7
Mack ledthe way straight ahead, pulling himself forward with his elbows and checking to make sure Marley was behind him. Water droplets splashed constantly on his neck from the canopy overhead, dripping down his back under his shirt, despite the fact that the leaves and trees grew so thickly together very little rain could actually make it to the forest floor. It was the humidity that seemed to suck the energy right out of him. At nearly ninety percent humidity, the air was like breathing water, and the fine sheen of moisture that had formed on his skin upon landing had yet to dissipate.
This environment wasn’t his first choice for a battleground, especially when his men were possibly injured and definitely outnumbered. But if they failed to escape, there was no question his men were ready to do battle. They’d taken on worse than this, pulled off covert raids into war-torn countries.
Of course, the snake incident had already proven that the guerrillas weren’t the only type of enemy they were facing. He hadn’t studied the Congo with as much intensity as he’d studied Jack Mankel’s compound, but he’d watched enough National Geographic to know there were thousands of poisonous insects and animals. And hell, he couldhearthem. A single bite could take any of them out as fast as a bullet could.
Ultimately, that didn’t matter though. Mack sure as hell wasn’t about to let Mankel get off with anything less than death. If he had to cut the head off of every snake in this forest, he would. Nothing and no one would stop him from exacting his revenge.
Mack dug his elbows into the wet, sticky mud covering the forest floor and dragged himself forward inch by inch, looking for any sign of movement of the enemy. It didn’t take long for the water from above and around him to soak his jump suit straight through. He felt like he was belly crawling through a damn bayou rather than the forest floor.
After continuing on this way for a while, he paused, sensing something was off, and listened to the sounds of the jungle around him. He couldn’t hear his men crawling across the floor next to him, and he shouldn’t. His team moved with deadly silence.
But he didn’t hear the local wildlife either; even the din of insects buzzing had died out, leaving the forest eerily quiet.
Even though his instincts were urging him to get to his feet so he could get a better read on the situation, he didn’t move a muscle. The silence in the forest could only be caused by one thing—men.
The prickling sensation down his neck wasn’t from the droplets of water still working their way down his spine—his inner warning bells were ringing, trying to get his attention. As quietly as he could, Mack turned his head slightly to the right, peering through the small gaps in the leaves for any break or abnormalities.
About five feet out, he caught sight of a black boot, its toes scuffed and covered with streaks of mud. That boot didn’t belong to any of his men. And then that foot shifted, there was a faint crunch and a muffled cough, and Mack realized they’d crawled right into the heart of the enemy.
Fuck!This situation was a nanosecond away from going fubar.
Mack could practically feel the fear spilling out of Marley. She’d seen the guerrilla, too, and she was smart enough to realize exactly where he’d inadvertently led them. His men had one factor on their side—surprise.
If their comms system hadn’t been smashed into a million pieces from the HALO jump, Mack would’ve been able to quickly communicate with his team, but as it stood they were blindanddeaf. If they stayed where they were, they’d only make it a few more minutes without detection. Their only hope was to go on the attack, using the element of surprise to confuse the enemy, and book it the hell out of Dodge at the earliest possible opportunity.
Mack closed his eyes for a brief second and drew in a long steadying breath, allowing the cold control to take over. Nervous trigger fingers would only get them killed, and his goal was to get each and every single one of them out of the situation alive.
He’d ingrained each and every single one of his men with the ability to work as a team. They would all have a gauge on the situation by now; it was up to Mack to take charge and lead them through it. His men would follow without hesitation, despite their lack of communication. He’d been with them long enough, trained them hard enough, to know they’d read his moves and intuit what he wanted them to do.
But Marley wouldn’t. She’d have no idea what his hand signals meant and he couldn’t risk talking to her without giving away their position. He said a quick prayer that she wouldn’t scream and run the minute the battle broke out. Damn, he and his men would have already disabled this enemy if they’d been here alone. Now, they’d be booking it out of this jungle.
But no matter how much Marley slowed him down, there was no way he could leave her to fend for herself or treat her like one of the guys. There was something soft and feminine about her, beneath all the attitude, that called to him. Something that would be extinguished along with the rest of them if he didn’t get them the hell out of this mess.
The time for action was now.
Mack shot to a standing position, pulling the trigger as soon as he had a lock on the man closest to him. He registered the split-second of shock on the guerrilla’s face before Mack’s bullet lodged in his throat.
Gunfire erupted all around them. Mack shifted and turned left, and pulled the trigger again. Hunter appeared near his back, his rifle to his shoulder, steadily taking out enemy combatants. Mack didn’t have time to search for the rest of his team—he kept firing off round after round until he emptied the clip on his Beretta. He dropped into a squat to reload and check on Marley, only she wasn’t there. He could see the shallow indentation where she had been . . . and the long narrow track she’d left behind when she’d dragged her body away, straight in the direction of the enemy to the right. Dammit.
With gunfire steadily popping and zinging overhead, Mack made his way in a low crouch, following her trail. He’d known she would be trouble. The training she’d received as a pilot had in no way prepared her for this type of warfare.
A stream of bullets continued to whizz above him, close enough to singe his hair. Mack popped up, fired off four rounds before dropping back to his knees in the mud. His heart rate never even rose. That’s what their kind of training did—it gave them complete control over their bodies and senses no matter what the situation. While that kind of training could technically be achieved in a month or two, it took a lot of time to hone.
Every other second, he would hear the controlled and steady pop, pop, pop of his men steadily taking out the enemy, not wasting a single bullet. Those controlled gunshots would be followed by erratic bursts of automatic rifles sending bullets spewing across the jungle in wild and random patterns. The thrill of hearing his men work together like the well-oiled killing machine sent a deadly grin to his lips. His team had it handled—and now he had to find Marley.
He heard the click first. Then he felt the hot nozzle of a recently used pistol press against his temple. Mack froze, his grin falling.
The guy holding the gun was sweating and breathing hard and looked like he’d skipped bathing for a month. He called out in some foreign language Mack could not identify, but no one answered his call. Mack might not understand his words, but he understood the emotion behind them. Hate.
The guerrilla shoved the pistol deeper into Mack’s head. He grimaced, fighting off the sharp pain. His only hope would be to try to disarm him before he could pull the trigger.
Mack tensed, readying himself to jerk back and knock the weapon away from his head. Even a millimeter too short and his face would be blown off.
Suddenly, a single gunshot cracked in the air. Mack heard the whiz and thunk of a bullet sinking into flesh and then the guy dropped. As the would-be shooter fell to the ground beside Mack, blood oozed from an open wound in the man’s skull.
When Mack looked up, he expected to meet the gaze of one of his teammates.
But it was Marley who was standing there a few feet away, her arms stretched out straight, holding a smoking pistol in a tight-white grip.
Damn.
