Page 44 of The 9th Man

“Hey, Galang, did you see anything?”

Luke almost turned, but caught himself. The new guy was approaching and had mistaken him for a cohort, the vehicle between them providing some cover. He waited until he judged the man was almost on top of him, then spun and raised the pistol. The man skidded to a stop, but his right hand, holding a pistol, started to rise.

“That would be really stupid,” Luke said.

The man froze.

“Drop. The. Gun.”

“Relax,” the man said. “I’ll put it down.”

Had he not made himself clear? He told the guy to drop it, not place it. Slowly, eyes fixed on Luke, the man crouched, extending the pistol down toward the pavement. The body language spoke volumes. This fool was going to be a hero.

“Don’t do it,” he warned.

The pistol touched the ground.

“See,” the man said, “no problem.”

The hand jerked and regripped the gun. The arm angled upward.

Luke shot him twice in the chest.

The guy toppled backward, not moving.

He hated when people were stupid.

He scanned the road for a full minute to ensure reinforcements weren’t coming, then searched the dead man, finding another cell phone, the pistol and two more spare magazines, and more zip cuffs. All of which he pocketed before rolling the body down the bank into the river.

He climbed into the Range Rover’s driver’s seat and scrolled through Galang’s phone until he found the most recent text message, a thumbnail of a map with a red pin in its center. He tapped it to bring up the full image. The red pin sat in what looked like a patch of forest about halfway between him and the town of Ringel, seven kilometers away as the crow flew. Northwest. He saw no markings that indicated an airfield at the location. Didn’t matter.Where are you taking her? Okay, send me the airfield’s GPS coordinates.

This had to be the place.

He climbed out and hauled the unconscious Galang back out of the vehicle, leaving him bound on the side of the road.

No need for any passengers.

Then he hopped back inside and sped off.

He drove for ten minutes, then turned onto a winding, two-lane road until he reached a T-intersection. A sign pointing to the left readRINGEL 3 KM. Across the road ran another fence and more forest. He turned left toward Ringel. He needed to reach Jillian before Persik began any painful interrogation. His heart raced, each beat like the ticking of a clock’s second hand.

Get there. Fast. Find a way.

With one eye on the road he scanned the fence line through the open passenger window. He’d covered half the distance to Ringel when he spotted a set of double fence posts spanning a dirt tract.

A gate.

He stopped in front, stepped out, and walked over.

The right-hand fence post was bound to its neighbor by a pair of nails and a loop of bailing wire. He used the butt of his pistol and bent one of the nails until the loop spun free. He dragged the post across the tract, tossed it aside, then returned to the Range Rover and drove through.

The tract led deeper into the forest. After a few hundred yards the trees began thinning and he spotted the helicopter, engine off, rotors still.

Okay. One question answered.

If Persik planned to take Jillian elsewhere they would already be gone.

Out the car window something caught his eye. At the edge of the tract stood a crumbling, overgrown stone plinth. A steel post jutted from it. A matching plinth sat across the road. Another gate? No. Something older. No longer in use.

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