Ambush

by Barbara Nickless

  I rose to a crouch.

  “Come on, boy, we gotta go.”

  Clyde tried to rise, but his right hind leg folded beneath him.

  Cohen crouched on the other side of my partner, and we slid our arms under Clyde’s belly.

  “On three,” Cohen said.

  Clyde stayed quiet as we lifted him. He turned his head, licking the tears where they mingled with blood on my face as we carried him to the truck.

  Around us, the rattle of gunfire filled the air. Dougie, laying down covering fire.

  “How close are the SUVs?” I asked Cohen.

  “Close.” Then, “I got him. Open the door.”

  I slipped my arms free and yanked the back door open. I scooted in to help Cohen ease Clyde across the seat and rested my partner’s head in my lap.

  “You’re going to be fine, boy,” I told him.

  He closed his eyes.

  Cohen closed the door and jumped into the driver’s seat. He slammed the truck into gear and spun it around to face east. I wiped blood from my face and watched through the rear window as the lead SUV swerved to the left while the one immediately behind peeled off to the right.

  “They’re going to try to head us off,” I said.

  “We’ll outrun them.”

  Cohen accelerated across the field. The truck jounced on the rough terrain, dust pelting the windows and lifting in a plume behind us. I caught a glimpse of Almasi off to the right, struggling to rise.

  A line of holes appeared in the windshield of the SUV on our left. The vehicle swerved sharply, then rolled to a stop.

  “Running low on ammo,” Dougie said.

  “We’ll be at the back door of the Country Club in three.” To Cohen I said, “Get us to the rear of the brick building.”

  I braced myself with one hand and held Clyde in place with the other as Cohen rocketed the SUV across the open space and along the side of the building. At the corner, he slammed on the brakes and took the turn wide, the tires jittering in the dirt. He accelerated again along the back of the building.

  The back door burst open, and Dougie ran out. Cohen hit the brakes again, bringing the SUV to a stop in front of the door. Dougie threw himself into the passenger seat, and Cohen accelerated away from the building toward a narrow dirt track that led south to the airplane hangar.

  Clyde lifted his head and softly moaned. I rubbed his ears.

  Dougie leaned over the back seat, his face a thundercloud. “How is he?”

  “He can’t put weight on that leg.” My mind was screaming down a list of things that could be wrong. Shattered bone, severed nerves, bullet fragments grinding their way through soft tissue.

  “Soon as we get out of here, I’ll take a look.” Dougie ran a light hand over Clyde’s flank. Clyde flinched and pulled away.

  “You’re hurting him,” I said.

  “He can move his leg. That’s good.” Dougie looked at me. “He’ll be okay, Rosie.”

  Behind us, one SUV and then the second came around the building and accelerated in our direction.

  Dougie dropped back in his seat. “They must be the guards from the security booth near the highway.”

  Ahead of us, sunlight glinted off a chain-link fence—the one Dougie and I had seen from the ridge.

  Cohen’s eyes were on the rearview mirror. “They’re gaining.”

  “Turn left,” Dougie said. “There’s a gate farther down.”

  I leaned forward. “Can’t we ram the fence?”

  Dougie shook his head. “The airbags will deploy, which could cut off the fuel supply. Plus, we want to funnel them through the gate.”

  I didn’t ask what he had in mind.

  Cohen made a hard left, and we sped along the fence. The pursuing SUVs left the track and angled across the field.

  “I can’t outrun them,” Cohen said.

  Dougie rolled down the window and picked up the M4. “Just get us through the gate.”

  He half crawled out the window with the rifle, braced his legs, and began firing over the roof as our car bucked on the rough road. The staccato rattle of the gun sounded like an earthquake.

  Behind us, weeds and dirt flew into the air, and headlights shattered.

  The SUVs dropped back but kept coming.

  “Get inside,” Cohen yelled as we reached the gate.

  Dougie dropped back into the cab, and Cohen jerked the wheel hard. We skidded through the opening and bounced onto the road that ran to the runway.

  “They’re going to reach us,” I said.

