Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
I ran for all I was worth, every muscle and joint protesting, my lungs burning for air, my head pounding, letting me know I hadn’t had nearly enough water. But the pain was nothing compared to hearing Blake’s pleas echoing in my skull. I had to get to her. I was wasting my fucking time in this country. If Luiz Gajero was on his way to Europe, I had to get back there, preferably yesterday.
The tunnel straightened out far enough for me to see the flashes of light from the Finlays’ lamps, and I pressed the button on my earpiece to get in touch with the unit again.
“Finlays, do you read me?” I panted. “It’s Joel—I’m some hundred yards behind you.”
“We read you,” Crew responded. “We have a visual up ahead—or we did. There’s a slight bend of the tunnel, but we’re not too far away from our targets.”
“About a klick,” Greer grunted. “Fucking hell—”
“Yeah,” Cullen panted. “You go ahead—I fucking can’t. I’m only slowin’ youse down.”
I pushed past my own limits, reaching an insane high where I tasted blood and flew forward on a headrush that numbed every ache. I ran past Cullen, then Greer, and before long, Mercier too.
“Comin’ up behind you, Crew,” I said.
Twenty yards…fifteen…
He slowed down a little and looked at me over his shoulder. “Finally, someone who can keep up. Let’s go.”
We didn’t need to go much farther, though. When the tunnel straightened out again, I saw our moving targets ahead of us. Breathing heavily, I put a hand on Crew’s shoulder and halted him, and I slowed to a stop and lifted my rifle. Fuck. I was breathing too hard.
“Use my shoulder.” Crew positioned himself in front of me.
“Perfect.” I widened my stance to lose a few inches in height and rested my rifle on his shoulder, and I hurriedly removed my helmet, just so I could take off my protective beanie and press it to Crew’s ear. “Hold here. Cover your ears as much as you can.”
He looped an arm around the barrel of the rifle and complied.
I adjusted my sights and found four sources of light. I estimated they were seven hundred yards away from us. “Luca Blanco’s in a wheelchair, right?”
“Yeah.” He tried to remain as still as he could.
Luca was the easiest target, but a guard was blocking my view—or whoever it was pushing Luca’s chair.
Exhale.
End this.
“Breathe out,” I murmured.
He breathed out.
I squeezed the trigger, and the shot tore through the tunnel, causing my heart to jump and my eardrums to put me on a hit list.
“One down.” I waited till Crew stopped wincing, and I zeroed in on the man in the wheelchair.
I fired again, to the sound of my ringing ears, and I immediately aimed at the remaining two but shot them in their backs. Or maybe the ass for one of them.
“Let’s go.” It was possible I had to shout. I didn’t know. I couldn’t fucking hear anything, and I doubted Crew was in a better state. But we took off once more, and when I threw my rifle aside and grabbed a handgun, Crew grabbed his too.
I was actually glad to be rid of the damn rifle for a moment. I’d grab it later. It was an extra thirteen pounds unloaded—
Crew grabbed at me abruptly and fired his gun, and I could see his mouth moving.
“I can’t hear you!” I yelled.
Jesus Christ, I needed my ears to stop ringing.
I read from Crew’s lips that he uttered “What?” with a frustrated look on his face, so verbal communication was clearly out. We exchanged a glance, acknowledging we were fucked in that department, and then we picked up the pace. Maybe he’d stopped me because he’d seen movement—since he’d fired right after. It didn’t matter anymore. We ran over to the men, where Crew made quick work of kicking aside a couple handguns before he started digging through pockets and holsters for more weapons.
I wiped sweat off my face and squatted down in front of the man in the wheelchair. Still seated, with his chin touching his chest.
So this was the guy. This was the man who’d terrorized the world with his drug trafficking for decades. He didn’t look like much now. Blood was oozing from his headshot wound, staining his tan-colored linen suit, along with sweat and jungle grime.
His eyes were still open.
Fingers knotted with arthritis, white hair combed over a bald spot, wrinkly face.
Crew waved to get my attention, and he gestured at one of the men on the concrete ground. The man was alive; I’d shot him in his lower back, so it was possible he didn’t feel anything. Was that Marco, then? Because… I grabbed a fistful of hair on the third linen suit, and I lifted his head off the ground. Yeah, that was the man we suspected was named Enzo. He might be alive too, actually. Eyes closed, blood welling up from his back, painting his suit dark red, but I detected some minor movement.