Harris Read online

  Gunfire echoed from a thousand different directions, assault rifle fire, Anselm's rifle--a deep, distant, basso concussion--overlapped by a different rifle report, this one louder, closer, and sharper.

  "Puck!" the radio crackled. "Where the fuck are you! We need cover!" That sounded like Duke.

  Puck, in a lightning fast movement, snatched the radio off the seat and tossed it back to me, putting his hand back on the wheel as fast as possible. "You talk," he barked at me. "I drive."

  I keyed the radio. "This is Layla. We're on the way to you."

  "Well you'd better haul ass," Duke snarled. "We're taking heavy fire and there ain't shit for cover out here."

  "Is anyone hurt?"

  "Not yet."

  "Any sign of Harris?"

  "No. Should be seeing him any minute, though." I heard gunfire batter across the radio, either Duke or Thresh.

  "What's happening?"

  "The op went FUBAR, that's what. It was a fuckin' trap, like I fuckin' said."

  "Leave the interrogation for later," Puck told me. "Let him focus on what he's doing. We're almost at their position."

  The transfer had taken place in a canyon between two tall ridges. It was an old riverbed or something like that, Nick had said, and it made sense. The middle of the canyon had walls a good fifty feet high, and the land stretched away in either direction for dozens of miles as high ground, with lower elevations approachable from either end of the short canyon. This meant both parties could approach the meet from a neutral direction. It also meant the location was easily defensible for Cain's men. The land rose sharply away from the end of the canyon, leveled off, and then bucked up again sharply. Puck and I had waited at the highest possible point, out of sight of the actual transfer location, but still fairly easy to get to with an off-road vehicle like the kitted-out Wrangler. Duke and Thresh had been positioned a good half-mile closer, where the ground had briefly leveled off, so they could rush forward and lay down covering fire for Nick as he drove away from the transfer. This meant they were exposed to a certain degree, but only to any gunmen on a high enough elevation to see them, not from the canyon itself.

  We didn't have far to go, a little over half a mile, but it seemed to me in that moment that it took forever to reach Thresh and Duke's position--time was moving like taffy, stretching out, and then retracting to snap too fast, leaving me with still images of Puck's hands on the wheel, utterly focused, and then a jumbling, jouncing, too-fast flash of the desert moving past the window, brown and blue and brown, rocks, dirt, reddish stone slicing into the sky.

  Abruptly, Puck threw the Humvee sideways into an arcing skid, shoving me hard against the wall, and then he had the big vehicle in park and his door open, and he was standing in the doorway, an HK MP-5 to his shoulder, kicking in three-round bursts over the windshield. I heard his submachine gun rattling, at once too loud and not loud enough. And then I saw Duke throw himself around the hood, taking cover behind the Humvee, ejecting a magazine from his M-4 and replacing it. I heard Thresh's voice, and then the rear door flew open, slammed against the apex of its hinges, and Thresh was there, all seven feet and three hundred plus pounds of him. Sweat poured down his face, and blood reddened the outside of his right bicep from a thin, shallow scratch. He had an M-4 too, and was using the momentary reprieve of hiding behind the door to reload, like Duke.

  Thresh winked at me. "Hi-ya, Layla." He rolled out, peering around the edge of the door, cracked off a few rounds, and then rolled back. "Having fun yet?"

  I couldn't swallow. "No. Not really."

  "Hey, this is where the party's at, babe. Got your nine?"

  I patted the holster. "Should I...I don't know. Help?"

  I had to wait for a response, as Thresh had rolled out and fired, and was now ducking back in behind the door. "No. Just be ready. I don't know what state Harris will be in. Might need extra cover." He eyed the radio in my hands. "See if Anselm can report."

  I thumbed the mic. "Anselm, can you see Harris?"

  "Nein. Er ist nicht--he is not in my line of sight. He had pursuit, however. Expect them at any moment."

  I peered through the window, and saw a starburst of fire from a muzzle somewhere in the distance, and then a second, and then a third. I wasn't sure where the shooters were hiding. I wasn't sure of anything. Why were they pursuing Nick? He'd given them the money. I wasn't sure who we were shooting at, or why they were shooting at us, or why anything was happening.

  I jumped as something slammed loudly into the side of the Humvee, on the other side of the metal from me, jarring me. The impacts reverberated across the length of the Humvee toward Thresh, who was rolled out to return fire.

  "Thresh! Get back!" I shouted.

