Puck puffed again, sending a thick mushroom cloud skyward. “I’ve heard bits and pieces of that story, but never the whole shit and shebang.”

  “It’s a long story, but here’s the Spark’s Notes version: Vitaly Karahalios had me kidnapped as a ploy to get back at Roth and Kyrie. I was bait, and he told me as much. Had me brought down to Brazil—and that trip is it’s own fun story, let me tell you. I spent three days with Vitaly, never sure if he was going to kill me, rape me, or both. He ended up leaving on business, and his second in command tried to rape me. I stabbed him in the eye with a pen, stole his clothes and gun, then hijacked a car from a one of the valets that worked in the building. I bought a burner phone, called Kyrie, which got me Nick—Harris, I mean. I was supposed to find somewhere and wait for Harris to find me, but Vitaly’s guys found me first. I stole their truck and took off like a bat out of hell. Eventually I managed to cross paths with Harris. We took down some of Vitaly’s guys in an ambush, hooked up with Thresh, who got us a flight out of South America.”

  Puck just stared at me. Then, after a few processing blinks, he burst out laughing. “Jesus, woman. You stabbed a man in the eyeball with a pen?”

  I snickered. “That’s not the worst part.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What is, then?”

  “When they’d first kidnapped me, they’d kept me locked up in this little room in the bottom of an old fishing boat. There was an old, dirty ink pen lying on the floor. So I cleaned it off and—hid it.”

  He frowned at me. “Hid it? Where?”

  I quirked an eyebrow at him. “Best hiding spot a woman has, Puck. Up my hoo-ha.”

  “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

  “That’s not something I’d make up,” I said. “I called it ‘Mr. Papermate the Pussy Pen.’”

  This got me another disbelieving belly laugh. “And you shoved it so far into the dude’s eye that he died?”

  I couldn’t quite suppress a shudder at the visceral memory. “Not…immediately. I had to sort of…” I mimed slamming the heel of my palm down, over and over, “drive it…in a little. And even then, it took him a while to—you know. Die.”

  “Fuuuuck.” He wiped at his face, still laughing. “That has got to be the most hard core thing I’ve ever fuckin’ heard.” The awe in his voice sent thrills of pride through me.

  “I was in survival mode. I would have done anything to stay alive. I don’t go down easy.”

  Puck snickered. “I think our boy Harris might disagree.”

  I glared at him. “Don’t be a cock-waffle, Puck.”

  He held up his hands, palms out. “Sorry, sorry. I’m an ass. I ain’t ever really had a filter. It’s why I never made it very far in the FBI. They don’t appreciate a man calling his superior a ‘pencil-dick weasel-fucker’, apparently.”

  I snickered. “I would imagine not.”

  Puck grinned. “He was, though. Typical desk jockey, you know? Couldn’t find his balls with both hands if you gave him a map and a flashlight.” He checked his watch, the same type that all the guys wore, thick rubber chronographs that looked like they could survive a direct nuclear blast. “Shit should be happening soon.”

  He snagged a handheld walkie-talkie from the seat beside him. “Anselm. Report?”

  “He is making the trade off now. He has the little girl in the Jeep, and he’s giving them the bags of money.” There was pause, and then a crackling as Anselm keyed his mic again. “Be ready. I have a bad feeling, you know? In my stomach. Shit! I knew it, I knew it!”

  “Anselm, talk to me, what’s happening?”

  “I cannot, I cannot. Go to him. Drive east and be ready to provide assistance. It has gone, as you say, off the rails.” There was a loud BOOOOM that echoed weirdly, coming loudly from Anselm’s end of the line, cut off as his radio went silent, a sound which we also heard in the distance, the report of a rifle.

  Immediately after the echoing boom of Anselm’s rifle we heard automatic fire crackling from multiple locations, and another long rifle report.

  Puck had closed and tossed his laptop aside as soon as Anselm cursed, and by the time the first rifle report echoed, he had his door closed and the Humvee in gear.

  “Hang the fuck on, Layla!” he shouted as he gunned it and slewed the truck around, the tires spitting sand and dirt and rocks.

  I heard the radio crackle, heard Nick’s voice: “I’m heading toward you, coming in hot.” I heard gunfire in the background, a girl’s screams.

  I was hanging on, leaning into the turn, trying to see out the window and failing. All there was to see was desert flying by. We hit a ditch and went flying, my head hitting the ceiling, and then the Humvee bottomed out with a nasty scraping crunch, and immediately we pitched down, sliding partially sideways down a steep, short hill. My heart was pounding in my chest, and my head was throbbing, but none of that mattered, buried as it was beneath the adrenaline and the fear.

  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 me 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.