she was right. Footsteps neared, thudding on dusty ground. “A few more seconds.” The frayed end of the second cord was poking up through the boards, but he still needed to catch it, yank it back down and tie it. “Kill the light. I’ll do it blind.” He hadn’t had time to check everything, let alone practice his maneuver. Could he wait? And then what—risk escaping in daylight? They might not be alive by tomorrow night.
He let his head drop forward, taking the pressure off his wound, and left his fingers to do the work, snapping the tweezers blindly into the gap. A scrape and a click—the key in the lock.
“Put the backpack on,” he whispered. He’d intended to carry it, but plans were evolving too fast.
A door squeaked open. The tweezers snagged something. Shafts of light fell through the cracks. He pulled the end of the cord and caught it in his fingers. Footsteps passed overhead—one person, too heavy to be the woman. Flynn held his breath. One flick of the flashlight in his direction and the cords would gleam like strip lights.
He drew the cord down. Screw it, no time to prepare, test the angles, experiment with his run up. The diagram in his head would have to do. As the bolts shot across, he tied the ends and tested his weight, wincing as the cords rolled, shuddering, along the floorboards. He lowered to the floor, released the handholds and backed into the wall, wiping his sweaty palms on his combat pants. Chalk would be good, like at high school gym. He settled for dirt. No shortage of that.
The hatch squealed as it was levered off, the flashlight beam dancing out from the soldier’s hands. The handholds glowed. Now. Flynn sprang out, launched himself off the floor and into the loops, and swung his feet up. The guy squawked. Flynn’s boot collected something as his feet flew out of the hole. The rest of his body didn’t make it. The flashlight cracked into a wall and flickered off.
He hooked his boots on the edge of the hatch, his torso swinging down wildly. Bugger. Not enough momentum. High school gym was too long ago. The guy shouted something. Flynn crunched up, flailing with his right hand, his ribs burning, his skull complaining about being upside down. Pressure dug into his back—Tess, pushing him from underneath. He got a fingerhold on the side of the hatch, then a hand. The guy shouted again. Merde, how long until reinforcements arrived?
Pain slammed into his shins. Something pushed on his soles. The guy was trying to tip him back in. Funneling his strength into his right arm, Flynn hoisted himself, with a grunt. One foot slipped but his upper body was out. He rolled clear of the hole and sprang upright.
Footfalls rapped from outside, flashlight beams jiggling through the open doorway. His opponent’s eyes lit with fear. Flynn smashed a fist in his solar plexus, dropping him. The guy scraped for breath but kicked out, catching Flynn in the nuts. Flynn swore, unbalanced, slipped sideways. Something skidded out beside him and dropped into the hatch. The MREs the guy had been carrying.
As Flynn picked himself up, another soldier reached the doorway, running, an M16 aimed. A flashlight beam skidded over the wall, revealing an alcove. Flynn dived. Bullets ripped up the room; warm liquid sprayed his face. Putain.
Suddenly, the gunman flailed, reared up and smacked into the floor at Flynn’s feet, his rifle flying up. What the—?
No fucking way—the guy had tripped on the looped cords sticking up through the floorboards. The first soldier lay still on the floor, his skull flipped open like a lid. More shouts outside. Five or six men, a couple of women. Some closing in, some farther away.
Flynn dropped on the gunman, smashing an elbow into the back of his neck. “Look out below,” he called, lifting the guy in a spear tackle and launching him headfirst into the hole. He landed with an unhealthy crack. Hell, Flynn should have taken his rifle. Not thinking quickly enough.
He pressed into the alcove, reining in his heaving breath, as another guy approached the door. A splintering crack ricocheted from the other side of the room. Shit. A second external door had been forced open. Two goons spilled in, silhouetted in a floodlight, rifles glinting dully. Enemy left and right. Nowhere to retreat. He needed a plan B.
“Flynn!”
Something skidded across the floor and smacked into Flynn’s boot. He crouched, felt for it, flinched. Hot metal—the M16 barrel. Tess had chucked it out of the hole. Legend.
Gunfire tore into concrete an inch above his head. He slotted the rifle into his arms and let loose a burst. One enemy went down. Two. Three. As the echoes faded, stillness settled. Someone gurgled. Shooting unidentified targets wasn’t Flynn’s style, but neither was dying for a principle. Dusty beams from two fallen flashlights crisscrossed the floor. Voices pinged around outside, closing fast. They had thirty seconds, tops.
In the light spilling in from outside, he made out the ladder, attached to bolts in the wall. He flung it into the hole, his gaze—and rifle barrel—flicking between the doorways.
“Tess,” he hissed. “Climb, quick.”
The rope jerked and swung. She yelped. “He’s got me. My ankle.”
Flynn peered down, barrel first. “Let her go,” he warned. He released a volley over the guy’s head. Tess sprang up a little as he wisely took the chance Flynn had offered. Flynn grabbed her forearm and hauled her out. “Stay behind me.”
He unhooked the rope ladder and tossed it into the hole, then leaned against the concrete beside the gaping second doorway and scoped out the exterior. No movement, no sound. He felt behind him for Tess but his hand hit air. She was leaning over a dead enemy.
“Tess!”
She tugged at something, then ran to him in a loping stride, shouldering an M16 like she knew how.
“What now?” she said breathlessly.
“First, we get out of the light.” Adrenaline surged through his veins and lit up his nerves. This was more like it. “And then I’m going to fucking kiss you.”
* * *
Tess stuck behind Flynn as they sprinted to a patch of darkness, ignoring the bolts of fire in her toes. Pain was just her nerves yelling to her brain that there was a problem. She knew there was a problem—her nail beds were pulpy masses of blood and goo—so her nerves could shut the hell up.
Her brain threw together a jumpy picture of her surroundings. It wasn’t the concrete-walled compound she’d imagined, more a sprawl of huts ringed by a ten-foot chain-link fence. Ahead, beyond an open gate, was a dirt road, otherwise there was a whole lot of dark nothing. A desert? Crap. Urgent voices carried from the far side of the bunker—half a dozen goons getting closer. Far off to the right was a sprinkling of lights—a village? A pair of headlights bumped toward them along the road. She couldn’t hear the engine over her own panting.
Light spilled from a hut next to the gate. A gatehouse. It looked deserted—the guards must have rushed to the bunker. A lucky break but they’d have to be quick. She sped up—and was yanked back.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
Flynn’s hand encircled her biceps. “It’s exactly where they think we’ll go.”
“That’s because it makes the most sense.” She tried to tear free but he held tight.