  He moved instantly, threw himself down to the ground and scrambled onto his back behind the Humvee, out of the line of fire. I saw the glass in the back door of the Humvee, which Thresh had just been hiding behind, crack and then spider web as bullets hit it--it was bulletproof, however, and held.

  I heard an engine roaring, then. I shuffled across the bench seat and peered tentatively out the door. The ridge rose up behind us, and the ground fell away in front, the top of the canyon walls in the distance. It sounded like the engine noise was coming from the lower ground, from the canyon, which would mean it was Nick in the Wrangler.

  Gunfire echoed, distorted, cracked, chattered, rattled. Duke was returning fire, Puck was shooting, Thresh was shooting. The Humvee was rattling and banging from multiple impact points, making me feel like a mouse under a metal bell, with someone hammering on the bell. I moved back away from the door, covering my ears, fighting the urge to scream. I couldn't think, felt only panic stuffing my brain, freezing me. This wasn't like Brazil, not at all. I didn't know who was shooting at me, or why, or where from. I didn't know where Nick was.

  I wanted nothing more than to hide in the furthest corner I could find until this all blew over.

  But I couldn't.

  I'd asked for this.

  "FUCK!" I heard Thresh shout, sounding pained.

  That shook me back to reality. "Thresh! You okay?" I hauled myself to the doorway again.

  Thresh was on the ground just around the corner of the Humvee, leaning against the side of the vehicle. I couldn't quite see him without leaving the vehicle, and I'd been told not to do that under any circumstances. But Thresh was hurt. I couldn't just sit here. I inched further out the door. Craned my head around the corner.

  Thresh was a bloody mess, cradling his left arm against his body, grimacing, heels digging in the dirt. I wasn't sure where else he was hit besides his arm, but just that looked bad enough. I saw bits of white bone, gristle, gore. His M-4 was on the ground beside him.

  "Thresh? Can you climb in here with me?"

  He swiveled his head to glare at me. "I'll be fine. Just--gimme a second."

  I hopped out of the truck and crouched behind the door. "You're hurt. You need to get in there. Let me help you."

  More impacts thudded into the dirt, into the side of the Humvee. The engine roaring was louder now, closer, about to crest the verge. I scrambled out of cover and threw myself to the dirt beside Thresh, behind the Humvee.

  "You're not supposed to leave the Humvee," Thresh said through clenched teeth.

  I ignored him, because he was right. Tossed his M-4 by the strap over my shoulder, grabbed his uninjured shoulder under the armpit. "Come on. Get in there, you big idiot. Move."

  "I need to cover Nick. That's his Wrangler coming up the hill. He needs cover." Thresh lumbered to his feet, released his hurt arm, reached for the rifle on my shoulder with his bloody good hand. "And you need to get back in the damn truck."

  Fuck, that wound was nasty. It looked like the bullet had broken his forearm and then that same round or another one had torn through his bicep.

  "I'll get in if you do," I said. "You can't shoot with that wound."

  He yanked the rifle from me, shouldered the strap, grabbed me around the middle, and tossed m
e bodily into the back of the Humvee. He was handling the M-4 with just his right hand. And then, with a grimace, uncurled his left arm from against his chest, and tried to grab the front grip of the assault rifle. But he couldn't do it.

  Yet, despite this, he popped off a round. The rifle bucked up, almost out of his grip, eliciting a curse from him.

  "Fucking goddammit, Thresh!" I shouted.

  But then the Wrangler dove over the ridge, front tires going airborne and then burying in the sand, hauling the rest of the vehicle over the hill. The Wrangler, once black, was now brown with dirt and sand, and bullet holes punctured it in dozens of places. It had huge wheels and a lift kit, no doors, no roof. Meant for off-roading. The windshield was spider webbed, shattered in places. I couldn't quite see Nick through the shattered glass.

  Even as the Wrangler heaved up over the crest, I heard multiple other engines roar in the distance, smaller, thinner sounds, dirt bikes probably. Thresh was still trying to fire with one hand, and making a horrible mess of it, bracing the gun against the edge of the door, reaching for it with his bloody left hand, cupping the grip just long enough to pop off a shot or two before the kick sent what had to be excruciating agony through his injured arm.

  The Wrangler didn't manage the jump over the crest very well, going airborne, slamming down, and then tipping forward, taking its weight on the front left wheel, bottoming that corner out against the ground. Pitching forward. I heard Nick's voice and then heard a thin, high, female shriek.

