Kendall sat dully in his seat, strapped again in place. He studied the landscape below, trying to discern where he was being taken. They had finally crossed beyond the pall of nerve gas, leaving the mountains behind. They now appeared to be heading east over the Nevada desert. But the dark terrain below was featureless, offering no landmarks.
The large man seated across from him had been in a gruff conversation with the pilot for most of the flight. Kendall tried to eavesdrop as well as he could while feigning disinterest, but much of their communication had been in some obscure Spanish patois. Some phrases he could glean; others were gibberish.
If he had to guess the team’s origin, he would plant a flag somewhere in South America. Colombia, maybe Paraguay. This conclusion was perhaps biased because of the assault team’s appearance. They were clearly paramilitary, all of the same nationality. To a man, they were small of stature, with rounded faces and pinched eyes, their pocked skin the color of dark mocha with some freckling. The exception to this was their leader. He stood close to seven feet, a giant for any nationality.
From the conversation, Kendall was fairly certain the man’s name was Mateo, while the pilot was Jorge.
As if drawn by his thoughts, the scarred man turned to him. He brandished a knife. Kendall quailed back, fearing his intent, but the man grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and turned him enough to slice free the plastic ties from his wrists.
Once his hands were freed, Kendall gladly rubbed the raw skin, wincing at the tenderness. He considered going for the rifle resting on the far seat, but he knew how fast the other could move. Any such attempt would likely only earn him another blow to his skull, and his head still ached from being butted by that rifle earlier, a lesson well learned.
The pilot reached back and handed Mateo a cell phone, which he in turn passed to Kendall. “You listen. Do as told.”
Kendall saw a call had already been placed. The caller ID simply read UNKNOWN.
He lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he asked, hating how sheepish he sounded.
“Ah, Dr. Hess, it’s high time we talked again.”
Kendall felt his blood sink.
It cannot be…
Still, he recognized the voice. The rich tenor and the British accent were unmistakable. Kendall had no doubt the man on the other end of the line was the one who had orchestrated the attack.
He swallowed hard, knowing that matters were a thousandfold worse than he had ever suspected. Despite the impossibility of it, he could not dismiss the truth.
I’ve been kidnapped by a dead man.
At the center of a growing firestorm, Jenna crouched behind the counter of the general store. Holes riddled the walls. Wood dust filled the deafening space. The escalating blasts threatened to deafen her. All that kept her safe was the thick-planked bulk of the counter. But even that refuge could not last much longer under such a barrage.
Then a new noise intruded.
A heavy thump-thumping.
She pictured the assault team’s helicopter returning, intending to extract the men here. But a moment later, a loud explosion burst from the location of the heaviest gunfire. She felt the concussion like a fist to the chest.
Then another blast to her right.
Dazed, she rose back up. The hail of rounds through the storefront had suddenly stopped, but not the gunfire. In fact the firefight grew more intense out there — but it was no longer aimed at her position.
Confused, she stood, keeping her rifle raised.
What was—
A dark shape leaped up directly in front of her. A hand grabbed the barrel of the rifle and yanked the weapon out of her surprised grip. It was the man whom she had Tasered earlier. Plainly he had been only unconscious, not dead. In her desperation, she had failed to check his status.
He lunged at her with a dagger.
She twisted away at the last second, but the sharp blade cut a line of fire across her collarbone. The momentum of the thrust carried the man’s torso halfway over the counter. She snatched the X3 from its holster, jammed it against his eye, and pulled the trigger. The explosion of the weapon’s last cartridge blew the man’s head back.
He collapsed limply, sprawled across the counter.
Fueled by adrenaline, she rolled across the top and retrieved the rifle. Gasping, she stumbled toward the doorway. Already the gunplay outside had died down to sporadic bursts, and by the time she reached the doorway, even that had ended.
All that remained was the bell-beat of a helicopter’s rotors.
She searched the smoky skies.
Shapes fell out of the night.
Parachutists.
They dropped toward the fires below. Night-vision gear obscured their faces; assault rifles were held in their hands. She watched a paratrooper fire into the ghost town, followed by a cry from below. Farther out, a military helicopter hovered into view and lowered toward the meadow.
Jenna could guess the origin of this rescue force. The U.S Marine Corps maintained their Mountain Warfare Training Center only thirty miles from Mono Lake. They must have been mobilized as soon as the mayday had been sent out from the base. Those last chilling words would have drawn a swift response.
Kill us… kill us all.
But how had the Marines found her so quickly? Was it the fires?
Then she guessed the more likely reason. She pictured her abandoned truck, the deflated airbag. The crash would have triggered an automatic GPS alert. Bill Howard must have picked it up after her last attempt to communicate with him was cut off. Knowing him, he would have sent out an immediate SOS with her last known location.
Relief swept through her, but she also remembered the convulsing figure of one of the assailants. The paratroopers were dropping right toward that rising tide of toxin. She had to warn them of the danger.
Regardless if there were any remaining enemy on the ground, she abandoned her shelter and ran out into the open. She waved an arm toward the closest parachutist. She cringed as his weapon swung toward her.
“I’m with the park rangers!” she shouted up at him.
The weapon remained fixed on her until the paratrooper landed. With one hand, he unhooked his chute and let it billow away. Others struck the ground all around the hilltop and out in the ghost town, preparing to mop up.
“Jenna Beck?” the Marine called to her, reaching her side. With his night-vision gear still in place, he cast a menacing figure.
She shivered, but not from fear of him. “It’s not safe here.”
“We know.” He grabbed her forearm. “We’re to escort you to the helicopter, get you to safety. But we need to move fast. The wash of the blades will only keep the gas at bay a little longer.”
“But—”
Another Marine joined them and grabbed her other arm, squeezing painfully the bullet graze on that side. They manhandled her swiftly toward the waiting helicopter. The other paratroopers swept to either side.
“Wait,” she said, struggling to free her arms.
She was ignored.
A shout rose to her left. One of the enemy rose out of hiding, a pistol in hand. She recognized him as the man whose leg she had shattered earlier. Rifles pointed, but they refrained from immediately shooting. One of the Marines rushed toward the man’s blind side, clearly intending to take him as prisoner.
But the man put the pistol to his own head and pulled the trigger.
Jenna glanced away, sickened.
Clearly the assault team was under orders not to be captured or interrogated. Again she was struck by their unwavering sense of duty. Whoever they were, they were deadly earnest in their purpose.
Reaching the open meadow, the two Marines hauled her between them. Her toes barely touched the dirt. They reached the large transport helicopter, the powerful rotor wash half blinding her with blown dust and dirt.