Too Hard to Handle, page 15
Maybe they should have chosen Chelsea for this and left me to hot-wire the van…
The thought barely had time to finish swirling through her head before the world dissolved again. Only this time it wasn’t Dan’s handsome face that filled her vision. It was Mr. Hoodie. She kept his head lined up dead center in the three-dot sight. From one breath to the next, and with a few pounds of pressure, she could turn his skull into a big bowl of chunky salsa. And even though she’d never killed anyone, never had to kill anyone in all her years with the Secret Service, she knew she wouldn’t hesitate to one-eighty that status quo if it looked, for even a split second, like Dan might be in trouble.
And speaking of Dan…
From the corner of her eye she saw a shadow move from the street into the square. If she hadn’t been expecting it, she wouldn’t have noticed it. Noticed him. Dan “The Man” Currington. Dan “Her Man” Currington…maybe…hopefully? Honestly, she wasn’t sure. It all hinged on what happened once she told him—
Not now.
Right. Right. Now was not the time. Quickly filing away her thoughts under Shit to Be Dealt with Later, she searched the darkness beneath one of the trees surrounding the fountain. There. She spotted him again. Just a slightly deeper shadow in and among all the other shadows. He was as quiet as death. As still as a coffin. And now he was standing no more than ten yards from the potential bad guys.
Be careful, she begged him silently. She could smell the fear on her skin, taste its bitter flavor on her tongue.
“It’s him!” Zoelner hissed. “It’s Winterfield! Move, move, move!”
She watched mesmerized, terrified, locked-and-loaded and ready to fire should one of the men happen to see Dan and Zoelner materializing out of the night’s inky blackness and turn to take a shot at them. But she needn’t have worried. Winterfield and al-Rahma were completely clueless, caught totally off guard when Zoelner popped up behind al-Rahma at the precise second Dan materialized behind Winterfield, their guns held tight to each man’s head as if the whole thing had been choreographed and practiced for months. Al-Rahma instinctively turned to fight and Penni’s finger tightened on the trigger. But Zoelner clocked him in the temple with the butt of his weapon and the blow dropped the man to his knees.
“The next time won’t be a warning, motherfucker,” Zoelner growled. “It’ll be a bullet in your brainpan.” Al-Rahma held his wounded head and whispered something foul-sounding in Arabic. Zoelner must have understood it because he barked out a laugh. “Not even on your best day, you piece of shit,” he said.
As for Luke Winterfield? He proved something Penni already knew. That he was a filthy, stinking, no-good coward. Because he didn’t even attempt to put up a fight or run away. He simply raised his hands over his head and hissed a nasty word that translated through the mics Dan and Zoelner were wearing. Not that she would have wanted him to put up a fight, of course. Not with Dan on the receiving end of any resistance. But still…it was all a little anticlimactic.
“Luke Winterfield,” Dan growled. “Under the authority granted to me by the government of the United States of America, I hereby inform you that you’re totally fucked. You made a choice to sell out your country and now you’re gonna face the consequences. Reap the whirlwind, asshole.”
“Nice,” Zoelner said. “Have you been holding on to that one for a while?”
“Came up with it in Bogotá,” Dan admitted, a definite grin in his tone.
“I like it.”
“Thought you might.”
“Really though,” Zoelner went on, “I was expecting some quote from Ted Nugent or Eminem.”
“I can come up with my own material, you know,” Dan insisted. “It’s just I like to give credit to my hometown whenever I can. To make up for the place getting such a bad rap.”
“Maybe it’s because so much bad rap has come out of there,” Zoelner mused. “Insane Clown Posse comes to mind.”
“Hey,” Dan whispered urgently, “don’t say that too loud. You’ll have groups of juggalos beating down your door.”
Zoelner snorted.
“And just so you know,” Dan went on, “what I’ve learned out of this lifetime is you should be proud of where you come from.”
“I’m waiting…”
“Kid Rock said that. Via his Twitter account.”
“And there it is.”