  And then the Wrangler rolled. I saw it happen in slow motion, the way it just sort of...toppled forward and to one side, wheels still spinning.

  Duke was out from behind cover, firing while running toward the Wrangler; Puck not far behind him.

  It looked from what I could see that Nick was pinned under the Wrangler, the vehicle tipped onto its side, driver's side down, the open cab facing us; I couldn't see the little girl, but I heard her voice, crying hysterically.

  Thresh was trying to reload.

  He looked pained, not physically so much as emotionally wrecked by the knowledge that he was hurt and unable to help fast enough. I watched through the door, feeling helpless, as Puck hid behind the rolled-over Wrangler and laid down covering fire over the top while Duke tried to wrestle Nick free, tried to lift the Wrangler enough to free whatever was caught.

  "THRESH!" Duke shouted, "I NEED YOU!"

  I thought, stupidly, of that scene in The Princess Bride where Inigo is trying to get through the locked door so he could follow the Six-Fingered Man, and Fezzik comes lumbering up to smash it down with one kick--FEZZIK, I NEED YOU!

  Thresh shouldered his M-4 and left cover, running faster than any man his size had a right to run. Crouched beside Duke, he placed both hands--the idiot, both hands--on the frame of the Wrangler at the bottom, between the vehicle and the sand. Then he shouted, a guttural, rage-filled roar.

  And...

  He lifted. The Wrangler left the ground, and Duke's hands flashed, slicing something, and then he was hauling Nick free. Or trying to. Puck was firing nonstop, reloading.

  And I was just sitting there.

  Doing nothing.

  Watching.

  And then I spotted the little girl. Strapped in a five-point harness into the front passenger seat. Tiny, so small your eyes skipped right over her. Trapped by the seatbelt, suspended. Puck was shooting. Thresh was holding the Wrangler off the ground as Duke tried to extricate Nick from whatever was trapping him.

  No one had the girl.

  Fuck it.

  I didn't think, I just acted. I ran, hauling my big ass across the dirt, slamming bodily into the Jeep, rocking it. I ignored Nick, who was shouting at me.

  Ignored Puck, who was also shouting at me.

  Ignored Thresh, who was doing something utterly superhuman, and also shouting at me.

  Duke was the only one not shouting at me.

  Bullets were still snapping overhead.

  The motorcycles were somewhere close by. There was one, off to the left, the rider skidding over the crest of the hill, submachine gun dangling from a strap. I didn't think again--my hand yanked my Beretta out of the holster, and I drew a bead on a T-shirt covered torso, and then the pistol bucked in my hand, and the rider slumped, and the bike tipped, hit sand, and skidded.

  I holstered my weapon and returned my attention to the little girl. "Cleo? Hi, sweetie." I tried to keep my voice soft, despite the circumstances. "I'm gonna unbuckle you now, okay? You're gonna have to grab on to me real quick, and we're gonna get out of here, okay?"

  Cleo just howled.

  I took that as an okay. I jabbed at the red button that released the five buckles with one hand and grabbed the girl around the middle with the other. I caught her weight as the buckles released her, and yanked her body against mine. God, she was so small. Like a little doll, made out of porcelain. Had a hell of a set of pipes on her, though, piercing my eardrums with her screams.

  Not that I blamed her one bit.

  As soon as I had the girl in my arms, I got my ass moving again, running as fast as I could back to the Humvee, hearing bullets going snap-snap-snap, hearing the reports from everywhere. No buzzing, though, no angry-bee sounds of bullets coming too close. I hit the edge of the open back door of the Humvee with my stomach and hips, effectively tossing Cleo in, and then I jumped in after her. She was on the floor, crawling away from me, finding a corner and huddling in, staring around her, screaming, sobbing. Fine black hair. Brown eyes. Dirt track tears on her cheeks. Shaking uncontrollably, staring around her, confused, terrified. I wanted to comfort her, but had no idea how.

  I heard another motorcycle engine, but this one was coming from the wrong direction. I crouched in the opening of the Humvee's back door, pistol in both hands. I saw the front wheel of a motorcycle spitting rocks and dirt, flying up from the canyon, the rider leaning forward to take the slam of the landing. Seeing the Humvee, seeing me, he braked hard then gunned the throttle, spinning the dirt bike in a circle so he could arc around the back end of the Humvee and go for me--and Cleo.

