Page 75 of Hostile Extraction

Rocco moved off to take the call, and Dusty stared out at the starry night sky and the black of the Caribbean Sea. They’d taken him upstairs to the main level, and he had a clear view through the sliders onto the balcony. The wheels in his brain kept turning, looking for an opening, like he’d been taught to do in SEAL training.

If he could make it to the balcony, the fall would break the wooden chair he was tied to, and he’d probably be able to get free if his legs weren’t broken. He could run with a broken shoulder or arm, but if his hips or legs were fucked up, he’d be toast.

He tried to psyche himself up for it. His legs weren’t tied to the chair, so all he had to do was stand and charge, bent over out onto the balcony, and throw himself over. He wished he could remember if there was grass or concrete below.

Rocco was still out there, but now his voice was raised. He shouted into the phone. The other two men exchanged a look and stepped onto the balcony to see what was happening.

They shut the slider behind them, ending any chance he had of going that way.

A touch on his hands had him jumping and jerking his head around.

“Shh,” Marta hissed in his ear as she squatted behind him and sawed through his ropes with a kitchen knife. It was slow going, and he was sure Nico’s men would notice at any moment.

“Hurry, they’ll see us,” he hissed.

“There’s a reflection on the glass from the light out there. They can’t see.”

Finally, he was free.

“Hurry, this way.” She led him toward the front door. When they got there, she shoved a gun in his hand. “Good luck.”

“What about you?”

“I will hide. Go.”

He nodded and ran. He made it to the tree line and paused, checking to make sure the gun she’d given him was loaded. It was then, he realized, it was his own. He ejected the magazine, checked it, and shoved it back in, then jogged toward the road.

He was almost out of sight of the house when a shot ran out, and he felt a searing pain in his shoulder. The force threw him to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain, and took cover behind a tree. He saw two of Nico’s men run out the front door.

He waited until they were within range, every moment from the last days with Asia flashing before his eyes. It had all been worth it. Even if he died, he’d have at least accomplished the objective, and that was something.

No, it was everything.

He drew in a slow breath, turned out from behind his cover, and fired two shots. The men dropped to the ground, a hole through both their foreheads.

Dusty knew the gunfire would draw out Rocco. He didn’t wait around, took off again down the drive, every step jarring his wound.

He made it to the car, still parked where Stan had left it, the keys still in the ignition. He got in and started it up, slamming it into gear as the rapid fire of an automatic weapon shrieked through the foliage and took out the rear window.

He ducked and jammed on the accelerator, spitting dirt as he tore out of there. He kept going as bullets riddled the trunk.

Once he was around a curve and down a hill, he let out a breath.

Now he just had to make it to the rendezvous spot and find something to stop the bleeding in his shoulder. He bent to rummage through the glove box. “Bingo.”

He pulled out a roll of duct tape and turned into the next driveway long enough to tend to his wound. As he tore off a piece, he saw a black SUV speed past the end of the drive. Rocco, no doubt, heading after him.

Dusty grimaced and pulled the t-shirt up enough to dry the bloody hole in his shoulder with the hem of the shirt, then slap the tape over it, pressing down hard to make it stick.

It was crude, but effective, and it hurt like a motherfucker.

Turning out of the drive, Dusty headed toward town. He tried to remember the area Stan had pointed out and the road that had led to the area where the trailhead led to the plantation ruins. It had been to the south, and Stan said it would be marked.

He dug in his boot for the cell phone Nico’s men had been too stupid to find. The indicator showed only five percent battery left.

He decided to wait until he was closer to the rendezvous point to try a call.

CHAPTER THIRTY

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