Penni wanted to scream. Were they really standing there shooting the shit after finally catching Winterfield? Acting like it was no biggie that they’d just interrupted a deal with a member of the AQAP? Pretending like there was nothing at all urgent about the situation? I mean, really?
Chelsea must have been having similar difficulties because she piped up with, “Are we doing this or what? I’m still waiting for the signal to come get you guys.”
“Roger that, Chels,” Dan said. “We’re r—”
Boom!
A shot rang out over the square, making Penni jump at the same time al-Rahma’s head erupted like a melon loaded with firecrackers. Blood sprayed in a terrible arc, shining black in the dim light cast by the nearby street lamps.
What the hell? Where did that—
Boom!
Another shot blasted through the cold air, the round ranging wide, hitting the middle tier on the fountain and shattering the ceramic. Penni heard the crash of the broken pieces into the water in the base of the fountain at the same time Dan yelled, “Down! Down! Get down!”
Boom!
A third shot grazed Winterfield’s arm before Dan jerked him to the ground. Winterfield’s scream of agony echoed around the plaza. That, combined with the unmistakable sound of gunfire, had lights flashing on in two of the second-story apartments up the street to Penni’s right. Every dog within ten blocks started barking and howling and setting up a terrible ruckus.
She noticed all this as an aside since every part of her was focused on the spot where she’d seen a muzzle flash. She ran through the four rules of marksmanship. Rule one: steady position. Check. Her right forearm was still braced solidly against the post. Rule two: aim. Check. Check. She lined up the Ruger’s three-dot sight until the spot she thought she saw the muzzle flash was dead center. Rule three: control breath. Triple check. She punched all the air from her lungs. Rule four: Squeeze trigger…
Bam! Bam! Bam! The Ruger kicked like a mule in her hand as she lit up the dark spot catty-corner to her across the square. She could hear Winterfield bellowing like a wounded bull and Dan and Zoelner yelling orders to each other, to Chelsea, and to her. But she’d stopped comprehending English, concentrating entirely on laying down cover fire.
Time slowed to a crawl. Her heart was a steady, deliberate lub-dub. Her breathing was a calculated inhale and exhale between rounds. She counted off her shots to keep track of how many bullets remained in her clip. Four, five…
The column she was braced against took a round. Then another. The noise of the lead projectiles burying themselves in the thick post seemed oddly muted. And then she realized that was because her heart wasn’t a steady lub-dub; it was a dull roar between her ears. Her breathing wasn’t a calculated inhale and exhale; she was panting so loudly she sounded like she was auditioning for the role of Darth Vader. A chunk of concrete flew off, grazing her face, and she was slingshotted out of the momentary time warp.
Sonofa—
Now nothing was happening in slow motion. The whole world seemed to be spinning out of control, thrust into a chaotic twirl as she adjusted her position, aimed for the muzzle flashes, and let loose with another round of return fire. The Ruger belched .45-caliber bullets at a pulse-pounding rate, perfuming the air with the scent of cordite, slinging spent shell casings off to Penni’s right, and making the muscles in her wrist and hand burn from exertion.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the van Chelsea had hot-wired come screaming around the corner. Its tires gripped the damp cobblestones in an effort to remain upright as the whole vehicle tipped ominously.
“Goddamnit, Penni! Get down! Protect yourself!” Dan’s terrified yell blared not only through her earpiece, but also through the air itself. Oh goodie! Apparently she was understanding English again.
And boy, oh boy, how she would have loved to obey his order. But he and Zoelner would be sitting ducks if she did. Not to mention Winterfield. Really, she didn’t mention Winterfield because who gives a flying frick about that traitor’s sorry ass? But since she did give many flying fricks about Dan, and Zoelner by association, she ignored his command and continued to lay on her trigger—eight…nine… A mutinous terror had entered her bloodstream, making her veins burn.
So much to lose. So much to lose. So much to… The mantra spun around and around inside her head, dazing her, dizzying her.
