NSA and anyone else she could gather. She busted out of the hatch and into the forest, running toward lower ground, for the main road over a mile away. Branches yanked at her clothing, holding her back. She tripped and fell, tore her jacket sleeve and scratched her arm. The gun flew from her hand, and she scrambled to find it.
Distant thrashing from the woods snapped out a warning. Frantically, she dug under the leaves for the gun. Her fingers closed around the metal grip and she pushed to her feet. She chanced a look back.
Men in black were heading directly toward her.
And they were armed way better than she was.
She booked, the Marine’s nine-millimeter heavy in her hand. Her legs throbbed with strain, her lungs near bursting. They killed Chris. Innocent, flirting twenty-year-old Chris. Rage pushed over fear and she ran harder.
Jack walked down the mountainside with the dead deer across his shoulders. One already lay in his truck, a half mile down the mountain. He stopped to radio his buddies, and when he didn’t get anything but static, he moved to higher ground. A sound drew him around and the weight of the doe nearly toppled him backwards. His gaze scanned the area, first low, then higher up the hill.
“Now there’s a picture you don’t see every day.” A woman in a suit jacket and skirt running down the hillside. He got a look at her face, her hands. Scared and armed. Dangerous combination in a female. She was bleeding. He tossed off the deer, and radioed Decker. “Fan out, guys, we have an intruder and she’s armed, hurt, and heading toward you.”
Then he saw the armed men following her.
Jack took off toward the woman, running to intercept her. Her assailants ducked under trees and one man took aim. Jack lunged for the woman, knocking her to the ground and covering her with his body as bullets zipped overhead.
Whoa. Silencers.
Beneath him, she struggled and howled. He tore the weapon from her hand and covered her mouth, his weight pressing on her. “U.S. Marine!” he said close to her ear. “U.S. Marine!”
She made a pitiful, relieved sound and went slack beneath him.
Jack scanned the area, released her, then motioned her toward the nearest tree.
Sydney rolled to it, crouching, and trying to keep her granola bar down. “Give me the gun.”
“Are you hurt?”
She glanced at the bloodstains. “No. Give me the gun.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“Give me the weapon!”
Without taking his gaze off the terrain, the man covered in ferns, leaves, and branches kicked it toward her. Sydney grabbed it, checked the load, wondering what the hell he was doing here in deep cover camouflage. Another shot fired. Quiet. Deadly. Like the whoosh and click of a sliding door. It pierced the tree above her head.
“Go!” Lying on the ground, Jack radioed his pals. No answer. His gaze remained on the attacker’s location. Where’d the hell the bastard get to? He inched closer to her. “Down the mountain, there’s a black truck.”
“Don’t stay here! Jesus! They’re not going to let you walk away!”
He scowled. “I say again, lady, what the fuck is going on?”
“I don’t know!”
Someone shouted, but it wasn’t English. Shots pierced the ground near his arm, and he returned fire. The sound of a bullet impacting the body was muffled under the backfire of his weapon.
Sydney heard the cry of pain and seconds later, the peppered spit of bullets chipped and thunked into the ground and trees. The Marine’s attention snapped to her, but she couldn’t see behind the camo netting.
“Who are these people?” he demanded.
“Who cares! They’re trying to kill us! Come on!” Syd took off toward the truck.
Jack slid backwards on the ground, then stood behind a tree before racing a few yards behind her. Silencer-enhanced gunfire cut around them. Hell of a morning, he thought. The woman lost her balance, slid to the ground and he grabbed her up, and together, they ran. Why were they after her? Who were “they” and where the hell did she come from? He’d been on this mountain since before dawn and hadn’t seen anything but deer and a few chipmunks. The armed men had just appeared.
When they reached the truck, Jack surveyed their path, then pulled off the Gilly hood, reached inside the truck bed, and flipped back the tarp.
Sydney nearly lost that fight with her granola bar when she saw the dead deer in the back.
“Get in.”
“You can’t be serious.” She winced at her own voice. Like saving her life wasn’t worth lying with a dead deer? She climbed onto the flatbed. The scent of blood filled her nostrils and sank into her heart.
Her savior was inside the cab, rummaging. “What are you doing?” she shouted and tried to inch away from the glassy stare of the deer lying beside her. “Let’s get out of here!” Syd held onto the pistol so hard her knuckles whitened.
“I have three buddies out there and I haven’t heard from them since you came on the scene. Stay put.”
“Stay? They’re coming this way!”
“If you keep yelling they will be,” he snapped, then tossed her a small, green plastic medical kit. She frowned. “Your arm,” he said, then whipped the tarp over her and the carcass.
Pulling the camouflage Gilly suit back on, Jack left his rifle behind and kept his 9mm. If he hadn’t been working with the Fish and Game, he would have left it at home. Now he was glad he hadn’t. The woman’s attackers were still near. He could smell them. Their last meal and new fabric. To them he’d smell like stag piss, so he wasn’t too worried. The Gilly suit did its job.
He moved toward Decker’s location first, low and quiet, his time spent covering his own back. When he approached, the man was sitting, his shoulder braced against a tree, his rifle across his lap. He was too still. A sick feeling washed over Jack as he scanned the area, then knelt beside his friend. The blood splatter and the scent of scorched flesh were hard to miss.
He pulled off the hood. Jesus. Jack turned his face away and choked. Decker was dead, half his face blown off. He breathed hard, struggling for focus, to not lose this battle in himself and go nuts. Forcing himself to look around, he checked the body of his friend. A single shot to the back of the head. Jack’s gaze ripped over the ground. No footprints, no struggle. Nothing to follow. Snipers. Jack looked to the trees, the high ground. The entire forest offered cover.
The shooter could’ve been anywhere.
Rage rocketed though Jack’s blood as he thought of the woman. The bitch. She’d set them up for this. Anger and adrenaline pumped through him. Leaving the area untouched for the police, he moved fast and low, covering the next hundred yards. They’d planned it that way, face north and stay close so they didn’t accidentally shoot each other. Ah, jeez, Jack thought and wanted to stop and howl and mourn his friends.
When