  He was another casually dressed guy, dark hair, jeans, a T-shirt, Chucks on his feet. A big ol' silver handgun tucked into the front of his waistband, hauled free as soon as the dirt bike was level once more. Spitting and sliding to a stop, the rider sitting back, lifting the gun. To shoot me? Threaten me? Take Cleo back? I don't know.

  Fuck that.

  I don't even remember drawing the gun, I just popped off a shot without thinking. BAM! The gun bucked in my hands, and a dark spot spread on the rider's chest. He looked confused, the barrel of his hand-cannon of a pistol drooping. I shot again, a little higher, and this time I saw the spray. Bile rose in my throat as his neck just beneath his chin turned into a smear of red, and spray blasted out behind him. He rocked back, slid to one side, toppled backward, and then he and the bike collapsed.

  Cleo was screaming bloody murder, hands over her ears.

  I holstered my Beretta and moved in a crouch closer to her. I hated kids. I was no good with them, and they never liked me. They were always scared of me, no matter what I said or did. This was no different as Cleo shrank, away from me, further into the corner.

  "Hey, it's gonna be okay," I murmured, going for a calm, soothing voice and only managing to sound like I was talking to a little puppy or something, "We're going to bring you back to Mommy and Daddy, okay?"

  "M-m-m-Mama?" Cleo whimpered.

  "Yeah, Mama. We're gonna go see Mama. Can you sit on the bench, there?"

  Cleo nodded and scrambled onto the bench, and I sat beside her, facing the opening, effectively shielding her. I hauled out my pistol again and kept it pointed at the opening, reminding myself to make sure I knew who was in the opening before shooting.

  The gunfire was dying down, and I heard voices.

  Thresh, first, his arm a bloody wreck, his face strained. Puck, jumping behind the wheel, slamming the door closed. Duke, next, his arm around Nick's middle, helping him inside.
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  Suddenly, the back of the Humvee was crowded, smelling like man-sweat and something acrid, and blood.

  We were moving, bumping, jouncing over hills.

  It was silent, but only for a moment.

  "Goddammit, Layla--" This was Nick.

  "That was fucking badass, Layla!" Duke shouted, at the same time as Nick. "You nailed that fucker while he was moving!"

  "Duke." Nick, voice low, threatening. "Shut it."

  Duke went quiet, eyeing Nick. "You are not gonna bitch her out right now, man. If she hadn't grabbed the girl when she did, we'd still be there. She was an asset. That's why she's here; it's what she wants. And I gotta say, she's pretty damn good."

  "We all heard you two in the jet, you know," this was Thresh, through clenched teeth. "Heard you arguing. I'm with Duke on this one."

  Nick's eyes cut to mine. I could see he hated that I'd disobeyed him, that I'd risked myself. But I could also see the grudging respect my actions deserved.

  "Good job, babe," he growled.

  "I just have one question," I said, keeping my voice quiet until the last second. "WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?"

  6

  FUCKIN' SNACKS

  I'd been fucking lucky. Seriously fucking lucky. I was banged up, and had at least one bruised rib, but I had somehow avoided getting shot, and Cleo was unhurt. When that Jeep rolled, man, I thought I was done.

  But my people came through. Puck covered us, Duke cut me free, and Thresh, Jesus Christ, Thresh had lifted the Jeep free so Duke could cut the tangled, trapped seat belt free. With a broken forearm. Fucker was inhuman.

  And my baby. My woman. Layla. She'd disobeyed orders. Rushed through incoming fire, gotten Cleo, and rushed back with her. She'd taken down two tangos in the process. My girl was a badass. All the guys were eyeing her with renewed respect. And me? I was torn between wanting to ream her a new asshole for disobeying orders and being insanely proud of how she handled herself in a gnarly situation.

  I took stock of my crew, examining all of them. Thresh was the only one hurt, miraculously, but he was seriously fucked up. A bullet had hit his ulna and shattered it, lodging in his bicep. Looked like maybe he'd taken another round to the shoulder, but with the way he was cradling his arm against himself, it was hard to tell. I knew from experience, though, to just leave Thresh alone. He'd survive, and wouldn't let anyone help him. If he were conscious, he'd do what needed to be done. Even now, in the state Thresh was in, I'd still have chosen him to back me over just about anyone else on the planet--except maybe Duke. Speaking of whom, Duke was still on alert, watching out the window for pursuit, unconsciously toying with the safety of his HK, thumbing it back and forth. Dusty, dirty, and unfazed. Puck was driving.