Zzzzip! Crack! Another bullet slammed into the post, sending bits of concrete flying. She closed her eyes and ducked behind the pillar. The sound of sirens blared somewhere off in the distance. The clamor of the dogs seemed to have grown to a crescendo. And someone a couple of blocks away was yelling something in Quechua, the native language spoken by so many in the Andes.
When she opened her eyes again and stepped back into firing position, it was in time to see the van jump the curb and fly onto the grassy area of the square. Chelsea was headed straight for the fountain without a thought to applying the brakes, plowing over a trash can and grazing a streetlight. The latter ripped the mirror off the driver’s side door.
Penni squeezed her trigger, attempting to keep the shooter occupied so Chelsea could make a kamikaze-style rescue. Thirteen…fourteen, she counted, her hand and finger now numb with the repeated shock of the Ruger’s recoil. One more round and her clip would be dry.
“Reloading!” she yelled. Just the one word to alert Dan and Zoelner that they needed to keep their heads down while—
“Penni!” Dan begged. “Please just—”
Bam! The last .45 exploded out of the Ruger’s mouth, flashing in the darkness. She ducked behind the post and ejected the used magazine before slamming in a new one. It took only two seconds but it felt like an eternity as the sound of the van coming to a jolting stop, its front bumper hitting the fountain with a crash, was followed by the echoing barrage of traded gunfire.
“Go, go, go!” Zoelner’s bellowed command blared through Penni’s earpiece as she jumped to her feet. She could see Dan and Zoelner pushing Winterfield toward the open cargo door on the passenger side of the van. Chelsea was leaning across the front seats, exchanging fire with the shooter through the open passenger window.
“Holy shit!” the little CIA agent screamed when a bullet hit the front windshield, shattering the glass around a golf-ball-sized hole and causing a series of cracks to snake across the entire expanse. “Hurry up! We’re taking heat here!”
Dan turned and put the little Bersa to good use, firing into the darkness as Zoelner tossed Winterfield inside the van and jumped in after him. Penni joined in the fray, pressing the button on the side of the Ruger that slammed the slide forward and chambered the first round. When she squeezed the trigger, the deafening roar of the weapon drowned out all the voices shouting in her earpiece.
With one eye on Dan and the other on the sight, she started counting again. Two…three…four…
Once she had the shooter pinned down, Dan jumped into the van and pulled the door shut. Chelsea laid on the gas. The vehicle’s tires spun uselessly in the wet grass before the treads finally found traction in the soil beneath. The van shot across the square in Penni’s direction, careening around trees and taking rounds in its metal skin. Penni didn’t allow herself to think about what would happen if the bullets managed to penetrate the vehicle’s body and come to rest inside Chelsea or Zoelner or…Dan! Sweet Christ!
Hot tears streamed down her face, dripping from her chin. She paid them no mind as she continued to fire, hoping to draw the shooter’s aim away from the van and back to her. Seven…eight…
It worked. The pillar in front of her sustained a volley of rounds that had her ducking to avoid the spray of concrete shards. Well, at least it worked for a couple of seconds. She barely had time to steady her shaky nerves when ping-ping-ping! The unmistakable ring of hot lead slamming into sheet metal recommenced.
She spun around, careful to keep her body behind the now chewed-up post. Aiming down the barrel, she counted off nine…ten… Son of a suck-ass bitch! She was almost out of ammo and desperately low on options. Those two things had spelled doom for many a well-trained agent.
“Penni…” Dan’s voice sounded in her ear, and she choked on the wave of relief that rushed over her like a tsunami. He was okay. He hadn’t been hit. “Hang steady for a couple more seconds, babe.” He wasn’t shouting. He was speaking slowly, steadily. Which was probably why she could hear him over the cacophony of her barking weapon. “We’re almost to you.”
“I’m almost out of…” Fourteen…Fifteen. Click! Click! Click! “I’m dry, Dan! I’m out!” She ducked behind the pillar. And to say she’d been scared from the get-go was an understatement. She’d been pee-her-pants terrified. But now she was panicked too. She could feel the emotion’s subversive effects twanging over her nerves, obliterating her thought processes, burning away her ability to reason.