  “No,” Dougie said. “They won’t.”

  As the first SUV reached the gate, a ball of flame exploded into life with a savage boom, red-orange flames licking out, the mass roiling with dark clouds. Sections of fence appeared in the sky like startled crows. Our truck shuddered as dirt and debris pelted glass and metal.

  Leverage.

  The first vehicle leapt into the air as if from a catapult and came down on its side. A second later, the driver’s door popped open, and a man crawled out. He reached back to help a second man as fluids in the engine ignited.

  Cohen accelerated onto the runway.

  A series of booms echoed across the prairie. Beyond the SUVs, smoke poured from the high windows of the training center, and a tongue of flame licked out. A fissure appeared halfway up the wall; then, in slow motion, the building collapsed in a cloud of dust.

  Two seconds later, one of the construction trailers shot into the air on a current of flame. Then a second one.

  “How much explosive did you have?” I asked.

  “I found additional supplies.”

  Now I knew what had taken him so long.

  I glanced back at the airport hangar and felt something cold in my stomach as I imagined multimillion-dollar jets exploding, the flames sweeping across the dry prairie. “Is there more?”

  Dougie wore a look of grim satisfaction. “Not for the moment.”

  Cohen cut the wheel, and we left the runway and went cross-country, barreling over the fields toward the highway. Behind us, flames shot into the air.

  We hit Highway 36 and skidded onto the asphalt, burning rubber.

  A minute later, we pulled into the lane of oncoming traffic and shot around a brown sedan trundling toward Denver. I glanced over as we went by.

  Gorman sat behind the wheel, eating a sandwich while the world burned behind him.

  CHAPTER 27

  God teaches forgiveness. But he first cleaned house.

  —Avi Harel. Former Mossad K9 Trainer.

  “I’m worried about Clyde,” I said.

  “Swap places with me,” Dougie said. “I’ll take a look.”

  Cohen pulled over to the side of the road. We’d traveled at least twenty miles from the compound with no sign of pursuit. Dougie’s bombs were keeping Almasi’s people busy—the billows of smoke and ash rising from the bombed structures looked like a huddle of frightened sheep on the horizon.

  “I’m not going far, buddy,” I whispered to Clyde as I eased out from beneath him.

  I’d removed his vest and harness, given him all our water, then held his head and murmured prayers while Cohen and Dougie sat in the front and swapped name, rank, and serial numbers.

  I was pretty rusty when it came to having any kind of conversation with God. The last time we’d chatted, I might have said a few unkind things. But if he was listening, I hoped maybe he’d just be happy to hear from me again. Like getting a phone call from a child you’d all but written off.

  Clyde moved his head to watch me as I opened the door and stepped out into a searing heat so dry it felt like poison filling my lungs. A swirl of wind and dust entered the cab, and Clyde whimpered.

  Then Dougie appeared at the door. “Hey, pal, we’re okay.”

  Clyde quieted.

  I held the door open against the wind as Dougie climbed in.

  “I haven’t heard from Sarge,” I said. “And he isn’t picking up.”

  Dougie looked at his watch.
“He’s probably boarding. We’ll talk to him as soon as he lands.”

  I thought of Almasi’s Mona Lisa smile, the one she’d shown when I mentioned the video.

  “You’re probably right,” I said.

  Dougie heard my uncertainty. “One thing I’ve learned, Rosie. Worrying won’t help.”

  I felt a slap of anger. “This is Sarge we’re talking about.”

  He leaned in and touched his forehead to mine. “The more we care, the more we need to tell ourselves we don’t. It’s how we keep our feet.”

  Lessons from the war. If it matters, shove it into a box.

  I caught Cohen’s eyes on me as I stepped away. He had to be wondering how Dougie and I knew each other. And why we were together.

  As soon as I was in the front seat, Cohen put the vehicle in gear and popped back onto the road. A mass of tumbleweeds hit the front bumper, pulled free, then went sailing past.

  In the back seat, Dougie opened his backpack. He’d brought the same supplies he’d used to treat me at the hotel, and now he went to work.

