“I’m not good at following orders blindly.”
“You’d better learn fast, or I’ll knock you out and make my job easier.”
She swallowed. She didn’t have any trouble believing Lieutenant Michael West would knock her out if he considered it necessary. “You’re supposed to be one of the good guys.”
“They don’t make good guys like they used to, honey.”
“A.J.”
“What?”
“You’ve called me Reverend, Rev, lady, and now honey. My name’s A.J.”
“Sounds more like—”
It was like being inside a clap of thunder—end-of-the-world loud, floor-shaking, ear-bursting loud.
His “little boom” had gone off.
Two
Michael had the first board popped off before his ears stopped ringing. He’d brought a tire iron for that chore, borrowed from the shed that held the truck Scopes and Trace were stealing at this very moment. He worked quickly, his SIG Sauer in its holster, the CAR 16 on the ground. He’d drugged the closest sentry before approaching the window; he could count on Hammond to take care of the other one.
The nun had let out a screech when the bomb went off. The Reverend was explaining things to her now—loudly.
A voice that was all bone-rumbling bass sounded behind him. “Do I get the one that’s yellin’?”
“Nope.” Michael pried off the last board and stepped back. “You get the one that screamed when Scopes’s toy went boom. In you go.”
“She’ll start screamin’ again when she sees me,” Hammond said gloomily. The team’s electronics expert did look like the Terminator’s bigger, blacker brother, especially in camouflage with night goggles. He sighed and eased his six-feet-six inches of muscle through the small window.
Michael tossed down the tire iron and picked up his CAR 16, keeping his back to the window as he kept watch. He heard Hammond’s low rumble assuring the Reverend she could trust him with the sister; seconds later, he heard the Reverend climbing out the window. He slid her one quick glance, then jerked his gaze back to the clearing and the trees.
She sure as hell didn’t look like any minister he’d ever seen.
That momentary glimpse hadn’t given him a lot details, and his goggles robbed the scene of color. But he’d noticed a slim, long-fingered hand that shook slightly. A tangled wreck of curls that hung below her shoulders. A wide mouth in an angular face, and big eyes fixed on the weapon he cradled. And about six feet of legs.
Lord, she must be nearly as tall as he was. And ninety percent of her was legs.
What color were her eyes?
Hammond was at the window, ready to pass out a blanket-wrapped bundle. Michael traded a CAR 16 for an armful of old woman.
Even through the blanket and the material of her habit, he felt the heat from her fever. She was tiny, so light Hammond could probably cradle her in one arm and still handle his weapon. She’d lost her wimple. Her hair was thin, short and plastered to her skull. Her face was small and round and wrinkled…and smiling.
She looked nothing like Sister Mary Agnes. Michael smiled back at her, told her in Spanish that they would take good care of her, then passed her to Hammond.
The scream of automatic fire shattered the night, coming from the other end of the compound. Good. The others were keeping the soldiers busy. His quick glance took in the preacher’s pallor and shocked eyes. He didn’t know if it was the gunfire that spooked her, or if she could see the huddled shape of the sentries a few feet away.
He didn’t have time to coddle her. “We’ll go single file. Reverend, you’re the meat in the sandwich. Hammond and I can see where we’re going. You can’t, so hook your hand in my utility belt. We’ll be moving fast.”
“A.J. My name is A.J.”
He turned away. “Hang on tight.” As soon as he felt her hand seize the webbed belt at the small of his back, he moved out.
They crossed the clearing at a dead run and didn’t slow much when they hit the forest. The ground was rough, and the night must have been completely black to her, but she didn’t hold them up. A couple of times she stumbled, but her grip on his belt kept her upright, and she kept moving.
Good for her. He blessed her long legs as he wove among the trees, listening to the diminishing blast of gunfire behind them.
“Where are we going?”
“This trail intersects the road. We’ll meet the truck there. There’s a log here you’ll have to jump.” He leaped it.
She followed awkwardly but without falling. “This is a trail? Are you sure?”
He grinned, pleased with the trace of humor he heard in her voice. “Trust me. It’s here.” He’d found and followed it last night. Fortunately, the canopy wasn’t as thick here as it was in some places—part of this forest was second-growth. But that meant that there was more underbrush.
“Hammond,” he said. “Anything?”
“No sign of pursuit, Mick.”
Everything was going according to plan. It made Michael uneasy. Yeah, it was a good plan, implemented by good men. Problem was, he’d never yet been on a job where everything went according to plan. The truck might not start, or any of a dozen things could go wrong with getting it out.
When they reached the road Michael’s pessimism was rewarded. The truck wasn’t there. A fistful of soldiers were. And they were coming up the road, not down it from the compound.
One second A.J. was running a step behind her rescuer, her hand locked for dear life in the webbing of his belt while plants tried to trip her. The next, he stopped so suddenly she slammed into him.
He didn’t even wobble. Just spun, shoved her down and hit the ground beside her.
She couldn’t see a thing. Her hip throbbed from her rough landing in the dirt. A stick was poking her shoulder, and she didn’t know where Sister Maria Elena was. The other soldier, the one with the face of a comic book villain and the Mr. Universe body, wasn’t beside them. When A.J. lifted her head to see what had happened to him, a large hand pushed it back down so fast she got dirt in her mouth.
He kept his hand on her neck. She felt breath on her hair, warm and close to her ear. His whisper was so soft she barely heard it. “Soldiers coming up the road. Not the ones from the compound.”
Oh, God. More soldiers. Now that she’d stopped running, she felt cold. So cold. Or maybe it was his thumb, moving idly on her nape, that made goose bumps pop out on her shivery flesh. Or fear. She tried to keep her whisper as nearly soundless as his had been. “The truck?”
“Listen.”
She heard it now—a motor laboring, moving toward them. And from the other direction, voices of the soldiers he’d seen, coming up the rough dirt road. How could they have gotten in front of the truck?
No, she realized, these soldiers weren’t from the compound. They must be some of El Jefe’s other troops. Was El Jefe himself with them? Fear, sour and brackish, mixed with the flavor of dirt in her mouth. She tried to breathe slowly, to calm her racing heart.
Headlights! They splashed color against the dense black backdrop of trees just up the road as the truck rounded a curve.
“We’ll have a few seconds before they realize the truck isn’t part of their team anymore.” His hand left her nape,