She realized she was hyperventilating when bright spots danced in front of her eyes. But she couldn’t make herself calm down and breathe. So much to lose. So much to lose. There was no oxygen in the air. There was no—
Eeeeerrrrtttt! The van’s tires squealed like a dying animal as the vehicle rocked to a stop in front of the souvenir shop. Penni peeked around the pillar in time to see the cargo door slide open and Dan—beautiful, wonderful, alive Dan—beckon to her with an extended hand. “Now, Penni!” he commanded.
She hesitated as Chelsea reached through the driver’s side window to lay down covering fire. One bullet. That’s all it will take to—
“You can do it, babe.” Dan’s steady voice and glowing green eyes cut through the darkness. The combination was just the impetus she needed to stop crouching like a coward and get her ass moving. With a little cry that was an unintelligible prayer for mercy, she flung herself from behind the safety of the post and stumbled down the stairs straight into Dan’s waiting arms.
He caught her up against his chest, holding her tight even as he slammed the door shut and bellowed, “Step on it, Chels!”
Chelsea stomped on the gas and the van fishtailed out of the square to the squeal of approaching sirens, bullets slamming into the bumper, and Dan whispering into her ear, “Jesus Christ, Penni. You almost got yourself killed.”
Chapter Twelve
Dan knew Chelsea was driving like a bat out of hell down the streets of Cusco. He knew Winterfield was wailing and Zoelner was yelling at him to shut up or I’ll give you something to scream about! He knew Penni’s arms were around his neck as he braced them on the floor between the driver’s seat and the first row of rear bucket seats where Winterfield and Zoelner were sitting.
But it all felt very surreal, like it wasn’t happening in real time and he was stuck in a parallel universe. Some place that existed between the past and the present. When Penni had peeked around that post, ruby-red blood running down her face, his mind had been flash-fried back to another time, another place, and another woman he’d loved who’d been covered in blood and dead in his arms. He’d nearly lost it. His sanity, that is. He’d almost gone stark raving mad in an instant at the thought that he’d come so very close to losing another one.
“Dan?” Penni squeaked. “Ease up!”
And suddenly he was catapulted out of that weird in-between microcosm and back into the world of chaos and sound. Chelsea powered through gears like a bona fide NASCAR driver. The rubber on the van’s tires squealed against the cobblestone streets. Zoelner slapped a hand over Winterfield’s mouth, digging his weapon into the guy’s ribs. And Penni was a warm, living, breathing presence—thank you, sweet Jesus!—in his arms.
He realized two things when his gray matter stopped trying on a straitjacket. The first was that Penni was wiggling to escape his embrace because he was squeezing her to him with every ounce of his strength, and was probably close to crushing her spine to dust. The second was that, during his moment of insanity, he’d compared her to his wife, to a woman he’d loved more than life, to a woman he’d given his body, heart, and soul to.
“Dan!” she squealed again, squirming with growing fervor.
“Shit!” he said. “Sorry.”
Forcing himself to relax, he released her just as Chelsea took a corner on two wheels. Penni tumbled back into his embrace—which was fine by him; that’s where he wanted her anyway—just as an emergency vehicle buzzed by them. The kooky, foreign-sounding bee-doo-bee-doo-bee-doo of the siren pierced their eardrums at the same time red and blue lights flashed inside the van.
Dan held still, waiting to see if the authorities were after them or if the Cusco five-oh were simply on their way to the square where all hell had broken loose. When the sirens quickly echoed into the distance, he blew out a blustery sigh. They did not have time to mess around with the local policia, waiting for the U.S. government to intervene on their behalf before they would be allowed to spirit Winterfield back to the States. It would be far better, and so much less hassle, if they could simply blow this joint before anyone was the wiser.
So far, so good…
Cradling Penni in his lap, he lifted her chin and used the soft cotton cuff of his jacket to wipe some of the blood from her face. “Shit, Penni…” He choked on his heart because it seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his throat. “What happened? Did one graze you?”