  “Okay, pal,” he said. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

  I unbuckled and leaned over the seat. Dougie snapped on disposable gloves, then gently examined the wounds while Clyde turned his head and rolled his eyes, trying to watch.

  “Near as I can tell, it’s a clean shot through the muscles on the back side of his femur,” Dougie said. “Lateral entry and exit wounds. He needs surgery, but I don’t think any bones are involved.”

  “That’s good,” Cohen said.

  “It’s better than good. Turn off the a/c. We need to keep him warm.” He braced himself as the road curved. “Let’s start with a happy pill.”

  He reached into his kit, pulled out a blister pack, and broke the foil.

  “Thirty milligrams of morphine,” he said.

  He crouched on the floor. In a single deft motion, he grasped Clyde’s snout with his left hand and used his fingers to pry open Clyde’s mouth. He placed the pill on the back of Clyde’s tongue, then rubbed Clyde’s throat to get him to swallow.

  “Good job, pal.”

  Clyde looked betrayed.

  “What’s next?” I asked.

  “Pressure bandage.” He removed a plastic bag labeled EMERGENCY BANDAGE—TRAUMA WOUND DRESSING. He applied gauze to the injuries, then gently placed the compression bandage and began unfurling the mesh wrap. Clyde moaned when Dougie reached underneath him and pulled the wrapping around. But Dougie moved too fast to give Clyde much chance to object. He pulled the wrapping through a clip, then wound the bandage back around the other way and tightened it.

  All the while he talked reassuring nonsense in a soft voice.

  I stared at the bandage. Some things you can’t shove into a box. “Will he be able to use that leg again?”

  “As long as the bullet didn’t hit the sciatic nerve. That’s the biggest risk, I think. But I’m hopeful. We got lucky—the round passed laterally and front to back. The most important thing now is to keep him stabilized and get him into surgery. We’re heading to a veterinarian, right?”

  “In Denver,” I said, getting a nod from Cohen.

  Dougie rubbed my partner’s head until Clyde drifted off on a morphine cloud. Then he made room for himself against the door and leaned his head on the seat back. “I’m going to catch a few.”

  He closed his eyes and settled in. It was a gift he’d had as long as I’d known him. The ability to sleep on a dime.

  I turned back around. A gust of wind rocked the truck and slapped dust against the windows.

  “Sounds like Clyde’s doing okay,” Cohen said.

  “For now.”

  “And Superman? How’s he doing?”

  I read between the lines. “Dougie is an old friend. From the war.”

  Cohen opened his mouth. Closed it. Finally said, “Okay.”

  We left it at that.

  Cohen drove with a heavy foot and a deft touch. He had to be in incredible pain, but he shouldered that just like he shouldered everything else. Like he could just keep taking bricks, no matter how many life piled on.

  The right side of his face didn’t look bad. But on the left, the bruises were a vivid purple, his left eye a slit against the swelling. His injured ear seeped blood. My eyes were drawn to the taped fingers on his right hand where—I assumed—Almasi had ripped out the nails.

  I should have taken the pliers and used them while I had the chance.

  “How about you?” I asked.

  “Just need a few bandages and some lidocaine.”

  “Tough guy.”

  “Learned from a master.” He took in my face and then tipped his head toward my arm. “She got you.”

  I looked down at angry flesh that was only now beginning to hurt. My side and face burned.

  “She played me,” I said.

  “She played us all.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think I really would have done it. Ripped out her fingernails. I just needed an excuse. If she hadn’t talked—” His voice sounded like flesh tearing on a hook. “All I could hear when we were standing in that trailer was my blood, roaring in my ears. Like having a hurricane in my head. I had no idea I was that person.”

  “You aren’t that person. You can’t judge yourself because for a few minutes you wanted to hurt someone who hurt you. She was going to kill you. If you want to be angry at someone, be angry at me. I’m the one who put you in that position.”

  “You didn’t put the pliers in my hand.”

  “But I brought a shitload of violence into your life.”

