As they walked past the processing table that had been set up, Kelly avoided the pleading eyes of the illegals. They were being taken to a detention center, then in all likelihood would be shipped back across the border.
“Señora!” one of them called out. “Por favor!”
Kelly ignored them and kept walking. She tried not to think about all those bodies in the desert, the ones who had failed. In a few weeks, some of these people might be facing the same obstacles again, undertaking the long, deadly trek through the wilderness. Jethro glared as she passed him. He and Jim were shackled to chairs, a couple of agents standing guard over them.
Kelly’s phone buzzed, the caller ID reading ASAC McLarty. Kelly hit the ignore button. She’d have to call her boss soon to get approval for marshaling Houston field office agents, and for the warehouse search warrant. It was a conversation she wasn’t looking forward to. In fact, there was a good chance that by this time tomorrow, she would officially be out of a job.
“Motorcycles,” Jake said. His voice was muffled, shirt pulled up over his mouth to filter the smoke. They were still a hundred feet from the house, but rolling clouds of soot swept through the trees, stinging his nose and tightening his chest. There was a line of bikes parked a few feet away. “Maybe that Stockton gang Dante hung with. You think the Grants were in there when it lit up?”
“I doubt it,” Syd said, fumbling with her radio. “Otherwise the bikes would be gone. Dangel must’ve drawn them off with the van so that Maltz could get the others out.”
“God, I hope you’re right,” Jake said, watching the fire lick the nearest trees. “This whole place is going to be destroyed if the fire department doesn’t get here soon.”
“Not likely. An area like this, it’s probably all volunteer. Might take them an hour, minimum.” Speaking into her radio, she said, “Maltz, this is Syd. Do you read?”
They both listened. Static poured out. Then the sound of Maltz’s voice, choked and garbled.
“Can you make that out?” Jake asked.
Syd shook her head. “Nope, they must already be over the hill.” She squinted past what remained of the house toward the river. On the farside, foothills lined the horizon.
“But on the plus side, it sounds like they’re still alive,” Jake said.
“Maltz, at least.” Syd walked briskly back toward the car. “We need to find a road close to where they’ll come out. Let’s check the map.”
Suddenly, she bucked forward. Jake heard the concussion a beat later. He instinctively dove to the ground and scrambled for cover behind the nearest tree. Syd lay facedown ten feet in front of him. She wasn’t moving.
“Syd!” he hissed.
Another shot kicked up the dirt a few feet away. Clearly not all of the bikers had followed Maltz into the woods. And one of them was a hell of a shot. Jake checked his HK, making sure the safety was off and that it held a full clip. The fire and smoke made it hard to see and his eyes smarted from the heat, forcing him to squint.
He saw Syd’s foot shift, and a wave of relief rolled over him. Apparently the sniper witnessed the movement, too, because the leaves next to her ankle jumped. Jake gritted his teeth. Syd was wearing a vest, and flat against the ground she presented a tricky target. If he ran out to try and save her, there was an excellent chance he’d be hit instead. But the alternative was letting the sniper take potshots until one struck home.
Deciding, Jake fired a volley of shots, counted to five, then sent another hail of bullets in the sniper’s general direction. Without hesitation he raced from the tree line and lunged for Syd, grabbing her ankle. He felt something hit his calf. With an almost superhuman surge of strength he swung her behind an enormous tree. Jake dropped down beside her, breathing hard and clutching at his leg. He patted it all over, then yanked up his cuff. Nothing: he was unharmed. He sent a silent thanks to his guardian angel and turned his attention back to Syd. She was lying on the ground, unconscious.
“Christ, Syd,” he muttered, checking her for bleeding.
Maltz dumped Madison on the ground near her mother and Bree, then went to confer with the other commandos. It felt like they’d been traveling for miles. They’d gone up and over three hills already, sticking to orchards when they could, cutting through open fields quickly, everyone who could run bent double. They’d passed a few houses but Maltz gave them a wide berth, refusing to stop for help. When Madison asked why, he explained they didn’t know the area well enough to know who to trust, some of these houses might even belong to the bikers. The thought gave Madison a chill. It was starting to feel like the whole world was chasing her, that she’d never be safe. She was beginning to believe they’d be running forever.
“You okay, honey?” her mother asked with concern, running a hand across Madison ’s cheek. Her teeth chattered through the words. She and Bree both looked frozen now that they’d stopped moving. Madison was the only one who hadn’t had to wade through the fast-moving river. She wondered what time it was, her stomach was rumbling. She wished she’d eaten more at breakfast.
“I’m fine, Mom.” She huddled closer, and her mother drew her in with one arm.
Maltz approached. “They’re still on us,” he said, voice grim. “A few have dropped away, but Fribush saw the rest about a mile back. Looks like they know these hills, and they have some tracking experience. So we better get moving.”
“I’m so tired,” her mother said in a thin voice. She didn’t look well, eyes hollowed out, skin waxy. She probably hadn’t slept much since Madison had been taken, and now she was being subjected to this.
“We’re hoping it’s not much farther, ma’am,” Maltz said. “I’m trying to raise Syd Clement on the radio. She and Riley are meeting up with us.”
“Then what?” Madison asked. “There are only two of them. How will that make a difference?”
Maltz crouched beside her. “Ready to go?”
Madison sighed, but let herself be hauled back up. Her mother and sister struggled to their feet, clearly bone-tired. They set off again, unconsciously falling into the same pattern: a commando in the lead, followed by her sister and mother, then Maltz and her. Jagerson brought up the rear.
They’d gone a few hundred feet when Madison heard a shout. She raised her head off Maltz’s back and saw a glimmer in the trees where they’d just been resting. Another yell, then a shot was fired. Without any warning she was dropped to the ground.
“Looks like we’re going to have to make a stand,” Maltz said.
Twenty-Five
Randall watched, completely disheartened, as they loaded the last barrel onto a truck. It had been encased in a large wooden crate, identical to dozens of others still waiting to be loaded. A forklift maneuvered it into position, then slid it all the way to the back.
“Where does it go now?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” Dante was monitoring the packing, making sure the crate containing the barrel was completely buried behind the others. The other two trucks were already waiting by the door.
Randall rubbed his arm. He’d stripped off the PPE suit, acknowledging the inevitable. A long red burn had appeared, though whether it was an actual rash or due to his constant scratching was debatable. “You’re going to kill me anyway,” Randall said with detachment. “No reason not to tell me.”
“No reason to tell you, either.”
“I’m guessing you’ll kill my family, too,” Randall said.
Dante shrugged, his face unreadable. “We’re not animals.”
At this, Randall barked a laugh. Dante turned and scowled at him. “Killing Americans isn’t what we’re about, Grant. The ones who died gave their lives for the greater good.”