Hit Hard. Amy J. Fetzer

gasped and groaned. “Room secure, Jesus, it stinks in here.”

      They turned to the source. “Mother of God.”

      Gerardo leaned forward as his man got close. “Damn.” He dropped the quarter on the console.

      Mitch leaned for a better look.

      Hassan was strapped to a chair, every inch of his clothing stained with blood already turned black. There were so many cuts on the man’s body it was hard to tell what was a wound or a blood trail. Blood congealed on the floor beneath him. Dead for days.

      A warning came, men lifted NVG goggles and the lights came on. The glare of light focused on just the victim.

      The room was sparse, a bed behind the chair.

      Gerardo said, “Those wounds aren’t fatal.” Each near a vein but not an artery. Enough to slowly bleed him dry.

      “Yes, sir, I noticed,” a Royal Marine said. “But these are.” He tipped the helmet, the video relay showing that the man was missing his toes.

      “The back of his knees are cut,” one Marine observed. “What’s the point of that? He’s strapped to the chair.”

      But Gerardo knew. In many cultures, it was a final disgrace that the victim would never walk in the next life with his ancestors. Whether it meant anything to the victim was inconsequential. It meant something to his killer. But the lead, the most viable one they had, was lost.

      “Secure and let MI-6 techs in there.” Gerardo pushed away from the monitor and stood. He picked up the quarter again.

      “Maybe we’ll get something from the house,” Callahan suggested.

      Gerardo waved that off, rolling the quarter. “Perhaps, but they’re thorough.”

      Whoever had the weapons schematics was long gone by now. Gerardo looked at the surveillance printouts. Their people had gone over the photos of Hassan and any associate several times, trying to digitize the shots and pull something for identification. Hassan led a small, lonely life. A janitor with a security clearance, for the love of Mike. The man had no idea what he’d done, the danger he’d let loose when he stole the plans. Gerardo looked back at the monitor, video frozen on the victim’s tattered face.

      Perhaps he did.

      Hassan was betrayed by his contact, obviously, and it hadn’t been difficult to locate the man. That kept Gerardo up late. Someone knew the Standard Operating Procedure, the SOP of how reactionary forces worked. And that meant they had help—from the inside.

      He looked at Mitch. “Wake everyone up.”

      “Sir?”

      “Get every watchdog we have out there. I want visuals on the worst.”

      “Counter intelligence is already working on this, sir.” They had visuals of several known terrorists.

      “Not good enough. Get them in the trenches. We need photos, movement, associates, and if we have to dig into the gutters, we will.”

      “That’s usually where they are, sir.” Mitch reached for the phone, and dialed.

      “Not this time. This group, they have financing, and damn good intel. Or they wouldn’t have made it past the door.” He looked back at the still video on the screen. “They’re cleaning up their trails.”

      The jungle opened up, sunlight pouring down. With good reason. It ended.

      Viva skidded to a sharp stop, slipped and flailed to keep from going over the cliff. Sam’s arm snapped around her waist, drawing her back.

      She clung to him. “We’re trapped.”

      Max rushed to a stop beside them. “We missed some.” He inclined his head the way they’d come, reloading.

      “And the river is in front of us,” she said, peering over the edge. “It’s a forty-foot drop to the water and no way down.”

      “I have one.” Sam pulled his whip from the lashings and cracked it. It looped around a branch extended over the water.

      “Oh, you have got to be kidding.” Even as she spoke, Sam pressed the handle into her palms, then drew her far back from the edge. “Ya know, I’m as adventurous as the next woman, but do you know what’s in that water?”

      “Snakes, crocs, pit vipers—and escape.” With her tucked into his body, he pointed to the small boat. “That’s our only way.”

      “Oh geez,” she groaned, gripping the handle and staring at the wide open nothing. “That thing’s not seaworthy, it’s river garbage!”

      “It’s floating.”

      Max had his back to the river, his Uzi aimed. “ETA less than one minute, guys.”

      “Go, Viva.”

      “I am, I am. Can’t you see I’m preparing to die?” She took a deep breath, backed up a step, then bolted. When her feet left the edge of the ground, she thought, Life was a lot better before Thailand.

      Sam shouted to let go, and she obeyed, dropping into the water like a coin. The impact stung her arms, and she refused to open her eyes until she felt the sun on her head. She broke the surface as Max hit the water.

      She headed toward the boat, looking back for Sam. “Where is he? He’s not there!” The whip was gone too.

      Max swam past her and climbed into the boat. “Come on, swim, swim!” From the bottom of the boat, he scooped up fallen branches and wet leaves, hurling them into the water.

      Self-preservation slammed into her and she swam to the small boat. Max helped her over the side and she instantly sat up, rocking it. Max steered the rowboat away from the bank.

      Viva’s attention was on the cliffs. “Why hasn’t he jumped?”

      “Outlaw, you there? Outlaw, come in!” Max tapped the thread mike at his ear, then yanked it off, cursing. “It shouldn’t be out of commission, dammit.”

      “Try to be upbeat, Max, really.”

      The men appeared on the edge, almost falling over it. Viva grabbed the second decaying oar and dug it into the water. Bullets rained, peppering the water like jumping schools of fish. Max returned it in deadly blasts. Viva ducked low, paddling faster, harder. The boat jolted and she stilled, exchanged a glance with Max as something amphibious rolled barely below the surface before it disappeared into the dark water.

      “A croc?” she asked and hated the fear in her voice.

      “It’s a big one.”

      Max cocked the Uzi and aimed. Viva watched the water, poised with the rotten oar like a bat. “If you surface,” she muttered to the bubbling river, “you’re luggage.”

      Water fountained, the boat lurched sharply, throwing her back. She yelped, and twisted to strike.

      “Whoa, darlin’, take a breather.” Sam hung on the edge of the boat, wiped his face, then threw himself in.

      “I ought to hit you with this.” She still brandished the oar.

      “Row for a little while first, will you?” Sam lay there, breathing hard, and Viva realized he had to have run a half mile to get this far downriver.

      “You okay, pal?” Max said, paddling smoothly and watching the terrain.

      Sam waved halfheartedly. Viva sank into the watery bottom, tiny minnows pecking at her knees. “God, I’m really starting to hate you two.”

      Sam opened one eye to look at her. “Now there’s a surprise.”

      “You owe me an explanation.”

      “No. I don’t.”

      “Really?” She grabbed his gun, pointed it. “Think again, Outlaw.”

      Sam