  He was silent for a time. Then he said, “I’ve been mad plenty of times. But I’ve never been so angry that I couldn’t trust myself.”

  “Mike. Stop.” I took off my cap and shoved back my sweat-dampened hair. “I should have told you sooner what was going on. If I had, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Ah, Christ, I don’t know. I’m the one who pushed you into a relationship.” His eyes went to the rearview mirror, and I knew he was looking at Dougie. “Could be I pushed too hard.”

  “You were right to push. I needed to be pushed. I hope—” I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, then dropped them and looked him full-on. “I hope you don’t regret that.”

  He tapped his palm on the steering wheel and didn’t meet my eyes. “It’s been a rough couple of days. I just need a little time.”

  “You kicking me out?”

  His laugh was weak. “Fucking Marine. I’d be afraid to try.”

  Not the answer I was hoping for. I snugged my cap back on and turned away, staring out the window at the land rolling past, at the miles and miles of empty ground stretched like an offering beneath the faded wash of sky. The prairie was starkly beautiful with its spikes of yucca, its shimmering hues of gold, the occasional splash of emerald where groundwater seeped.

  But the vast reaches of its desolation felt like a metaphor for an empty heart.

  “I was kidding,” Cohen said so softly I wasn’t sure I heard him.

  I summoned up a nod because one seemed required.

  “Sydney.” His voice was still raw. From what he’d suffered or from what all this had cost him, I wasn’t sure. “I was angry that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

  He loved me.

  That was the good news. But something weighted his voice, and I finally realized it was the other shoe, poised to drop.

  “Go on.” I looked at him, because that seemed required, too. Like refusing the blindfold at your execution.

  He flattened his hand, ran his palm along his forehead. “I just—you bring a lot with you. And not all of it is good.”

  Another nod. Me, being agreeable.

  Behind us, the horizon smoked and burned—fire and ash and dust.

  I called Avi and told him about Clyde, and shared what Dougie had said about the injury.

  “Call me when you are ten minutes out,” Avi s
aid. “Then bring him around to the back. We will be ready.”

  A while after that we hit Denver and pushed through the early start of rush hour, weaving through traffic, sometimes using the shoulder when we hit an impassable snarl. Dougie and Clyde snoozed on, oblivious. I directed Cohen to merge onto I-70 and keep heading west to the exit for Washington Street. From there, he should proceed north toward East 58th.

  “The North Washington area? We’ll be heading into warehouses.”

  “It’s where Clyde’s trainer has his center. No neighbors to bother when the dogs bark.”

  “And he’s a veterinarian?”

  “The best. He used to train and care for K9s for Mossad. I wouldn’t trust anyone else.”

  As soon as signs for the National Western Complex building appeared, I called Avi and told him we were fifteen minutes out.

  Twelve minutes after that, Cohen pulled into the parking lot of a vast, nondescript warehouse surrounded by an eight-foot fence and without a single sign to give away what happened inside. I directed him to drive along the side of the structure and into a second lot in the back. Dougie woke as we parked, switching immediately from crashed out to full-on alert.

  Avi met us with a gurney and two techs wearing surgery gowns and caps. Gently we eased Clyde out of the vehicle and placed him on the stretcher. The techs rolled him into the building, and the rest of us hurried after.

  Inside, another tech joined in, and Avi’s team jumped into action. They got oxygen on Clyde, inserted an IV catheter into his front leg, and checked his vitals while Avi examined the wound.

  Awake now, Clyde rolled his eyes toward me, probably more bewildered by the attention than the pain. He was still on a morphine high. I couldn’t get close enough to touch him, but I put everything I had into my eyes.

  He quieted.

  Avi finished his exam and stepped back. He glared at me, then softened as he took in my wounds and Cohen’s. “I thought you were on vacation.”

  “Things got out of hand.”

  “You seem to have that gift.” He turned to Dougie. “You are the medic?”

  “Yes, sir. All handlers are taught basic veterinary care.”

  Avi looked at me, then back to Dougie, connecting the dots while Dougie filled him in on what he’d done to treat Clyde, including the morphine.