Page 101 of Ground Truth

Hedinger’s security squad should be coming soon.

Hell, they should have arrived a while ago. Why weren’t they already here?

He shrugged. Totally fine with him if they wanted to procrastinate. They could take all week if they wanted.

He had three pistols, including the one Drake took off the guy back in Brand’s house, limited ammo, and no backup. He was in no hurry to go another round with those goons.

Almost as soon as he finished the thought, the breeze carried the sound of Gaspar’s helo in the distance. He’d lost his sunglasses during the fight with Brand, so he shielded his eyes with his palm and squinted toward the sea.

He didn’t see it. The helo must have been too far out.

Dust and pollution and the curvature of the earth limit normal human vision to about three miles on the sea.

Out here where the sky was clear and he was elevated from the sea, he should be able to see a helo in the air much farther away.

But the sound alone was reassuring.

Until he heard the growling noise of a diesel-powered truck engine speeding toward him along the old road. The truck was rolling fast, closing the distance.

Flint remembered an SUV parked at the airport. But this sounded more like a rugged full-size pickup truck, the kind with a powerful engine and an impressive payload from its high-strength, military-grade aluminum alloy body.

Meaning, a vehicle that could carry six men with weapons. Maybe more.

Flint glanced at Drake, who was still out cold on the ground. He pulled Drake’s pistol and extra magazine as well as the dead security guy’s weapon from Drake’s pocket.

Flint put the sedan between them and the approaching truck. He crouched on the passenger side, behind the sedan’s engine block, with his weapon ready.

The truck’s engine was coming closer by the second. The noise was loud enough to drown the faintwhop-whopof the helo farther out.

Shooting at the truck was a waste of good bullets. Even if he hit the target, the truck would keep coming. And if he managed to stop the truck, the guards would keep coming.

His best chance was to shoot first.

But only if he managed to neutralize the targets.

He wiped perspiration from his brow, ignored the headache, and squinted toward the approaching enemy. His sight line was blocked by a turn in the road. He couldn’t see the truck or its passengers until it rounded the bend.

When the truck came into view, his aim would be hampered by geography. The truck was climbing uphill. Which meant that his view of the guards in the bed of the truck would be blocked by the cab. He couldn’t pick them off while they were in the truck until they came much too close.

He expected them to have automatic weapons. They could fire exponentially more rounds than he could.

All of which meant his chances of success here were slim. He was outnumbered and outgunned.

He’d hit some of them, but not all.

The scent of dirt and sweat mixed with heart-pounding nausea swamped his senses. The truck came over the hill, throwing gravel as it approached and skidded to a stop. Flint knew he had to act fast. His narrow window of opportunity was rapidly closing.

The enemy had every advantage. But they were all bunched up. He had a chance if he could pick them off now.

Flint rose up over the hood of the sedan and fired off four shots, aiming for the first two men in the truck. His aim was true. The two screamed and fell.

The others immediately returned fire, taking aim at Flint’s position.

The sound of gunfire was deafening, and the smell filled the air. Flint managed to duck behind the engine block before they riddled the sedan with bullets.

He peeked out and fired again, taking down another man. He counted three enemy combatants left. One of them lobbed a grenade toward the sedan. The grenade fell short.

Flint hit the ground and covered his head.

---