarrassment; it was a phrase she heard often.

  “Guys, we’re sinking.”

  A slow fountain of water bubbled in the side of the boat. Viva lurched across and stuck her finger in it.

  “Oh, that helps.”

  “It stopped, didn’t it? God, you’re such a pessimist.”

  Sam rubbed his mouth and looked ahead. “Head there.”

  “I see it.”

  There was a house on stilts, nearly in the water, its dock half sinking below the surface. Two children fished from the end, sitting more in the water than on the wood. The men rowed toward it and in range, Sam grabbed the post and swung them closer. He leapt from the boat, then reached for her. She was still stretched to keep her finger in the hole, and staring up at him, mutinous.

  “Give it up, Viva.”

  She climbed out under her own power. “You’re irritating, Sam Wyatt, and not very nice.”

  “You shot at me, for crissake.”

  “But I missed,” she said as if that made all the difference.

  It didn’t. She was an accident waiting to happen, Sam thought, and couldn’t wait to get rid of her and find Riley’s shooter.

  “Besides,” she kept on without missing a beat, “after what I’ve seen today, you’re a walking testimony to bad karma all the way around.”

  Max stepped onto the dock, and within seconds, the boat went nose up before sinking beneath the surface. Brown-skinned boys on the platform barely noticed them, as if they’d seen men with weapons every day.

  Viva knelt near the children, asking if they’d caught anything, how long they’d been out here, did they see any bad men with guns pass through here? The boys answered until the last question, then peered around her at the two men. “I know they look scary, but they won’t hurt you. The train to Bangkok is near?”

  The boys answered in rapid, choppy Thai, pointing out directions. All up hill. They spoke for a few more minutes before she slipped them a couple bhat, then straightened.

  Sam looked at her like she’d grown another head, or in his case, a new brain. “What?”

  “You’re fluent.”

  She laughed. “There are about forty dialects. Nobody is fluent in Thai.” She walked off the dock, finger combing her hair. Her boots squished with water, the butt of her shorts sagging. “The road is this way, a few kilometers. I’m going to hitch a ride or something. Thanks for the rescue.” She waved over her head.

  “We shouldn’t let her go alone.” Max frowned at her as she moved past the house to the left toward the barely visible path that rose nearly straight up the hillside.

  Sam was examining his rifle. It was useless until he could clean the sludge out of it. “You want to keep her around? She’s trouble.”

  “We didn’t get them all. They’ll hunt us and her.”

  And she’d be noticeable. A redhead in Thailand. Worse than a Yankee at a Texas barbeque.

  “And we brought her into this,” Sam admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “We have to at least get her wherever she wants.” He looked up as she peeled off her wet shirt, then wrung it out. Beneath it, she wore a sports bra thing that showed off her tan and narrow waist. For a moment, he wanted her to face him, let him see what that baggy shirt had hidden, what he’d felt pressed to him.

  Why did she have to be a redhead?

  Then she shook her head like a dog, the motion making her lose her footing. She righted herself, then walked more stiffly. He imagined her cheeks reddening, and Sam’s lips curved. Damn if she wasn’t the most entertaining nightmare he’d ever had.

  “We’re stuck with her for now.” He called out, but she didn’t respond, melting into the forest, alone. “Christ, see what I mean?” Sam stormed after her, muttering, “God gave a frog a brain and shared half of it with her.”

  Max didn’t follow immediately, his amusement dying as his gaze slid over the terrain, the way they’d come. They’d just pissed off the Thai mafia.

  Viva was the least of their problems.

  Inside the dense branches, she hid, watching the small boat slide to the dock on flat water. She couldn’t hit them at this distance, but knew where they’d go. They had little choice but to cross the jungle. She studied their faces, put them to memory. Her master would make certain they’d never speak of this. She lingered a moment longer, then began the careful climb to the ground.

  Below her, the bodies of tho thahan were like tumbled matchsticks, spent and useless. She’d take nothing from the soldiers. They weren’t hers. Her foot touched the ground, soundless, and she quickly shifted beyond the dead, her ears tuned to the predators prancing slowly from the darkness to come feast on the still warm flesh.

  The jungle wrapped her like a lover, her body glistening with its liquid touch as she moved quickly, her destination preordained, her task far from done.

  The river vanished behind Viva, closed out by the dense tropical forest.

  She didn’t hear him move up behind her, but she felt it. His presence like a whisper, sensation without substance. It was the most amazing feeling she’d ever experienced, and she tipped her head slightly, acknowledging him, yet she said nothing.

  He moved quickly abreast of her, hacking mercilessly at the jungle when the path narrowed. “Keep moving, Viva.” He walked backwards a couple steps, weapon aimed.

  She glanced, stumbled. “They’re still out there, you think?”

  “Definitely.” Sam hurried her forward.

  “But you put the fear of automatic weapons in them.”

  “We were just lucky. This is their playground.” He signaled Max to stay to the left.

  Hurriedly, she slipped her shirt back on and started buttoning it.

  “Now that’s just a shame.”

  Her gaze jerked his, confused till his gaze flicked to her breasts cupped in tight spandex. “Back off, Wyatt.”

  “No problem there, ma’am, you bite.”

  She blinked, then smiled brightly, making her eyes light up and turn her expression from pretty to downright ele
ctric. The power of it hit Sam dead center of his chest and left heat snaking down his body.

  Man, he didn’t need that, not now.

  “This hasn’t been a normal day.”

  For her, maybe, he thought, watching his six.

  Viva noticed that though he appeared to be relaxed, he wasn’t; his gaze darted around them, picked a new spot at each new scan. The machete was slung at his hip, and his finger was on the trigger of the rifle. And without touching him, she knew his shoulders were tight. “Who are you, Sam Wyatt?” she asked softly.

  He simply watched the land, not responding.

  “Listen, Sparky, I’m not stupid…” Viva pushed on ahead of him.

  He blinked. Sparky?

  “…so don’t play dumb. You bargained with at least a hundred fifty, maybe two hundred carat diamond back there. Although…cut it would be about half that. Which is still very substantial and worth several million, but that’s if the cutter could find the table and split it with the least amount of fragmentation and—”

  He caught her arm, keeping her with him. “Lower your voice. What do you know about gems?”

  “Not much.” At his scowl, she whispered, “I worked with a gemologist for about a year.”

  “How’d you go from a dig to gemology?”

  Trying to meet his long strides, she gathered her composure for the assault she always received when people learned how many different jobs and career starts—and failures—she’d had. “Unemployment.”

  Sam saw the humiliation in her pretty face and wondered how someone so sharp could ever be out of a job. “You have a degree in archeology?”

  “No, paleoclimatology.”

  “That’s as useless as it gets.”

  “Not if you want to know the weather conditions a million years ago.” And be bored to madness, she thought. “It was wet everywhere, by the way, then got surprisingly cold.”

  Sam went to push back some vines and she grabbed his hand before he did. “Don’t touch that!” She found a stick and pushed up the leaves of a tall plant. She showed him the millipedes covering the leaves. “They secrete a fluid that will blister your skin.”