She cut the transmission leaving an eerie silence playing in his comms.
They were given access…
The words echoed in McGuire’s head, the reality of them hitting him like that missile. He grabbed his body cam, yanked it off, then fished out his GPS — tossed them both on the ground before doing the same to Dane. Patch looked at him as if he was crazy but followed suit, all the while muttering to himself, maintaining their cover.
McGuire hit his internal comms. “Stone. Cross. Go dark. No tracers. Stone, blow the bladder once we’re in position. Cross, smoke and cover fire to get us there. Go!”
The men ditched their hardware, then Cross grabbed two canisters, heaved them toward the elevated catwalks north of them. Thick gray smoke poured out, buying them a few precious seconds as they raced across the open ground, blind fire from that belt-fed machine gun stitching across the dirt.
They hit the south side of the generator shed, ducked behind the metal shack as more rounds lit up the darkness, some guy shouting orders in Spanish.
Stone bolted over to the bladder, placed a charge on the side, then ran back. They huddled against the metal, counted it downuntil the charge blew, sent a concussive thump clear across the camp. Diesel fumes saturated the air as debris rained down around them, a massive fireball clawing at the sky.
McGuire motioned to the fence twenty meters off, covering Cross as he sprinted over, cut a line through the chain link. He darted through, peeled back the sides, then waved them over.
McGuire popped out, aimed at the muzzle flashes winking behind them through the smoke. “Go, go, go!”
The men filed through, hit a six-foot wide rain-slicked drainage ditch on the other side a second later. Cross and Stone half-jumped, half-slid into the black water, cursing as they dragged themselves up the other side. Patch adjusted Dane’s dead weight, then cleared the worst of it, covering McGuire as he leaped and landed just clear of the edge.
His comms hissed, Cinder’s voice crackling through. “Incoming pickup. Go to ground.”
McGuire barked out the order just as a rusted Toyota veered around the far bend, spotlight cutting through the choking fumes. The truck barreled past the main gate, the rear gunner chewing up the grass as they scanned the open field — looked for any sign of McGuire’s team.
McGuire pointed to the far tree line. Fifty yards of open field with nothing but tall grass between them and the relentless chatter of the machine gun. “Caterpillar crawl, suppressive fire on rotation.”
Cross took point, blew through a mag as the rest of them low-crawled, Stone taking up the cover fire, next. Patch dragged Dane’s body behind, jaw set, arms flexing from the strain. They’d gotten halfway across when his comms buzzed, Cinder’s voice a desperate Hail Mary in the dark.
“You’ve got a spotter on the far water tower. You need to drop him.”
McGuire covered his head as mud rained down over them, bullets cutting a swath across the ground five feet in front. He sucked in a breath, spun, his rifle notched into his shoulder as he half-leaned on one elbow. He panned across the edge of the camp, caught a glimpse of a guy on a stilted tower, scope pressed against his cheek. The guy must have spotted McGuire at the same time because he jerked the scope away, tried to roll just as McGuire squeezed the trigger — dropped him a heartbeat later.
McGuire motioned to the tree line twenty yards away when the gunner stopped firing, picked up on the other side of the field. “They’re just spraying and praying, now. Run.”
They scrambled to their feet, took off, that spotlight still sweeping right. His off-grid cell vibrated in his pocket. Steady. Urgent. He ignored it, picked up speed as his team hit the dense undergrowth running full out, disappeared behind a tangle of palms and ferns.
Another hiss, then Cinder’s voice. “The explosion must have damaged your drone, but there’s still intermittent contact. I can’t do anything about your watchers, but I can try to blow the power grid here. But once I do, you’re on your own.”
“If it means we’ve got a chance, we’ll take it.”
“Hold tight…”
She didn’t fully disconnect, her hushed footsteps sounding over the airwaves. He heard a click, then branches slapping at the mic, the sound of her racing through the underbrush. There were shouts, then a massive thump, wood crackling in the background. Shots echoed through the speakers followed by engines growling nearby.
He hit the mic. “Jesus, Cinder, what the hell?”
“They’re blind. And I sent a massive power surge back through the line. It should be enough that whoever’s behind this will kill the feed before anyone can trace the origin — realize he’sa fucking traitor. Head for the riverbank. There’s usually a boat or a skiff. Go downriver.”
“What about you?”
“Just get your asses moving, and for god’s sake, don’t di?—”
Silence.
Loud. Heavy. Like the air carrying the smell of wet earth and decay. Pressing down on his chest until he barely managed to breathe.
He killed the connection, her voice still lingering in his head as he signaled Stone to move. His buddy nodded, picked a line through the foliage until they popped out along a sedge-choked riverbed. An old skiff sat half-beached on the muddy shore. No engine, just a single oar propped in the back.
McGuire waved the men onboard, took a knee at the bow, Patch guarding their six, Dane’s lifeless body sprawled across the old wood. Cross paddled them downstream, hugging the mix of grasses and banana plants. McGuire waited, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes as the noise slowly faded, the silence filled by the whine of cicadas and tree frogs.
